e, and what could all the untrained multitudes of Carthage
do to stop them?

"Nay!" cried one, more hopeful than the rest, "at least we are brave men
with arms in our hands."

"Fool!" said another, "is it not such talk which has brought us to our
ruin? What is the brave man untrained to the brave man trained? When
you stand before the sweep and rush of a Roman legion you may learn the
difference."

"Then let us train!"

"Too late! A full year is needful to turn a man to a soldier. Where will
you--where will your city be within the year? Nay, there is but one
chance for us. If we give up our commerce and our colonies, if we strip
ourselves of all that made us great, then perchance the Roman conqueror
may hold his hand."

And already the last sea-fight of Carthage was coming swiftly to an end
before them. Under their very eyes the two Roman galleys had shot in,
one on either side of the vessel of Black Magro. They had grappled with
him, and he, desperate in his despair, had cast the crooked flukes of
his anchors over their gunwales, and bound them to him in an iron grip,
whilst with hammer and crowbar he burst great holes in his own
sheathing. The last Punic galley should never be rowed into Ostia, a
sight for the holiday-makers of Rome. She would lie in her own waters.
And the fierce, dark soul of her rover captain glowed as he thought
that not alone should she sink into the depths of the mother sea.

Too late did the Romans understand the man with whom they had to deal.
Their boarders who had flooded the Punic decks felt the planking sink
and sway beneath them. They rushed to gain their own vessels; but they,
too, were being drawn downwards, held in the dying grip of the great red
galley. Over they went and ever over. Now the deck of Magro's ship is
flush with the water, and the Romans', drawn towards it by the iron
bonds which hold them, are tilted downwards, one bulwark upon the waves,
one reared high in the air. Madly they strain to cast off the death-grip
of the galley. She is under the surface now, and ever swifter, with the
greater weight, the Roman ships heel after her. There is a rending
crash. The wooden side is torn out of one, and mutilated, dismembered,
she rights herself, and lies a helpless thing upon the water. But a last
yellow gleam in the blue water shows where her consort has been dragged
to her end in the iron death-grapple of her foeman. The tiger-striped
flag of Carthage has sunk beneath the