Here again was a great loss to the king’s service.  La Motte, of a noble family in Burgundy, had been educated in the old fierce traditions of the Spanish system of warfare in the Netherlands, and had been one of the very hardest instruments that the despot could use for his bloody work.  He had commanded a company of horse at the famous battle of St. Quintin, and since that opening event in Philip’s reign he had been unceasingly—­engaged in the Flemish wars.  Alva made him a colonel of a Walloon regiment; the grand commander Requesena appointed him governor of Gravelines.  On the whole he had been tolerably faithful to his colours; having changed sides but twice.  After the pacification of Ghent he swore allegiance to the States-General, and assisted in the bombardment of the citadel of that place.  Soon afterwards he went over to Don John of Austria, and surrendered to him the town and fortress of Gravelines, of which he then continued governor in the name of the king.  He was fortunate in the accumulation of office and of money; rather unlucky in his campaigning.  He was often wounded in action, and usually defeated when commanding in chief.  He lost an arm at the siege of Sluy’s, and had now lost his life almost by an accident.  Although twice married he left no children to inherit his great estates, while the civil and military offices left vacant by his death were sufficient to satisfy the claims of five aspiring individuals.  The Count of Varax succeeded him as general of artillery; but it was difficult to find a man to replace La Motte, possessing exactly the qualities which had made that warrior so valuable to his king.  The type was rapidly disappearing, and most fortunately for humanity, if half the stories told of him by grave chroniclers, accustomed to discriminate between history and gossip, are to be believed.  He had committed more than one cool homicide.  Although not rejoicing in the same patronymic as his Spanish colleague of Friesland, he too was ready on occasion to perform hangman’s work.  When sergeant-major in Flanders, he had himself volunteered—­so ran the chronicle—­to do execution on a poor wretch found guilty of professing the faith of Calvin; and, with his own hands, had prepared a fire of straw, tied his victim to the stake, and burned him to cinders.  Another Netherlander for the name crime of heresy had been condemned to be torn to death by horses.  No one could be found to carry out the sentence.  The soldiers under La Motte’s command broke into mutiny rather than permit themselves to be used for such foul purposes; but the ardent young sergeant-major came forward, tied the culprit by the arms and legs to two horses, and himself whipped them to their work till it was duly accomplished.  Was it strange that in Philip’s reign such energy should be rewarded by wealth, rank, and honour?  Was not such a labourer in the vineyard worthy of his hire?