" Smoky as the air was, the three men saw that a
very strong feeling was aroused against them, and that none of their
own side was at hand to back them up. And the language of the
English--though they could not understand it--was clearly that of bitter
condemnation.
The least resolute of them became depressed by this, being doubtless a
Radical who had been taught that Vox populi is Vox Dei. He endeavoured,
therefore, to slide down the rigging, but was shot through the heart,
and dead before he had time to know it. At the very same moment the
most desperate villain of the three--as we should call him--or the most
heroic of these patriots (as the French historians describe him) popped
forward and shot a worthy Englishman, who was shaking his fist instead
of pointing his gun.
Then an old quartermaster, who was standing on the poop, with his legs
spread out as comfortably as if he had his Sunday dinner on the spit
before him, shouted--"That's him, boys--that glazed hat beggar! Have
at him all together, next time he comes forrard." As he spoke, he
fell dead, with his teeth in his throat, from the fire of the other
Frenchman. But the carbine dropped from the man who had fired, and his
body fell dead as the one he had destroyed, for a sharp little Middy,
behind the quartermaster, sent a bullet through the head, as the hand
drew trigger. The slayer of Nelson remained alone, and he kept back
warily, where none could see him.
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