It was the day following that memorable Monday in August, 1588, when the English fleet scattered the galleons and galleasses of Spain and Portugal and chased them into the North Sea. The bells were pealing from every steeple and church tower in Merry England, whilst beacon fires flashed their happy tidings along the chain of hill-tops from Land’s End to John O’Groats. The country was wild with joy at the glorious victory over the Great Armada, and well it might be, for never was a fight more gallant nor a cause more just. It was night and long past the hour when the honest citizens of Good Queen Bess’s realm were wont to seek their couches and well-earned repose, but this night excitement ran too high to admit of the thought of sleep. In the little village of Willoughby, Master Gardner, portly and red-faced, was prepared to keep the D’Eresby Arms open until daylight despite law and custom. The villagers who passed up and down the one street of the hamlet exchanging greetings and congratulations had more than a patriotic interest in the great event, for at least half of them had sons or brothers amongst the sturdy souls who had flocked from every shire and town to their country’s defence at the first call for help. Beside the fountain in the market place, interested spectators of the scene, stood a lusty lad and an elderly man, bowed by broken health. “The Lord be praised that He hath let me live to see this glorious day,” said the man, reverently and with a tremor in his voice. “Our England hath trounced the proud Don, my son. I’ faith! ’tis scarce to be believed that our little cockle-shells should overmatch their great vessels of war. Thank the Lord, lad, that thou wast born in a land that breeds men as staunch as the stuff from which their ships are fashioned. If one who served--with some distinction if I say it--under the great Sir Francis, might hazard a prediction, I would say that the sun of England hath risen over the seas never to set.” “Would I had been there, Sir!” cried the boy with eyes aglow. “Thou, manikin!” replied his father smiling, as he patted the bare head. “Thou! But it gladdens my heart that a Smith of Willoughby fought with Drake on the _Revenge_ in yester battle and I’ll warrant that my brother William demeaned himself as becomes one of our line.” “And thus will I one day,” said the lad earnestly. “Nay, nay child!” quickly rejoined the man. “Harbor not such wild designs John, for thou art cast for a farmer. Thou must train thy hand to the plow and so dismiss from thy mind all thought of the sea. Come, let us return. Thy mother will be aweary waiting.”