The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1576-77 | Page 6

England and Scotland as soon as he liked; all that was left to
do was to conquer the kingdoms.
Meantime, while these schemes were flitting through his brain, and
were yet kept comparatively secret by the Pope, Escovedo, and himself,
the news reached him in Italy that be had been appointed

Governor-General of the Netherlands. Nothing could be more
opportune. In the provinces were ten thousand veteran Spaniards, ripe
for adventure, hardened by years of warfare, greedy for gold, audacious
almost beyond humanity, the very instruments for his scheme. The
times were critical in the Netherlands, it was true; yet he would soon
pacify those paltry troubles, and then sweep forward to his prize. Yet
events were rushing forward with such feverish rapidity, that he might
be too late for his adventure. Many days were lost in the necessary
journey from Italy into Spain to receive the final instructions of the
King. The news from the provinces, grew more and more threatening.
With the impetuosity and romance of his temperament, he selected his
confidential friend Ottavio Gonzaga, six men-at-arms, and an adroit
and well-experienced Swiss courier who knew every road of France. It
was no light adventure for the Catholic Governor-General of the
Netherlands to traverse the kingdom at that particular juncture. Staining
his bright locks and fair face to the complexion of a Moor, he started on
his journey, attired as the servant of Gonzaga. Arriving at Paris, after a
rapid journey, he descended at a hostelry opposite the residence of the
Spanish ambassador, Don Diego de Cuniga. After nightfall he had a
secret interview with that functionary, and learning, among other
matters, that there was to be a great ball that night at the Louvre, he
determined to go thither in disguise. There, notwithstanding his hurry,
he had time to see and to become desperately enamored of "that wonder
of beauty," the fair and frail Margaret of Valois, Queen of Navarre. Her
subsequent visit to her young adorer at Namur, to be recorded in a
future page of this history, was destined to mark the last turning point
in his picturesque career. On his way to the Netherlands he held a rapid
interview with the Duke of Guise, to arrange his schemes for the
liberation and espousal of that noble's kinswoman, the Scottish Queen;
and on the 3rd of November he arrived at Luxemburg.
There stood the young conqueror of Lepanto, his brain full of schemes,
his heart full of hopes, on the threshhold of the Netherlands, at the
entrance to what he believed the most brilliant chapter of his life--
schemes, hopes, and visions--doomed speedily to fade before the cold
reality with which he was to be confronted. Throwing off his disguise
after reaching Luxemburg, the youthful paladin stood confessed. His
appearance was as romantic as his origin and his exploits. Every

contemporary chronicler, French, Spanish, Italian, Flemish, Roman,
have dwelt upon his personal beauty and the singular fascination of his
manner. Symmetrical features, blue eyes of great vivacity, and a
profusion of bright curling hair, were combined with a person not much
above middle height; but perfectly well proportioned. Owing to a
natural peculiarity of his head, the hair fell backward from the temples,
and he had acquired the habit of pushing it from his brows. The custom
became a fashion among the host of courtiers, who were but too happy
to glass themselves in so brilliant a mirror. As Charles the Fifth, on his
journey to Italy to assume the iron crown, had caused his hair to be
clipped close, as a remedy for the headaches with which, at that
momentous epoch, he was tormented, bringing thereby close shaven
polls into extreme fashion; so a mass of hair pushed backward from the
temples, in the style to which the name of John of Austria was
appropriated, became the prevailing mode wherever the favorite son of
the Emperor appeared.
Such was the last crusader whom the annals of chivalry were to know;
the man who had humbled the crescent as it had not been humbled
since the days of the Tancreds, the Baldwins, the Plantagenets--yet,
after all, what was this brilliant adventurer when weighed against the
tranquil Christian champion whom he was to meet face to face? The
contrast was striking between the real and the romantic hero. Don John
had pursued and achieved glory through victories with which the world
was ringing; William was slowly compassing a country's emancipation
through a series of defeats. He moulded a commonwealth and united
hearts with as much contempt for danger as Don John had exhibited in
scenes of slave driving and carnage. Amid fields of blood, and through
web's of tortuous intrigue, the brave and subtle son of the Emperor
pursued only his own objects. Tawdry schemes of personal ambition,