The sun’s light was obscured, but the gigantic frames of huge burning galleys served for torches to light the combatants.

When twilight closed in, the Christians had gained a decisive victory.  Don Juan had killed the commander-in-chief of the Ottoman force, Ali Pacha, as Farnese hewed down the treasurer.  Uncle and nephew emerged from the battle as heroes worthy of renown, but the glory of this victory clung to Don Juan’s name.

Farnese’s bold assault was kindly rebuked by the commander-in-chief, and when the former praised Navarrete’s heroic aid before Don Juan, the general gave the bold warrior and gallant trooper, the honorable commission of bearing tidings of the victory to the king.  Two galleys stood out to sea in a westerly direction at the same time:  a Spanish one, bearing Don Juan’s messenger, and a Venetian ship, conveying the courier of the Republic.

The rowers of both vessels had much difficulty in forcing a way through the wreckage, broken masts and planks, the multitude of dead bodies and net work of cordage, which covered the surface of the water; but even amid these obstacles the race began.

The wind and sea were equally favorable to both galleys; but the Venetians outstripped the Spaniards and dropped anchor at Alicante twenty-four hours before the latter.

It was the rider’s task, to make up for the time lost by the sailors.  The messenger of the Republic was far in advance of the general’s.  Everywhere that Ulrich changed horses, displaying at short intervals the prophet’s banner, which he was to deliver to the king as the fairest trophy of victory—­it was inscribed with Allah’s name twenty-eight thousand nine hundred times—­he met rejoicing throngs, processions, and festal decorations.

Don Juan’s name echoed from the lips of men and women, girls and children.  This was fame, this was the omnipresence of a god; there could be no higher aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor.

Fame, fame! again echoed in Ulrich’s soul; if there is a word, which raises a man above himself and implants his own being in that of millions of fellow-creatures, it is this.

And now he urged one steed after another until it broke down, giving himself no rest even at night; half an hour’s ride outside of Madrid he overtook the Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting.

The king was not in the capital, and he went on without delay to the Escurial.

Covered with dust, splashed from head to foot with mud, bruised, tortured as if on the rack, he clung to the saddle, yet never ceased to use whip and spur, and would trust his message to no other horseman.

Now the barren peaks of the Guadarrama mountains lay close before him, now he reached the first workshops, where iron was being forged for the gigantic palace in process of building.  How many chimneys smoked, how many hands were toiling for this edifice, which was to comprise a royal residence, a temple, a peerless library, a museum and a tomb.