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, conquests for his own
benefit, impossible crowns for his own wearing, were the motives which
impelled, him, and the prizes which he sought. His existence was
feverish, fitful, and passionate. "Tranquil amid the raging billows,"
according to his favorite device, the father of his country waved aside
the diadem which for him had neither charms nor meaning. Their
characters were as contrasted as their persons. The curled-darling of
chivalry seemed a youth at thirty-one. Spare of figure, plain in
apparel, benignant, but haggard of countenance, with temples bared by
anxiety as much as by his helmet, earnest, almost devout in manner, in
his own words, "Calvus et Calvinists," William of Orange was an old man
at forty-three.

Perhaps there was as much good faith on the part of Don John, when
he arrived in Luxemburg, as could be expected of a man coming directly
from the cabinet of Philip. The King had secretly instructed him to
conciliate the provinces, but to concede nothing, for the Governor was