roar to drag Dr. Faustus for ever into the flaming pit. On
the contrary, the devil stands by his servants to the last, and
tries to bring off his shattered forces with drums beating and
colours flying; and, if possible, to lull his enemies into supposing
that the fight is ended, long before it really is half over. All
which the good Lord Howard of Effingham knew well, and
knew, too, that Medina had one last card to play, and that was
the filial affection of that dutiful and chivalrous son, James of
Scotland. True, he had promised faith to Elizabeth: but that
was no reason why he should keep it. He had been hankering
and dabbling after Spain for years past, for its absolutism was
dear to his inmost soul; and Queen Elizabeth had had to warn
him, scold him, call him a liar, for so doing; so the Armada
might still find shelter and provision in the Firth of Forth.
But whether Lord Howard knew or not, Medina did not know,
that Elizabeth had played her card cunningly, in the shape of
one of those appeals to the purse, which, to James's dying day,
overweighed all others save appeals to his vanity. "The title
of a dukedom in England, a yearly pension of £5000, a guard
at the queen's charge, and other matters" (probably more
hounds and deer), had steeled the heart of the King of Scots,
and sealed the Firth of Forth. Nevertheless, as I say, Lord
Howard, like the rest of Elizabeth's heroes, trusted James just
as much as James trusted others; and therefore thought good
to escort the Armada until it was safely past the domains of
that most chivalrous and truthful Solomon. But on the 4th
August, his fears, such as they were, were laid to rest. The
Spaniards left the Scottish coast and sailed away for Norway and the game was played out, and the end was come, as the end
of such matters generally comes, by gradual decay, petty disaster,
and mistake; till the snow-mountain, instead of being blown
tragically and heroically to atoms, melts helplessly and pitiably
away.

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