But on the following Sunday, 14th of August, there was a change.

The wind shifted again to the south-west, and, during the whole of that day and the Monday, blew a tremendous gale.
"'Twas a more violent storm," said Howard, "than was ever seen before at this time of the year." The retreating English fleet was, scattered, many ships were in peril, "among the ill-favoured sands off Norfolk," but within four or five days all arrived safely in Margate roads.
Far different was the fate of the Spaniards.

Over their Invincible Armada, last seen by the departing English midway between the coasts of Scotland and Denmark, the blackness of night seemed suddenly to descend.
A mystery hung for a long time over their fate.

Damaged, leaking, without pilots, without a competent commander, the great fleet entered that furious storm, and was whirled along the iron crags of Norway and between the savage rocks of Faroe and the Hebrides.

In those regions of tempest the insulted North wreaked its full vengeance on the insolent Spaniards.
Disaster after disaster marked their perilous track; gale after gale swept them hither and thither, tossing them on sandbanks or shattering them against granite cliffs.