isdained 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 believed 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.