The blare of trumpets, roll of drums, and shouts of command echoed from the rocky shores. The armada moved forward, the admiral’s galley, with Don Juan, at its head. The Turkish fleet advanced to meet it. The young lion no longer asked the wise counsel of the experienced admiral. He desired nothing, thought of nothing, issued no orders, except “forward,” “attack,” “board,” “kill,” “sink,” “destroy!” The hostile fleets clashed into the fight as bulls, bellowing sullenly, rush upon each other with lowered heads and bloodshot eyes. Who, on this day of vengeance, thought of Marco Antonio Colonna’s plan of battle, or the wise counsels of Doria, Venieri, Giustiniani? Not the clear brain and keen eye--but manly courage and strength would turn the scale to-day. Alexander Farnese, Prince of Parma, had joined his young uncle a short time before, and now commanded a squadron of Genoese ships in the front. He was to keep back till Doria ordered him to enter the battle. But Don Juan had already boarded the vessel commanded by the Turkish admiral, scaled the deck, and with a heavy sword-stroke felled Kapudan Pacha. Alexander witnessed the scene, his impetuous, heroic courage bore him on, and he too ordered: “Forward!” What was the huge ship he was approaching? The silver crescent decked its scarlet pennon, rows of cannon poured destruction from its sides, and its lofty deck was doubly defended by bearded wearers of the turban. It was the treasure-galley of the Ottoman fleet. It would be a gallant achievement could the prince vanquish this bulwark, this stronghold of the foe; which was three times greater in size, strength, and number of its crew, than Farnese’s vessel. What did he care, what recked he of the shower of bullets and tar-hoops that awaited him? Up and at them. Doria made warning signals, but the prince paid no heed, he would neither see nor hear them. Brave soldiers fell bleeding and gasping on the deck beside him, his mast was split and came crashing down. “Who’ll follow me?” he shouted, resting his hand on the bulwark. The tried Spanish warriors, with whom Don Juan had manned his vessel, hesitated. Only one stepped mutely and resolutely to his side, flinging over his shoulder the two-handed sword, whose hilt nearly reached to the tall youth’s eyes. Every one on board knew the fair-haired giant. It was the favorite of the commander in chief--it was Navarrete, who in the war against the Moors of Cadiz and Baza had performed many an envied deed of valor. His arm seemed made of steel; he valued his life no more than one of the plumes in his helmet, and risked it in battle as recklessly as he did his zechins at the gaming-table. Here, as well as there, he remained the winner.