in the negative, declaring that no Englishman who flies the royal yacht flag, would act so dishonorable a part as to run away with his prisoners when he had been asked to save them from drowning. Meanwhile the Deerhound increases the distance from the Kearsarge; another officer addresses Captain Winslow in language of similar effect, but with more positiveness, that Semmes and his officers were on board the yacht endeavoring to escape. With undiminished confidence in the honor of the English gentleman, with continued chivalric spirit Captain Winslow refuses to have a shot fired, not crediting the flight, saying that the yacht was "simply coming round," and would not go away without communicating. "I could not believe that the commander of that vessel could be guilty of so disgraceful an act as taking our prisoners, and therefore took no means to prevent it." Without this trust in chivalry, Captain Winslow might have arrested the yacht in her flight, if only as a prudential motive, reserving final action as to the seizure of the passengers when time had been afforded for reflection.

No shot is fired: the Deerhound finally disappears with the great prize, Semmes, and thus passed an opportunity of making this brilliant engagement one of the most complete and satisfactory in naval history.

Captain Winslow erroneously thought that the Deerhound would not run away with the rescued persons: in this opinion he was probably alone. An excitement occurred as a consequent; an expression of regret for the escape of the yacht and her coveted prize, after being as it were within reach of the victors. The bitterness of the regret was manifest. The famed Alabama, "a formidable ship, the terror of American commerce, well armed, well manned, well handled," was destroyed, "sent to the bottom in an hour," but her notorious commander had escaped: the eclat of victory seemed already lessened.

At 12.24 the Alabama sank in forty-five fathoms of water, at a distance of about four and a half miles from Cherbourg Breakwater, off the west entrance. She was severely hulled between the main and mizzen masts, and commenced settling by the stern before the termination of the conflict. Her crew had jumped into the sea, supporting themselves by portions of the wreck, spars, and other accessible objects, the water swept over the stern and upper deck, and when thus partially submerged, the mainmast, pierced by a shot, broke off near the head, the bow lifted from the waves, and then came the end. Suddenly assuming a perpendicular position, caused by the falling aft of the battery and stores, straight as a plumb-line, stern first, she went down, the jibboom being the last to appear above water. Down sank the terror of merchantmen, riddled through and through, and as she disappeared to her last resting place, not a cheer arose from the victors. To borrow the language of the Liverpool Courrier: "Down under the French waters, resting on the bed of the ocean, lies the gallant Alabama, with all her guns aboard, and some of her brave crew, waiting until the sea yields up its dead."

Mounted on the summit of an old church tower, a photographic artist obtained a good negative of the contest. An excursion train from Paris arrived Sunday morning, bringing hundreds of pleasure-seekers who were unexpectedly favored by the spectacle of a sea-fight. The events of the day monopolized the conversation of Parisian society for more than a week.

This grand artillery duel, or Sunday gladiatorial combat, occurred in the presence of more than fifteen thousand spectators, who upon the heights of Cherbourg, the breakwater, and rigging of men-of-war, witnessed "the last of the Alabama." Among them were the captains and crews of two merchant ships burnt by the daring rover a few days before her arrival at Cherbourg. Their excitement during the combat was intense, and their