"Yes, sir. Your sword!" demanded Dale. The man hesitated.
"Disarm him!" cried the American. Two or three of the boarding parties closed around them.
"Sir," asked the lieutenant, turning to his captain, "is it true that we have struck?"
"Yes, sir," answered Pearson, hoarsely.
"My God!" cried Pascoe. There was a momentary silence.
"I have nothing more to say, sir," he added. "I will go below and call off the men," said the lieutenant, turning away.
"No, sir!" interrupted Dale. "You will accompany your captain on board our ship at once. Pass the word to cease firing. The ship has struck."
As the English captain and his first lieutenant stepped over the rail upon the high poop of the Richard, the roar of the guns died away, this time for good. Seizing a dangling rope they swung themselves inboard, and found themselves face to face with a little man in a tattered uniform, hatless, covered with dust and smoke, powder-stained and grimy with the soil of the battle. Blood spattering from a wound in his forehead had coagulated upon his cheek. He was a hideous-looking spectacle. The red firelight played luridly upon him. Nothing but the piercing black eyes which burned and gleamed out of his face in the darkness bespoke the high humanity of the man.
"Is it--" "Captain John Paul Jones, at your service, gentlemen."
"My sword," said Pearson, tendering it to him formally. "I regret," he added ungraciously, "at being compelled to strike to a man who has fought with a halter around his neck."