"What is there to say?" the captain began. "In the night of 4 to 5 September 1585 I reined in my breathless nag in front of the castle of the king in Madrid—I am a native of that town and I can tell you, gentlemen, that my heart beat faster when I heard once again the rushing waters of the Manzanares. I had often enough dreamt not long beforehand in the field hospital where I lay in a fever of the roaring of this river. And, having reached my final destination, both the good tidings I had brought with me and the expectation of a fabulous reward that appeared to me in dreams drove my blood more strongly through my veins. Darkness and a deathlike silence lay over the castle and the town itself. I subsequently learned that there had been a great auto da fe the day before and that the inhabitants of Madrid were sleeping it off: everyone was asleep, including King Philip himself. The watch held their pikes to my chest just as my exhausted steed collapsed under me in the courtyard. I was as out of breath from that last wild ride as my horse, but I still had sufficient strength left to pant: "Letters from Flanders! Letters to the King! Letters from Prince Alexander of Parma! Victory!"
The weapons of the sentries were lowered and courtiers came up to ask me questions and then I was led through the halls of the castle to the bedchamber of my Lord and Master. My heart trembled like my weary limbs. My head was in a whirl when I came to kneel beside the king's bed and handed him the great prince's letter. Propped up on his elbows, King Philip left to one side his writing and skimmed through the letter with his sharp ascetic eyes—his chamberlain held the golden lamp so he could see properly. I will never forget the king's face, nor the trembling that overcame his sallow livid features. He sat up in bed, gaunt and feeble, and uttered a shout that was almost a cry:
"Antwerp has surrendered! Antwerp has surrendered!"
And the lamp in the courtier's hand began to tremble too. The king got out of bed; against all the rules of court etiquette he leaned on my shoulder, the shoulder of a simple soldier, covered with the dust and sweat accumulated along the way. His noble retinue threw a cloak over his shoulders. The fact was that such glad tidings had not reached the ears of the king since the news of the victory at Lepanto. He hotfooted it down the castle corridors to the door of his favourite daughter, Donya Clara Isabella Eugenia, knocked at the door (for what did His Catholic Majesty care about etiquette at that moment in time?), at the door of a princess, opened it slightly, shoved his head into the room and whispered to his still sleepy daughter, alarmed at the intrusion:
"Antwerp has surrendered! Antwerp has surrendered, Donya Clara!"
The castle became a hive of activity as the great news spread…
"And what about you, Jeronimo?" asked the commander of Fort Liefkenhoek.
"What was your reward for such joyful and glorious tidings?"
"Yes, what was your reward, Jeronimo? Were you dubbed a knight of the order of Calatrava?" asked the other officers.
"No, I'm not a knight of the order of Calatrava," answered the old war horse. "And as far as material rewards go, His Catholic Majesty hung a golden chain around my neck and gave me a commission in his army as a colonel."
"Ah!" the commander said, and the other officers pushed nearer.