time flew the red and yellow flag of today. They used the Hapsbourg ensign, the banner of Burgundy, which is a red saltire on a white ground.

Sir Richard Grenville was probably standing on the after castle of the Revenge with his captain and his sailingmaster, as they neared the Spaniards. When it was clear that they could not weather the head of Don Alonso's line the captain and master implored him to go about, but he refused. Linschoten was told that the master had actually given the order to "cut [i.e., set] the mainsail" and put before the wind, but that Grenville threatened to hang him, or any man who touched a rope. What ever the truth here, it is the fact that the Revenge held on; and all agree that she held on by the decision of the admiral, and against the wish of her officers and crew. Why? Mr. Laughton thinks that the admiral "was not a seaman, nor had he any large experience of the requirements of actual war." But he had been at sea and in fights. If he did not understand the elementary facts of the case, he must have been a born fool, which nobody ever called him. Monson saw in his action only temper and wrong-headedness; but then, Monson was of the earth, earthy, and adds that Grenville repented at the last moment, and would have come back if he could, which is against all the other evidence. Raleigh thought that to have gone about would have been the wiser course, “in so great an impossibility of prevailing," and adds, "notwithstanding, out of the greatness of his mind he could not be persuaded." But is it greatness of mind to throw away a ship and a ship's company on a point of honor? Cochrane would not have thought so, nor Nelson; though both could be brave to the verge of madness.

et Raleigh was right. It was greatness of mind as it was understood by a generation which revelled in Marlowe, and which knew what was meant by an "heroic fury."

The "requirements of actual war" have, in truth, nothing to do with what was a rodomontade, not in our jeering modern sense, but as Brantôme used

He

the word—a furious outbreak of pride, passion, and longing for the joys of battle. Months of dull cruising, of stenches from the soaking ballast, of scurvy, and of fever, may have helped to exasperate a naturally flerce man. Yet at all times Grenville must have hated the prudent game of working to windward, and fighting at long bowls. There were Englishmen in the fleet collected against the Armada in the Channel, who would have forced Lord Howard of Effingham to leave his cautious manoeuvres, and grapple with the Spaniards, if only they could. If Grenville had been there, his voice would have been with them. Now he was free to act. For the queen's ship he cared not much-or, as the Bearserk mood rose in him, he got past caring. For his men he cared not a jot. would not have deserted them, for that would have been an act of cowardice, but he never doubted for an instant of his right to lead them to death, if honor was thereby to be earned for Richard Grenville. Now, to sail into that great fleet, defying the danger from which Lord Thomas Howard shrank; to force it to give way, and glory over it if its spirit failed; or, if it barred his road, then to show what virtue was in him by laying about him to his will before he died-that would be great honor. So he held on, knowing well what he did. Divers Spaniards bore up to let him pass, but the bullets began to fly, and the George Noble was shot through and through. Then the great Saint Philip crossed the Revenge's bow, taking the wind out of her sails. The George Noble came under Grenville's stern and her master hailed to ask if he should stay. Sir Richard told the trader to go, and leave him to his fate. That answer, which Raleigh must have heard from the skipper, tells us enough of what was in the admiral's mind. He was then as his Norse ancestors had been when the last hour was come. when all that was in a man's power was to meet his fate like a man. The poet who wrote the "Hamdis Mal" would have known how to word it. "We have fought a good fight," said the sons of

Gudrun in the Hall of Ermanric. "We stand on slaughtered Goths, on the sword-sated slain, like eagles on their perch. We have gotten a good report, though we die to-day or to-morrow."

Sir Richard was not left wholly alone to meet his fate. The fight began at three o'clock in the afternoon. For two hours Captain Vavassor, in the Foresight, was near the Revenge, fighting hard, and Lord Thomas Howard came down from windward as near as he could without entangling his ships among the Spaniards. But his fear to lose the queen's ships kept him always to windward. A Norseman or a knight would have thought it better to perish with Grenville than to leave him; but Lord Thomas Howard was a sensible English officer, and he listened to subordinates, who told him that it was not the part of a judicious commander to sacrifice a whole squadron to no purpose. So at dark he sailed away, and Sir Richard was left to his fate. All night the Spaniards fired into him or tried to board, and, when day came, the Revenge was a dismasted hulk. Grenville lay desperately wounded. He would, so Raleigh was told, have blown up the ship to make the more glorious end, and his master-gunner would have fulfilled his wish. But his crew were not the band of a Norse chief. They were Englishmen of the new time, and, having done their duty, refused to be sacrificed. They surrendered on terms, and Grenville was carried to die in Don Alonso's flagship.

"Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and a quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as a good soldier ought to do, who has fought for his country, queen, religion, and honor. Wherefore my soul joyfully departeth out of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting fame of a true soldier, who hath done his duty as he was bound to do. But the others of my company have done as traitors and dogs, for which they shall be reproached all their lives and leave a shameful name forever." The early translator of Linschoten suppressed the last sentence, which yet is not the least

significant part of this farewell to the world. Perhaps they thought it unjust, for they, too, were modern men, and were half amazed at Sir Richard even while they admired him.

DAVID HANNAY.

From Temple Bar.

TWO TALES FROM THE RUSSIAN OF ANTON TSCHECHOW.

THE BITER BIT.

The land surveyor, Gleb Gawrilowitsch Smirnow, had arrived at the Gniluschka station. He had still thirty versts to drive before reaching the estate where his services were required. If the driver is sober and the horses are not slaughter-house nags, a distance of thirty versts is hardly worth mentioning; whereas if the coachman is drunk and the horses exhausted, the distance appears to be more like fifty versts. "Tell me, please, where I can procure posthorses," said the surveyor to station gendarme.

the

"What kind of horses? Posthorses? Why, there is hardly a dog in the whole country-side that you could put into harness, let alone horses. Where do you wish to go?"

"To Dewkino, to General Hohotow's estate."

"Well, then," yawned the gendarme, "go to the back of the station; in the yard there you will find some peasants and their carts; travellers sometimes get a lift in that way."

The surveyor sighed and went in the direction indicated.

After a good deal of fruitless inquiry and searching, he discovered a peasant, a powerful, gloomy-looking man, pitted with smallpox, who, shod in felt shoes and wrapped in a coarse ragged blanket, stood motionless as a pillar of salt.

"The devil alone knows what sort of a cart this is," grumbled the surveyor as he got up. "One can hardly tell the front from the back.”

"What possible difficulty can there

be? The front is where the horse's tail is, and the back is where your honor is sitting."

The horse was young, in good condition, with broad flat hocks and fly-bitten ears. When it was struck with the whip (which was made of string) it merely shook its head; when struck for the second time and roundly abused as well, the cart began to quake and quiver as if in an ague. After the third blow, it swayed backwards and forwards, but the fourth blow set it fairly in motion.

"Does this sort of thing go on the whole time?" inquired the surveyor after receiving a most violent shock. Inwardly he wondered how it was that Russian drivers can always manage to shake body and soul asunder, although driving at a foot's pace.

"We shall get there all right," answered the driver soothingly. "This is a mare, young and fast. If she once begins to gallop there is no holding her. Come up, accursed beast!"

Twilight had set in as the cart left the station. To the right of the road stretched an immense frozen plain which seemed to have no limits. If one drove to its uttermost parts, one would certainly fall into the devil's clutches. On the horizon, where earth and sky merged into one, the crimson autumnal glow was slowly fading. To the left of the road huge mounds defined themselves vaguely in the fast darkening atmosphere; they bore fantastic resemblances, some to hayricks, some to houses. It was impossible for the surveyor to see anything in front of him, for the driver's broad back entirely obstructed his vision. The atmosphere was still but cold, almost freezing.

"What a desert!" reflected the surveyor, pulling his coat collar over his ears. "Far and wide is neither house nor hut. If I were to be attacked and robbed, not a creature would be a bit the wiser, even if I were to fire off a cannon-and the driver looks anything but trustworthy. If such a son of Anak were merely to raise a finger, my fate would be decided. He has cer

tainly a most suspicious and bestial face."

"Well, my man, and what is your name?" inquired the surveyor. "I-my name is Klim."

"Tell me, Klim, is the neighborhood quite safe? No robberies? No v10lence?"

"No, God is always merciful to me. Besides, who is there to commit robberies?"

"It is lucky that things are so quiet. But to make sure I have brought three revolvers with me," said the land surveyor, lying freely. "And, as you know, a revolver is not a child's toy; one is quite sufficient to polish off ten robbers." It was now quite dark. Suddenly the cart began to creak and groan and shiver, swerving apparently accidentally towards the left.

"Where is he going?" thought the surveyor. "He was going straight forward just now, and here he is turning off to the left. I should not be surprised if the rogue is taking me straight into a trap and then-all sorts of things might happen."

"So you say the neighborhood is quite safe," he continued, addressing the driver. "That is rather a pity. I should rather like an encounter with highwaymen. Although I look so weakly and delicate I am really endowed with the strength of an ox. Once upon a time three robbers attacked me. Well. what do you think happened? One I struck so hard that he that he died there and then; the other two, thanks to my assistance, were sent to Siberia to penal servitude. I myself do not know whence comes this strength. I can seize a burly fellow like you-and and wring his neck."

Klim turned to look at the surveyor, wrinkled his face in a curious way, and gave the mare a blow with his whip.

"Yes, brother, so it is," continued the surveyor. "May God protect anybody who ventures to attack me. Not only would he lose his hands and feet, but he would have to answer for his crime before the judges. I am known to ill the judges and magistrates. I am an

reach their height.

"Driver, to the Wiburger suburb," hears Jona. "Driver!"

Jona starts, and from between his snow-laden eyelashes sees an officer in cloak and hood.

"To the Wiburger suburb!" repeats the officer. "Are you asleep?"

As a sign that he understands, Jona gathers up his reins, thereby causing great flakes of snow to fall from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer seats himself in the sleigh. The driver clicks with his tongue, stretches his neck like a swan, and cracks his whip more from force of habit than necessity. The horse stretches out his neck, bends his wooden legs, and sways from side to side in an undecided manner.

From the dark swerving mass be

Twilight has set in. Great snowflakes circle slowly round the street lamps, sinking in thin soft heaps on the roofs, on the horses' backs, on men's shoulders and caps. The driver, Jona Potapow, is as white as any ghost. He sits on the coachbox in as crooked a position as a human body can possibly assume, quite motionless. Apparently, he would not think it necessary to shake the snow off, even if an entire snowdrift fell on him. His little horse stands quite still, also covered with snow. Rawboned and knockkneed, it is for all the world like one of those gingerbread horses that you buy at the fairs. It is, apparently, deep in thought. If you take a horse away from the plough, tear it away from its surroundings, and immerse it in this whirl of strange lights, of hurrying men and incessant noise, it can surely not do otherwise than think.

It is some considerable time since Jona and his horse have remained in the same place. They began their day very early in the morning, but nobody had required their services. Now the evening mist is covering the town. As the darkness deepens, the pale light of the street lamps grows more brilliant

you going, you devil's limb? What are you trying to do? Keep to the right. You don't know how to drive. Keep to the right," repeats the officer wrathfully.

The driver of another carriage swears at him. A foot-passenger who wishes to cross the road and knocks up against the horse's head glares furiously at him as he shakes the snow from his sleeve. Jona wriggles on his box as if he were sitting on pins and needles, flings his arms about from side to side, and gazes helplessly around him as if he failed to understand where he was or what he was doing.

"What rogues there are in this world!" cries the officer. "All these people seem determined to collide with you and your horse. There is certainly a conspiracy against you."

Jona looks round at his fare and moves his lips. He evidently wishes to say something, but only a hoarse murmur escapes his throat.

"What?" says the officer. Jona forces a smile to his lips, clears his throat, and says huskily: "Sir, I have lost-my son-died this week.

sir."

"Ha! what did he die of?"