“We have conquered,” cried Alexander, stretching his arm towards the receding waters.  “The sea deserts the impious heretics.  Strike from them now their last hope, and cut off their retreat to the departing ships.”  The Spaniards were not slow to perceive their advantage, while the courage of the patriots at last began to ebb with the tide.  The day was lost.  In the hour of transitory triumph the leaders of the expedition had turned their backs on their followers, and now, after so much heroism had been exhibited, fortune too had averted her face.  The grim resistance changed to desperate panic, and a mad chase began along the blood-stained dyke.  Some were slain with spear and bullet, others were hunted into the sea, many were smothered in the ooze along the edge of the embankment.  The fugitives, making their way to the retreating vessels, were pursued by the Spaniards, who swam after them, with their swords in their teeth, and engaged them in mortal combat in the midst of the waves.

“And so we cut all their throats,” said Parma, “the rebels on every side remaining at our mercy, and I having no doubt that my soldiers would avenge the loss of their friends.”

The English and the Scotch, under Balfour and Morgan, were the very last to abandon the position which they had held so manfully seven hours long.  Honest Captain James, who fought to the last, and described the action the same night in the fewest possible words, was of opinion that the fleet had moved away only to obtain a better position.  “They put off to have more room to play on the enemy,” said he; “but the Hollanders and Zeelanders, seeing the enemy come on so hotly, and thinking our galleys would leave them, abandoned their string.  The Scots, seeing them to retire, left their string.  The enemy pursued very hotly; the Englishmen stood to repulse, and are put most to the sword.  In this shameful retreat there were slain or drowned to the number of two thousand.”  The blunt Englishman was justly indignant that an enterprise, so nearly successful, had been ruined by the desertion of its chiefs.  “We had cut the dyke in three places,” said he; “but left it most shamefully for want of commandment.”

Poor Koppen Loppen—­whose blunders on former occasions had caused so much disaster—­was now fortunate enough to expiate them by a soldier’s death.  Admiral Haultain had, as we have seen, been drowned at the commencement of the action.  Justinus de Nassau, at its close, was more successful in his retreat to the ships.  He, too, sprang into the water when the overthrow was absolute; but, alighting in some shallows, was able to conceal himself among weeds and waterlilies till he had divested himself of his armour, when he made his escape by swimming to a boat, which conveyed him to Lillo.  Roelke van Deest, an officer of some note, was so horribly wounded in the face, that he was obliged to wear a mask for the remainder of his life.