of the beam had rested on the flagship, then its focus was readjusted, and all was darkness, except where the moving vessel glided past, conjuring up the vision of some spectre vessel in a grim stage setting. It glided past until it was two cables' length distant from the flagship. Then three or four short sharp orders in a deep voice. One tug at least seemed to redouble its panting, and then the jarring rattle of metal links told that the warship was anchoring. Almost immediately a light was shown from a casemate on the lee-side of the flagship, and as if by magic the beams of the search-lights disappeared.

The flag-captain who was standing by the Admiral called the flag-lieutenant by name. Only the first half of the difficulties were over. The lesser had been accomplished, but the greater was to come. The flag-lieutenant took his orders, and moved lethargically down the ladder. A launch was piped to the gangway, and in two minutes he was on his way to give directions to the trawlers. They would now be required to cover the advance of the squadron as it felt its way to the open sea. What were the risks of the home waters in comparison to the open sea! Presently the flash-lights burst up again. Now the reflectors threw the faltering beams well out to sea. It was essential that the adventurous squadron might lie unseen in the shadow of complementary darkness. The lights now traversed as in normal circumstances, lest the reconnoitring torpedo craft from the blockading squadron should become suspicious. As soon as the trawlers were in position, the flagship showed a stern light, and the sound of her winches conveyed to the squadron the order for the momentous movement.

Daylight, and a thick haze. Thank Providence for the haze. Might it

hold until they made the Shantung promontory! The flag-lieutenant was still leaning over the bridge-rail. Now you could see his features clearly. The estimate formed in the fierce beam of the search-light had not been unjust. He was a tall spare youth, fined down now below his normal standard by the distressing tension of adverse war. His aristocratic features were drawn and pinched. His auburn beard was touzled and unkempt in its niggard growth; great dark rings encircled his blue eyes. His uniform was in keeping with his features. His duck trousers suggested rather the engineer on watch than the staff officer on the bridge. Yet in his state he was in keeping with the crew lying wearily at their stations. Few were sleeping. The Pacific Squadron, from Admiral to coal-trimmer, was in no mood for sleep that morning. Thank Providence only for the mist! The squadron crept onthe battleships in line ahead, the cruisers following in similar formation. The sea was smooth: it usually is so when the land mists lie. Presently a torpedo-boat appeared ahead. It was steaming at its utmost speed, as the great wave breaking over its whaleback showed. A desperate Jap? No; only a report from the scouting line ahead. The flags were fluttering from the tiny mast. The mist rendered the bunting indistinct. But in a minute she was abreast, and the megaphone told the story: "A division of Japanese torpedo-boats, an exchange of shots, and the escape of the hostile boats"!

The Admiral bit his lip. It was not unexpected, but he had hoped that the mist might have shielded him longer. The gamble was over now: he must turn back immediately, or stand on to fight. The torpedo-lieutenant was at his elbow, with a long thin strip of paper in his hand. He had come from the wireless chamber, and the paper was what the machine had recorded.

It was a jumble of dots and dashes. But it was Japanese. It did not matter that it was in cipher; the Admiral could read the history the tape related as clearly as if it had been in his own language. It meant that the Japanese patrol-boats had made his movement out. That they had raced to the guardship with the news, and that the guardship was now transmitting it, as fast as the wireless spark could make it, to the Japanese fleet lying under steam in the Elliott Group. It meant that the Russian fleet must turn back now, or stand on to fight. The Admiral looked over the head of the torpedo lieutenant and gazed out to sea. The mist was disappearing. A southwesterly breeze was rolling it up Into the Manchurian coast. The Admiral bit his lip, but no sign on his wan pale face gave evidence of the struggle that was throbbing in his mind. He turned and looked down the line of battleships he commanded. One, two, three, four, five! His decision was made in that moment. He would stand on: steer for the Korean Straits if he could; fight if he must!

The mist had lifted, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The swell just moved to the temper of the breeze, and the yellow sea for once was blue. The Russian flagship stood on her course. She was stately, though weather-stained; but in her stripped decks and towering superstructure she showed nothing of the battle scars which distinguished the lean-hulled cruiser flagship now abreast on the starboard beam. The flagship was fresh from the dockyard, while the cruisers had borne the brunt of six months' war. The Admiral was manoeuvring a fleet for the first time in his life. How soon would he be manoeuvring it in the presence of the enemy! The answer came almost at once. The navigating officer reported

Encounter Rock on the port beam; at the same moment the officer in the foretop shouted down that he could make out a heavy cloud of smoke rising above the silver belt of mist which still clung to the north-eastern horizon. It might or it might not be the torpedo craft, who since daylight had been as tenacious to the movements of the squadron as pilot-fish. Every glass was turned in the direction indicated-every glass with the exception of the Admiral's: he stood against the rail with his hands clasping the metal bar behind him. Only the yeoman of the signals, with the slack of the halliards across his palm, could see that the long pale fingers were convulsively closing and opening their hold. To the rest of the little group on the bridge the Admiral's pale impassive features conveyed no inkling of the fearful anxiety that was battling in his mind. The great engines ground on below, making their sixteen knots, and each revolution seemed to smite the Admiral as he awaited the verdict of the watchers. The mystery of the smoke was not long in discovering itself. The breeze was still chasing the mist northwards, and the masts and tops of Togo's battle squadron separated quickly from the silver fog. Six vessels steaming line ahead were responsible for the suspicious smoke; and then the flag-captain reported deliberately, "There is another squadron north-west of them, steering a course nearer to us." Was it a spasm in the engines, or was it a shudder that seemed to strike every man on the bridge, and almost simultaneously communicate itself to figures in dirty duck on the decks below? What made so many ashen faces turn towards the bridge?

"Six-no, there are only five!"

"Perhaps it is the British from Weihai-wei-the silhouette of their ships is very similar," was laconically sug

gested by the flag-lieutenant, with the faintest suspicion of optimism in his voice.

"Japanese battleships!" A monotonous voice from the top killed this last hope.

“Mikasa, Shikishima, Yashima, and Nisshin in line ahead!" droned the flagcaptain as the Japanese squadron became "hull up," showing the white "bones" in front of each. To fight was now imperative. In a moment the bridge resounded with the strident voice of the Admiral. The lethargy' vanished, the flag-lieutenant dropped down the ladder, and the decks thrilled with the bugle note. Even before the signal flags had left the yeoman's hand, the squadron had passed the bugle-call along. To fight was now imperativewhy, imperative! it had already begun; the rattle of the Novick's quickfirers rolled across the summer sea; she was engaging the more enterprising of Togo's scouts. Back the little boats steamed to shelter under the lee of the battle squadron.

The Russians would fight-the battle flags were bent!

The great ship quivered-then quivered again. For a moment the flaglieutenant thought that a torpedo had struck her. His nervous system remembered that first torpedo under Golden Hill. It was only the twelveinch guns. But they made the conningtower rock. The Japanese had manœuvred, and were now standing in on the starboard beam. The Russian Admiral changed his course. Great projectiles were ricochetting overhead and raising geysers of salt spray all round them. But for the present the flagship could answer shot for shot, and one of the hostile battleshipsthe Yashima it looked like-had drawn out of the fighting line.

The Admiral clenched the hand-rail. His face was still pale, but the fight

ing-light was in his eyes. For a moment his gaze turned from the Mikasa, with her black hull flashing lurid yellow up and down its lean length. The mist was up again in the south-west.

"Make the fleet signal, 'Close upfollow me.'" Then he turned to the officer at the navigating tube, "For the promontory."

At the same moment there was a deafening report, and the vessel swung so that every one in the conning-tower was thrown against the walls.

"What was that-mined?"

The dread of mine and torpedo by this time was firmly ingrained in every Russian sailor, and as the flag-lieutenant sprang down the ladder the horrible nightmare of the Petropavlovsk leaped up before his mental vision. It was nothing. A deck officer, who seemed as unconcerned as if he were at manœuvres, came hurrying forward. He reported that a large shell had hit the after 12-inch turret, glanced, and in bursting wrecked the top above.

"Awful! Poor fellows' flesh came down with the splinters on deck like flowers in a carnival!" The coldblooded simile passed in the heat of the surroundings. Then the vessel staggered from two terrific blows forward. The flag-lieutenant stumbled ahead, drawing his hands mechanically to his ears, while the torn fragments of iron and splinter soughed past him. Biting, stinging smoke blinded him, while the force of the concussion flattened him against a ventilator. The first sight he saw was the mangled frame of his comrade. The top of the poor wretch's head was gone, a half-burned cigarette was still between the clenched teeth. He threw his glance upwards-the forward smoke-stack was rent from top to bottom, and the flame and smoke were licking round its base. The 12inch guns in the forward battery solemnly fired, and the ear-splitting crack of the discharge brought the

youth to his senses. He made for the ladder. Great God! the conning-tower and forward bridge was but torn, smoking, and twisted wreck. A man jumped to the deck. His face was as black as an Ethiopian's, his uniform and beard torn and discolored to a filthy yellow, his left arm, severed at the biceps, was dangling by a sinew.

"All are killed, the Admiral, all!" the figure gasped, as it reeled and sank fainting to the deck.

Then the port guns fired. The flaglieutenant realized that the ship was not steering-she was veering round. He dashed to the after bridge, past the quickfirer crews lying prostrate, amid the wreckage and the corpses. He found the commander superintending

the shipping of the after steering-gear, and reported the paralyzing intelligence. The commander looked at him blankly a moment. He was bleeding from a skin wound in the neck, and such of his uniform not stained yellow was scarlet with blood.

"Good!" he ejaculated; "she is steering again. Full steam ahead. Make a fleet signal. Make the signal, "The Admiral transfers the command.'"

Thank Providence for that mist. The flagship at sixteen knots came into the bright bay that faces the Ostend of the Far East. For the last time during the war the 12-pounder crews were mustered. What a relief. Mustered in peace to salute the German flag.

The moment of deadlock had arrived. The Russian counter-attack, desperate though it had been, had failed to get home; but the Japanese infantry, immovable itself, was unable to turn the mass of Russians from behind the fold in the ground which they had reached. Barely three hundred paces separated the muzzles of these opposing lines of blackened rifles. But that narrow green strip was impassable to both. To show upon it was to court almost certain death. Already the turf was littered with fallen men, and scarred and seared with the violence of plunging shell. But the artillery fire from both sides had now ceased, since from the gun positions it was impossible to discriminate between friend and foe. Lieutenant Tokugawa, of the -st Regiment of Imperial Japanese Infantry, lay amongst his men, with his eyes fixed upon a slight mound midway between the firing lines. The five stones which served him as a head-cover gave him a scant loop-hole. The little mound attracted him. It was little more than a fairy ring-perhaps it was some

Manchu's grave; but it fascinated Tokugawa, and he made a mental measure of its distance. He was calculating if it should be the limit of the next rush when it was ordered. Tokugawa was a little man. But though his stature was small in the matter of cubits, his back was that of an athlete. He had the reputation of being the bravest and strongest man in the regiment, where all were brave and strong.

That mound-innocent little heap of emerald green-was exercising its fascination upon another soldier. Two of the most sanguinary rushes made before the Russian counter-stroke finally failed had been led by a tall fair subaltern and a long-haired priest. Twice had these two placed themselves in front of a group of desperate men and striven to win their way to the Japanese bayonets, and twice had rifle fire obliterated the attempt, leaving but a handful to regain the shelter of the dip. But the fair subaltern's eye had caught the mound. It marked the possible place for a pause, and, setting his teeth, he marshalled his shattered sec

tions for a last despairing effort. The afternoon sun caught the glint of the tapering bayonets as the obedient moujiks rose to their feet. A clatter of rifles brought into position passed down the Japanese firing-line as the watchful little eyes accepted the warning. Up rose the youthful subaltern and priest, with perhaps twenty men behind them. One withering volley, and the attempt had failed almost before it had begun. The subaltern, the priest, and four others alone stood, and came racing for the mound. Other rifles spoke. One by one the men staggered and collapsed. Now only the priest and officer remain. A few more steps and the scant haven will be reached. The priest, with his lank locks waving in the air, his crucifix aloft, sinks to earth as his legs become nerveless beneath him. Yet, though he is fast becoming spent, he holds the emblem above him. But the youth! Tokugawa can now see his fair yet firm-set features, can almost feel the flash from his blue eyes. The mudspirts of striking bullets seem to entangle him; yet on he still comes. His life is surely charmed by that crucifix still held aloft with faltering strength in that taloned hand. A moment more and he is down behind the cover! The mound top is scarred and rent with striking nickel. The crucifix is shattered with the hand that held it, as the priest collapses to a dozen wounds. A sleet of bullets sweeps the narrow margin, and then all is still again.

A fierce light burns in Tokugawa's eyes. He is unwinding the thong from his two-handed sword,-the sword which his father wielded in the Rebellion-which his forebears in the direct line had wielded in a thousand fights for half as many years. His resolution once taken, nothing could shake it. The fascination of the mound was now changed to magnetism. He is on his

feet the true steel is bare in his hands, and he is racing for the mound. A shout goes up, a cheer in which both sides join. The tall fair subaltern has jumped to his feet. The best blade in Tsarskoe Selo is bare in his hand-he has accepted the challenge, and he stands with head erect at the base of the mound awaiting the onrush of his diminutive adversary. As if by instinct the battle in the vicinity accepts the trial by champion, and both sides rest on their arms, even expose themselves freely by rising to their knees. The moment is supreme. The bright sunlight: the green, with its groups of fallen men, the lesser wounded raising themselves painfully to watch the coming issue: the war-bedraggled spectators shooting up as it were from the ground: the two main figures with a bright star of light on the ground behind them, as a sun-ray catches the shattered crucifix. Ten paces from the mound Tokugawa halts to catch his breath, for he has raced a hundred yards. The tall Russian lowers his guard, and bows slightly. He will take no mean advantage. The little Japanese is quick to detect the courtesy implied, and, not to be outdone, instinctively inclines his head. Then, remembering he is a soldier, he brings his bright blade to "the recover." The Russian salutes likewise, and then they close in mortal combat. The Russian is the swordsmanTokugawa the energetic and vigilant assailant. The blades flash high and low for a moment; the clash of the steel is audible to both fighting lines, in spite of the din of battle raging with unceasing vigor all around them. Then a murmur goes up from the onlookers, a blade has been flung clear of the mêlée, and falls-falls beside the crucifix. A shout from the JapaneseBanzai! banzai! banzai! It is the Russian who is disarmed. Whether snapped, or shorn by the superior steel,