Aviles (Menendez) was now in his forty-seventh year (1566), a trained soldier, a skillful seaman, and with perhaps a larger experience in the special requirements of the undertaking than any other man in Spain, perhaps in Europe. He was decisive and prompt in an emergency, yet cool and resourceful. 

He was of indomitable energy, with a courage beyond reproach. In one of his memorials to Philip he writes that "there were neither French nor English nor any other nation on the Florida coast that could terrify him."

His loyalty was above suspicion. In a letter written from his prison in Seville - jailed by the House of Trade for disobeying orders, he exclaims with all of the pride of a faithful subject and of a brave soldier, "I possess but my sword, and my cloak, and my honour, which are great riches to me, because I have been fortunate in my service to Your Majesty."

His prolonged service in countless naval engagements with the French had given him a thorough knowledge of their ways and methods, and had infused him with a deep hatred of these relentless enemies of his country, while it had also bred in him a due respect for their courage and ability, of which his tribute to Jean Ribault is a remarkable testimony.

On occasion he knew how to exercise that courtesy which befitted his rank, and Merds (Menendez' brother-in-law) tells us that he was much liked by Queen Mary, Philip's English wife, on account of his liberality and hospitable treatment of the Englishmen in her service.'

He was no theologian. His parallel of the religions of the Protestants and the Indians shows us that. His faith was that of a soldier, imbued with all that hatred of heresy peculiar to his age and race; and he showed as little compunction in executing upon heretics what was taught to be the will of the Church as he was relentless in performing the commands of his sovereign.

And yet his letters show that in carrying through the appalling massacre of the French Huguenots in Florida, he was neither impelled by rage, nor violence, nor acting under the impulse of a blind fanaticism, but was deliberately and conscientiously performing what he believed to be his duty towards his King and his faith. And in this light we cannot withhold from him the respect due a courageous and faithful soldier, while we shudder at the distorted logic which could calmly justify his crime.

We have a portrait of him, at about the age of fifty, subsequent to his

 return from the conquest of Florida. In it he bears a curious resemblance in the contour of the face to the monarch whom he served, but there the resemblance ceases. In place of the bulging eyes and sensuous lips which we see in Titian's famous portrait of his master, painted at Philip's command for a gift for his English bride, we have shrewd, sharp eyes, under the heavy brows of a seaman, and lips pressed firmly together with a determination that bodes ill for those who run counter to it; he is "bearded like the pard," and bears on his left breast the cross of Santiago.