an let him go, and when fame was the word, Ulrich had no cause to
complain of its ill-will.

He bore the standard of the proud "Castilian" regiment, and when strange
troops met him as he entered a city, one man whispered to another: "That
is Navarrete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, who, when
all fell back before Alkmaar, assailed the walls again, it was not his
fault that they were forced to retreat . . . he turned the scale with his
men on Mook-Heath . . . have you heard the story? How, when struck by two
bullets, he wrapped the banner around him, and fell with, and on it, upon
the grass."

And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island of Schouwen
behind him and was marching through Brabant, it was said:

"Navarrete! It was he, who led the way for the Spaniards with the
standard on his head, when they waded through the sea that stormy night,
to surprise Zierikzee."

Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his name; but the citizens also
knew who he was, and clenched their fists when they spoke of him.

On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the breaches of their
firm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, in council-chambers
and plundered homes, he had confronted them as a murderer and destroyer.
Yet, though the word fame had long been embittered to him, the inhumanity
which clung to his deeds had the least share in it.

He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more. All who bore the name of
Netherlander were to him rebels and heretics, condemned by God, sentenced
by his king; not worthy peasants, skilful, industrious citizens, noble
men, who were risking property and life for religion and liberty.

This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful mother of God and the
saints, these temple violators had robbed the churches of their statues,
driven the pious monks and nuns from their cloisters! They called the
Pope the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city he found satirical
songs and jeering verses about his lord, the king, his generals and all
Spaniards.

He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was shared by every one who
bore arms with him, and had easily obtained absolution, nay,
encouragement and praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood.

In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in plundering, at the
gaming-table, everywhere he called upon the Holy Virgin, and also, but
very rarely, on the "word," fame.

He no longer believ