As already narrated, the soldiery had retired definitely from the country at the end of April, after which Don John made his triumphal entrance into Brussels on the 1st of May.  It was long since so festive a May-day had gladdened the hearts of Brabant.  So much holiday magnificence had not been seen in the Netherlands for years.  A solemn procession of burghers, preceded by six thousand troops, and garnished by the free companies of archers and musketeers, in their picturesque costumes, escorted the young prince along the streets of the capital.  Don John was on horseback, wrapped in a long green cloak, riding between the Bishop of Liege and the Papal nuncio.  He passed beneath countless triumphal arches.  Banners waved before him, on which the battle of Lepanto, and other striking scenes in his life, were emblazoned.  Minstrels sang verses, poets recited odes, rhetoric clubs enacted fantastic dramas in his honor, as he rode along.  Young virgins crowned him with laurels.  Fair women innumerable were clustered at every window, roof, and balcony, their bright robes floating like summer clouds above him.  “Softly from those lovely clouds,” says a gallant chronicler, “descended the gentle rain of flowers.”  Garlands were strewed before his feet, laurelled victory sat upon his brow.  The same conventional enthusiasm and decoration which had characterized the holiday marches of a thousand conventional heroes were successfully produced.  The proceedings began with the church, and ended with the banquet, the day was propitious, the populace pleased, and after a brilliant festival, Don John of Austria saw himself Governor-General of the provinces.

Three days afterwards, the customary oaths, to be kept with the customary conscientiousness, were rendered at the Town House, and for a brief moment all seemed smiling and serene.

There was a reverse to the picture.  In truth, no language can describe the hatred which Don John entertained for the Netherlands and all the inhabitants.  He had come to the country only as a stepping-stone to the English throne, and he never spoke, in his private letters, of the provinces or the people but in terms of abhorrence.  He was in a “Babylon of disgust,” in a “Hell,” surrounded by “drunkards,” “wineskins,” “scoundrels,” and the like.  From the moment of his arrival he had strained every nerve to retain the Spanish troops, and to send them away by sea when it should be no longer feasible to keep them.  Escovedo shared in the sentiments and entered fully into the schemes of his chief.  The plot, the secret enterprise, was the great cause of the advent of Don John in the uncongenial clime of Flanders.  It had been, therefore, highly important, in his estimation, to set, as soon as possible, about the accomplishment of this important business.  He accordingly entered into correspondence with Antonio Perez, the King’s