eth in his throat, from the fire of the other
Frenchman. But the carbine dropped from the man who had fired, and his
body fell dead as the one he had destroyed, for a sharp little Middy,
behind the quartermaster, sent a bullet through the head, as the hand
drew trigger. The slayer of Nelson remained alone, and he kept back
warily, where none could see him.

"All of you fire, quick one after other," cried Dan, who had picked up a
loaded musket, and was kneeling in the embrasure of a gun; "fire so that
he may tell the shots; that will fetch him out again. Sing out first,
'There he is!' as if you saw him."

The men on the quarter-deck and poop did so, and the Frenchman, who was
watching through a hole, came forward for a safe shot while they were
loading. He pointed the long gun which had killed Nelson at the smart
young officer on the poop, but the muzzle flew up ere he pulled the
trigger, and leaning forward he fell dead, with his legs and arms
spread, like a jack for oiling axles. Dan had gone through some
small-arm drill in the fortnight he spent at Portsmouth, and his eyes
were too keen for the bull's-eye. With a rest for his muzzle he laid
it truly for the spot where the Frenchman would reappear; with extreme
punctuality he shot him in the throat; and the gallant man who deprived
the world of Nelson was thus despatched to a better one, three hours in
front of his victim.

CHAPTER LXVI

THE LAST BULLETIN

To Britannia this was but feeble comfort, even if she heard of it. She
had lost her pet hero, the simplest and dearest of all the thousands
she has borne and nursed, and for every penny she had grudged him in the
flesh, she would lay a thousand pounds upon his bones. To put it
more poetically, her smiles were turned to tears--which cost her
something--and the laurel drooped in the cypress shade. The hostile
fleet was destroyed; brave France would never more come out of harbour
to contend with England; the foggy fear of invasion was like a morning
fog dispersed; and yet the funds (the pulse of England) fell at the loss
of that one defender.

It was a gloomy evening, and come time for good people to be in-doors,
when the big news reached Springhaven. Since the Admiral slept in the
green churchyard, with no despatch to receive or send, the importance of
Springhaven had declined in all opinion except its own, and even Captain
Stubbard could not keep it up. When the Squire was shot, and Master Erle
as well,