This voice tortured him on the soft down beds in the town, on the straw in the camp, over his wine and on the march.

Yet how many envied him.  Ay! when he bore the standard at the head of the regiment he marched like a victorious demi-god!  No one else could support so well as he the heavy pole, plated with gold, and the large embroidered silken banner, which might have served as a sail for a stately ship; but he held the staff with his right hand, as if the burden intrusted to him was an easily-managed toy.  Meantime, with inimitable solemnity, he threw back the upper portion of the body and his curly head, placing his left hand on his hip.  The arch of the broad chest stood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate and points of his armor.  He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even in hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gaping crowd.  Yet he was a miserable, discontented man, and could not help thinking more and more frequently of Don Juan’s “word.”

He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times.  Still, he told himself that the “arable field” of the emperor’s son, “power,” was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man could hope to attain.

Is not omnipotence God’s first attribute?  And now, on the march from Schouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him.  He had already tasted it, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage a smithy.  He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan’s life and property.  Whoever swung the hammer before the bellows was sacred to him; he had formerly shared gains and booty with many a plundered member of his father’s craft.

He now carried a captain’s staff, but this was mere mummery, child’s play, nothing more.  A merry soldier’s-cook wore a captain’s plume on the side of his tall hat.  The field-officer, most of the captains and the lieutenants, had retired after the great mutiny on the island of Schouwen was accomplished, and their places were now occupied by ensigns, sergeants and quartermasters.  The higher officers had gone to Brussels, and the mutinous army marched without any chief through Brabant.

They had not received their well-earned pay for twenty-two months, and the starving regiments now sought means of support wherever they could find them.

Two years since, after the battle of Mook-Heath, the army had helped itself, and at that time, as often happened on similar occasions, an Eletto—­[The chosen one.  The Italian form is used, instead of the Spanish ’electo’.]—­had been chosen from among the rebellious subaltern officers.  Ulrich had then been lying seriously wounded, but after the end of the mutiny was told by many, that no other would have been made Eletto had he only been well and present.  Now an Eletto was again to be chosen, and whoever was elected would have command of at least three thousand men, and possibly more, as it was expected that other regiments would join the insurrection.  To command an army!  This was power, this was the highest attainment; it was worth risking life to obtain it.