"We'll do them yet, boys!" The wreckage was torn and hacked and splintered until first one gun and then another roared into action again.

The Frenchman's anchor had been cut away, and the _Leda_ had worked herself free from that fatal hug.
But now, suddenly, there was a scurry up the shrouds of the _Gloire_, and a hundred Englishmen were shouting themselves hoarse: "They're running! They're running! They're running!" And it was true.

The Frenchman had ceased to fire, and was intent only upon clapping on every sail that he could carry.

But that shouting hundred could not claim it all as their own.

As the smoke cleared it was not difficult to see the reason.