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.

“Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable land,” said Don Juan to Escovedo.

It befits an emperor’s son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such lofty wishes; to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life’s pathway.

The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what he desired.

Don Juan let him go, and when fame was the word, Ulrich had no cause to complain of its ill-will.

He bore the standard of the proud “Castilian” regiment, and when strange troops met him as he entered a city, one man whispered to another:  “That is Navarrete, who was in the van at every assault on Haarlem, who, when all fell back before Alkmaar, assailed the walls again, it was not his fault that they were forced to retreat . . . he turned the scale with his men on Mook-Heath . . . have you heard the story?  How, when struck by two bullets, he wrapped the banner around him, and fell with, and on it, upon the grass.”

And now, when with the rebellious army he had left the island of Schouwen behind him and was marching through Brabant, it was said: 

“Navarrete!  It was he, who led the way for the Spaniards with the standard on his head, when they waded through the sea that stormy night, to surprise Zierikzee.”

Whoever bore arms in the Netherlands knew his name; but the citizens also knew who he was, and clenched their fists when they spoke of him.

On the battle-field, in the water, on the ice, in the breaches of their firm walls, in burning cities, in streets and alleys, in council-chambers and plundered homes, he had confronted them as a murderer and destroyer.  Yet, though the word fame had long been embittered to him, the inhumanity which clung to his deeds had the least share in it.

He was the servant of his monarch, nothing more.  All who bore the name of Netherlander were to him rebels and heretics, condemned by God, sentenced by his king; not worthy peasants, skilful, industrious citizens, noble men, who were risking property and life for religion and liberty.

This impish crew disdained to pray to the merciful mother of God and the saints, these temple violators had robbed the churches of their statues, driven the pious monks and nuns from their cloisters!  They called the Pope the Anti-Christ, and in every conquered city he found satirical songs and jeering verses about his lord, the king, his generals and all Spaniards.