cks, who had sped on their long and solitary way unharmed by wind or wave, whom the hurricane had spared, in whose favor storms and seas had intermitted their immitigable war,--now at last fall by the hand of each other.
The same spectacle of horror greets us from both ships.
On their decks reddened with blood, the murderers of St. Bartholomew and of the Sicilian Vespers, with the fires of Smithfield, seem to break forth anew, and to concentrate their rage.
Each has now become a swimming Golgotha.
At length these vessels — such pageants of the sea, once so stately, so proudly built, but now rudely shattered by cannon-balls, with shivered masts and ragged sails — exist only as unmanageable wrecks, weltering on the uncertain waves whose temporary lull of peace is now their only safety.
In amazement at this strange, unnatural contest away from country and home, where there is no country or home to defend, we ask again, Wherefore this dismal duel?
Again the melancholy but truthful an