Isabella.  A welcome, a grasp of the hand, nothing more.  Poor young
lovers!  If only it did not require such a confounded number of things to
live....Well, we will see!"

As soon as the artist had entered the adjoining room, a new and more
violent quarrel arose there, but, though Senora Petra finally called a
fainting-fit to her aid, her husband remained firm, and at last returned
to the studio with Isabella.

Ulrich had awaited her, as a criminal expects his sentence.  Now she
stood before him led by her father's hand-and he, he struck his forehead
with his fist, closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her--to
gaze as if he beheld a wondrous apparition.  Then feeling as if he should
die of shame, grief, and joyful surprise, he stood spellbound, and knew
not what to do, save to extend both hands to her, or what to say, save
I....I--I," then with a sudden change of tone exclaimed like a madman:

"You don't know!  I am not....  Give me time, master.  Here, here, girl,
you must, you shall, all must not be over!"

He had opened his arms wide, and now hastily approached her with the
eager look of the gambler, who has staked his last penny on a card.

Coello's daughter did not obey.

She was no longer little, unassuming Belita; here stood no child, but a
beautiful, blooming maiden.  In eighteen months her figure had gained
height; anxious yearning and constant contention with her mother had
wasted her superabundance of flesh; her face had become oval, her bearing
self-possessed.  Her large, clear eyes now showed their full beauty, her
half-developed features had acquired exquisite symmetry, and her raven-
black hair floated, like a shining ornament, around her pale, charming
face.

"Happy will be the man, who is permitted to call this woman his own!"
cried a voice in the youth's breast, but another voice whispered "Lost,
lost, forfeited, trifled away!"

Why did she not obey his call?  Why did she not rush into his open arms?
Why, why?

He clenched his fists, bit his lips, for she did not stir, except to
press closely to her father's side.

This handsome, splendidly-dressed gentleman, with the pointed beard,
deep-set eyes, and stern, gloomy gaze, was an entirely different person
from the gay enthusiastic follower of art, for whom her awakening heart
had first throbbed more quickly; this was not the future master, who
stood before her mind as a glorious favorite of fortune and the muse,
transfigured by joyous creation and lofty success--this defiant giant
did not look like an artist.  No, no; yonder man no longer resembled the
Ulrich, to whom, in the happiest hour of her life, she had so willingly,
almost too willingly, offered her pure lips.

Isabella's young heart contracted with a chill, yet she saw that he
longed for her; she knew, could not deny, that she had bound herself to
him body and soul, and yet--yet, she would so gladly have loved him.

She strove to speak, but could find no words, save "Ulrich, Ulrich," and
these did not sound gay and joyous, but confused and questioning.

Coello felt her fingers press his shoulder closer and closer.  She was
surely seeking protection and aid from him, to keep her promise and
resist her lover's passionate appeal.

Now his darling's eyes filled with tears, and he felt the tremor of her
limbs.

Softened by affectionate weakness and no longer able to resist the
impulse to see his little Belita happy, he whispered:

"Poor thing, poor young lovers!  Do as you choose, I won't look."

But Isabella did not leave him; she only drew herself up higher, summoned
all her courage and looking the returned traveller more steadily in the
face, said:

"You are so changed, so entirely changed, Ulrich I cannot tell what has
come over me.  I have anticipated this hour day and night, and now it is
here;--what is this?  What has placed itself between us?"

"What, indeed!"  he indignantly exclaimed, advancing towards her with a
threatening air.  "What?  Surely you must know!  Your mother has destroyed
your regard for the poor bungler.  Here I stand!  Have I kept my promise,
yes or no?  Have I become a monster, a venomous serpent?  Do not look at
me so again, do not!  It will do no good; to you or me.  I will not allow
myself to be trifled with!"

Ulrich had shouted these words, as if some great injustice had been done
him, and he believed himself in the right.

Coello tried to release himself from his daughter, to confront the
passionately excited man, but she held him back, and with a pale face and
trembling voice, but proud and resolute manner, answered:

"No one has trifled with you, I least of all; my love has been earnest,
sacred earnest."

"Earnest!" interrupted Ulrich, with cutting irony.

"Yes, yes, sacred earnest;--and when my mother told me you had killed a
man and left Venice for a worthless woman's sake, when it was rumored,
that in Ferrara you had become a gambler, I thought: 'I know him better,
they are slandering him to destroy the love you bear in your heart.'
I did not believe it; but now I do.  I believe it, and shall do so, till
you have withstood your trial.  For the gambler I am too good, to the
artist Navarrete I will joyfully keep my promise.  Not a word, I will
hear no more.  Come, father!  If he loves me, he will understand how to
win me.  I am afraid of this man."

Ulrich now knew who was in fault, and who in the right.  Strong impulse
urged him away from the studio, away from Art and his betrothed bride;
for he had forfeited all the best things in life.

But Coello barred his way.  He was not the man, for the sake of a brawl
and luck at play, to break friendship with the faithful companion, who
had shown distinctly enough how fondly he loved his darling.  He had
hidden behind these bushes himself in his youth, and yet become a skilful
artist and good husband.

He willingly yielded to his wife in small matters, in important ones he
meant to remain master of the house.  Herrera was a great scholar and
artist, but an insignificant man; and he allowed himself to be paid
like a bungler.  Ulrich's manly beauty had pleased him, and under his,
Coello's teaching, he would make his mark.  He, the father knew better
what suited Isabella than she herself.  Girls do not sob so bitterly as
she had done, as soon as the door of the studio closed behind her, unless
they are in love.

Whence did she obtain this cool judgment?  Certainly not from him, far
less from her mother.

Perhaps she only wished to arouse Navarrete to do his best at the trial.
Coello smiled; it was in his power to judge mildly.

So he detained Ulrich with cheering words, and gave him a task in which
he could probably succeed.  He was to paint a Madonna and Child, and two
months were allowed him for the work.  There was a studio in the Casa del
Campo, he could paint there and need only promise never to visit the
Alcazar before the completion of the work.

Ulrich consented.  Isabella must be his.  Scorn for scorn!

She should learn which was the stronger.

He knew not whether he loved or hated her, but her resistance had
passionately inflamed his longing to call her his.  He was determined,
by summoning all his powers, to create a masterpiece.  What Titian had
approved must satisfy a Coello! so he began the task.

A strong impulse urged him to sketch boldly and without long
consideration, the picture of the Madonna, as it had once lived in his
soul, but he restrained himself, repeating the warning words which had so
often been dinned into his ears: Draw, draw!

A female model was soon found; but instead of trusting his eyes and
boldly reproducing what he beheld, he measured again and again, and
effaced what the red pencil had finished.  While painting his courage
rose, for the hair, flesh, and dress seemed to him to become true to
nature and effective.  But he, who in better times had bound himself
heart and soul to Art and served her with his whole soul, in this picture
forced himself to a method of work, against which his inmost heart
rebelled.  His model was beautiful, but he could read nothing in the
regular features, except that they were fair, and the lifeless
countenance became distasteful to him.  The boy too caused him great
trouble, for he lacked appreciation of the charm of childish innocence,
the spell of childish character.

Meantime he felt great secret anxiety.  The impulse that moved his brush
was no longer the divine pleasure in creation of former days, but dread
of failure, and ardent, daily increasing love for Isabella.

Weeks elapsed.

Ulrich lived in the lonely little palace to which he had retired,
avoiding all society, toiling early and late with restless, joyless
industry, at a work which pleased him less with every new day.

Don Juan of Austria sometimes met him in the park.  Once the Emperor's
son called to him:

"Well, Navarrete, how goes the enlisting?"

But Ulrich would not abandon his art, though he had long doubted its
omnipotence.  The nearer the second month approached its close, the more
frequently, the more fervently he called upon the "word," but it did not
hear.

When it grew dark, a strong impulse urged him to go to the city, seek
brawls, and forget himself at the gaming-table; but he did not yield, and
to escape the temptation, fled to the church, where he spent whole hours,
till the sacristan put out the lights.

He was not striving for communion with the highest things, he felt no
humble desire for inward purification; far different motives influenced
him.

Inhaling the atmosphere laden with the soft music of the organ and the
fragrant incense, he could converse with his beloved dead, as if they
were actually present; the wayward man became a child, and felt all the
gentle, tender emotions of his early youth again stir his heart.

One night during the last week before the expiration of the allotted
time, a thought which could not fail to lead him to his goal, darted into
his brain like a revelation.

A beautiful woman, with a child standing in her lap, adorned the canvas.

What efforts he had made to lend these features the right expression.

Memory should aid him to gain his purpose.  What woman had ever been
fairer, more tender and loving than his own mother?

He distinctly recalled her eyes and lips, and during the last few days
remaining to him, his Madonna obtained Florette's joyous expression,
while the sensual, alluring charm, that had been peculiar to the mouth of
the musician's daughter, soon hovered around the Virgin's lips.

Ay, this was a mother, this must be a true mother, for the picture
resembled his own!

The gloomier the mood that pervaded his own soul, the more sunny and
bright the painting seemed.  He could not weary of gazing at it, for it
transported him to the happiest hours of his childhood, and when the
Madonna looked down upon him, it seemed as if he beheld the balsams
behind the window of the smithy in the market-place, and again saw the
Handsome nobles, who lifted him from his laughing mother's lap to set him
on their shoulders.

Yes! In this picture he had been aided by the "joyous art," in whose
honor Paolo Veronese, had at one of Titian's banquets, started up,
drained a glass of wine to the dregs, and hurled it through the window
into the canal.

He believed himself sure of success, and could no longer cherish anger
against Isabella.  She had led him back into the right path, and it would
be sweet, rapturously sweet, to bear the beloved maiden tenderly and
gently in his strong arms over the rough places of life.

One morning, according to the agreement, he notified Coello that the
Madonna was completed.

The Spanish artist appeared at noon, but did not come alone, and the man,
who preceded him, was no less important a personage than the king
himself.

With throbbing heart, unable to utter a single word, Ulrich opened the
door of the studio, bowing low before the monarch, who without
vouchsafing him a single glance, walked solemnly to the painting.

Coello drew aside the cloth that covered it, and the sarcastic chuckle
Ulrich had so often heard instantly echoed from the king's lips; then
turning to Coello he angrily exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by the
young artist:

"Scandalous!  Insulting, offensive botchwork!  A Bacchante in the garb
of a Madonna!  And the child! Look at those legs!  When he grows up, he
may become a dancing-master.  He who paints such Madonnas should drop his
colors!  His place is the stable--among refractory horses."

Coello could make no reply, but the king, glancing at the picture again,
cried wrathfully:

"A Christian's work, a Christian's!  What does the reptile who painted
this know of the mother, the Virgin, the stainless lily, the thornless
rose, the path by which God came to men, the mother of sorrow, who bought
the world with her tears, as Christ did with His sacred blood.  I have
seen enough, more than enough!  Escovedo is waiting for me outside!  We
will discuss the triumphal arch to-morrow!"

Philip left the studio, the court-artist accompanying him to the door.

When he returned, the unhappy youth was still standing in the same place,
gazing, panting for breath, at his condemned work.

"Poor fellow!"  said Coello, compassionately, approaching him; but Ulrich
interrupted, gasping in broken accents:

"And you, you?  Your verdict!"

The other shrugged his shoulders and answered with sincere pity:

"His Majesty is not indulgent; but come here and look yourself.  I will
not speak of the child, though it....  In God's name, let us leave it as
it is.  The picture impresses me as it did the king, and the Madonna--
I grieve to say it, she belongs anywhere rather than in Heaven.  How
often this subject is painted!  If Meister Antonio, if Moor should see
this...."

"Then, then?" asked Ulrich, his eyes glowing with a gloomy fire.

"He would compel you to begin at the beginning once more.  I am sincerely
sorry for you, and not less so for poor Belita.  My wife will triumph!
You know I have always upheld your cause; but this luckless work..."

"Enough!" interrupted the youth.  Rushing to the picture, he thrust his
maul-stick through it, then kicked easel and painting to the floor.

Coello, shaking his head, watched him, and tried to soothe him with
kindly words, but Ulrich paid no heed, exclaiming:

"It is all over with art, all over.  A Dios, Master!  Your daughter does
not care for love without art, and art and I have nothing more to do with
each other."

At the door he paused, strove to regain his self-control, and at last
held out his hand to Coello, who was gazing sorrowfully after him.

The artist gladly extended his, and Ulrich, pressing it warmly, murmured
in an agitated, trembling voice:

"Forgive this raving....It is only....I only feel, as if I was bearing
all that had been dear to me to the grave.  Thanks, Master, thanks for
many kindnesses.  I am, I have--my heart--my brain, everything is
confused.  I only know that you, that Isabella, have been kind to me.
and I, I have--it will kill me yet!  Good fortune gone!  Art gone!  A
Dios, treacherous world!  A Dios, divine art!"

As he uttered the last sentence he drew his hand from the artist's grasp,
rushed back into the studio, and with streaming eyes pressed his lips to
the palette, the handle of the brush, and his ruined picture; then he
dashed past Coello into the street.

The artist longed to go to his child; but the king detained him in the
park.  At last he was permitted to return to the Alcazar.

Isabella was waiting on the steps, before the door of their apartments.
She had stood there a long, long time.

"Father!" she called.

Coello looked up sadly and gave an answer in the negative by
compassionately waving his hand.

The young girl shivered, as if a chill breeze had struck her, and when
the artist stood beside her, she gazed enquiringly at him with her dark
eyes, which looked larger than ever in the pallid, emaciated face, and
said in a low, firm tone:

"I want to speak to him.  You will take me to the picture.  I must see
it."

"He has thrust his maul-stick through it.  Believe me, child, you would
have condemned it yourself."

"And yet, yet!  I must see it," she answered earnestly, "see it with
these eyes.  I feel, I know--he is an artist.  Wait, I'll get my
mantilla."

Isabella hurried back with flying feet, and when a short time after,
wearing the black lace kerchief on her head, she descended the staircase
by her father's side, the private secretary de Soto came towards them,
exclaiming:

"Do you want to hear the latest news,  Coello?  Your pupil Navarrete has
become faithless to you and the noble art of painting.  Don Juan gave him
the enlistment money fifteen minutes ago.  Better be a good trooper, than
a mediocre artist!  What is the matter, Senorita?"

"Nothing, nothing,"  Isabella murmured gently, and fell fainting on her
father's breast.




CHAPTER XXIII.

Two years had passed.  A beautiful October day was dawning; no cloud
dimmed the azure sky, and the sun's disk rose, glowing crimson, behind
the narrow strait, that afforded ingress to the Gulf of Corinth.

The rippling waves of the placid sea, which here washed the sunny shores
of Hellas, yonder the shady coasts of the Peloponnesus, glittered like
fresh blooming blue-bottles.

Bare, parched rocks rise in naked beauty at the north of the bay, and the
rays of the young day-star shot golden threads through the light white
mists, that floated around them.

The coast of Morea faces the north; so dense shadows still rested on the
stony olive-groves and the dark foliage of the pink laurel and oleander
bushes, whose dense clumps followed the course of the stream and filled
the ravines.

How still, how pleasant it usually was here in the early morning!

White sea-gulls hovered peacefully over the waves, a fishing-boat or
galley glided gently along, making shining furrows in the blue mirror of
the water; but today the waves curled under the burden of countless
ships, to-day thousands of long oars lashed the sea, till the surges
splashed high in the air with a wailing, clashing sound.  To-day there
was a loud clanking, rattling, roaring on both sides of the water-gate,
which afforded admittance to the Bay of Lepanto.

The roaring and shouting reverberated in mighty echoes from the bare
northern cliffs, but were subdued by the densely wooded southern shore.

Two vast bodies of furious foes confronted each other like wrestlers, who
stretch their sinewy arms to grasp and hurl their opponents to the
ground.

Pope Pius the Fifth had summoned Christianity to resist the land-
devouring power of the Ottomans.  Cyprus, Christian Cyprus, the last
province Venice possessed in the Levant, had fallen into the hands of the
Moslems.  Spain and Venice had formed an alliance with Christ's
vicegerent; Genoese, other Italians, and the Knights of St. John were
assembling in Messina to aid the league.

The finest and largest Christian armada, which had left a Christian port
for a long time, put forth to sea from this harbor.  In spite of all
intrigues, King Philip had entrusted the chief command to his young half-
brother, Don Juan of Austria.

The Ottomans too had not been idle, and with twelve myriads of soldiers
on three hundred ships, awaited the foe in the Gulf of Lepanto.

Don Juan made no delay.  The Moslems had recently murdered thousands of
Christians at Cyprus, an outrage the fiery hero could not endure, so he
cast to the winds the warnings and letters of counsel from Madrid, which
sought to curb his impetuous energy, his troops, especially the
Venetians, were longing for vengeance.

But the Moslems were no less eager for the fray, and at the close of his
council-of-war, and contrary to its decision, Kapudan Pacha sailed to
meet the enemy.

On the morning of October 7th every ship, every man was ready for battle.

The sun appeared, and from the Spanish ships musical bell-notes rose
towards heaven, blending with the echoing chant: "Allahu akbar, allahu
akbar, allahu akbar," and the devout words: "There is no God save Allah,
and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah; to prayer!"

"To prayer!"  The iron tongue of the bell uttered the summons, as well
as the resonant voice of the Muezzin, who to-day did not call the
worshippers to devotion from the top of a minaret, but from the masthead
of a ship.  On both sides of the narrow seagate, thousands of Moslems and
Christians thought, hoped and believed, that the Omnipotent One heard
them.

The bells and chanting died away, and a swift galley with Don Juan on
board, moved from ship to ship.  The young hero, holding a crucifix in
his hand, shouted encouraging words to the Christian soldiers.

The blare of trumpets, roll of drums, and shouts of command echoed from
the rocky shores.

The armada moved forward, the admiral's galley, with Don Juan, at its
head.

The Turkish fleet advanced to meet it.

The young lion no longer asked the wise counsel of the experienced
admiral.  He desired nothing, thought of nothing, issued no orders,
except "forward," "attack," "board," "kill," "sink," "destroy!"

The hostile fleets clashed into the fight as bulls, bellowing sullenly,
rush upon each other with lowered heads and bloodshot eyes.

Who, on this day of vengeance, thought of Marco Antonio Colonna's plan of
battle, or the wise counsels of Doria, Venieri, Giustiniani?

Not the clear brain and keen eye--but manly courage and strength would
turn the scale to-day.  Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, had joined
his young uncle a short time before, and now commanded a squadron of
Genoese ships in the front.  He was to keep back till Doria ordered him
to enter the battle.  But Don Juan had already boarded the vessel
commanded by the Turkish admiral, scaled the deck, and with a heavy
sword-stroke felled Kapudan Pacha.  Alexander witnessed the scene, his
impetuous, heroic courage bore him on, and he too ordered: "Forward!"

What was the huge ship he was approaching?  The silver crescent decked
its scarlet pennon, rows of cannon poured destruction from its sides, and
its lofty deck was doubly defended by bearded wearers of the turban.

It was the treasure-galley of the Ottoman fleet.  It would be a gallant
achievement could the prince vanquish this bulwark, this stronghold of
the foe; which was three times greater in size, strength, and number of
its crew, than Farnese's vessel.  What did he care, what recked he of the
shower of bullets and tar-hoops that awaited him?

Up and at them.

Doria made warning signals, but the prince paid no heed, he would neither
see nor hear them.

Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on the deck beside him, his mast
was split and came crashing down.  "Who'll follow me?"  he shouted,
resting his hand on the bulwark.

The tried Spanish warriors, with whom Don Juan had manned his vessel,
hesitated.  Only one stepped mutely and resolutely to his side, flinging
over his shoulder the two-handed sword, whose hilt nearly reached to the
tall youth's eyes.

Every one on board knew the fair-haired giant.  It was the favorite of
the commander in chief--it was Navarrete, who in the war against the
Moors of Cadiz and Baza had performed many an envied deed of valor.
His arm seemed made of steel; he valued his life no more than one of the
plumes in his helmet, and risked it in battle as recklessly as he did his
zechins at the gaming-table.

Here, as well as there, he remained the winner.

No one knew exactly whence he came as he never mentioned his family,
for he was a reserved, unsocial man; but on the voyage to Lepanto he had
formed a friendship with a sick soldier, Don Miguel Cervantes.  The
latter could tell marvellous tales, and had his own peculiar opinions
about everything between heaven and earth.

Navarrete, who carried his head as high as the proudest grandee, devoted
every leisure hour to his suffering comrade, uniting the affection of a
brother, with the duties of a servant.

It was known that Navarrete had once been an artist, and he seemed one
of the most fervent of the devout Castilians, for he entered every church
and chapel the army passed, and remained standing a long, long time
before many a Madonna and altar-painting as if spellbound.

Even the boldest dared not attack him, for death hovered over his sword,
yet his heart had not hardened.  He gave winnings and booty with lavish
hand, and every beggar was sure of assistance.

He avoided women, but sought the society of the sick and wounded, often
watching all night beside the couch of some sorely-injured comrade, and
this led to the rumor that he liked to witness death.

Ah, no!  The heart of the proud, lonely man only sought a place where it
might be permitted to soften; the soldier, bereft of love, needed some
nook where he could exercise on others what was denied to himself:
"devoted affection."

Alexander Farnese recognized in Navarrete the horse-tamer of the picadero
in Madrid; he nodded approvingly to him, and mounted the bulwark.  But
the other did not follow instantly, for his friend Don Miguel had joined
him, and asked to share the adventure.  Navarrete and the captain strove
to dissuade the sick man, but the latter suddenly felt cured of his
fever, and with flashing eyes insisted on having his own way.

Ulrich did not wait for the end of the dispute, for Farnese was now
springing into the hostile ship, and the former, with a bold leap,
followed.

Alexander, like himself, carried a two-Banded sword, and both swung them
as mowers do their scythes.  They attacked, struck, felled, and the
foremost foes shrank from the grim destroyers.  Mustapha Pacha, the
treasurer and captain of the galley, advanced in person to confront the
terrible Christians, and a sword-stroke from Alexander shattered the hand
that held the curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on the deck.

But the Turks' numbers were greatly superior and threatened to crush the
heroes, when Don Miguel Cervantes, Ulrich's friend, appeared with twelve
fresh soldiers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to the hard-
pressed champions.  Other Spanish and Genoese warriors followed and the
fray became still more furious.

Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal companion-in-arms, and was
now swinging his blade beside his invalid friend.  Don Miguel's breast
was already bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich's side; a
bullet had broken his left arm.

Ulrich stooped and raised him; his men surrounded him, and the Turks were
scattered, as the tempest sweeps clouds from the mountain.

Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had dropped from his grasp, but
he only clutched the empty air, and raising his large eyes as if in
ecstasy, pressed his hand upon his bleeding breast, exclaiming
enthusiastically: "Wounds are stars; they point the way to the heaven of
fame-of-fame...."

His senses failed, and Ulrich bore him in his strong aims to a part of
the treasure-ship, which was held by Genoese soldiers.  Then he rushed
into the fight again, while in his ears still rang his friend's fervid
words:

"The heaven of fame!"

That was the last, the highest aim of man!  Fame, yes surely fame was the
"word"; it should henceforth be his word!

It seemed as if a gloomy multitude of heavy thunderclouds had gathered
over the still, blue arm of the sea.  The stifling smoke of powder
darkened the clear sky like black vapors, while flashes of lightning and
peals of thunder constantly illumined and shook the dusky atmosphere.

Here a magazine flew through the air, there one ascended with a fierce
crash towards the sky.  Wails of pain and shouts of victory, the blare of
trumpets, the crash of shattered ships and falling masts blended in
hellish uproar.

The sun's light was obscured, but the gigantic frames of huge burning
galleys served for torches to light the combatants.

When twilight closed in, the Christians had gained a decisive victory.
Don Juan had killed the commander-in-chief of the Ottoman force, Ali
Pacha, as Farnese hewed down the treasurer.  Uncle and nephew emerged
from the battle as heroes worthy of renown, but the glory of this victory
clung to Don Juan's name.

Farnese's bold assault was kindly rebuked by the commander-in-chief,
and when the former praised Navarrete's heroic aid before Don Juan, the
general gave the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorable
commission of bearing tidings of the victory to tile king.  Two galleys
stood out to sea in a westerly direction at the same time: a Spanish one,
bearing Don Juan's messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying the courier
of the Republic.

The rowers of both vessels had much difficulty in forcing a way through
the wreckage, broken masts and planks, the multitude of dead bodies and
net work of cordage, which covered the surface of the water; but even
amid these obstacles the race began.

The wind and sea were equally favorable to both galleys; but the
Venetians outstripped the Spaniards and dropped anchor at Alicante
twenty-four hours before the latter.

It was the rider's task, to make up for the time lost by the sailors.
The messenger of the Republic was far in advance of the general's.
Everywhere that Ulrich changed horses, displaying at short intervals the
prophet's banner, which he was to deliver to the king as the fairest
trophy of victory--it was inscribed with Allah's name twenty-eight
thousand nine hundred times--he met rejoicing throngs, processions, and
festal decorations.

Don Juan's name echoed from the lips of men and women, girls and
children.  This was fame, this was the omnipresence of a god; there could
be no higher aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor.

Fame, fame!  again echoed in Ulrich's soul; if there is a word, which
raises a man above himself and implants his own being in that of millions
of fellow-creatures, it is this.

And now he urged one steed after another until it broke down, giving
himself no rest even at night; half an hour's ride outside of Madrid he
overtook the Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting.

The king was not in the capital, and he went on without delay to the
Escurial.

Covered with dust, splashed from head to foot with mud, bruised, tortured
as if on the rack, he clung to the saddle, yet never ceased to use whip
and spur, and would trust his message to no other horseman.

Now the barren peaks of the Guadarrama mountains lay close before him,
now he reached the first workshops, where iron was being forged for the
gigantic palace in process of building.  How many chimneys smoked, how
many hands were toiling for this edifice, which was to comprise a royal
residence, a temple, a peerless library, a museum and a tomb.