“Twenty-five hundred yards,” he cried, his voice rising with an excitement he was powerless to control.
A second afterward the blinding flashes from the “Aquadores’” guns, accompanied by ear splitting discharges, made the scene on the cruiser one of terrible splendor.
The “Barcelo’s” search-light still illumined the enemy, but she had by her superior speed drawn out of range of the former’s guns.
Phil’s fascinated gaze held to the torpedo-boat with grim tenacity.
“She’s lost her,” he cried, as the end of the “Barcelo’s” search-light swept uncertainly over the water. The boat had vanished into the night.
“Cease firing,” cried O’Neil’s stentorian voice, as he saw the torpedo-boat had slipped away from the discovering light.
The “Aquadores’” lights were flashed and groped about in despair for the lost vessel. The sailors stood terrified at their guns. O’Neil walked coolly along the deck, shaking men roughly to wake them out of their stupor of fear—some had fallen to praying on their knees.
“When we pick her up you’ll need all your prayers,” he cried, “if you don’t shoot.”
Phil felt he was nearer a panic than he had ever been; he walked up and down, his eyes following one struggling beam and then the other; he almost resolved to go up to a search-light himself. Captain Garcia during the moments of uncertainty had turned his vessel toward the harbor’s entrance. He would brave the fire of the forts if that could prevent his prize from escaping. He was ready to sacrifice his ship in this last attempt.
Suddenly through the black night Phil saw a darker shade on the surface of the water. It seemed but a stone’s throw away. His voice was paralyzed. He tried to speak but it was impossible. His lips gave out unintelligible sounds. Grasping Captain Garcia’s arm, he pointed a trembling finger at the dread object.