The Duke,
meanwhile, was left to smooth his ruffled plumes and drift on upon his
way. But by this time England was awake. Fresh privateers, with powder,
meat, bread, fruit, anything that they could bring, were pouring out
from the Dorsetshire harbours. Sir George Carey had come from the
Needles in time to share the honours of the last battle, 'round shot,'
as he said, 'flying thick as musket balls in a skirmish on land.'
The Duke had observed uneasily from the _San Martin's_ deck that his
pursuers were growing numerous. He had made up his mind definitely to go
for the Isle of Wight, shelter his fleet in the Solent, land 10,000 men
in the island, and stand on his defence till he heard from Parma. He
must fight another battle; but, cut up as he had been, he had as yet
lost but two ships, and those by accident. He might fairly hope to force
his way in with help from above, for which he had special reason to look
in the next engagement. Wednesday was a breathless calm. The English
were taking in their supplies. The Armada lay still, repairing damages.
Thursday would be St. Dominic's Day. St. Dominic belonged to the Duke's
own family, and was his patron saint. St. Dominic he felt sure, would
now stand by his kinsman.
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