Drake found it necessary to lock him up in his own cabin, and at length to send him home with his ship to complain.  For himself, as the expected fleet from the Straits did not appear, and as he had shaken off his troublesome second in command, he proceeded leisurely up the coast, intending to look in at Lisbon and see for himself how things were going on there.  All along as he went he fell in with traders loaded with supplies for the use of the Armada.  All these he destroyed as he advanced, and at length found himself under the purple hills of Cintra and looking up into the Tagus.  There lay gathered together the strength of the fighting naval force of Spain—­fifty great galleons, already arrived, the largest war-ships which then floated on the ocean.  Santa Cruz, the best officer in the Spanish navy, was himself in the town and in command.  To venture a repetition of the Cadiz exploit in the face of such odds seemed too desperate even for Drake, but it was one of those occasions when the genius of a great commander sees more than ordinary eyes.  He calculated, and, as was proved afterwards, calculated rightly, that the galleons would be half manned, or not manned at all, and crowded with landsmen bringing on board the stores.  Their sides as they lay would be choked with hulks and lighters.  They would be unable to get their anchors up, set their canvas, or stir from their moorings.  Daring as Drake was known to be, no one would expect him to go with so small a force into the enemy’s stronghold, and there would be no preparations to meet him.  He could count upon the tides.  The winds at that season of the year were fresh and steady, and could be counted on also to take him in or out; there was sea room in the river for such vessels as the adventurers’ to manoeuvre and to retreat if overmatched.  Rash as such an enterprise might seem to an unprofessional eye, Drake certainly thought of it, perhaps had meant to try it in some form or other and so make an end of the Spanish invasion of England.  He could not venture without asking first for his mistress’s permission.  He knew her nature.  He knew that his services at Cadiz would outweigh his disregard of her orders, and that so far he had nothing to fear; but he knew also that she was still hankering after peace, and that without her leave he must do nothing to make peace impossible.  There is a letter from him to the Queen, written when he was lying off Lisbon, very characteristic of the time and the man.

Nelson or Lord St. Vincent did not talk much of expecting supernatural assistance.  If they had we should suspect them of using language conventionally which they would have done better to leave alone.  Sir Francis Drake, like his other great contemporaries, believed that he was engaged in a holy cause, and was not afraid or ashamed to say so.  His object was to protest against a recall in the flow of victory.  The Spaniards, he said, were but mortal men.  They were enemies of the Truth, upholders of Dagon’s