“Never mind,” says Cary; “she can neither dive nor fly, and as long as she is above water, we—­What is the admiral about?”

He is signalling Lord Henry Seymour and his squadron.  Soon they tack, and come down the wind for the coast of Flanders.  Parma must be blockaded still; and the Hollanders are likely to be too busy with their plunder to do it effectually.  Suddenly there is a stir in the Spanish fleet.  Medina and the rearmost ships turn upon the English.  What can it mean?  Will they offer battle once more?  If so, it were best to get out of their way, for we have nothing wherewith to fight them.  So the English lie close to the wind.  They will let them pass, and return to their old tactic of following and harassing.

“Good-bye to Seymour,” says Cary, “if he is caught between them and Parma’s flotilla.  They are going to Dunkirk.”

“Impossible!  They will not have water enough to reach his light craft.  Here comes a big ship right upon us!  Give him all you have left, lads; and if he will fight us, lay him alongside, and die boarding.”

They gave him what they had, and hulled him with every shot; but his huge side stood silent as the grave.  He had not wherewithal to return the compliment.

“As I live, he is cutting loose the foot of his mainsail! the villain means to run.”

“There go the rest of them!  Victoria!” shouted Cary, as one after another, every Spaniard set all the sail he could.

There was silence for a few minutes throughout the English fleet; and then cheer upon cheer of triumph rent the skies.  It was over.  The Spaniard had refused battle, and thinking only of safety, was pressing downward toward the Straits again.  The Invincible Armada had cast away its name, and England was saved.

“But he will never get there, sir,” said old Yeo, who had come upon deck to murmur his Nunc Domine, and gaze upon that sight beyond all human faith or hope:  “Never, never will he weather the Flanders shore, against such a breeze as is coming up.  Look to the eye of the wind, sir, and see how the Lord is fighting for His people!”

Yes, down it came, fresher and stiffer every minute out of the gray north-west, as it does so often after a thunder-storm; and the sea began to rise high and white under the “Claro Aquilone,” till the Spaniards were fain to take in all spare canvas, and lie-to as best they could; while the English fleet, lying-to also, awaited an event which was in God’s hands and not in theirs.

“They will be all ashore on Zealand before the afternoon,” murmured Amyas; “and I have lost my labor!  Oh, for powder, powder, powder! to go in and finish it at once!”

“Oh, sir,” said Yeo, “don’t murmur against the Lord in the very day of His mercies.  It is hard, to be sure; but His will be done.”

“Could we not borrow powder from Drake there?”

“Look at the sea, sir!”

And, indeed, the sea was far too rough for any such attempt.  The Spaniards neared and neared the fatal dunes, which fringed the shore for many a dreary mile; and Amyas had to wait weary hours, growling like a dog who has had the bone snatched out of his mouth, till the day wore on; when, behold, the wind began to fall as rapidly as it had risen.  A savage joy rose in Amyas’s heart.