Instead of the name received at his baptism, and the one which he owed to his brother, that of Victor of Lepanto now adorned him.  Not one of all the generals in the world received honours even distantly approaching those lavished upon him.  And besides the leonine courage and talent for command which he had displayed, his noble nature was praised with ardent enthusiasm.  How he had showed it in the distribution of the booty to the widow of the Turkish high admiral Ali Pasha!  This renowned Moslem naval commander had fallen in the battle, and his two sons had been delivered to Don John as prisoners.  When the unfortunate mother entreated him to release the boys for a large ransom, he restored one to her love with the companions for whose liberty he had interceded, with a letter containing the words, “It does not beseem me to keep your presents, since my rank and birth require me to give, not to receive.”

These noble words were written by Barbara Blomberg’s son, the boy to whom she gave birth, and who had now become just what her lofty soul desired.

After the conquest of Cyprus, the Crescent had seriously threatened the Cross in the Mediterranean, and it was Don John who had broken the power of the Turks.

Alas, that her father could not have lived to witness this exploit of his grandson!  What a happy man the victory of Lepanto, gained by his “Wawerl’s” son, would have made him!  How the fearless old champion of the faith would have rejoiced in this grandchild, his deeds, and nature!

And what honours were bestowed upon her John!

King Philip wrote to him, “Next to God, gratitude for what has been accomplished is due to you.”  A statue was erected to him in Messina.  The Pope had used the words of Scripture, “There was a man sent by God, and his name was John.”  Now, yes, now she was more than rewarded for the sacrifice of Landshut; now the splendour and grandeur for which she had longed and prayed was far, far exceeded.

This time it was gratitude, fervent gratitude, which detained her in church.  The child of her love, her suffering, her pride, was now happy, must be happy.

When, two years later, Don John captured Tunis, the exploit could no longer increase his renown.

At this time also happened many things which filled the heart of a woman so closely connected with royalty sometimes with joy, sometimes with anxiety.

In Paris, the night of St. Bartholomew, a year after her son had chastised the Moslems at Lepanto, dealt the French heretics a deep, almost incurable wound, and in the Netherlands there were not gallows enough to hang the misguided fanatics.

Yet this rebellious nation did not cease to cause the King unspeakable difficulties and orthodox Christians sorrow.  On the sea the “Beggars” conquered his Majesty’s war ships; Haarlem, it is true, had been forced by the Spanish troops to surrender, but what terrible sacrifices the siege had cost where women had taken part in the defence with the courage of men!