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