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.