sh of battle. The clash of
swords or roaring of artillery is music to me. There is joy in
contending, life for life, with a traitor, and marshaling the fierce
battalions on the field. But the battle done, let the sword be
sheathed! The struggle over, let the blood sink into the earth, and
the deadly smoke disperse, and give to view once more the peace of
heaven!--The petty aggravations of daily strife,--the cold-blooded
oppressions of conquest,--the contest with the peasant for his morsel
of bread, or with his chaste wife for her fidelity,--are so revolting
to my conscience of good and evil, that as the Lord liveth there are
moments when I am tempted to resign for ever the music I love so well
of drum and trumpet, and betake myself, like my royal father, to some
drowsy monastery, to listen to the end of my days to the snuffling of
Capuchins!"

Scarce could Ottavio Gonzaga, so recently emancipated from the
Escurial, refrain from making the sign of the cross at this heinous
declaration!--But he contained himself.--It was his object to work
his way still further into the confidence of his royal companion.

"The chief pleasure I derived from the visit of the French princess
to Namur," resumed Don John, "was the respite it afforded from the
contemplation of such miseries and such aggressions. I was sick at
heart of groans and murmurs,--weary of the adjustment of grievances.
To behold a woman's face, whereof the eyes were not red with weeping,
was _something_!"--

"And the eyes of the fair Queen of Navarre are said to be of the
brightest!" observed Gonzaga with a sneer.

"As God judgeth my soul, I noted not their hue or brightness!"
exclaimed Don John. "Her voice was a woman's--her bearing a
woman's--her tastes a woman's. And it brought back the memory of
better days to hear the silken robes of her train rustling around me,
instead of the customary clang of mail; and merry laughs instead of
perpetual moans, or the rude oaths of my Walloons!"

An incredulous smile played on the handsome features of the
Italian.--

"Have out your laugh!" cried Don John. "You had not thought to see
the lion of Lepanto converted into so mere a lap-dog!--Is it not so?"

"As little so as I can admit without the disrespect of denial to your
highness,"--replied Gonzaga, with a low obeisance. "My smile was
occasioned by wonder that one so little skilled in feigning as the
royal lion of Lepanto, should even hazard the attempt. There, at
least