rose to see what could be done by earthly means.  To their dismay there was no holding ground on which to get an anchor fast and warp the vessel off.  The lead could find no bottom anywhere aft.  All night long the Golden Hind remained fast caught in this insidious death-trap.  At dawn Parson Fletcher preached a sermon and administered the Blessed Sacrament.  Then Drake ordered ten tons overboard—­cannon, cloves, and provisions.  The tide was now low and she sewed seven feet, her draught being thirteen and the depth of water only six.  Still she kept an even keel as the reef was to leeward and she had just sail enough to hold her up.  But at high tide in the afternoon there was a lull and she began to heel over towards the unfathomable depths.  Just then, however, a quiver ran through her from stem to stern; an extra sail that Drake had ordered up caught what little wind there was; and, with the last throb of the rising tide, she shook herself free and took the water as quietly as if her hull was being launched.  There were perils enough to follow:  dangers of navigation, the arrival of a Portuguese fleet that was only just eluded, and all the ordinary risks of travel in times when what might be called the official guide to voyagers opened with the ominous advice, First make thy Will.  But the greatest had now been safely passed.

Meanwhile all sorts of rumors were rife in Spain, New Spain, and England.  Drake had been hanged.  That rumor came from the hanging of John Oxenham at Lima.  The Golden Hind had foundered.  That tale was what Winter, captain of the Elizabeth, was not altogether unwilling should be thought after his own failure to face another great antarctic storm.  He had returned in 1578.  News from Peru and Mexico came home in 1579; but no Drake.  So, as 1580 wore on, his friends began to despair, the Spaniards and Portuguese rejoiced, while Burleigh, with all who found Drake an inconvenience in their diplomatic way, began to hope that perhaps the sea had smoothed things over.  In August the London merchants were thrown into consternation by the report of Drake’s incredible captures; for their own merchant fleet was just then off for Spain.  They waited on the Council, who soothed them with the assurance that Drake’s voyage was a purely private venture so far as prizes were concerned.  With this diplomatic quibble they were forced to be content.

But worse was soon to follow.  The king of Portugal died.  Philip’s army marched on Lisbon immediately, and all the Portuguese possessions were added to the already overgrown empire of Spain.  Worse still, this annexation gave Philip what he wanted in the way of ships; for Portugal had more than Spain.  The Great Armada was now expected to be formed against England, unless Elizabeth’s miraculous diplomacy could once more get her clear of the fast-entangling coils.  To add to the general confusion, this was also the year in which the Pope sent his picked Jesuits to England, and in which Elizabeth was carrying on her last great international flirtation with ugly, dissipated Francis of Anjou, brother to the king of France.