He had kept the faith of his childhood, which was shared by every one who bore arms with him, and had easily obtained absolution, nay, encouragement and praise, for the most terrible deeds of blood.

In battle, in slaughter, when his wounds burned, in plundering, at the gaming-table, everywhere he called upon the Holy Virgin, and also, but very rarely, on the “word,” fame.

He no longer believed in it, for it did not realize what he had anticipated.  The laurel now rustled on his curls like withered leaves.  Fame would not fill the void in his heart, failed to satisfy his discontented mind; power offered the lonely man no companionship of the soul, it could not even silence the voice which upbraided him—­the unapproachable champion, him at whom no mortal dared to look askance—­with being a miserable fool, defrauded of true happiness and the right ambition.

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.