In 1530, he accompanied the Emperor in his campaign against the Turk.  Charles, instinctively recognizing the merit of the youth who was destined to be the life-long companion of his toils and glories, distinguished him with his favor at the opening of his career.  Young, brave, and enthusiastic, Ferdinand de Toledo at this period was as interesting a hero as ever illustrated the pages of Castilian romance.  His mad ride from Hungary to Spain and back again, accomplished in seventeen days, for the sake of a brief visit to his newly-married wife, is not the least attractive episode in the history of an existence which was destined to be so dark and sanguinary.  In 1535, he accompanied the Emperor on his memorable expedition to Tunis.  In 1546 and 1547 he was generalissimo in the war against the Smalcaldian league.  His most brilliant feat of arms-perhaps the most brilliant exploit of the Emperor’s reign—­was the passage of the Elbe and the battle of Muhlberg, accomplished in spite of Maximilian’s bitter and violent reproaches, and the tremendous possibilities of a defeat.  That battle had finished the war.  The gigantic and magnanimous John Frederic, surprised at his devotions in the church, fled in dismay, leaving his boots behind him, which for their superhuman size, were ridiculously said afterwards to be treasured among the trophies of the Toledo house.

[Hist. du Due d’Albe, i. 274.  Brantome, Hom.  Illust., etc. (ch. v.), says that one of the boots was “large enough to hold a camp bedstead,” p. 11.  I insert the anecdote only as a specimen of the manner in which similar absurdities, both of great and, of little consequence, are perpetuated by writers in every land and age.  The armor of the noble-hearted and unfortunate John Frederic may still be seen in Dresden.  Its size indicates a man very much above the average height, while the external length of the iron shoe, on-the contrary, is less than eleven inches.]

The rout was total.  “I came, I saw, and God conquered,” said the Emperor, in pious parody of his immortal predecessor’s epigram.  Maximilian, with a thousand apologies for his previous insults, embraced the heroic Don Ferdinand over and over again, as, arrayed in a plain suit of blue armor, unadorned save with streaks of his enemies’ blood, he returned from pursuit of the fugitives.  So complete and so sudden was the victory, that it was found impossible to account for it, save on the ground of miraculous interposition.  Like Joshua, in the vale of Ajalon, Don Ferdinand was supposed to have commanded the sun to stand still for a season, and to have been obeyed.  Otherwise, how could the passage of the river, which was only concluded at six in the evening, and the complete overthrow of the Protestant forces, have all been accomplished within the narrow space of an April twilight?  The reply of the Duke to Henry the Second of France, who questioned him subsequently upon the subject, is well known.  “Your Majesty, I was too much