It seemed as if some hurricane had swept over the sea, and covered it with the wreck of the noble armaments which a moment before were so proudly riding on its bosom.  Little had they now to remind one of their late magnificent array, with their hulls battered and defaced, their masts and spars gone or fearfully splintered by the shot, their canvas cut into shreds and floating wildly on the breeze, while thousands of wounded and drowning men were clinging to the floating fragments, and calling piteously for help.  Such was the wild uproar which had succeeded to the Sabbath-like stillness that two hours before had reigned over these beautiful solitudes!

The left wing of the confederates, commanded by Barberigo, had been sorely pressed by the Turks, as we have seen, at the beginning of the fight.  Barberigo himself had been mortally wounded.  His line had been turned.  Several of his galleys had been sunk.  But the Venetians gathered courage from despair.  By incredible efforts they succeeded in beating off their enemies.  They became the assailants in their turn.  Sword in hand, they carried one vessel after another.  The Capuchin, with uplifted crucifix, was seen to head the attack, and to lead the boarders to the assault.  The Christian galley-slaves, in some instances, broke their fetters and joined their countrymen against their masters.  Fortunately, the vessel of Mehemet Siroco, the Moslem admiral, was sunk; and though extricated from the water himself, it was only to perish by the sword of his conqueror, Juan Contarini.  The Venetian could find no mercy for the Turk.

The fall of their commander gave the final blow to his followers.  Without further attempt to prolong the fight, they fled before the avenging swords of the Venetians.  Those nearest the land endeavored to escape by running their vessels ashore, where they abandoned them as prizes to the Christians.  Yet many of the fugitives, before gaining the shore, perished miserably in the waves.  Barberigo, the Venetian admiral, who was still lingering in agony, heard the tidings of the enemy’s defeat, and exclaiming, “I die contented,” he breathed his last.

Meanwhile the combat had been going forward in the centre between the two commanders-in-chief, Don John and Ali Pasha, whose galleys blazed with an incessant fire of artillery and musketry that enveloped them like “a martyr’s robe of flames.”  Both parties fought with equal spirit, though not with equal fortune.  Twice the Spaniards had boarded their enemy, and both times they had been repulsed with loss.  Still their superiority in the use of their fire-arms would have given them a decided advantage over their opponents, if the loss thus inflicted had not been speedily repaired by fresh reinforcements.  More than once the contest between the two chieftains was interrupted by the arrival of others to take part in the fray.  They soon, however, returned to one another, as if unwilling to waste their strength on a meaner enemy.  Through the whole engagement both commanders exposed themselves to danger as freely as any common soldier.  Even Philip must have admitted that in such a contest it would have been difficult for his brother to find with honor a place of safety.  Don John received a wound in the foot.  It was a slight one, however, and he would not allow it to be attended to till the action was over.