formed orderly platoons on her crippled deck. Shells swept gaps through their files, but they closed again in regular formation, standing oddly erect on the tip-tilted deck. There was not a gun they could man, not a blow could they strike, yet the men stood firm in the steel cyclone sweeping across their shattered deck. Then Madden turned his lens on a group a little to one side of the main formation, and his eye caught the gleam of silver horns, the rise and fall of a drummer's arm, the fierce beating of a director with a baton. It was the ship's musicians. The band was playing, the men were chanting the battle hymn of the empire; out of the heart of the foundering cruiser, out of the souls of the passing warriors rose triumphantly, “Die Wacht am Rhein.”
Sudden tears filled the eyes of the American and dimmed the splendid sight. He turned impulsively to his friend.
“Caradoc! My God!” he screamed in his ear, “why don't they quit firing!”
“Their flag is still flying—no doubt the halyards are shot away!”
Even while Smith screamed, a sudden and
