A solemn day that Sabbath must have been in country and in town.  And many a light-hearted coward, doubtless, who had scoffed (as many did) at the notion of the Armada’s coming, because he dare not face the thought, gave himself up to abject fear, “as he now plainly saw and heard that of which before he would not be persuaded.”  And many a brave man, too, as he knelt beside his wife and daughters, felt his heart sink to the very pavement, at the thought of what those beloved ones might be enduring a few short days hence, from a profligate and fanatical soldiery, or from the more deliberate fiendishness of the Inquisition.  The massacre of St. Bartholomew, the fires of Smithfield, the immolation of the Moors, the extermination of the West Indians, the fantastic horrors of the Piedmontese persecution, which make unreadable the too truthful pages of Morland,—­these were the spectres, which, not as now, dim and distant through the mist of centuries, but recent, bleeding from still gaping wounds, flitted before the eyes of every Englishman, and filled his brain and heart with fire.

He knew full well the fate in store for him and his.  One false step, and the unspeakable doom which, not two generations afterwards, befell the Lutherans of Magdeburg, would have befallen every town from London to Carlisle.  All knew the hazard, as they prayed that day, and many a day before and after, throughout England and the Netherlands.  And none knew it better than she who was the guiding spirit of that devoted land, and the especial mark of the invaders’ fury; and who, by some Divine inspiration (as men then not unwisely held), devised herself the daring stroke which was to anticipate the coming blow.

But where is Amyas Leigh all this while?  Day after day he has been seeking the Sta.  Catharina in the thickest of the press, and cannot come at her, cannot even hear of her:  one moment he dreads that she has sunk by night, and balked him of his prey; the next, that she has repaired her damages, and will escape him after all.  He is moody, discontented, restless, even (for the first time in his life) peevish with his men.  He can talk of nothing but Don Guzman; he can find no better employment, at every spare moment, than taking his sword out of the sheath, and handling it, fondling it, talking to it even, bidding it not to fail him in the day of vengeance.  At last, he has sent to Squire, the armorer, for a whetstone, and, half-ashamed of his own folly, whets and polishes it in bye-corners, muttering to himself.  That one fixed thought of selfish vengeance has possessed his whole mind; he forgets England’s present need, her past triumph, his own safety, everything but his brother’s blood.  And yet this is the day for which he has been longing ever since he brought home that magic horn as a fifteen years boy; the day when he should find himself face to face with an invader, and that invader Antichrist himself.  He has believed for years with Drake, Hawkins, Grenville,