In a moment one of those horrible panics, which spread with such contagious rapidity among large bodies of men, seized upon the Spaniards.  There was a yell throughout the fleet—­“the fire-ships of Antwerp, the fire-ships of Antwerp!” and in an instant every cable was cut, and frantic attempts were made by each galleon and galeasse to escape what seemed imminent destruction.  The confusion was beyond description.  Four or five of the largest ships became entangled with each other.  Two others were set on fire by the flaming—­vessels, and were consumed.  Medina Sidonia, who had been warned, even, before his departure from Spain, that some such artifice would probably be attempted, and who had even, early that morning, sent out a party of sailors in a pinnace to search for indications of the scheme, was not surprised or dismayed.  He gave orders—­as well as might be that every ship, after the danger should be passed, was to return to its post, and, await his further orders.  But it was useless, in that moment of unreasonable panic to issue commands.  The despised Mantuan, who had met with so many rebuffs at Philip’s court, and who—­owing to official incredulity had been but partially successful in his magnificent enterprise at Antwerp, had now; by the mere terror of his name, inflicted more damage on Philip’s Armada than had hitherto been accomplished by Howard and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, combined.

So long as night and darkness lasted, the confusion and uproar continued.  When the Monday morning dawned, several of the Spanish vessels lay disabled, while the rest of the fleet was seen at a distance of two leagues from Calais, driving towards the Flemish coast.  The threatened gale had not yet begun to blow, but there were fresh squalls from the W.S.W., which, to such awkward sailers as the Spanish vessels; were difficult to contend with.  On the other hand, the English fleet were all astir; and ready to pursue the Spaniards, now rapidly drifting into the North Sea.  In the immediate neighbourhood of Calais, the flagship of the squadron of galeasses, commanded by Don Hugo de Moncada, was discovered using her foresail and oars, and endeavouring to enter the harbour.  She had been damaged by collision with the St. John of Sicily and other ships, during the night’s panic, and had her rudder quite torn away.  She was the largest and most splendid vessel in the Armada—­the show-ship of the fleet,—­“the very glory and stay of the Spanish navy,” and during the previous two days she had been visited and admired by great numbers of Frenchmen from the shore.

Lord Admiral Howard bore dawn upon her at once, but as she was already in shallow water, and was rowing steadily towards the town, he saw that the Ark could not follow with safety.  So he sent his long-boat to cut her out, manned with fifty or sixty volunteers, most of them “as valiant in courage as gentle in birth”—­as a partaker in the adventure declared.  The Margaret and Joan of London, also following in pursuit, ran herself aground, but the master despatched his pinnace with a body of musketeers, to aid in the capture of the galeasse.