Then—almost suddenly—all was changed. More than the old spirit came back to the Londoners, the descendants of the men who had followed Philpot the Mayor to the destruction of the Scottish pirate. Not only the sea dogs of Devon, but those of Wapping, Ratcliffe, Redriff, and the Cinque Ports went forth to fight the Spaniard wherever they could find him. Think of the career of Frobisher. Three times he essayed the north-west passage to Cathay; he commanded one of Drake’s ships in his expedition to the West Indies; he fought against the Armada; he was wounded, and died from wounds received at the siege of Crozan in Brittany. Forty years on the sea, sword in hand, sailed this brave captain. London possesses his body, which lies in St. Giles’s Church, Cripplegate. There was also Cavendish, the gentleman filibuster, who captured the richest prize ever known, and came home, his sails of damask, his sailors clad in silk, and his masts gleaming with cloth of gold. Or there was the defeat, the flight after battle against overwhelming odds, which affected the imagination even more than victory. Such was Sir John Hawkins’s fight at San Juan de Ulloa, five ships against thirteen. Even death, when death came splendidly, moved the hearts of the young men to brave deeds. Was there ever death finer than that of Sir Humphrey Gilbert? The last time he was seen by the people on the other ship, his companion, he was sitting on the high poop, his Bible in his hand. “We are as near to Heaven,” said the old captain, “by sea as by land.” Night fell and the men on the _Hind_ saw the light of the _Squirrel_ suddenly disappear. She had gone down with all on board. And while speaking of splendid deaths, there was that of Sir Richard Grenville. In his ship the _Revenge_, with five other vessels, he was met by a Spanish fleet of fifty-three ships; his companions fled, and the _Revenge_ alone fought them all:— “And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame: Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no more— God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?” But at length he was captured with his crippled ship and his diminished crew. “But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: ‘I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true: I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!’ And he fell upon their decks, and he died.”