So, what we call good society was very numerous at Naples, and in it could be noted, in certain elevated circles, as to-day, that fatal anxiety for enjoyment and amusement of every possible kind, as if life had no other aim or object. That lazy nobility, strange medley of the virtues and vices of the time, strongly tinged with paganism, a relic of the Renaissance, flighty and chivalrous, cultured and wild, devout and corrupt, welcomed the hero of Lepanto as a demi-god, whose human charms, which were many and great, were enhanced by the divine rays of Genius and Glory. The men, overcome with admiration, slavishly imitated him, the women, in love with his winning presence, vied with each other for his glances, and solicited his favours as supernatural honours, and the people idle too, and captivated with so much grace and splendour, exaggerated his deeds and triumphs, followed him, and enthusiastically applauded his skill and undoubted bravery in the cane jousts, and games of "pelota," in masquerades, tournaments and bull-fights. In the diary of D. John's confessor, Fr. Miguel Servia, who had followed him to Naples, we notice a circumstance which will make those smile sadly who know the frailty of the human heart. The more D. John was engulfed in the pleasures of Naples, the more the regularity and the frequency with which the good Franciscan notes this simple phrase in his diary diminishes, "To-day his Highness confessed." Submerged in these pleasures and the continual amusements of Naples, there happened to D. John what always happens to the unwary, passionate youth, that he went further than he intended. There was outside assistance for this first false step of D. John's in Naples, which astonishes to-day more than it did then. This is what happened. In the stable-yard of the Viceroy's palace, who was then the Cardinal de Granvelle, there was a bull-fight every Sunday. The noble families were invited in turns, as the place was too small for them all to be bidden at one time; and the last Sunday in October, a radiant day of a Neapolitan autumn, it fell to the lot of a certain gentleman of Sorrento named Antonio Falangola, who lived in Naples with his wife Lucrecia Brancia and his daughter Diana, said to be the handsomest woman in Naples: "La piu bella donna di Napoli," says the Knight Viani. Antonio Falangola was poor for his position, swaggering and not at all scrupulous: Lucrecia sly and hypocritical, and both intending to profit by the beauty of their daughter, who for her part was a great flirt. They showed themselves everywhere therefore, displaying much luxury and ostentation, leaving hidden at home the misery and want due to their poverty. They arrived that Sunday at the bull-fight in a coach, the ladies finely dressed, and accompanied by duennas and pages, and settled themselves in the seats covered with damask and tapestry, opposite the place reserved for D. John of Austria.