As his eye pierced through the gloom, he beheld the road ascending through a leafy tunnel, and as he mounted a steep hill, he looked into the thick shadow on either hand, and then stopped and contemplated the place with a curious eye. It is more than probable, whilst he looked upon this locality, covered as it was with enormous trees, the road darkened by their shadow, the overhanging bank covered with fern, the crow winging to his nest, the moon just beginning to appear, that some passages he had perused in one of the old chronicles of England flashed across his brain, for in the scene thus beheld at so sweet an hour Shakespeare looked upon Gad's Hill.
And now, as the players left the woodlands, and descended the hill on the other side, a magnificent sight was presented to their view,—looking in the pale moonlight like some romantic view exhibited during the scenic hour, the Keep of Rochester, white and spectral, towered above the flanking walls that surrounded it; the rushing waters of the river flowing just beneath; the old picturesque town (then in comparison but a hamlet) lying dark and sombre on the left. 'Twas a scene that spake of former passages in Britain's history; and as Shakespeare looked upon it he felt the impression. There beneath him flowed the broad Medway, where the Britons had made their stand against the legions of Rome. On the bank, surrounded with battled towers, frowned the tower of the Norman Gundulph, now, as of yore, filled with glittering troops; the flaming cresset glaring from its walls, and reflected in the stream. The "panoply of war, grim-visaged, but glorious war," once again had revived its thick-ribbed towers. And in the old hostel of the Crown, Shakespeare and his troop slept that night,—a locality since immortalised, for 'tis the inn-yard at Rochester, of the scenic hour.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE INVINCIBLE ARMADA.
At a time when every rank of men in England buried all party distinctions, and prepared with order, as well as vigour, to resist the violence of the invaders, the Catholics throughout the land were not found wanting. Many gentlemen of that sect, conscious that they could not justly expect either trust or authority, entered themselves as volunteers in the fleet or army, whilst many equipped ships at their own charge, and gave the command of them to Protestants; others again bestirred themselves, and animated their tenantry, servants, and neighbours to join in the defence.
Amongst these, Sir Hugh Clopton and Walter Arderne had manfully bestirred themselves. Sir Hugh had mustered his servants and followers, and putting them under conduct of his good friend, Sir Thomas Lucy, marched off as a simple volunteer to Tilbury Camp, whilst Walter Arderne, with no less zeal, and tenfold means, (for be it remembered he was now the possessor of an enormous fortune,) had equipped several ships at his own charge, intending to join Sir Francis Drake.
And thus having brought our readers to this period of general enthusiasm, we now almost lose sight of the individuals more immediately connected with our story in the universal excitement. The huge Armada, after having by a variety of reports seemed to threaten every foot of the coast in turn, was at length first discerned making its approach. A Dutch pirate brought intelligence to Plymouth that the Duke of Medina Sidonia was in reality in the English Channel. The captains and commanders of the English vessels were at the moment of this intelligence being brought playing at bowls at Plymouth; and Sir Francis Drake, with the true spirit of an English seaman, insisted upon playing out the game. "Play it out," my masters all, he said, "play it out. We have plenty of time to win the game first and beat the Spaniards afterwards."
A south-west wind, however, blew so strongly at the moment that the vessels had considerable difficulty in warping out. At length, however, by the tremendous efforts of all hands, (for the anxiety of the troops and sailors to get at the enemy is hardly to be described,) the English ships were fairly at sea, and, with every sail set, bearing up for the enemy.
"And now sits expectant in the air,"