The wind was fair, and blew with a strange, bestirring power.

The ship--running between Ireland and England, northwards, towards the Irish Sea, the inmost heart of the British waters--seemed, as she snortingly shook the spray from her bow, to be conscious of the dare-devil defiance of the soul which conducted her on this anomalous cruise.

Sailing alone from out a naval port of France, crowded with ships-of-the-line, Paul Jones, in his small craft, went forth in single-armed championship against the English host.

Armed with but the sling-stones in his one shot-locker, like young David of old, Paul bearded the British giant of Gath.

It is not easy, at the present day, to conceive the hardihood of this enterprise.