Devereaux changed the course of his boat several times, but as he was borne in spite of himself among the Spanish vessels he cried despairingly to Francis,
“It is of no avail, Francis. We must die.”
“Look!” was the girl’s reply.
Full well upon them bore a galleon, The Saint Matthew.
“Dogs of heretics,” cried the commander from the poop of the vessel, “die!”
“Ned, dear Ned!” shrieked Francis, throwing herself upon him, striving to shield him from the bullets and arrows that rained about them. The lad gave her one look, and opened his lips to reply when, with a shout of wild joy from the sailors, The Revenge glided in 320 between the frail bark and her towering foe.
“Heave ho,” cried Francis Drake in stentorian tones. “Lie to, my lads. Did’st think we’d leave such likely lads to perish? Nay; below with ye,” as they were pulled on deck. “Ye have done your part. The rest of us will now bear the brunt of action.”
And the English fleet swept on to deal the final blow to His Most Catholic Majesty, Philip of Spain’s, Invincible Armada.