n,
without opening the letter, to continue the Mass, remaining on his knees
as if nothing had disturbed the sacred rite.

The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did not wake from his stupor,
until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deum for the
victory of Lepanto.

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couple passed
him, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in beauty.

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind, that
he would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly as
soap-bubbles, if he could be in Herrera's place.

CHAPTER XXIV.

What fame is--Ulrich was to learn!

He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as a god. Wherever the
victor appeared, fair hands strewed flowers in his path, balconies and
windows were decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, joyous
children and grave men enthusiastically shouted his name and flung
laurel-wreaths and branches to him. Messages, congratulations and gifts
arrived from all the monarchs and great men of the world.

When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich marvelled that his steed
did not put forth wings and soar away with him into the clouds. But he
too, Navarrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweetness of
renown. When he appeared on Don Juan's most refractory steed, among the
last of the victor's train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and often
heard people tell each other of his deeds.

This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into new paths
of fame.

The commander-in-chief also longed to press forward, but found himself
condemned to inactivity, while he saw the league dissolve, and the fruit
of his victory wither. King Philip's petty jealousy opposed his wishes,
poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his dreams.

Don Juan was satiated with fame. "Power" was the food for which he
longed. The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of the
laurel, but his own "word," his highest ambition in life, his power, he
would consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother.

"Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable land," said Don Juan to
Escovedo.

It befits an emperor's son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such lofty wishes;
to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life's pathway.

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what he
desired.

Don Ju