The arch of the broad chest stood forth in fine relief, and with it the breast-plate and points of his armor.

He seemed like a proud ship under swelling sails, and even in hostile cities, read admiration in the glances of the gaping crowd.

Yet he was a miserable, discontented man, and could not help thinking more and more frequently of Don Juan's "word." He no longer trusted to the magic power of a word, as in former times.
Still, he told himself that the "arable field" of the emperor's son, "power," was some thing lofty and great-ay, the loftiest aim a man could hope to attain.
Is not omnipotence God's first attribute?
And now, on the march from Schouwen through Brabant, power beckoned to him.

He had already tasted it, when the mutinous army to which he belonged attempted to pillage a smithy.

He had stepped before the spoilers and saved the artisan's life and property.