Don John was on horseback, wrapped in a long green cloak, riding between the Bishop of Liege and the Papal nuncio.

He passed beneath countless triumphal arches.

Banners waved before him, on which the battle of Lepanto, and other striking scenes in his life, were emblazoned.

Minstrels sang verses, poets recited odes, rhetoric clubs enacted fantastic dramas in his honor, as he rode along.
Young virgins crowned him with laurels.

Fair women innumerable were clustered at every window, roof, and balcony, their bright robes floating like summer clouds above him.