the south-west, and, during the whole of that day and the Monday, blew
a tremendous gale. "'Twas a more violent storm," said Howard, "than was
ever seen before at this time of the year." The retreating English fleet
was, scattered, many ships were in peril, "among the ill-favoured sands
off Norfolk," but within four or five days all arrived safely in Margate
roads.

Far different was the fate of the Spaniards. Over their Invincible
Armada, last seen by the departing English midway between the coasts of
Scotland and Denmark, the blackness of night seemed suddenly to descend.
A mystery hung for a long time over their fate. Damaged, leaking,
without pilots, without a competent commander, the great fleet entered
that furious storm, and was whirled along the iron crags of Norway and
between the savage rocks of Faroe and the Hebrides. In those regions of
tempest the insulted North wreaked its full vengeance on the insolent
Spaniards. Disaster after disaster marked their perilous track; gale
after gale swept them hither and thither, tossing them on sandbanks or
shattering them against granite cliffs. The coasts of Norway, Scotland,
Ireland, were strewn with the wrecks of that pompous fleet, which claimed
the dominion of the seas with the bones of those invincible legions which
were to have sacked London and made England a Spanish vice-royalty.

Through the remainder of the month of August there, was a succession of
storms. On the 2nd September a fierce southwester drove Admiral Oquendo
in his galleon, together with one of the great galeasses, two large
Venetian ships, the Ratty and the Balauzara, and thirty-six other
vessels, upon the Irish coast, where nearly every soul on board perished,
while the few who escaped to the shore--notwithstanding their religious
affinity with the inhabitants--were either butchered in cold blood, or
sent coupled in halters from village to village, in order to be shipped