For, as we plunged straight for the Frenchman, following every twist he made, and eager only for the leap at his throat, our little ship began to roll in a sickly fashion as she had never done before, and men looked into one another's faces with fears in their eyes beyond any all the Frenchmen in the world could put there.

And the carpenter, who had been on deck with the rest, bursting for the fight, tumbled hastily below, and came up in a moment with a face like putty.
"She's going!" he cried, and it was his last word.

One of those devilish six feet of whirling bars scattered him and three others into fragments and then shore its way through the bulwarks behind.

And the winged _Swallow_ began to roll under our feet in the way that makes a seaman's heart grow sick.
The Frenchman never ceased firing on us.

No matter.