eir
reports were so contradictory and uncertain that they increased rather
than allayed the suspense and misery. Now it was a French boat that
reported the destruction of the _Triumph_; now an Englishman that swore
to having seen Drake kill Medina-Sidonia with his own hand on his poop;
but whatever the news might be, the unrest and excitement ran higher and
higher. St. Clare's chapel in the old parish church of St. Nicholas was
crowded every morning at five o'clock by an excited congregation of
women, who came to beg God's protection on their dear ones struggling out
there somewhere towards the dawn with those cruel Southern monsters.
Especially great was the crowd on the Tuesday morning following the
departure of the ships; for all day on Monday from time to time came a
far-off rolling noise from the direction of Calais; which many declared
to be thunder, with an angry emphasis that betrayed their real opinion.

When they came out of church that morning, and were streaming down to the
quay as usual to see if any news had come in during the night, a seaman
called to them from a window that a French vessel was just entering the
harbour.

When the women arrived at the water's edge they found a good crowd
already assembled on the quay, watching the ship beat in against the
north-west wind, which had now set in; but she aroused no particular
comment as she was a well-known boat plying between Boulogne and Rye; and
by seven o'clock she was made fast to the quay.

There were the usual formalities, stricter than usual during war, to be
gone through before the few passengers were allowed to land: but all was
in order; the officers left the boat, and the passengers came up the
plank, the crowd pressing forward as they came, and questioning them
eagerly. No, there was no certain news, said an Englishman at last, who
looked like a lawyer; it was said at Boulogne the night before that there
had been an engagement further up beyond the Straits; they had all heard
guns; and it was reported by the last cruiser who came in before the boat
left that a Spanish galleasse had run aground and had been claimed by M.
Gourdain, the governor of Calais; but probably, added the shrewd-eyed
man, that was just a piece of their dirty French pride. The crowd smiled
ruefully; and a French officer of the boat who was standing by the
gangway scowled savagely, as the lawyer passed on with a demure face.

Then there was a pause in the little stream of