“Is he out of his senses?  What sin have I committed, what does he....”

“He knows that you are Navarrete, the Eletto of Herenthals, the conqueror of Aalst, and therefore....”

“Therefore?”

“Why of course.  You see, Ulrich, when a man becomes famous like you, he is known for a long distance, everything he does makes a great hue and cry, and echo repeats it in every alley.”

“To my honor before God and man.”

“Before God?  Perhaps so; certainly before the Spaniards.  As for me —­I was with the squadron myself, I call you a brave soldier; but—­no offence—­you have behaved ill in this country.  The Netherlanders are human beings too.”

“They are rebels, recreant heretics.”

“Take care, or you will revile your own father.  His faith has been shaken.  A preacher, whom he met on his flight here, in some tavern, led him astray by inducing him to read the bible.  Many things the Church condemns are sacred to him.  He thinks the Netherlanders a free, noble nation.  Your King Philip he considers a tyrant, oppressor, and ruthless destroyer.  You who have served him and Alba—­are in his eyes; but I will not wound you....”

“What are we, I will hear.”

“No, no, it would do no good.  In short, to Adam the Spanish army is a bloody pest, nothing more.”

“There never were braver soldiers.”

“Very true; but every defeat, all the blood you have shed, has angered him and this nation, and wrath, which daily receives fresh food and to which men become accustomed, at last turns to hate.  All great crimes committed in this war are associated with Alba’s name, many smaller ones with yours, and so your father....”

“Then we will teach him a better opinion!  I return to him an honest soldier, the commander of thousands of men!  To see him once more, only to see him!  A son remains a son!  I learned that from my mother.  We were rivals and enemies, when I met her!  And then, then—­alas, that is all over!  Now I wish to find in my father what I have lost; will you go to the smithy with me?”

“No, Ulrich, no.  I have said everything to your father that can be urged in your defence, but he is so devoured with rage....”

“Santiago!” exclaimed the Eletto, bursting into sudden fury, “I need no advocate!  If the old man knows what share I have taken in this war, so much the better.  I’ll fill up the gaps myself.  I have been wherever the fight raged hottest!  ’Sdeath! that is my pride!  I am no longer a boy and have fought my way through life without father or mother.  What I am, I have made myself, and can defend with honor, even to the old man.  He carries heavy guns, I know; but I am not accustomed to shoot with feather balls!”

“Ulrich, Ulrich!  He is an old man, and your father!”

“I will remember that, as soon as he calls me his son.”

One of the count’s servants showed Ulrich the way to the smith’s house.