s, he would not have done so.
He had been almost within sight of the Armada, which was at that moment
broken and scattered, having met with a terrific storm in the Bay of
Biscay. Eight ships were driven to a distance, three galleys cast away
on the French coast; where the galley-slaves rebelled, headed by a Welsh
prisoner named David Gwyn. Medina regained Coruna with some difficulty,
gathered his shattered vessels, repaired damages, and put to sea again
on the eleventh of July. They made haste this time. Eight days' hard
rowing brought them within sight of England.

A blazing sun, and a strong south-west gale, inaugurated the morning of
the nineteenth of July. The fleet lay peacefully moored in Plymouth
Sound, all unconscious and unprophetic of what the day was to bring
forth: some of the officers engaged in calculating chances of future
battle, some eagerly debating home politics, some idly playing cards or
backgammon. These last averred that they had nothing to do. They were
not destined to make that complaint much longer.

At one end of the quarter-deck of Drake's ship, the "Revenge," was a
group of three young officers, of whom two at least were not much more
profitably employed than those who were playing cards in the "Ark
Royal." They were all volunteers, and the eldest of the three was but
two-and-twenty. One was seated on the deck, leaning back and apparently
dozing; the second stood, less sleepily, but quite as idly, beside him:
the last, with folded arms, was gazing out to sea, yet discerning
nothing, for his thoughts were evidently elsewhere. The second of the
trio appeared to be in a musical humour, for snatches of different songs
kept coming from his lips.

"`We be three poor mariners,
Newly come fro' th' seas:
We spend our lives in jeopardy,
Whilst others live at ease.'"

"Be we?" laughed the youth who was seated on the deck, half-opening his
eyes. "How much of thy life hast spent in jeopardy, Jack Enville?"

"How much? Did not I once fall into the sea from a rock?--and was
well-nigh drowned ere I could be fished out. More of my life than
thine, Master Robert Basset."

In something like the sense of Thekla Tremayne's "Poor Jack!" I pause
to say, Poor Robert Basset! He was the eldest son of the deceased Sir
Arthur. He had inherited the impulsive, generous heart, and the
sensitive, nervous temperament, of his ancestor Lord Lisle, unchecked by
the accompanying good sense and so