ously on the utilised force of the gale, and poising for a moment above the deck, where a startled and irresolute handful of men stood resourceless despite the thousand ingenious devices of defence possessed by the wonderful vessel beneath their feet.
That moment closed the life-history of Die Wasser-jungfer. To her consorts, from the vantage-ground of their skillfully maintained line towards the south-east, it seemed as though the pilot-ship had suddenly turned into a tormented thing of fire, in which all her parts, human and inanimate, strove for disentanglement. Then darkness closed over the space again, the fantastic shreds of wreckage fell earthward, and even littered their own decks, and the scudding constellation of blazing tags of fabric and cordage was carried beyond their sight.
Under the surprise, the crews of the other vessels at once fell into their appointed places and duties with disciplined precision. For a minute there existed a doubt whether Die Wasser-jungfer had been attacked or become the victim of her own magazine. So well known and apprised were the insignificant forces upon which England could call for battle in the air, and so unequivocal had been the wording of the ultimatum as to the terrible reprisal that would follow a wanton—as it was then deemed it must be—attack on the Krupplins, that some desperate mischance was the first thought in every German mind; but even as the united searchlights of the remaining fleet blazed out into the night, Der Phönix, the third vessel along the line, was seen to be struck by the same appalling force, and, falling apart midway, cleft through envelope, structure and decks, she pitched headlong into the under-space, exploding and careening strangely as she fell.
In the face of these disasters a splendid discipline remained, but much of the elaborately contrived machin-
