In a corridor of the Escurial, Philip II. was met by a man who had long stood waiting his approach, and who with proud reverence placed a petition in the hand of the pale and sombre King.  The petitioner was Pedro Menendez de Aviles, one of the ablest and most distinguished officers of the Spanish marine.  He was born of an ancient Asturian family.  His boyhood had been wayward, ungovernable, and fierce.  He ran off at eight years of age, and when, after a search of six months, he was found and brought back, he ran off again.  This time he was more successful, escaping on board a fleet bound against the Barbary corsairs, when his precocious appetite for blood and blows had reasonable contentment.  A few years later, he found means to build a small vessel in which he cruised against the corsairs and the French, and, though still little more than a boy, displayed a singular address and daring.  The wonders of the New World now seized his imagination.  He made a voyage thither, and the ships under his charge came back freighted with wealth.  War with France was then at its height.  As captain-general of the fleet, he was sent with troops to Flanders, and to their prompt arrival was due, it is said, the victory of St. Quentin, Two years later, he commanded the luckless armada which bore back Philip to his native shore, and nearly drowned him in a storm off the port of Laredo.  This mischance, or his own violence and insubordination, wrought to the prejudice of Menendez.  He complained that his services were ill repaid.  Philip lent him a favoring ear, and despatched him to the Indies as general of the fleet and army.  Here he found means to amass vast riches; and, in 1561, returning to Spain, charges were brought against him of a nature which his too friendly biographer does not explain.  The Council of the Indies arrested him.  He was imprisoned and sentenced to a heavy fine, but, gaining his release, hastened to Madrid to throw himself on the royal clemency.

His petition was most graciously received.  Philip restored his command, but remitted only half his fine, a strong presumption of his guilt.

Menendez kissed the royal hand; he had still a petition in reserve.  His son had been wrecked near the Bermudas, and he would fain go thither to find tidings of his fate.  The pious King bade him trust in God, and promised that he should be despatched without delay to the Bermudas and to Florida with a commission to make an exact survey of those perilous seas for the profit of future voyagers; but Menendez was ill content with such an errand.  He knew, he said, nothing of greater moment to His Majesty than the conquest and settlement of Florida.  The climate was healthful, the soil fertile; and, worldly advantages aside, it was peopled by a race sunk in the thickest shades of infidelity.  “Such grief,” he pursued, “seizes me, when I behold this multitude of wretched Indians, that I should choose the conquest and settling of Florida above all commands, offices, and dignities which your Majesty might bestow.”  Those who think this hypocrisy do not know the Spaniard of the sixteenth century.