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 ar