At the end of that day’s fighting the English powder gave out.  Two days’ service had been the limit of the Queen’s allowance.  Howard had pressed for a more liberal supply at the last moment, and had received the characteristic answer that he must state precisely how much he wanted before more could be sent.  The lighting of the beacons had quickened the official pulse a little.  A small addition had been despatched to Weymouth or Poole, and no more could be done till it arrived.  The Duke, meanwhile, was left to smooth his ruffled plumes and drift on upon his way.  But by this time England was awake.  Fresh privateers, with powder, meat, bread, fruit, anything that they could bring, were pouring out from the Dorsetshire harbours.  Sir George Carey had come from the Needles in time to share the honours of the last battle, ‘round shot,’ as he said, ‘flying thick as musket balls in a skirmish on land.’

The Duke had observed uneasily from the San Martin’s deck that his pursuers were growing numerous.  He had made up his mind definitely to go for the Isle of Wight, shelter his fleet in the Solent, land 10,000 men in the island, and stand on his defence till he heard from Parma.  He must fight another battle; but, cut up as he had been, he had as yet lost but two ships, and those by accident.  He might fairly hope to force his way in with help from above, for which he had special reason to look in the next engagement.  Wednesday was a breathless calm.  The English were taking in their supplies.  The Armada lay still, repairing damages.  Thursday would be St. Dominic’s Day.  St. Dominic belonged to the Duke’s own family, and was his patron saint.  St. Dominic he felt sure, would now stand by his kinsman.

The morning broke with a light air.  The English would be less able to move, and with the help of the galleasses he might hope to come to close quarters at last.  Howard seemed inclined to give him his wish.  With just wind enough to move the Lord Admiral led in the Ark Raleigh straight down on the Spanish centre.  The Ark out-sailed her consorts and found herself alone with the galleons all round her.  At that moment the wind dropped.  The Spanish boarding-parties were at their posts.  The tops were manned with musketeers, the grappling irons all prepared to fling into the Ark’s rigging.  In imagination the English admiral was their own.  But each day’s experience was to teach them a new lesson.  Eleven boats dropped from the Ark’s sides and took her in tow.  The breeze rose again as she began to move.  Her sails filled, and she slipped away through the water, leaving the Spaniards as if they were at anchor, staring in helpless amazement.  The wind brought up Drake and the rest, and then began again the terrible cannonade from which the Armada had already suffered so frightfully.  It seemed that morning as if the English were using guns of even heavier metal than on either of the preceding