ed in it, for it did not realize what he had
anticipated. The laurel now rustled on his curls like withered leaves.
Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfy his
discontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship of the
soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided him--the
unapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to look
askance--with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness and the
right ambition.

This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in the town, on the straw
in the camp, over his wine and on the march.

Yet how many envied him. Ay! when he bore the standard at the head of the
regiment he marched like a victorious demi-god! No one else could support
so well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the large embroidered
silken banner, which might have served as a sail for a stately ship; but
he held the staff with his right hand, as if the burden intrusted to him
was an easily-managed toy. Meantime, with inimitable solemnity, he threw
back the upper portion of the body and his curly head, placing his left
hand on his hip. The arch of the broad chest stood forth in fine relief,
and with it the breast-plate and points of his armor. He seemed like a
proud ship under swelling sails, and even in hostile cities, read
admiration in the glances of the gaping crowd. Yet he was a miserable,
discontented man, and could not help thinking more and more frequently of
Don Juan's "word."

He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times.
Still, he told himself that the "arable field" of the emperor's son,
"power," was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man could
hope to attain.

Is not omnipotence God's first attribute? And now, on the march from
Schouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him. He had already tasted
it, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage a
smithy. He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan's life
and property. Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was sacred to
him; he had formerly shared gains and booty with many a plundered member
of his father's craft.

He now carried a captain's staff, but this was mere mummery, child's
play, nothing more. A merry soldier's-cook wore a captain's plume on the
side of his tall hat. The field-officer, most of the captains and the
lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the island of Schouwen
was accompl