God don't shape us to be puppets."
"That sounds like old Saavedra," was Doughty's idle comment. "He had
great store of antiquated sentiments--like those in the chronicles of
the paladins. I knew his nephew well--a witty fellow, but visionary. He
laughed at the old cavalero, but he was fond of him, and our affections
rule us and ruin us. A man should have no loves nor hates if he would
get on at court."
Sheer surprise kept the other silent for the moment, and Doughty went
on,--
"The old man had been in Mexico with Cortes, and might have risen to
Adelantado in some South American province if he had not been too
scrupulous to join Pizarro. He was in London, ten or fifteen years
before I knew him, and I believe he was the destruction of a
well-considered Spanish plot for the assassination of Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth--the assassins nearly killed him. He was left for dead and was
picked up by some sailors."
"He was in luck." Drake's eyes twinkled.
"They would have been luckier--if they had let the Spanish agents in
London know they had him. He paid them well of course, but he gave them
credit for the most exalted motives. All his geese were swans."
"Maybe they acted out o' pure decency," Drake said dryly.
"My Admiral, this is not Utopia." Doughty stroked his beard with a light
complacent hand.
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