His majesty was attending vespers in the scarcely completed chapel.  The chief officer of the palace, Fray Antonio de Villacastin, seeing Ulrich slip from his horse, hastened to receive the tottering soldier’s tidings, and led him to the church.

The ‘confiteor’ had just commenced, but Fray Antonio motioned to the priests, who interrupted the Mass, and Ulrich, holding the prophet’s standard high aloft, exclaimed:  “An unparalleled victory!—­Don Juan....  October 7th....! at Lepanto—­the Ottoman navy totally destroyed....!”

Philip heard this great news and saw the standard, but seemed to have neither eyes nor ears; not a muscle in his face stirred, no movement betrayed that anything was passing in his mind.  Murmuring in a sarcastic, rather than a joyous tone:  “Don Juan has dared much,” he gave a sign, without opening the letter, to continue the Mass, remaining on his knees as if nothing had disturbed the sacred rite.

The exhausted messenger sank into a pew and did not wake from his stupor, until the communion was over and the king had ordered a Te Deum for the victory of Lepanto.

Then he rose, and as he came out of the pew a newly-married couple passed him, the architect, Herrera, and Isabella Coello, radiant in beauty.

Ulrich clenched his fist, and the thought passed through his mind, that he would cast away good-fortune, art and fame as carelessly as soap-bubbles, if he could be in Herrera’s place.

CHAPTER XXIV.

What fame is—­Ulrich was to learn!

He saw in Messina the hero of Lepanto revered as a god.  Wherever the victor appeared, fair hands strewed flowers in his path, balconies and windows were decked with hangings, and exulting women and girls, joyous children and grave men enthusiastically shouted his name and flung laurel-wreaths and branches to him.  Messages, congratulations and gifts arrived from all the monarchs and great men of the world.

When he saw the wonderful youth dash by, Ulrich marvelled that his steed did not put forth wings and soar away with him into the clouds.  But he too, Navarrete, had done his duty, and was to enjoy the sweetness of renown.  When he appeared on Don Juan’s most refractory steed, among the last of the victor’s train, he felt that he was not overlooked, and often heard people tell each other of his deeds.

This made him raise his head, swelled his heart, urged him into new paths of fame.

The commander-in-chief also longed to press forward, but found himself condemned to inactivity, while he saw the league dissolve, and the fruit of his victory wither.  King Philip’s petty jealousy opposed his wishes, poisoned his hopes, and barred the realization of his dreams.

Don Juan was satiated with fame.  “Power” was the food for which he longed.  The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of the laurel, but his own “word,” his highest ambition in life, his power, he would consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother.