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the numerical odds arrayed against him and hunger for the fray as keenly as Boccanegra himself. Hence, when morning dawnedthe morning of June 24, a day to be marked with the reddest of red letters in the naval calendar of England-he beheld with an unquailing eye the whole hostile armada sallying from the haven in three compact squadrons drawn up in battle array, and he made ready, with a sober glee that well became the man and the occasion, to give them a rough reception.

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Every age fights in its own fashion. In the Victorian age 'tis all Armstrongs. The Edwardian was pre-eminently the age of strong arms. And full many a surname-Bowyer, Archer, Arrowsmith, Fletcher (fléchier arrow-maker), Bendbow, Armstrong itself-it has bequeathed us in proof that the graceful pastime in which the ladies now share and shine was once the staple art of the stern trade of Alike by land and sea the longbow was the weapon of our forefathers in the days when our third Edward earned the honourable by-name of "Sovereign of the Seas"-" Notre seigneur le roi de la mer" he is repeatedly hailed in the Parliament Roll of the forty-sixth year of his reign. In the fleet he admiralled at Sluys-supplanting, but for that day only, the standing admiral, Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick-there sailed many a stately ship filled with welltrained archers. These he stationed in the forefront of his line of battle, but sandwiched between each pair a shipful of "men-at-arms" -soldiers equipped with sword, spear, and buckler for hand-tohand encounter; a reserve squadron he told off to shield the van from risk of rear attack; while to a third, manned by 500 bowmen and 300 men-at-arms, he entrusted the protection of the transports, where the poor women stood all aghast and a-quake at the impending combat, in which dear friend and kinsman must peril life and limb. By which token the graphic pen of the unimitated and inimitable Froissart fails not to paint us the stout-hearted King doing his utmost to soothe and comfort this crew of tremblers.

The ships thus marshalled, Edward now bids them hoist sail and beat to windward. The intelligent reader will see at once that the aim of this masterly manœuvre was to compass the notable advantage of fighting with both wind and sun astern. But the foe entirely misread it, and sullenly grumbled, "The English shirk the fight!" So growls the tiger cheated of its prey. Now, however, the flying fleet, having gained its offing, tacks, veers, and comes bearing boldly down upon their serried squadrons, the fair wind bellying every sail, and the broad banner royal of England-its golden leopards burnished by the sunbeams-streaming bravely from the mainmast of the

admiral-king. Even to the Devil his due! The French chuckle at this change of front. They gloat over this seemingly sure prospect of clutching so splendid a prize. Only, in their reckoning they forgot one thing-the English host.

The battle began, at ten in the forenoon, by Boccanegra's sending forth four of his largest galleys to attack the Rich Oliver-a " clipper," as we should now call her, which, having far outsailed her fellows, offered a tempting bait to the bold Italian. On rushed the galleys at racing speed. It seems as if, true to the common naval tactics of the times, they mean to pierce the fat ribs of their bulky prey with their sharp iron beaks. But no! Within a hundred yards of her they halt, and batter her with a hail of heavy stones and darts from their mangonels and catapults, killing or maiming a third of the crew, and scaring the remainder. Quick the Genoese captain gives the word: "Bend to your oars!"—the galleys shoot through the foaming waves, and in a trice the crews are swarming up the Oliver's ribs. It seems that naught can save her. But yonder three ships, with every inch of canvas spread, are hasting to the rescue. They board the black galleys in the very nick of time, and capture the would-be captors.

Thus ends the prelude to the general onset, now heralded by a defiant blast from the brazen throats of the French trumpets. The English answer with a deafening cheer which rolls across the waves and rings back like long-reverberating thunder from the tall dykes that wall the Flemish shore. And while the last echo yet lives, a cloud of arrows from the English longbows comes hurtling through the air, dimming the summer sun and dealing death among the foe --but not dismay. They promptly retort with a dense shower of bolts from their crossbows; though, truth to tell, slight is the slaughter which ensues compared with that inflicted by the clothyard shafts ot Edward's archers.

And now the combat thickens, as the men-at-arms begin to ply their long hooked poles and grappling chains to drag the enemy to close quarters. Dread is this tug of war, and notable for many a doughty deed on either side. For though the English fight like lions, none can deny they find their foemen worthy of their steel. Meanwhile our men enjoy one signal moral advantage over the French : they fight with their King not only looking on, but in their midst, bearing his full share of the burden and danger of the day. But where is King Philip? Not there; not even watching how his men behave themselves in this fell struggle for the kingdom of the sea. Yet, under this chilling drawback, the French possess one substantial

source of pride and consolation. The vessels lately wrested from the English they still hold, and, as if to make the most of this insolent advantage, they have ranged the huge St. Christopher at the very head of their van. This, however, is like flourishing a red rag in the face of a bull. The English still smarting-and knowing that their beloved King still smarts-at the loss of yon gallant ship, strive manfully to win it back for him under his very eyes. They succeed. But it costs them dear; though dearer still the dogged defenders. For when at length the victors once more tread the old familiar planks they find scarce a Frenchman alive to sue for mercy. Naught now remains but to crown their triumph by filling the St. Christopher with English archers and pointing her angry prow against the French.

As the day wears on, other kindred triumphs reward the bulldog courage of our seamen. They wrest from the French the St. Edward also the namesake not only of their reigning King, but of the sainted Confessor, whose laws they love and whose memory they revere—a weighty matter to these simple, unsophisticated souls! Then several other craft of lighter burden, snatched from us by the Channel rovers during the last few years, return to their old allegiance, and leave their late masters stripped of all their trophies. But the end is not yet. The foreigners still stubbornly maintain the struggle by the aid of those formidable engines whose ponderous missiles make sad havoc among our men and shatter four of our vessels, which sink outright with all on board. Thus, for a while, the dogged valour of the allied fleet staves off the doom which awaits it. Slowly, however, but surely, the resistance slackens, droops, and dies. The foremost squadron, pitiably crippled, hauls down its colours. The second, ceaselessly raked by the English arrows, loses heart; and plunge after plunge proclaims that the crews are driven to the desperate shift of seeking shelter in the unfriendly waves from the pelting of the pitiless storm of steel. These gloomy tokens of defeat warn Boccanegra that all is lost, and wring from his unwilling lips the welcome order to retreat. Fear nimbles every finger and nerves each brawny arm, and soon, under full stress of oar and sail, the Genoese galleys dip their dark hulls beneath yon reddening horizon.

For now the sun is setting; the hard-fought fight has lasted full fifteen mortal hours. Yet, failing the gunpowder and Greek fireinvisible to eye-witnesses-with which the alderman-poet Fabyan embellishes his story of the battle, one needs to remember not only the length of the struggle, but its peculiar features and the large numbers engaged in it, before one can accept even the lowest estimate

of the slain-4,000 English and 10,000 French. Contemporary rumour more than doubled the amount; but even this sober estimate will serve to make the carnage of Trafalgar seem a mere flea-bite. Fabyan hangs both the French admirals. But one of them fell in the thick of the fight; and our craving for poetic justice must be satisfied with the fact that the other, Bahuchet, expiated his share in the shameful sack of Southampton by being gibbeted from his own mainyard. Edward received a thigh wound, touching which he breathes not a word in the manly and pious letter-the first naval despatch in our archives-whereby he conveyed to the prelates of his realm the first sure tidings of his victory. "Give God the praise," he writes, "and me your prayers." Meanwhile the ill news travelled apace to Paris. But none of Philip's courtiers durst break it to the royal ear. So they saddled the King's jester with the thankless task. "Out upon those English cowards-abject cravens, milk-livered scoundrels that they are!" Thus he began, and thus he ran on, till Philip checked him with the question, "Why such arrant cowards in your wise deem, Sir Fool?" "Why?" echoed the shrewd jester. "Because the chicken-hearted knaves lacked spunk to leap overboard and swim for their lives like our brave Normans and gentlemen of France."

PHILIP KENT.

"H

A QUEEN'S SERVANT

IN CARGLEN.

E'S late the nicht," says the man.

"Ay, that is he," declares the woman.

John Eunie sits closer to the fire, spreads his great hands more fully over the warm peat "low," and pulls hard at his brown clay

pipe.

Eppie, his wife, crouching on a low stool by the other side of the hearth, gathers her rough wincey gown very tightly around her feet, rattles the needles in the middle of a big stocking with renewed vigour, and she too does justice to an old black cutty.

This goes on for a little while, during which no word is spoken; only the click, click of the busy needles is heard; the smack of old lips pulling away at seasoned pipes; the lapping blaze of the peats in the big-bellied chimney; with an occasional "Oich! Oich!" from John, and a sympathetic "Umph! Umph!" from Eppie.

There are two windows in this little kitchen; a six-paned one, looking out on the front-garden and the broad toll-road, and a singlepaned one, opening like a big eye in the northern gable. These are set, clear to the blast, without shutter in the open, or blind within (God bless you! we have nothing to hide in Carglen), and the big raindrops, driven by the loud wind, play with a wintry music against the glass.

Meanwhile, far away down the toll-road Robbie the "post" is toiling along with the letters from Kail.

Presently a shrill and long-protracted whistle is heard; not heeded at first by either of the placid smokers; but as it continues loud and increasing in volume, followed by the fierce bark of a collie-dog, John takes his pipe out of his teeth, says "Oich! Oich! Oich!" and Eppie, ceasing at once to knit and smoke, adds her "Umph! Umph! Umph!"

Then John looks at Eppie, and Eppie gazes at John.

"Get up an' ope the door," is the expression on John's face.

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