The Earl of Shrewsbury, too, was ready to serve at the head of his retainers, to the last drop of his blood.  “Though I be old,” he said, “yet shall your quarrel make me young again.  Though lame in body, yet lusty in heart to lend your greatest enemy one blow, and to stand near your defence, every way wherein your Highness shall employ me.”

But there was perhaps too much of this feudal spirit.  The lieutenant-general complained bitterly that there was a most mischievous tendency among all the militia-men to escape from the Queen’s colours, in order to enrol themselves as retainers to the great lords.  This spirit was not favourable to efficient organization of a national army.  Even, had the commander-in-chief been a man, of genius and experience it would have been difficult for him, under such circumstances, to resist a splendid army, once landed, and led by Alexander Farnese, but even Leicester’s most determined flatterers hardly ventured to compare him in-military ability with that first general of his age.  The best soldier in England was un-questionably Sir John Norris, and Sir John was now marshal of the camp to Leicester.  The ancient quarrel between the two had been smoothed over, and—­as might be expected—­the Earl hated Norris more bitterly than before, and was perpetually vituperating him, as he had often done in the Netherlands.  Roger William, too, was entrusted with the important duties of master of the horse, under the lieutenant-general, and Leicester continued to bear the grudge towards that honest Welshman, which had begun in Holland.  These were not promising conditions in a camp, when an invading army was every day expected; nor was the completeness or readiness of the forces sufficient to render harmless the quarrels of the commanders.

The Armada had arrived in Calais roads on Saturday afternoon; the 6th August.  If it had been joined on that day, or the next—­as Philip and Medina Sidonia fully expected—­by the Duke of Parma’s flotilla, the invasion would have been made at once.  If a Spanish army had ever landed in England at all, that event would have occurred on the 7th August.  The weather was not unfavourable; the sea was smooth, and the circumstances under which the catastrophe of the great drama was that night accomplished, were a profound mystery to every soul in England.  For aught that Leicester, or Burghley, or Queen Elizabeth, knew at the time, the army of Farnese might, on Monday, have been marching upon London.  Now, on that Monday morning, the army of Lord Hunsdon was not assembled at all, and Leicester with but four thousand men, under his command, was just commencing his camp at Tilbury.  The.  “Bellona-like” appearance of the Queen on her white palfrey,—­with truncheon in hand, addressing her troops, in that magnificent burst of eloquence which has so often been repeated, was not till eleven days afterwards; not till the great Armada, shattered and tempest-tossed, had been, a week long, dashing itself against the cliffs of Norway and the Faroes, on, its forlorn retreat to Spain.