"You had better go back to your hammock now, Sir Cyril. He will never
speak again. In a few minutes the end will come."

Cyril spent a restless night. The wind was blowing strongly from the
north, and the crews had hard work to keep the vessels off the shore.
His wounds did not pain him much, but his hands, arms, face, and legs
smarted intolerably, for his clothes had been almost burnt off him,
and, refreshing as the sea-bath had been at the moment, it now added
to the smarting of the wounds.

In the morning Prince Rupert came down to see him.

"It was madness of you to have joined in that _melee_, lad, in the
state in which you were. I take the blame on myself in not ordering
you to remain behind; but when the Dutchmen poured on board I had no
thought of aught but driving them back again. It would have marred
our pleasure in the victory we have won had you fallen, for to you we
all owe our lives and the safety of the ship. No braver deed was
performed yesterday than yours. I fear it will be some time before
you are able to fight by my side again; but, at least, you have done
your share, and more, were the war to last a lifetime."

Cyril was in less pain now, for the doctor had poured oil over his
burns, and had wrapped up his hands in soft bandages.

"It was the thought of a moment, Prince," he said. "I saw the
fire-ship had steerage way on her, and if the helm were put down she
would drive away from our side, so without stopping to think about it
one way or the other, I ran along to the stern, and jumped down to
her tiller."