en; the soldier, bereft of love, needed some
nook where he could exercise on others what was denied to himself:
"devoted affection."

Alexander Farnese recognized in Navarrete the horse-tamer of the picadero
in Madrid; he nodded approvingly to him, and mounted the bulwark. But the
other did not follow instantly, for his friend Don Miguel had joined him,
and asked to share the adventure. Navarrete and the captain strove to
dissuade the sick man, but the latter suddenly felt cured of his fever,
and with flashing eyes insisted on having his own way.

Ulrich did not wait for the end of the dispute, for Farnese was now
springing into the hostile ship, and the former, with a bold leap,
followed.

Alexander, like himself, carried a two-Banded sword, and both swung them
as mowers do their scythes. They attacked, struck, felled, and the
foremost foes shrank from the grim destroyers. Mustapha Pacha, the
treasurer and captain of the galley, advanced in person to confront the
terrible Christians, and a sword-stroke from Alexander shattered the hand
that held the curved sabre, a second stretched the Moslem on the deck.

But the Turks' numbers were greatly superior and threatened to crush the
heroes, when Don Miguel Cervantes, Ulrich's friend, appeared with twelve
fresh soldiers on the scene of battle, and cut their way to the
hard-pressed champions. Other Spanish and Genoese warriors followed and
the fray became still more furious.

Ulrich had been forced far away from his royal companion-in-arms, and was
now swinging his blade beside his invalid friend. Don Miguel's breast was
already bleeding from two wounds, and he now fell by Ulrich's side; a
bullet had broken his left arm.

Ulrich stooped and raised him; his men surrounded him, and the Turks were
scattered, as the tempest sweeps clouds from the mountain.

Don Miguel tried to lift the sword, which had dropped from his grasp, but
he only clutched the empty air, and raising his large eyes as if in
ecstasy, pressed his hand upon his bleeding breast, exclaiming
enthusiastically: "Wounds are stars; they point the way to the heaven of
fame-of-fame. . . ."

His senses failed, and Ulrich bore him in his strong aims to a part of
the treasure-ship, which was held by Genoese soldiers. Then he rushed
into the fight again, while in his ears still rang his friend's fervid
words:

"The heaven of fame!"

That was the last, the highest aim of man! Fame, yes surely fame was the
"word