DON SEBASTIAN;
OR,
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

J. M‘CREERY, Printer,
Black-Horse-Court, Fleet-Street, London.

DON SEBASTIAN;
OR,
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER.
AUTHOR OF THE HUNGARIAN BROTHERS.

Take Physic, Pomp!
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
So shalt thou shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heavens more just.
King Lear.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
———
1809.

PREFACE.

THE name of Don Sebastian immediately recals to every historical reader, a character, which youth, faults, virtues, and misfortunes, have rendered highly interesting: I selected such a one for my Hero, from the wish of shewing how “sweet are the uses of adversity.”

If I may be so fortunate as to instruct and to amuse at the same time, the utmost of my literary ambition will be gratified.

It has been my aim to keep as close to historical records, as was consistent with a work wherein imagination is allowed to make up for the deficiencies of actual tradition. In some places I have been obliged to antedate an event, and to mix other motives of action with such as were avowed by the persons then acting on the great theatre of Europe; but I have scrupulously avoided slandering the illustrious dead, and am not conscious of having materially altered any well-known portrait.

Some readers may be offended or wearied with the frequent use which I have made of religious tenets; to them I can only offer one apology;—I had no other way of reconciling the conduct of Catholic powers, with what I have been obliged to suppose, their conviction of Don Sebastian’s identity when he re-appeared at Venice; and as his chief calamity was the product of a bigotted attachment to the doctrines of Rome, I could scarcely make that calamity effect the necessary revolution in his general character, without changing also the nature of his religious opinions.

In my delineation of countries, manners, &c. I have endeavoured to give as faithful a picture as was possible to one who describes after the accounts of others; I consulted the voyages and tours of those days; so that the modern traveller, in journeying with me over Barbary, Persia, and Brazil, must recollect that he is beholding those countries as they appeared in the sixteenth century.

By accident, I met with an ancient work upon South America, in which was the following sentence: “twelve leagues southward from St. Salvador, appears the village of Cachoeira, formerly belonging to an unknown Portuguese, who took great pains in reforming the savage people Guaymures to a civil life.” This hint suggested to me the idea of making the Portuguese, and my principal character, the same person.

I am told that there has been a novel written in French on the same story, which forms the ground work of mine, but I have not seen it. The materials with which I have worked, have been drawn from general history, accounts of particular periods, the Harleian Miscellany, and a curious old tract published in 1602, containing the letters of Texere, De Castro, and others, with minute details of the conduct and sufferings of the mysterious personage concerning whom it treats.

I trust the candid reader will excuse many defects in this romance, when he considers how long was the space of time to be filled up with events solely imaginary, and which it was indispensable so to occupy, as to unite facts and to give the whole the semblance of probability: he will reflect also how difficult it was for me to find any historical action of sufficient weight and brilliancy, with which I might have earlier concluded the adventures of Sebastian.

If my unpresuming work should disappoint the reader, he must suffer me to assure him that neither diligence in obtaining information, and selecting circumstances, nor industry in using them, has been spared. I may fail from want of ability, but not from want of application.

August, 1809.

INTRODUCTION.

NEVER has the pen of history had to record a more affecting event, than that which bore the house of Braganza to another hemisphere: animated by a noble disdain of submitting to foreign despotism, and bravely placing his country, not in the land of Portugal, but in the hearts of her people, the Prince Regent conquered in adversity, and triumphed even at the moment of despair.

Like the pious Eneas, who snatched from the flames of Troy, his father and his household Gods, he hastened to save some relics of Portugal; he hastened to embark his family and their adherents on board the national fleet; to launch with them on the hitherto untried deep, and to lead them under the protection of Great Britain, to found a new empire in a new world.

It was on the morning of the 29th of November, 1807, that these patriot emigrants quitted the bay of Lisbon; they looked back on their forsaken capital, with emotions too strong and too complicated for description: every individual had left behind him some aged, or infirm, or timid relative, whom it was agony to abandon, and whom he quitted with the conviction of never seeing again; the scenes of their childhood, their vineyards, and their cities, nay even the shores of their native land, were never more to gladden their eyes!

A solemn pause had followed the noise and distraction of their embarkation; Lisbon was motionless: profound stillness, like that silence which surrounds the death bed of a mother, rested within her walls: every heart felt its impression.

Advancing with majestic slowness down the Tagus, the Portuguese fleet crossed the bar, and entered between the lines formed by the navy of England: the cannons of the two fleets answered each other; the sounds, doubled and redoubled by numerous echoes, were prolonged after the smoke had cleared away, and discovered the ships of Portugal and of Britain mingled together on the Atlantic ocean.

Having exchanged gratulation and farewel with the Embassador and the gallant Admiral of the friendly squadron, the Prince Regent gave a last, long look to Portugal, and forcibly tore himself from the deck of his vessel. In the cabin, he found part of the royal family yielding themselves up to regret and anxiety: he suffered them to weep without interruption, till the moment in which lamentation made a pause; he then took the united hands of his daughter, and of his nephew, the Prince of Spain, and pressing them within his own, held them with a look, serious, sad, yet collected.

“Let us dry our tears,” he said; “let us bravely submit to our fate, and bless God for having allowed us to retain that which ennobles every situation—Freedom!—We go, my children, to seek a new world; to found there a new empire; it belongs to us to stamp the future character of an unborn nation:—May we feel the gratitude of such responsibility!—As our example shall persuade, as our authority shall impel, so will vice or virtue prevail in Trans-atlantic Portugal; her existence, her expansion, her dignity, her immortality, depend upon her princes and nobles. Be this truth engraven on your hearts! may its awful voice resound for ever in your ears, influencing your lives to the exercise of all the social duties.”

Among the state treasures, I have preserved one most precious; ’tis the history of an illustrious ancestor, more unfortunate than ourselves, but for whom misfortune was a blessing.

“We will read this MSS together; the style and the arrangement may offend a nice judgment, because they are the production of an humble pen; but the story itself is interesting, and the character of our ancestor may serve as an important lesson to ourselves: compose your spirits my dear children—listen to me with attention.”

While the Prince was speaking, he drew from his breast a large roll of written paper, and after such of his family, as were present, had seated themselves eagerly around him, he read in a voice somewhat agitated by late emotion, the following narrative.

DON SEBASTIAN,
OR
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

CHAP. I.

On the 12th of January, 1554, Juan, prince of Portugal, breathed his last, in the palace of Ribera, at Lisbon.

At that sad moment grief and dismay seized the hearts of his royal parents; as they alternately clasped his senseless clay in their arms, and thought of all he had been, they almost forgot their hope of soon possessing a memorial of his fair-promising youth.

Ignorant of her husband’s danger, his young consort had been removed to the palace of Xabregas, in the suburbs; there, while he was struggling between life and death, she was impatiently awaiting the hour which was to bless her with the first pledge of their happiness and their love. Under such circumstances the concealment of prince Juan’s death became an act of necessity; at least as it regarded the princess, whose life, and that of her unborn infant, would have been risked by a disclosure.

She was now tenderly deceived by all around her; the King and Queen painfully dissembling their affliction visited her as usual, daily bringing with them little billets from their son, whose anxious love had early foreseen and provided against this trying occasion. He had left behind him several letters without dates, expressive of the fondest attachment, and pathetically lamenting the slow progress of his recovery, which alone kept him from her society: he had ordered these to be given her from time to time, until she should have safely brought into the world another heir to the crown of Portugal: after that period deception was to cease.

Soothed by this sweet error the young princess yielded to the desire of her royal parents, that she should not attempt returning to Ribera before the birth of her child: she yielded with tears, but they were not tears of apprehension; she wept only because her situation denied her the tender office of watching her husband’s returning health. Again and again she read his letters, again and again she dwelt on their blissful meeting, when she should have an infant to present him with: happily unconscious that the husband and the father, the young and beauteous prince, was laid at rest for ever, in the grave!

Lisbon became now a scene of hope and sorrow. Lamentations for one beloved prince was mixed with anxiety for the birth of another: solemn fasts were ordained, vows offered, pilgrimages undertaken, processions made. On the eighth day after Juan’s decease, at the dead of the night preceding the feast of St. Sebastian, all the religious orders in Portugal were seen headed by the archbishop, and cardinal Henry, walking in awful silence, barefooted and dejected, bearing in their hands mourning torches to light them on their way to the grand church of Bethlehem: there mass for the soul of their departed prince was celebrated, with all the pomp of that church which affects and overwhelms the heart by its powerful appeal to the senses. Images, relics, incense, music, all contributed to heighten pity and grief into madness: groans and prayers were for awhile the only sounds heard mingling with the wailing tones of the organ: at length even these ceased, and the priests and the people remained in silence prostrate before the host.

At that moment a shout from the multitude without, broke the solemn pause; the next instant this cry was heard—“a Prince! a Prince is born!” The whole mass of suppliants started from the earth; the organ burst into a loud swell; the priests and the people joined their voices; and the dome of the cathedral rang with hymns and thanksgiving.

Thus in the midst of national hopes and fears was born the heir of Portugal. His grand-uncle, the cardinal Don Henry, soon afterwards named him Sebastian, in honor of the saint’s day upon which he was given to their prayers; and then rejoicings and illuminations took place all over the kingdom.

When the princess Joanna’s safety was thoroughly ascertained, the mournful task of preparing her to hear the account of her husband’s death was undertaken by the Queen: she gradually presented less cheering letters from her son; till at length venturing to pronounce the fatal truth, she called upon the princess to live for her child and them. Joanna heard not these exhortations: she swooned repeatedly; reviving only to call, with frantic cries, upon him whose “ear was now stopped with dust.”

From that hour no human effort availed to comfort her: scarcely sixteen, this heaviest of all mortal sorrows was the first suffering her heart had known: even her infant son, though she loved him to agony, failed to reanimate her hopes: as she held him in her arms she would bathe him in tears and think but the more of his father. A curtain of adamant had fallen between her and the world: she felt it; and fearful of being urged into new engagements hereafter, determined upon withdrawing to the sanctuary of a religious profession.

While the widowed princess was inwardly revolving how best to compass this melancholy desire, she was summoned into Spain by her brother Philip II., then just setting out for Flanders to negociate his nuptials with Mary of England. By accepting the regency during his absence, she hoped to find an opportunity for tranquillizing her mind previous to a renunciation of all sublunary ties; and trusted, that when far from the scene of past happiness and future anxiety—when removed from the afflicting pleasure of her infant’s smiles, she might succeed in giving up her whole soul to Christ and God. Aware of the opposition which would be made to this resolution in Portugal, the princess confined it to her own breast; but while she took an affecting leave of the King and Queen, could not refrain from exclaiming—“O my parents! we shall never meet again.” These words were at the time ascribed to the forebodings of a heart which believed itself breaking, but were afterwards remembered as proofs of a steadily pursued resolution.

From her child the youthful mother tore herself with difficulty: in the midst of its innocent endearments, she felt that all delightful emotions had not been buried with her husband. For the first time her heart whispered that she was not utterly desolate, since she had yet something precious to relinquish.

Melted from her purpose, trembling, and bathed in tears, Joanna sunk upon a seat: “Ah, my child!” she exclaimed, straining it to her breast—“how can I leave thee to see thee no more?”

The King and Queen not venturing to speak, folded their arms around her: their tremulous, yet strong pressure, spoke a joyful hope of detaining her: at that instant she raised her eyes, overflowing with consent; but they fell on the picture of Juan drawn in his bridal habit. At this piercing sight, she shrieked, covered her face, wildly repeating—“O no, no; I shall but love him and lose him too.”

Impressed with this sudden dread of living to witness the premature death of her son, the princess broke from every attempt to detain her, and hurried through the palace. Her retinue waited at the gates: she threw herself into a carriage, and amidst guards and attendants left Portugal never to return.

A destroying angel seemed at this period to be commissioned for the affliction of that unhappy country. The death of prince Juan had been followed by the voluntary departure of his interesting widow; and regret for the last misfortune, was absorbed in grief for the loss of Louis, Duke de Beja, brother to the King: the King himself, sinking under sorrow and sickness, shortly afterwards terminated his exemplary life, leaving a monarch of three years old, whose long minority threatened many political calamities.

The Queen now unwillingly undertook the regency, a task imposed on her by her late husband. For awhile she administered the laws, and guided public measures, with a wise and impartial spirit: but at length wearied with groundless animadversions, she grew timid of her own counsels, and gladly transferred the reins of government into the hands of cardinal Henry.

The new regent possessed much ability, and more integrity; but he was a prelate of the church of Rome, and thought less of instructing his young sovereign in the art of governing well, than of teaching him to revere and defend all the superstitions of popery. He confided him to the care of four preceptors: two of these were zealous Jesuits, and were charged with his spiritual education: the others were noblemen of distinguished reputation, who were to instruct their prince in history, philosophy, and moral exercises.

Don Alexes de Meneses, the first of these nobles, was allied to the Italian family of Medici, and had been nurtured at Florence, under their auspices, in the newly-discovered learning of the ancients: having a genius for active scenes, he devoured with avidity the works of their historians and poets, while he coldly perused the peaceful theories of their philosophers. He came therefore to the task of education, with no other aim than that of making his pupil a conqueror.

His coadjutor, Gonzalez de Camera, facilitated this aim. He had served in the wars of Germany, under Sebastian’s maternal grandfather, Charles V., and though no longer young, talked with youthful ardor of battles, and sieges, and victories. He failed not to paint every virtue in the justest colours; but when he spoke of those which brighten the crown of a hero, his language set his hearer in a blaze.

That rapid, that resistless eloquence, which rouses the passions and impels the will, was ever at his command: he could touch every spring of the human heart. Sebastian’s soon learned to move solely at his direction.

From such governors the character of the young monarch received an impetus which was fatal to its excellence. Nature had given him an excess of sensibility, requiring the rein rather than the spur; his virtues were of themselves too much inclined to tread a precipice: had he fallen into the hands of men of calmer feelings, and cooler heads, he might have risen with steady wing to the empyreal height of true glory: as it was, he became the prey of passion, and the slave of error.

Years now rolled away: Portugal gradually recovered from her domestic losses, and began to anticipate with eagerness the end of her young sovereign’s minority: the regent himself panted for a more tranquil station; and Don Sebastian burned to seize the sceptre Providence had destined him to wield. At the age appointed by law, this was voluntarily resigned to him.

The young monarch’s coronation was as magnificent as his spirit: all the riches of the new world, the gold of Mexico, the diamonds of Brazil, the pearls of Ormutz, were displayed on the persons of the nobility. Their very horses, proudly pranced under housings of cloth of gold and precious stones.

As the long procession passed from the palace to the cathedral, crouds of spectators lining the streets and windows, easily distinguished their prince by the superior nobleness of his air. In the very flower of his youth Sebastian appeared mounted on a white Arabian, the trappings of which were studded with rubies: his own ornaments were few: the order of Christus, alone sparkled in brilliants upon his majestic chest; the rest of his dress merely displayed without seeking to decorate the symmetry of his figure. While passing one of his minister’s houses, some ladies showered flowers upon him from a balcony: at this act of female gallantry, he checked his horse, and looking up, lifted off his hat. The air was immediately rent with “Long live our King, Sebastian!” His enchanting smile, the still sweeter smile of his eyes, his animated complexion and ingenuous countenance, seemed to promise a character which intoxicated the people: they shouted again, when again smiling with as much gaiety as graciousness, he threw away his hat, and rode forward uncovered. From that moment he became their idol. Such is the effect of youth, beauty, and urbanity, in high stations!

At the gate of the cathedral, the cardinal Henry, attended by the archbishop of Lisbon, and the rest of the clergy, received the King: he was then conducted into the body of the church, where the three estates took the oaths of fidelity, and the crown was placed on his head. Immediately after, Sebastian went to the monastery, where his illustrious grandmother now lived retired, in order to receive her blessing, and to express a dutiful sense of her past kindness: he then returned to his palace, where he directly assumed the functions of royalty.

The first acts of the young monarch’s government were calculated to inspirit the Portuguese: his administration of justice was so impartial, that not even those who suffered by this impartiality, ventured a complaint: neither friend nor enemy expected from him the least bias on their side. In his domestic relations he was generous and forgiving; but in his public character, inflexible. By presenting the court of judicature with a copy of the laws, abridged and transcribed by himself, he early informed his people that nothing was so valuable in his eyes as their rights.

Sebastian displayed much magnificence in his court, and infinite liberality in his gifts; yet, he was not censurable for extravagance. By giving splendor to his own appointments, he believed himself honoring the nation over which he reigned; and by rewarding talents, he gratified a munificent spirit, while he secured important services to the community.

Impressed with an exalted notion of the divine right of Kings, he would not hear that authority questioned; though indeed, he prized absolute power, for the sake of being enabled by it to succour and to bless others. Too keenly alive to the impressions made by his tutors, some thirst for distinction as a warlike King, insensibly mixed with this laudable motive: religious prejudices united to stimulate him; and the voice of glory resounding from the depths of time, at once invited and commanded him to seize a crown of imperishable structure.

His head was soon filled by visions of future greatness, and his heart fired with holy zeal: he meditated the conquest and the conversion of half the globe. To conquer from the mere mania for dominion, was abhorrent even to him who felt that war would hereafter be his element; but when he associated with the idea of conquest, the prospect of rescuing whole nations from “the shadow of death,” from Mahometanism or Paganism, he gave way to military enthusiasm, and daily fired his fancy with plans of heroic enterprize.

Every thing with Sebastian was a passion: his friendships, his love for his people; nay, his religion itself; they were each, so many internal fires which sometimes blazed out, and desolated instead of cherishing. But as it is said, that the most fertile regions are to be found in the neighbourhood of volcanos, so the finest qualities were connected in Sebastian’s nature, with a dangerous ardour. He would at any time have sacrificed his crown, his life, or what is dearer than life—his tenderest ties, “for the sake of adding one pulse breadth to Christendom;” he would have denied himself any gratification, if he believed it reprehensible in itself, or injurious to another; he was at all times, and in all things, superior to self: his faults therefore, were the sole product of the age he lived in, and the education he had received; had he been born two centuries later, how different might have been his character, how different his fate!

Embellished by many fine qualities, it was not wonderful that Sebastian, though tinctured with imperiousness and impatience, should be generally idolized: his people knew him only as a benefactor, and they were not wise enough to foresee the evils which the rashness of his disposition might produce.

Amongst the nobility, he lived with the freedom of gay and ingenuous youth, trusting to the influence of his peculiar conduct for the preservation of their respect. He shared their amusements and other exercises, and without a single rebuke, purified their grosser habits, by his temperate example. The spirit of Sebastian needed no effort to rise superior to every debasing pleasure.

As yet, he knew little of the female character; but he would have disdained himself had he believed his heart capable of loving the bondage even of love: he could enjoy the light of beauty without feeling its fire; and though courteous to all the ladies of his court, was particular to none.

Shunning delicate amusements, he affected those only which render the frame robust, and the spirit intrepid. By every bodily exercise he continued to accomplish his personal advantages, while he steadily fixed his eye upon the period in which those advantages of health and strength would become important.

The first object he meditated, was an expedition to Goa, from whence he might carry conquest and Christianity over the whole of India: but towards so remote a country, even his governors Camera and Meneses, declared it would be madness to turn his arms; they exhorted him to weigh maturely the inadequacy of his present resources, and those evils which must result to Portugal from her sovereign’s removal to such a distance: finally, they prevailed on him to defer all military projects till a few more years had given authority to his opinions.

Among the nobility by whom he was surrounded, Sebastian distinguished Antonio, prior of Crato; who, though an illegitimate son of the late Duke de Beja, was considered throughout Portugal as the King’s acknowledged relation.

In conformity with the customs of those times, Antonio had taken the vow of celibacy, in order to qualify him for holding the rich priory of Crato, and the grand mastership of the knights of Malta: in other respects he possessed nothing of the priest. Nature had endowed him with an animating cheerfulness of disposition, to which every one resorted for pleasure: he was liberal of his purse, liberal even to carelessness in his judgments; naturally indolent and indifferent in matters of importance; but capable of catching the fever of enthusiasm from another. This last quality gave him his influence over Sebastian.

The king was flattered by the appearance of having roused Antonio from a degrading apathy: for, indeed, except in the prior’s attachment to him, he seemed devoid of any serious feeling. Every impression left by beauty, by accomplishments, by goodness, by wisdom, by affairs of the state or the church, passed off from his volatile mind, like sand drifted by the wind. He laughed and trifled with Sebastian, alternately delighted and provoked him, for ever beguiled him with the prospect of improvement, and for ever disappointed him: but it was this unsubstantial character which fixed him in Sebastian’s heart. A character which received the best impressions with the most seducing facility, yet never retained, and always lamented them, was expressly formed to excite partial solicitude. Antonio became by degrees his constant companion, his most intimate confidant, and at length his chief counsellor.

The deaths of Meneses and Camera, which happened in the course of the same year, greatly affected Sebastian, although these events left him more freely to the bent of his own inclination: He could now renew his resolution of plunging into a religious war, without apprehension of being restrained by opinions to which he was used to yield. The habit of believing this resolution highly meritorious, had given some imperiousness to his mode of carrying it into execution; and he could not always conceal his disdain for such persons as represented that no zeal for general good, should make him risk the particular good of his own subjects. But towards Antonio, he turned with redoubled favor; for Antonio warmly embraced the revived projects, offering to accompany him into Africa, a country now become the object of his contemplation.

The Moors, though driven out of Spain, still continued to increase in strength and dominion among the mountains of Barbary: they frequently attacked the fortresses belonging to Portugal, which remained to her upon their coast, and not only treated the prisoners made in these engagements with extreme rigour, but terrified or seduced some of them into the profession of their impious faith. Sebastian meditated the destruction of this growing power: he communicated his design to Antonio alone, who consented to become his companion in a secret excursion to the fortress of Tangier, from whence they might gather certain information of the nature and the resources of the Mauritanian states.

As it was the young king’s wish to avoid controversy with his ministers, by keeping the whole affair secret till he had reconnoitred Africa, Don Antonio was directed to make private arrangements for their conveyance beyond sea, while under the pretence of a hunting match, he should draw together all the young lords likely to embrace their enterprize.

Gallantly provided, those favorite nobles met their sovereign in the province of Algarve, where he disclosed his project of crossing over immediately into Africa. Smit with the phrensy of chevalric adventure, every one consented to embark their fates with those of their King; and rather to incur the chance of being taken prisoners by the Moors, than shrink from danger when it might lead to glory.

They set sail in a single vessel badly manned and worse armed; but to a band of rash young men, whose leader was still younger, and more adventurous than themselves, even hazard had charms. After a short voyage, they landed safely at Tangier.

Sebastian was no sooner upon African ground, than he began to prosecute his enquiries with equal vigour and ability: he learnt the military force and resources of the Moors, their points of weakness and of strength, their system of war and of government, the nature of their troops, and the topography of their country; he ransomed several Christians who had long languished in slavery, and from their accounts of the Moorish princes began to hope that in their contests for supremacy, he might reap solid advantage.

Having thoroughly acquainted himself with these important subjects, the King hastened his re-embarkation: flushed with the conviction of being now able to bear down every cautionary suggestion of his counsellors, by arguments drawn from actual observation of the country he was going to invade. After a short absence he set sail again with his followers for the shores of Portugal.

In mid sea they met and engaged a Turkish vessel. The Turk was greatly superior in size and force; but a band of brave spirits animated into heroes by the example of their King, were not to be conquered by common efforts, Sebastian fought like a roused lion; he fought for the first time; he fought for the lives and liberties of men whom his rashness had endangered; he fought too for honour, and he fought against infidels. After a long and fierce resistance, the Turk struck his flag, and Sebastian ordered the ensign of the cross, to take its place. His heart hailed an omen which promised victory over Mahomet.

Elated with conquest, the royal galliot proceeded direct for Lisbon: as they were entering the mouth of the Tagus, a sudden storm arose, and for some hours Sebastian beheld death approaching in a more appalling shape than when dimly seen among the flashing of arms. But his courage did not desert him even then: nay, it shone with steadier brightness as the danger darkened. By remaining undismayed himself, he recalled the energies of others. Every effort and activity were exerted; and it proved ultimately successful: they rode out the storm in safety through a starless night, and the next morning were seen entering the Tagus in triumph with their prize.

The return of their beloved prince thus accompanied, circulated extreme joy throughout Lisbon:—in his safety and his conquest, the boyish imprudence of his conduct was forgotten, and exultation alone appeared on the faces of the Portuguese. But alas! this exultation was quickly swallowed up in horror; for the plague, which during the King’s absence had appeared in several provinces, now broke out in the city, and swept away thousands with resistless fury.

Sebastian’s strenuous exertions were applied to stop the progress of this calamity: he refused to abandon his capital, confidently reposing on the protection of heaven, while engaged in the performance of a duty. Often was this youthful father of his people seen passing from house to house, to witness the execution of the orders he issued for the relief of his suffering subjects: often was he seen to weep over domestic wounds, which not even the hand of a munificent prince could heal.

When the contagion had exhausted its rage, and the few remaining inhabitants awoke from their stupefaction, the King’s safety became a miracle in their eyes: and Sebastian himself, recollecting his conquest over the infidel and the tempest, believed his life preserved for some admirable purpose.

It was with bitter regret that he now saw his African enterprize frustrated for awhile: his dominions wasted by sickness, and enfeebled by terror, were not capable of affording him those supplies, necessary to success; he therefore laid aside the plan, and went with his cousin Antonio, to recover from their fatigue and mortification among the romantic scenes of the prior’s residence near Crato.

It was in this enchanting retreat that he was startled by a proposal from his first minister, for his marriage with a princess of France. Though Sebastian treated the idea of love (such as he saw it amongst his young courtiers,) with infinite scorn, and wondered how a man’s heart could find room for any other passion than glory, he had at this moment a confused idea, that preference at least, was necessary to make the marriage yoke pleasant, or light. He hastily caught up the miniature of the lady (which had been sent with the proposal,) and looked earnestly at it: the next instant he threw it away, exclaiming with his usual impetuosity, “’tis a peevish, little-souled face, and I would not marry the original if she had all France for her dowry.”

Antonio took up the picture, and eyed it with some admiration—“and pray my good, insensible cousin,” he said, “what wouldst thou have?—here is a very pretty neck, a skin like roses and lilies, a delicate mouth, tolerable eyes!—the princess is, I dare say, a charming little doll, with which a man might amuse himself very agreeably, when he had nothing else to do.”

“But I shall always have something else to do,” replied Sebastian, “I cannot bear the thought of having a contemptible play-thing for a wife; yet I should despise myself were I ever to be fascinated by any woman into the servile bondage of love,—no; you must all wait my time: I shall marry some day; but I swear by Heaven, not before I have combatted the infidels on their own ground.”

“That is a very foolish vow,” observed Antonio, “and I’d have you recal it.”

“Never!” exclaimed the King, “never!” (and while he spoke, his eyes lightened with youthful ardour) “you know my character Antonio; it is formed of tougher materials than yours, it does not easily bend even to necessity. Though our exhausted country now is fainting before us, she will revive, she will recover; and then, strong in a divine cause, conscious of no motive beyond the love of mankind, (whose bodies these accursed Mahometans torture in slavery, and whose souls they draw into everlasting perdition,) I will advance under the banner of the cross, confident of victory.—What is it I seek?—not dominion, not power, nor the mere name of conqueror? I combat for the eternal good of the human race: I pant after no earthly honour; except indeed the proud distinction of having extirpated the enemies of Christ.”

“That is all, very admirable, and very true, my royal cousin,” replied the prior, “but as neither priests nor laymen can pretend to read the will of Heaven, we must not be quite so confident of success, at least you should conceive the possibility of your being ordained, (which God forbid!) to fall in the very moment of triumph, purchasing with your blood the saintly distinction to which you aspire.” The young King who was traversing the apartment, turned quickly round at this; transported with the dazzling thought his enthusiastic spirit blazed on his face; he looked at his cousin with rapture. “Such a death!—Antonio, would you not envy such a death?”

“Not in the least,” replied the prior gaily, “you must excuse me if I pray for a very different end for us both.—But if you are bent upon thus expiring like the Phœnix amidst the cloves and cinnamon of glory, suffer me to remind you, that Portugal will then have reason to lament the princess of France’s peevish countenance, and her monarch’s imprudent vow.”

Sebastian was struck with the observation: after a pause he said, “you are right; yet I am not inclined to retract. While I study the happiness of my people, surely it is not required of me to sacrifice my own?—Though at this instant, I could contentedly take the vow of celibacy to please them (if that were necessary for any good purpose,) I do not find in myself a disposition to embitter my domestic life merely for the sake of leaving them an heir to my crown.—I can imagine infinite happiness with a wife suited to my taste, consonant with my principles, and capable of catching some of my own wild-fire; and I feel a jealous something in my breast—call it pride, call it delicacy, what you will, but it is a sentiment of abhorrence at the thought of cherishing a woman who would have consented to fill the arms of any other King that might have sat on the throne of Portugal.—For this reason I cannot, I will not marry one to whom I am personally unknown—this is my determination, carry it to Alcoçava, and let him manage the refusal with the customary decorum.”

After a little good-humoured raillery, Antonio prepared to set out for Lisbon, and the King, without suffering any one to attend him, mounted a horse and rode forth.

His spirit was disturbed by that prevalent anxiety for his marriage, which his ministry had urged in support of their late proposal; and it was saddened by the small prospect there was, of his being speedily able to realize the darling wish that had grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength. Disinterested as he firmly believed himself, and purely actuated by zeal for the holy faith, yet he could not conceal from his own conscience, that a boundless ambition of fame, had its share in regretting the delay of his purposed expedition: the enfeebled state of his dominions had prevented him from contributing any assistance to the grand coalition then forming against the Turks—and the splendid success of that coalition, deepened his chagrin. The victory of Lepanto haunted his nightly dreams; he secretly repined at the thick laurels of Don John of Austria; painfully contrasting that young admiral’s achievements, with his own blighted and withering hopes.

Wearied with thought and motion, Sebastian threw himself off his horse in a solitary spot surrounded by hills, and suffering him to graze at will, cast himself along under a shade of cork trees; there he mused over ten thousand new prospects of vain and impracticable enterprize.

The sultry air was cooled and perfumed by the breathing of aromatic plants, kept in all the greenness of spring, by several rills which trickled almost unseen beneath them; not a breeze stirred the leaves of the cork trees, and the very birds were silent: the only sound to be heard throughout the valley, was the lulling murmur of bees coming to feed upon the flowers. A steady heat glowed in the air: Sebastian cast aside his mantle and his hat, and pushed away the hair from his forehead; all the summer burned upon his cheek, but a hotter fire, the fever of impatience was in his heart.—By degrees the enervating warmth overpowered him, and he sunk into sleep.

He had not reposed long, when his slumbers were dispersed by the sound of steps and a voice; he opened his eyes; at that instant a goat twisted with flowers, and dragging along a half finished garland, bounded past with a suddenness which made the King start up.—The wanton animal was swiftly followed by a young virgin, who stopt confounded at sight of a man: part of her veil was off, and filled with the flowers she had been employed in arranging, and a profusion of bright golden hair, picturesquely disordered by the heat and the pursuit, was scattered on a neck that sparkled in the sun like alabaster. The eagerness of her feelings had heightened the lustre of her beauty to such perfection, that Sebastian almost believed the object before him a celestial vision. The blue glory of her eyes, the glittering bloom of her complexion, the gracefulness of her attitude, and the animation of her whole person, gave him for the first time in his life a complete idea of female charms.

Abashed and surprised by an exclamation which escaped him, the fair stranger turned blushing away, hastily endeavouring to cover herself with her veil.

Sebastian pointed to the goat now trailing his fantastic trappings along the ridge of a steep height—“You will not go, fair creature! he said, till you have given me permission to attempt the recovery of yon runaway?”

Fresh beauty was diffused over the exquisite features of the lady, while she willingly essayed to thank him: “I have imprudently ventured too far beyond my father’s park, she added, or you would not see me thus unattended sir. I ought not to remain here with a stranger perhaps, but your countenance insures me respect, and I think, I hope, I am not wrong in accepting your services!”

The King now led her to the shade, where she seated herself, while he ascended a neighbouring hill, and soon returned with the goat: at the playful chiding of its lovely mistress, the little animal lay down in seeming penitence beside her, suffering Sebastian to caress, and hold it prisoner. The panting fatigue of Donna Gonsalva, and the peculiar freshness of the air in the valley, afforded him a plausible excuse for seeking to detain her: Gonsalva herself, flattered with the admiration she inspired, was in no haste to recover. She was struck with the noble air of her companion, and felt some womanish curiosity about his name and rank: but Sebastian, desirous of concealing himself, without anticipating any further acquaintance, avoided her questions. He found from her own account, that she was the only daughter of the count Vimiosa, (his envoy at the court of France,) and was then inhabiting the family mansion, under the protection of a maiden aunt.

An abundance of enchanting gaiety led Gonsalva into unreserved conversation: she rallied the King upon the solitude in which she had found him, and with arch naiveté told him she should never in future address her saint without remembering to pray for the gallant solitary. “But by what name shall I pray for him?” asked she, rising to depart: the King hesitated; as he was born upon the eve of the joint feast of two Saints, he believed himself entitled to the name of either, so bid her remember him by the title of Don Fabian.

Donna Gonsalva repeated the words. “I shall not forget you; said she, remember me, when you look at this flower, that will be just five minutes, for it is withering now.” She threw him a lily out of her bosom with a smile of such magic beauty, that Sebastian could not refrain from snatching the fair hand which dropped the flower, and printing it lightly with a kiss. Gonsalva drew away her hand in displeasure. Would she have done so, had she known that this was the first kiss those lips had given to beauty, and that it was the King of Portugal who gave it?

She disappeared the next moment, leaving Sebastian endeavouring to rally himself upon so unusual an impulse of gallantry.

The beautiful Portuguese had successfully dispersed the young monarch’s gloom; it did not return: he loitered awhile longer in the scene where he had beheld her, then seeking his horse, returned to Crato.

CHAP. II.

As Antonio had business to transact for the King with his cabinet, he did not return immediately from Lisbon, and Sebastian having visited him without any of his favorite Lords, was now thrown principally upon his own resources for amusement. The weather was too hot for hunting or tennis, reading stirred his ardent spirit too violently, and he was not in the mood for general society; the next day therefore, he naturally thought of the last day’s agreeable adventure: without absolutely proposing to do so, he rode out again unattended.

On reaching the pass leading into the valley, he left his horse in charge with a goatherd who was stationed there to watch some flocks, and pursued his way on foot. The heat was moderated by a slight shower which had refreshed the verdant landscape, and now the birds sung from every copse: but the scene wanted the presence of Gonsalva; she was not there. Sebastian mechanically followed the track he had seen her take, and descending the opposite side of a steep hill, saw stretched out before him, a luxuriant and extensive vale, in which the villa and domain of Vimiosa, were nobly conspicuous.

Proceeding through a thicket of evergreen oaks, the King soon found himself in a labyrinth of walks; he chose one at a venture, and fortune destined it should lead him to the entrance of a bower, where stood the fair subject of his thoughts, occupied in reading a letter.

At sight of him, roseate blushes succeeded by entrancing smiles, passed over her face. “Don Fabian!” she exclaimed, “for Heaven’s sake what brings you here?”

The question was unlucky, as it was the only one perhaps, which the King could not answer satisfactorily to himself, he looked at her, hesitated, felt embarrassed, and at length said timidly, “to ask forgiveness I believe, for the fault I committed yesterday.”

Donna Gonsalva now remembered that she had left him in anger. “So then, you have the boldness to encrease that fault by following me into a place, where if you were to be seen, it might cost you your life; me, my reputation and peace of mind!—for pity’s sake, do not stay here—I expect—I expect one of my relations every instant—should he see you—a stranger—-go, for Heaven’s sake go!”—As the beautiful Portuguese spoke, she unconsciously grasped his arm with her hand, and impelled him towards the mountains.

Sebastian’s heart, for the first moment in his life, throbbed with a tender emotion, nearly a-kin to love: he understood nothing in this speech but a desire for his preservation; and he knew himself unknown: It was not the King of Portugal then, but an obscure stranger, whom the daughter of the count Vimiosa was thus solicitous to save. “Ah, charming Gonsalva,” he cried with an air of mental intoxication, “if you are as amiable as you appear, the wishes of”—my people, he was going to add, but checking the indiscreet expression, he finished the sentence with a sigh.

An excess of pleasure brightened the beauty of Gonsalva; she averted her eyes to conceal it, while she repeated an intreaty that he would consider the impropriety of her being discovered in conversation with a young nobleman unknown to her family. Sebastian still lingered: “you must not refuse me another meeting!”—he said; and he said it with the air of a man to whom command is habitual, and refusal a novelty.

“I must not!” repeated Gonsalva, laughing, “do you remember, Don Fabian, that you are speaking to a woman—and that woman the daughter of the count Vimiosa?—our sex are not accustomed to yield, even the slightest favors, at the mere expression of an ardent wish; we must be sued to submissively.”

“Submission is my abhorrence!” exclaimed the young monarch with vivacity, “I feel now, and for the first time in my life, that I can admire, I can prize, I can love, perhaps; but you must not expect me to renounce equality with the object. I must have heart for heart, I must excite as many tender apprehensions as I feel, or—”

“And who are you, that can never speak without an I must:” exclaimed Gonsalva, laughing excessively—“but I have not time to hear your answer, leave me I say—we may perhaps meet again, and then—I hear footsteps—farewell count.”—She turned abruptly into a side path, and Sebastian desirous of remaining unknown, hastened out of the domain.

He was no sooner at a distance from the villa Vimiosa, than he began to muse over the confession of admiration into which he had been hurried, and to dwell with extreme pleasure on the concluding words of Gonsalva, as they certainly intimated a wish to see him again. In less than an hour, a complete set of new ideas had taken possession of his mind: the conversation with Don Antonio, and the wish of his people, blending with the image of Donna Gonsalva, awakened in his bosom an emotion hitherto unknown; but an emotion too sweet and subtle for rejection. The adventure itself had the charm of novelty; as for the first time in his life he beheld a young and lovely woman, who so far from dreaming of his rank, believed herself his superior. Amongst the ladies of the court he had seen beauty, but it was beauty divested of its most touching graces, the play of innocent freedom: he had never met with one who did not appear emulous to attract the King’s notice; and as he possessed too much delicacy to bear the thought of owing any thing to an exalted station, he despised and avoided their homage.

Occupied solely with the romantic reveries of an amiable, though erring ambition, he had hitherto felt without reasoning upon the subject, that he had no time for love; conscious that whenever he yielded to that sentiment it would influence his happiness entirely. Here, now, was the only opportunity that might ever present itself for acquiring a female heart, without the hateful aid of royalty; here was an opportunity of gratifying his people without mortifying his own feelings. The prospect of arms and victories, no longer filled the void of his capacious soul, and how could he better console himself for this, than by trying to accommodate his private inclinations with those of his subjects?

The extreme beauty and graceful gaiety of Donna Gonsalva delighted the senses of Sebastian; he hoped to find her equally charming in mind and heart: above all he passionately desired to make her love him. With the inperiousness of a King, he resolved to reign absolute over her affections, to have his power avowed and submitted to, or not to reign at all: he determined to be preferred as Don Fabian, before he should be known as Sebastian. Every thing promised success to this romantic resolution; and the more he reflected on it the more he was confirmed in the intention of concealing his real rank from Gonsalva; as she lived much secluded, and at some miles distance from Crato, discovery was unlikely, besides which, the clandestine nature of their intercourse rendered enquiries on her part almost impossible.

Satisfied with these mental arrangements, the King rode gaily home, forgetful of the foolish vow he had taken; treading lightly on the delightful precincts of Love, whose first prospects are like “the opening of Heaven’s everlasting gates, on golden hinges turning.”—

He finished the day amongst his young nobles, with uncommon animation.

The prior of Crato was expected the next morning: Sebastian saw day dawn, after passing a night of sweet wakefulness, during which the image of Donna Gonsalva had floated perpetually before him. Eager to behold her in reality, ere the return of his cousin, the King withdrew early from his attending lords, and took the road to Vimiosa.

As he was proceeding to enter the path through the thicket, he saw Gonsalva at a distance, in another part of the domain, walking on a terrace, cut on the side of a hill, that overlooked the house; he hastened thither, but perceiving that she had a female companion, retreated and placed himself under the boughs of a tree. The ladies turned, and walked towards him: as they approached, his heart beat with an anxiety that surprized himself; if Gonsalva should not see him! he shook the branches of the tree with a trembling hand, at which she started and put aside her veil. The same bright glow of pleasure irradiated her effulgent beauty, the same smile that had charmed away the reason of Sebastian, again transported him; but she dropped her veil, and passed on without speaking.

After taking several turns together, the ladies separated: the aunt of Gonsalva descended a flight of steps over which the trees hung so thick, as soon to exclude her from sight, while her fair niece at first advanced towards the grove which concealed Sebastian, and then capriciously struck into a path sloping directly from him.

The impetuous monarch disturbed at the thought of her departure, sprang forward, intreating that she would stay. Gonsalva half turned round—“So, you are here again my good friend?”—she said, in a tone of careless gaiety which her sparkling looks contradicted,—“are you come to teach me another lesson out of your new catechism of female subjection?—let me tell you that air of authority that you have, is abominably provoking, and I should like vastly to break its neck: one grain of humility would make you—not absolutely hateful.”

“You shall find me humbler to you, than to any other being in the world;” replied Sebastian smiling, “if you will but strive to think of me with tenderness.” Gonsalva laughed. “What a pleasant madman chance has introduced me to!—upon what do you ground these extravagant pretensions? pretensions too, so insolently urged! did you never read the Spanish author, who calls Love, that courteous affront offered to beauty?—prithee con over his definition and profit by it. Think of you with tenderness! why, my presumptuous friend, if I think of you at all in any way ’tis more than you should expect. Think of you with tenderness, when all I know of you is that you have a tolerable figure, which sillier women than myself may have persuaded you is irresistible!—A potentate could not woo with more authority.”

The accidentally penetrating glance of her eyes while speaking these words, so confounded Sebastian, that it made the blood mantle on his cheeks, she laughed again. “Come, this is the colouring of penitence, so I must not chide you any more. Never let me hear a presumptuous word breathed, consent to be docile as a lamb, and I may condescend to be so much interested in you as to ask you, who you are? whence you come! and whither you go?”

During this discourse Donna Gonsalva had entered a path leading off the terrace, and they were now advancing through an olive plantation which effectually secured them from observation. Sebastian was encouraged by her arch freedom: “Whence I come, and whither I go, fair Gonsalva,” he said, “matters not; what I am, you shall know. I am a soldier: one that hitherto had no other passion than glory; one that never yet bowed either heart or knee to beauty. If you see honour and honesty in my countenance, believe me when I swear that neither my rank nor fortune are unworthy of the count Vimiosa’s heiress: but ask me no further; imperious circumstances render me mysterious. Suffer me to see you, suffer me to attempt winning your heart, and losing my own, and then,”—“O ye saints!” interrupted Gonsalva, “what excess of gallantry! So—you have not lost your heart yet! but wait most obsequiously for the surrender of mine! I protest count, or duke, or whatever you are, you have a very taking way of making love! This cloven foot of arbitrary insolence is for ever shewing itself: I have a shrewd notion you are one of our young King’s attendants, and have caught his character?” “And what is the King’s character?” asked Sebastian smiling. “An excellent one for a King, doubtless,” replied Gonsalva. “He thinks of nothing but rule and dominion, breathes nothing but war and devastation, and would fancy himself un-kinged if he were to yield an iota to a woman. All the court ladies love him mortally, and hate him mortally: they are charmed by his accomplishments, but piqued at his coldness. I have heard some of them say so repeatedly. Give him the world to reign over, and he would not care if there was not a woman in it.”

Sebastian did not reply: he was momentarily lost in rumination upon the injustice done to his actions by mistaking their motives. It was evident that Gonsalva had learned his character from report, and spoke therefore the prevailing opinion. After a pause he said, “I have been told that Don Sebastian young as he is, cannot be justly taxed with a thirst for mere power; he is said to be actuated by zeal for our holy faith.”

“You know it perhaps?” rejoined Gonsalva playfully. “Come, come, confess that you are one of his court. I hear his majesty is at Crato with Don Antonio, and of course some of his lords must be in attendance on him.”

“Well then,” replied Sebastian, “I may frankly own that I came with the King, and must return with him to Lisbon. My visits here are secret; Don Sebastian has always expressed such disdain at lovers, that if he knew me capable of humbling myself to such a merciless tyrant as your fair self, I fear he would blush for my altered sentiments. Allow me to hope, charming Gonsalva, that you will permit me to see you here again at this hour to-morrow? The King will soon return to Lisbon, and then I shall see you no more.”

Sebastian pronounced the last words with a sigh, and anxiously looked on the heavenly features of Gonsalva for an expression of answering regret: those heavenly features were as usual brilliant with delight; her heart did not appear touched by the intimation of this separation. “Do you see that tower yonder?” she asked, pointing to a part of the house which rose above some trees—“my apartments are there: under the tower-window passes a neglected path half choaked with shrubs, where if you chuse to ramble and take the chance of seeing me, and being noticed, I shall not command you away. A short excursion by moonlight will do you no harm: but mark me—no serenading.”

“Then it is at night I am to expect the happiness of seeing you?”

“Have I not told you, not to expect any thing? if you won’t consent to take even trifles as unlooked-for favors, you will lose my friendship. I will be absolute in my way; a very counterpart of your royal master. Fare you well, Don Fabian, if you should miss seeing me at my window, take this as a complete adieu: and, do you hear, when you return to Lisbon, do set about curing both yourself and the King, of your abominable insolence.”

Away flew the volatile beauty with the grace of a nymph, leaving Sebastian pierced with pains which he dreaded to analyze; too certain they were occasioned by her seeming indifference. Something like resentment swelled his proud heart as he recalled the tenderness of his parting manner, and the carelessness of hers: he felt as if he had been duped; and execrated himself for having yielded even momentarily to a weakness which had thus sunk him into the play-thing of a coquet. To have gained gently upon her affections, and fanned an infant fire with the softest breath of respectful love, had been the aim of his wishes; but to worship an idol without a heart, feed an inhuman deity with groans and tears, to dote on what he could not esteem, was a meanness he scorned.

“You have seen me for the last time, insensible Gonsalva!” he exclaimed, as turning from the view of the tower, he rushed towards the mountains.

Vexed at himself, and irritated with disappointment, he rode to Crato in a mood that clouded his physiognomy. The prior was waiting his return: Sebastian scarcely noticing him, seized a bundle of dispatches sent from one of his ministers, and began to read them eagerly. Don Antonio ventured a jocular remark upon his disturbed countenance.

“I am in an ill-humour cousin,” replied the King, “in a rage at my own conduct; and at this moment could tear up the roots of earth itself.”—Antonio expressed some astonishment and more curiosity: Sebastian declined satisfying it, adding, “I have quite enough to bear, cousin, when I have my own contempt to encounter, without seeking the addition of yours. Let this squall of temper have its way—for heaven’s sake talk with me of business, news, nonsense, any thing—change the current of my thoughts if possible.—What said Alcoçava and the cardinal to my refusal of the Frenchwoman?”

“Since you require me to change the current of your thoughts, and thus lead to the subject of love and marriage, I may conclude the mischief-making God has had no hand in raising the present storm?”—Don Antonio spoke this with a forced smile, and not without hesitation; yet he fixed his eyes earnestly upon those of his cousin: the ingenuous countenance of the latter was immediately crimsoned over; he turned away, uttering an exclamation of contempt, coupled with the idea of love, and abruptly entered on another topic. The prior surprized and disturbed, appeared somewhat hurt at the King’s reserve, for he became thoughtful, and supported conversation with less spirit than was usual with him; but at length this mutual restraint wore off, and the remainder of the day was spent in all the freedom of friendship.

Sebastian’s resolution to avoid Gonsalva, lasted rather longer than his indignation. By degrees the flattering parts of her manner came oftener to his memory than those gay airs of indifference which had mortified his too sanguine nature: the agitating blush, the hope-awakening smile haunted his day-dreams; sometimes he saw her in the visions of the night, yielding him one of those tresses like the morn, which shaded her ivory neck, and half-averting a cheek now glowing with the sensibility of a melting heart.—He awoke, but the seducing image still swam before him.

Sebastian then revolved the probability of his having judged hastily and harshly: delicacy alone, or love distrustful of its empire, might have dictated that sprightly carelessness which had shocked him: though she had said they might not meet again, she did not perhaps think so, nor mean him to seek for her in vain at her window; would it not be well then, to make another essay to observe the effect of his absence? the youthful lover decided in the affirmative.

Being unexpectedly summoned by state affairs to his capital, he determined to make a last trial of Gonsalva’s sentiments, by visiting her on the night before his departure. When that night came, he excused himself from the amusements of his courtiers, and leaving Don Antonio chained down to a game of chess, he glided away unobserved, and was soon conveyed by his swiftest horse to the domain of Vimiosa.

A soft moonlight distinctly discovered the spot to which Gonsalva had directed him six days before. He saw the steep romantic bank shading the road towards which he now turned his steps: as he trod it lightly, the smell of orange flowers and wild thyme, came mingling from the hills and the gardens. While his eyes were fixed on the windows of the tower, where perhaps Gonsalva slept, some low tender sounds caught his ear: he listened, but they had ceased; the next moment they returned again; drawing gently nearer he found they proceeded from a lute which some one was touching at intervals with an unsteady hand, another pause succeeded: he stood still, and scarcely respired; for now the voice of Gonsalva was heard singing this canzonet.

“Hast thou, a sleepless pillow prest,
And vainly, vainly sought for rest?
Ah! say, have sighs and tears confess’d
That love was kindling in thy breast?

Alas! if not, why dost thou fly
To haunt my gate, my path, mine eye,
Still looking as thou wanderest nigh
A world of fond idolatry?

O cease, if vanity should be
The only aim that leads to me;
O cease, while yet my heart is free
From hope, and fear, and love, and thee!”

Rapt, enchanted, Sebastian stood listening to this celestial voice: its thrilling tones revolving in continual sweetness but endless variety, were like the melodious warblings of a nightingale. The serene Heavens, the resplendent moonlight, the fragrance of the earth, the transport and the gratitude of his own heart, all conspired to heighten its magical effect. Donna Gonsalva had evidently chosen this song because it pourtrayed a situation like her own; this thought finished the intoxication of Sebastian, and he vehemently exclaimed, “Angel!”

At this expression, Gonsalva dropped her lute, and flying forward, uttered a cry of pleasure. “Ah, is it you, ungrateful Fabian!” she cried: her beauty and her emotion completed the conquest over her sovereign. She was without a veil, and he now beheld for the first time, all the charms of that matchless face: traces of tears were on it.

Scarcely conscious of the extreme joy he betrayed, the king uttered a passionate expression at this visible mark of sensibility; and forcing his way up the bank through shrubs and roots of trees, got sufficiently near the object of his tenderness to kiss her hand from the window. The night breeze blowing among his fine hair, and the moon beams falling on his white forehead, gave lustre and animation to the noblest countenance that ever yet united sublimity with beauty: Donna Gonsalva evidently beheld him with admiration.

Endeavouring to recover from the effects of her surprize, she attempted to answer his ardent assurances of repentance and gratitude, by light railleries: She acknowledged that she had been in tears, but would not confess that his absence was their cause: Sometimes she spoke in a tone of touching sensibility, then suddenly flew off into sallies of gaiety: her air and her words were at variance. Sebastian, though little skilled in the science of woman’s heart, could not help perceiving the whimsical inconsistencies of Gonsalva: while her voice fluttered, her complexion glowed, her eyes sparkled, she persisted in assuring him that he had never once entered her thoughts since they parted, and that even now, if his ridiculous speeches did not amuse her excessively, she would not stay a second moment at the window.

It was in vain she asserted this: the delighted lover assured her in return, that the stratagem of insincerity was fruitless. Since he was resolved to win the heart, she seemed determined not to surrender.—“And if you were to take it by storm, (as I perceive that is your mode of conquering,)” replied Gonsalva, “what would it avail? You know, daughters are not allowed to dispose of themselves: I have a father, Don Fabian, and it is from his hand I must take my husband.”

Sebastian gazed on her enamoured, smiling with the consciousness of sovereign power: “Let us not talk of fathers, fair Gonsalva; were I beloved, I should fear nothing: what will not a joyful and ardent passion accomplish? Do not deny me then the hope of having interested you?—I must quit Crato to-morrow; the King is recalled by important business, and I cannot remain behind.”

“O! how much you are in love!” exclaimed Gonsalva, with an air of tender reproach, “you profess to live only in my sight, and yet you can leave me merely for the sake of preserving an empty honor about the King!”

The gratified Sebastian protested that nothing but a sense of duty could make him forego the delight of these stolen interviews, which he would hasten to renew; promising soon to return. “Till that blissful moment, let this remind you of Fabian,” said he, (unloosing from his neck a brilliant cross of the order of Christus which had hitherto been concealed by his vest.) “Let this assure you, that your lover is noble.”

“And if he were not”—exclaimed Gonsalva, stopping and ending the sentence with a tender sigh. The triumph of Sebastian was now complete: “and if he were not, charming Gonsalva, you would not cease to bid him hope?—Dare I flatter myself that such was the sentiment your modesty deprived me of?”—Gonsalva bowed her fair neck without speaking, while rapture sparkled in her eyes: the King lightly threw over her head the embroidered ribbon by which the order was suspended, and when he did so, lifted some of the tresses of her hair to his lips. “Might I bear away with me one of these glittering ringlets!—Surely you will not deny me the precious gift?”

A faint denial only served to stimulate the young monarch, Gonsalva refused, and chided, and jested, but yielded at last.

At parting, the coy beauty would not utter a confession of regret, though she suffered the sentiment to appear in her swimming eyes. Sebastian was perhaps more enamoured by this conduct: the difficulty of subduing so haughty or so delicate a heart, gave additional pleasure to the attempt; and the spirit of domination then mixed with the tender desires of love. He returned to Crato with his golden prize, believing himself a conqueror when he was in reality a slave.

The vivacity of Sebastian’s feelings were in proportion to their novelty: he loved for the first time, therefore he loved with his whole soul; and the idea of being beloved in return, for his own sake, finished the enchantment.

During their rapid journey to Lisbon, he disclosed the romantic secret to his cousin.

Though Don Antonio was evidently too discreet for the indulgence of ill-timed raillery or unpalatable rebuke, the King perceived that his imprudent attachment surprized and shocked him: the prior’s florid complexion changed frequently, and he spoke with a trepidation unusual to him. Donna Gonsalva’s comparatively inferior birth, was in his opinion an insurmountable objection; but he forbore to press other arguments upon his sovereign, whose suddenly inflamed looks warned him to beware. Having by a strong effort conquered his excessive surprize, which secret circumstances rendered almost insufferable, he gradually acquiesced in the passionate reasoning of his kinsman, and began to assist him with plans for the completion of these new wishes.

To facilitate the King’s interviews with Donna Gonsalva, and yet conceal the affair from his court, it was requisite that some plausible excuse should be found for his visiting Crato again: Antonio therefore offered to return almost immediately to his priory, feign sickness there, and intreat the society of his gracious cousin. This offer was accepted: Don Antonio scarcely refreshed himself in Lisbon ere he set out once more for Crato: the King remained behind, and for the first time in his life gave audience to his ministers with a divided mind, after dispatching the various state affairs for which he had returned to his capital, he waited impatiently the prior’s summons, and shortly receiving it, hastened, with a very small train, to the hunting lodge.

The interviews of the lovers were now regular, and every interview heightened the young monarch’s passion. His fair mistress stimulated this ardor by just as much condescension as excited without satisfying hope; acquiring at each unexpected act of kindness fresh power over his peace. Sebastian gradually lost that self-command upon which he piqued himself, and often found that he bartered some of his independence for a smile or a kiss: but he had learned the art of silencing his own reproofs; and constantly declared to his cousin that he knew himself beloved to excess, or he would not stoop to acts which otherwise would be mean submissions.

At length, the moment so long panted after, arrived; Gonsalva one evening pronounced the tender confession of reciprocal preference, and was rewarded the next instant by an avowal of her lover’s sovereign rank.

Confused and agitated, the fair Portuguese half sunk upon her knee, faltering out a few words of humility and gratitude: Sebastian hastened to raise, and clasp her in his arms, while he explained his intention of recalling her father from France in order to witness their immediate marriage. Donna Gonsalva changed colour, averted her eyes, hesitated, panted for breath, and at length apprehensively confessed that she was under engagements to a young nobleman; nay, that her father had given her to him in marriage at the age of seven years.

Had the earth opened at the feet of Sebastian, he could not have felt more horror.—Speechless with emotion, his looks only continued to interrogate Gonsalva: she trembled and wept, but conjured him to believe that after the ceremony was performed, she had almost forgotten it, as her bridegroom had gone out to Goa with his grandfather the viceroy of India, and was but lately returned.

“And you have seen him Gonsalva?” asked the King mournfully. “Yes, I have seen him thrice, but without giving him the least hope that I would ratify the cruel engagement in which my infant mind had no share.—When he visited me last, you were absent, your love was doubtful, your real rank unknown, I was uncertain whether you might ever return to me, and yet I told him my resolution.”

“Then you loved me from the first?” cried the transported Sebastian, “let not my Gonsalva ever again torture me with assumed indifference, when this conduct shews that she preferred the pain of concealment to the hazard of losing me by the early mention of this hateful obstacle. Take courage, dearest! ties like these may be broken without dishonour; and thank God! I am a King.”

The impetuous and imperious Sebastian forgot at this moment his character of just; he was incapable of admitting either a parent’s or a husband’s right, when the one had used his power tyrannically, and the other had been forced upon a child incapable of choice. To obtain the pope’s bull for annulling this marriage, seemed not a matter of difficulty; the consent of Vimiosa was of course certain; and as the rival husband had not been long returned from India, he was not likely to oppose the divorce from any motive of attachment: at all events, Sebastian resolved to use his prerogative if necessary, since Gonsalva had expressed for him the most passionate preference, and ought not her happiness to be the first object of his life!—She now repeated her promise of living for him alone, and at that sound the momentary obstacle disappeared from her lover’s sight.

After this conference the rash young monarch dispatched couriers into France with letters to the count Vimiosa, demanding his daughter, and inviting him to return and assist in dissolving the bands which tied her to Don Emanuel de Castro: at the same time he sent a magnificent embassy to Rome, praying for a divorce; and commissioned his cousin Antonio to see and converse with Don Emanuel.

Meanwhile Donna Gonsalva had hinted to Sebastian the impropriety of exposing her reputation to the scandal of being discovered in a clandestine intercourse with her sovereign: having no longer a reason for concealment, Sebastian embraced the permission this hint gave him, and came with a splendid retinue to Vimiosa. His lords saw nothing extraordinary in a young monarch paying a courteous visit to the sister and daughter of one of his greatest subjects, but no sooner did they behold the transcendent beauty of Donna Gonsalva, and the emotion of their royal master, than a suspicion of the truth was awakened amongst them.

Lost in a round of new and delightful enjoyments, Sebastian was from that hour continually at the house of his mistress: his cousin accompanied him in these visits, and warmly applauded his choice. But the eloquence of the latter had been used in vain to obtain an hearing from Don Emanuel De Castro; that young nobleman refusing to converse on the subject of her marriage with any other than the King himself.

Sebastian’s nature was too generous not to revolt from some arbitrary measures which Antonio suggested in the height of his zeal and displeasure: he refused to degrade or distress his rival; and the dictates of delicacy forbade him to attempt purchasing his acquiescence by mere honours.

De Castro was indeed worthy of this liberal treatment: he had distinguished himself in the Indies under his grandfather, by the most brilliant services. His intrepidity and genius for war were not the only themes of praise; to these were added justice, temperance, a benevolent attention to the natural propensities, habits, and even prejudices of the Indians, and a conciliating manner which subdued them still more than his arms. Filial piety was the first of his virtues: after twelve years residence in India, a dangerous disease fastened upon his aged parent, which compelled him to return home: Don Emanuel was advised to remain at Goa, where he would in all probability receive an immediate nomination to succeed the viceroy in his government; but he refused to act thus:—abandoning this expectation, and resigning his military command, he left the eastern world, chiefly for the sake of softening the discomforts of a tedious voyage to a relation he revered; though the idea of claiming his young bride sweetened the sacrifice.

On reaching Portugal, the viceroy had gone to his seat at Santaren, from whence Don Emanuel had twice visited Gonsalva: but the death of his beloved grandfather quickly followed, and prevented him from seeing her again, till the first days of his mourning were passed.—Don Emanuel was preparing to appear at court for the first time, when the King’s pleasure was intimated to him by the prior of Crato. Refusing to discuss so important a matter with a third person, he was ordered into the presence of his sovereign.—The King alone, and secretly at war with himself, received him with embarrassment: his excessive emotion formed a decided contrast to the grave and dignified composure of De Castro. The latter was just going to pay the usual mark of homage to princes, when Sebastian impetuously caught him by the arm, exclaiming, “Bend not your knee to one who would dismiss from your mind in this conference all thought of his authority: I wish you to hear me, Don Emanuel, not as a King, who might insist, but as a man who is willing to submit to the decision of equity.—In conversing on this interesting topic, let us think only of the rights and the happiness of Donna Gonsalva—let us forget, if possible, our own desires.—Believe me, if I did not flatter myself with being inexpressibly dear to her, if I did not abhor and renounce with my whole heart this unnatural practice of infant nuptials, I would not seek to release her hand, though certain of commanding it the next instant:—nay, had I known earlier of her engagements, preposterous as I deem them, I would have avoided the scandal and the pain of dissolving them.”

De Castro fixed his eyes upon the ingenuous though disturbed countenance of the King: esteem and compassion were in the look.—“This is the first time,” he said, “in which I have had the honour of seeing and conversing with my sovereign, and I foresee it will add to my former loyalty, the sentiments of gratitude and admiration.—my fortunes, my services, my life, sire, are at your feet, dispose of them henceforth as you will; but I beseech you for your own honour and happiness, for the sake of your people, proceed no further in dissolving my union with Donna Gonsalva.”

“How! Don Emanuel,” exclaimed Sebastian, “do you pretend to persuade me of these animated sentiments, and yet deny me the only favor peculiarly your own to bestow? as your sovereign I may command your services and life; but when I ask of you with the simplicity of an equal, to resign the shadow of a right over a woman whom you cannot love, whom I love with all the ardour of virtuous tenderness, and who blesses me in return, when I ask this at your hands, you capriciously, tyrannically deny me. What conduct is this? how dare you mock me with expressions of devoted regard?”

Embarrassed yet not confounded, Don Emanuel was silent; the king pressed his remark with increased ardour, adding, in a tone of greater emotion, “You were contracted to Donna Gonsalva at the age of thirteen, you went immediately after to India, from whence you are returned but three months; in that period you have seen the fair Gonsalva only thrice, and that in reserved interviews before her aunt, where nothing beyond personal graces could speak to your senses. No charm of varied discourse; no enchantment of sensibility could penetrate to your soul; the coldness of her feelings must have chilled yours: love feeds, grows, lives upon love! Can you then, will you then have the injustice to place your mere admiration of her beauty upon a par with my lively preference of her character, and my tender sympathy with her disinterested affection? Have a care, Don Emmanuel, force me not to resume the King; you may rouse me into measures which otherwise I would have spurned.”

“I trust, Sire, to your own conviction of the justice of my claim, replied De Castro firmly, the king of Portugal is born to be the glory and the examplar of Kings: he will teach the Portuguese to obey the laws, by first obeying them himself; he will respect even the simplest rights of his subjects; he will reflect that absolute power tempts to oppression, and renders self-denial the greatest effort of virtue; and in proportion as injustice is easy to him, his magnanimity will render it difficult.” Don Emanuel paused, but Sebastian was silent; for there was something in Don Emanuel’s manner which at once inspired respect, and rivetted attention: interpreting his sovereign’s looks, that nobleman continued—“Pardon my boldness, sire, if I venture to tell you, that in marrying a subject, and that subject a woman ravished from her husband, you will stain your unsullied name, and disappoint your people. Hitherto, monarchs of Portugal have strengthened their power by foreign alliances—you, sire, have refused daughters of France and Spain; and when it is known that you have refused them for a private person, may we not dread the consequences?”

“What! Don Emanuel,” interrupted Sebastian, “does your otherwise admirable theory of a prince’s duties, lead to this extravagant conclusion, that he is bound to sacrifice his domestic happiness to a mere shew of benefitting his people?—Is a powerful alliance more than a political pageant?—When did you ever find the dearest connections amongst earthly potentates, (and I blush for them whilst I urge it,) able to counterbalance the promptings of ambition and opportunity? every solid advantage would be as firmly secured to Portugal by my union with a subject as with a princess. I am not the first King of Portugal who has declared that ‘marriage is the prerogative of every man.’”

“True, Sire!” returned De Castro, respectfully, “but your majesty will remember that the august monarch who made this declaration, coupled it with these words—I promise never to invade this prerogative in the person of another, and for that reason expect never to have it invaded in my own.”

“De Castro,” said the King earnestly, “tell me that you tenderly, exclusively love her—swear it to me by your hope of eternal salvation, and whatever it may cost me, I will relinquish my own happiness, but never again expect to behold the face of your sovereign: for the man who would force to his arms an unwilling bride, must have a soul with which mine can have no fellowship.”

Extremely affected by the honourable emotion of his royal master, Don Emanuel’s voice faltered as he replied, “My nature, sire, is incapable of deriving gratification from any forced submission; much less from that submission of woman’s heart, which must be voluntary to be sweet:—be assured Donna Gonsalva shall not be compelled into my arms. To swear I love her dearer than any thing on earth, would be false, for I love my King better: I take Heaven to witness it is more for his honor and prosperity, than for my own wishes, that I thus desperately risk his displeasure. Time, perhaps, may plead in my justification, and convince you, sire, that though I refuse every other ground of discussion except that of right, yet am I sincere when I repeat, that for loyalty and the most passionate wish for your majesty’s real happiness, my heart may challenge any heart in Portugal.”

Sebastian’s indignant eyes searched the countenance of Don Emanuel; “There is a proud mystery about you, sir,” he said, “which displeases me:—I have humbled myself too much.—Since it is to be a question of right, learn to respect the rights of your prince. From this hour know that I will be obeyed.”

Don Emanuel threw himself at the King’s feet.—“Then I must implore for justice, and conjure my sovereign to decide on my claim as he would have done in a similar cause in which he was not a party. Ah, sire! you turn pale! your upright soul feels the force of that plain appeal. Would to God, for your own august sake, that you would not precipitately do an act of violence.—Have you no fears, sire, that the woman who could so long conceal, and so lightly break a sacred tie (however imposed,) has been actuated by less disinterested motives than those of virtuous love?”

At this unexpected question, the King lost all command of his passions, and fiercely motioned for Don Emanuel to withdraw; his look and gesture were too violent not to warn de Castro that he trod on the brink of a precipice: that young nobleman rose from the ground, and as he bowed respectfully, a deep sigh escaped him, he bowed again, and left the King to his own thoughts.

CHAP. III.

Sebastian’s mind was a tempest of angry feelings. It was now evident, that unless the presence and arguments of the Count Vimiosa should prevail over De Castro’s obstinacy, he must be forced to use compulsion: such measures were so abhorrent to his nature that he felt increased aversion for the man who thus rendered them necessary.

Don Emanuel was forbid to appear at court; yet his still generous, though indignant sovereign, neither abridged his honours nor his liberty: he testified his displeasure merely by banishing him from his presence. The prior of Crato observed this moderation and blamed it: Sebastian answered him by saying, “De Castro has to thank me for much more forbearance: were I to follow the dictates of my proud spirit, I would crush him with benefits, and render this perseverance odious to the whole world. But I disdain to take so unfair an advantage.” Antonio was not reconciled to such a refinement of honour, yet he attempted not to ridicule it. The arrival of the Count Vimiosa revived the spirits of the King; from him he expected implicit submission, and he found it. The Count had early learned the court lesson of obedience; and was besides intoxicated with the height to which his daughter’s elevation would raise himself: he professed his willingness to repair in person to Rome for the dispensation; inveighing bitterly against the rash and selfish man who thus ventured to contend with his prince.

Sebastian could not conceal from his own thoughts that he despised this pliant father, who boasted acquiescence as the fruit of reverence to royal authority, not as springing from the conviction of woman’s right to dispose of her affection and her hand: Sebastian was accustomed to estimate the value of men’s actions by their motives; and scorning those of Vimiosa, scarcely brooked his presence even in the society of his daughter. However, for her sake he gave him the palace of Xabregas, to which she was shortly after removed with her discreet aunt from the vicinity of Crato.

Though debarred from personally appearing before the King, Don Emanuel addressed a letter to him full of duteous affection, in which he offered to forego all claim upon Donna Gonsalva, provided she continued to wish it at the expiration of six months: but for that period he stipulated that she must either retire into a convent, or accept the protection of his aunt Donna Garcia di Nugnez, a lady of unblemished reputation, under her roof she might receive his visits, and those of the King also.

This proposal De Castro pressed with such earnestness (offering to pledge himself under forfeiture of his estates and life, to use no authority over the will of Donna Gonsalva,) that Sebastian was induced to consider it—there was such an air of sincerity in the whole of that young nobleman’s conduct, and his character had hitherto been so irreproachable, that it was impossible even for the passion-blinded King to refuse believing him innocent of wanton insolence. Whatever romantic notions of right and honour might tempt him into the present opposition, it was evident that he rather sought to give his prince time to recollect himself, than finally to thwart his wishes.

Stimulated to convince Don Emanuel that his choice arose not from a temporary gust of passion, Sebastian half-resolved to accept these offered terms, and consent to six months probation. With this view he hastened from the palace of Ribera to that of Xabregas, to communicate the letter to Donna Gonsalva: he found her in the midst of her little court, like the Queen of beauty surrounded by graces and loves. On his entrance the nobles retired, leaving only the prior of Crato, and Donna Sancha Vimiosa.

While the fair Portuguese read De Castro’s letter, the blood suddenly forsook her lips and cheeks; she fixed her amazed eyes on Don Antonio, as if unconscious of what they looked on, repeating aloud “for six months!”—at that moment Sebastian forgot his rational resolution; “but we are not to be debarred the society of each other all that time, my Gonsalva!” said he, tenderly kissing her hand.

Gonsalva gazed at him with a mixture of astonishment and apprehension—“already so indifferent!” she exclaimed—“artful De Castro, thou knowest but too well, I fear, how those six months would end!”

“Donna Gonsalva!” cried the prior, with no very respectful roughness, “are you in your senses?—observe the king.”

Instantaneously recalled, the beautiful Gonsalva recovered from her extraordinary agitation, and turning to her lover, beheld on his countenance such an expression of grateful surprize and fond regret, then she half sunk into his arms, repeating with the voice of a syren “you will not banish me from happiness for six long months? you will not kill your Gonsalva with fears which your authority may end for ever!”

Sebastian pressed her to him in a transport of love—“what is it you fear!” he exclaimed, “what is it alarms my Gonsalva!”

His charming mistress cast down her eyes abashed, “I fear, without cause perhaps,” she said, “yet, you have yourself often remarked, that true tenderness trembles at every delay of what it sighs for.—These six months passed with a relation of the man who calls himself my husband—these six months in which you may be wrought on to abandon me—are so frightful—so sad—alas! how shall I live through them!”

Antonio, who was reading the important letter, now broke in upon Sebastian’s soothings: he spoke with peculiar warmth on the weakness of allowing himself to be thus trifled with by an inferior. He could not understand, he observed, any of those romantic notions which his royal master urged in defence of Don Emanuel; but frankly gave it as his opinion that De Castro, so far from being sincere in his promise of resigning the lady in half a year, was more likely to take a base advantage of a husband’s authority, and whenever Donna Gonsalva should be removed from her own family, render it impossible for her to return to her lover.

“I am not a deep reasoner, my honoured cousin,” added the prior, with his usual good-humoured levity—“but depend on it I see actions as they are; and never am out in men’s motives,—shall I tell you what I would do in your majesty’s place?—I would flatly refuse this insidious offer, and send the proposer of it back to the Indies: give him the viceroyalty by way of consolation.”

“Not to get him quietly out of the way:” replied the King, “do not injure yourself so in my thoughts Antonio, by urging such unworthy conduct!—no, he shall be heard at the tribunal to which I appeal. I am not going to rob him.”

“Your majesty’s apprehension is so quick, and so erring sometimes!” cried the smiling prior, “I simply meant him to be complimented with the government of India, after the cause had gone against him.”

“No, nor that either,” answered Sebastian, “I will not purchase the silence of an enemy at the expense of my people. If I am to believe De Castro insincere and unworthy, he is not to be trusted with the destinies of thousands.”

“Well, you must pardon my zeal, sire!—I would perform a ten year’s penance for your sake, (and your majesty knows how ill long fasts and sleepless nights suit my taste,) and it chafes me into uncharitableness, perhaps, to find a fellow cheating your generous nature with mere breath.”

“I know your affectionate heart!” said the King, with one of his benign smiles: then turning to Gonsalva, who had been all this time resting her fair cheek on his shoulder, and moistening it with tears, he besought her to pronounce her will, and it should be obeyed.

“Renew your solicitations at Rome!” she exclaimed, pleasure sparkling in her eyes—“suffer me still to remain at Xabregas with my kind aunt here—and from this hour till the blessed one which makes me yours, refuse to see or hear from Don Emanuel.—Never, never again let me be tortured with his presence.”

The King kissed her hand in token of assent; and De Castro’s proposal was rejected.

A second embassy was now dispatched under the Count Vimiosa into Italy; while Don Emanuel, wearied with fruitless efforts to see the King again, and secretly supported by many of the nobility, who envied the elevation of the Vimiosas, went himself to Rome to ask for justice at the feet of the pope. His cause was strengthened by the French court, exasperated at the refusal of their alliance with Portugal; and strenuously promoted by the influence of a high Italian family with whom he was connected by blood.—But Sebastian felt secure of success, and intoxicated by the delight of love, could not conceive the possibility of disappointment.

His beautiful idol was now the idol of the people and the nobles; wherever she moved, crowds hung upon her charms; the graces of her air, and the bewitching playfulness of her manner, attracted hearts as well as eyes, and among the young lords who approached the fascination of her accomplishments, scarcely any one preserved himself from the torment of fruitless desires.—This admiration from others, increased the passion, because it flattered the pride of the King; and assured of being exclusively beloved, he no longer blushed to display the excess and tenderness of his feelings.

At length the pope’s decision arrived;—Count Vimiosa returned triumphant; De Castro foiled.

Transported with joy, Sebastian flew to impart the tidings to Donna Gonsalva: how was she struck on finding that her father had obtained her lover’s suit, only by promising his holiness the performance of an imprudent vow once made by the King to Don Antonio!—that vow would leave her still without perfect security; it would take him into Africa, amidst danger and death!

The most violent bursts of tears, shrieks, and fits, followed this unhappy disclosure; Sebastian had never before seen her so moved: ravished with such convincing proofs of his empire over her heart, he renewed his protestations of eternal fidelity, accompanying them with many a fond endearment. By degrees his arguments and caresses produced soothing effects, and the weeping beauty was pacified.—Nature indeed had blessed her with a disposition so averse from thought and care, that grief dwelt with her but an instant: she made her lover repeat all his vows of love and truth, and the assurance of denying De Castro’s return to court, and then she revived to smiling happiness.

The arrival of Vimiosa had been expected to prove the signal of De Castro’s disgrace; but on the contrary the King simply announced the continuance of his banishment from palace parties, while he distinguished his former services by such honorary rewards as in those days of high-pitched honour, were more dearly prized and more eagerly sought, than are the substantial recompensings of modern times.

Donna Gonsalva, soon after, blazing in jewels, and attended by a splendid retinue of pages and ladies, received the compliments of the nobility in the palace of Xabregas.—Everywhere announced as their future queen, her favour was courted, her influence implored: it was no longer Sebastian, but she who ruled in Portugal.

Don Emanuel de Castro shocked at this ascendancy, which it was in vain for him to attempt opposing, retired to the house of a relation in a remote province, where he passed his hours in study and benevolent acts: his name ceased to be spoken of at court, and even his remembrance shortly wore out of the minds of the courtiers.

Blended with the idea of happiness and Gonsalva, the enterprize against Africa, had commenced. Sebastian’s roused spirit once more breathed war and religious enthusiasm: he directed levies to be made, youth trained, foreign powers solicited, and a crusade preached throughout his dominions; he passed himself from province to province, ascertaining its strength and proportioning its supplies to its ability: he stimulated the exertions of his officers, by new distinctions, and solicitously sought to obtain the aid of his uncle Philip II. who then ruled in Spain. This was liberally promised him; shamefully withholden!

The prior of Crato, enflamed with the same ardour, and sanctioned by the title of a religious war, accompanied his royal cousin in these progresses, liberally offering his revenues and retainers to aid and support the cause:—he was to make one in the formidable expedition; a circumstance highly agreeable to the King, who loved his enlivening talents, and was accustomed to talk with him of Gonsalva.

But the glory of their little army consisted in one gallant stranger, Sir Thomas Stukeley of England.—This brave adventurer had left his native country from the restlessness of a disordered but fine mind, and hearing of Sebastian’s intended attack upon the Moors, came to offer his services at the head of a band of noble Italians.

The chivalric romance of Stukeley captivated our youthful hero; he found in him that ardour of enterprize, and those unquenchable hopes, which he had hitherto believed his own peculiar property. While they conversed together, both burned with the same fire; prudential calculations were equally despised by each; danger only, possessed charms for them, and success, unless torn from the arms of destruction, was to them destitute of honour.

Stukeley’s reason had once been rudely assaulted by a domestic calamity; and though it still remained uninjured in the eyes of most men, deeper observers beheld a lamentable chasm in his once perfect mind:—an exuberance of imagination had usurped the place of the reasoning faculty; while his heart, true to its nature and to its habits, fed this imagination with visions of exalted but often hazardous virtue.

The wild inspiration of his countenance, breathing goodness and greatness, never suggested to Sebastian the idea of an unsettled intellect: what might have appeared feverish ravings in another, were sublimed by the magnificent eloquence of Stukeley into theories of god-like excellence, and heroic exploit.—The young monarch listened to these effusions till their magic transformed impossibilities into certainties: hitherto his character impelled others; now, it was impelled in its turn, and borne with resistless force before the mighty character of Stukeley.

With such a coadjutor, the King of Portugal was enabled to give an additional impulse to the martial spirit of his kingdom, Stukeley was a zealous catholic like himself, and the destruction of the infidels was equally the object of his wishes.

An opportunity of prosperously invading Africa, now presented itself. One of the Moorish princes who had been dethroned by his uncle Muley Moloch, King of Fez, Morocco, and Tarradunt, after vainly soliciting the aid of Mahometan courts, came as a suppliant to Portugal: he pleaded his rights and his distress; offering the monarch in lieu of assistance, several valuable territories along the sea-coast.

Sebastian’s zeal for the extension of Christianity would not suffer him to be contented with a mere accession of territory: he dictated new terms; stipulating for the half of whatever was re-conquered, and for the enlargement of every Christian found enslaved amongst the Moors. But the leading article in their treaty was an agreement that no Christian hereafter should be forced into the profession of Mahometanism, and that the Emperor of Morocco should make a law for this purpose, under the penalty of death to any of his subjects who should disobey.

By this arrangement Sebastian insured to himself a substantial hold on Africa; and though aware of the small probability there was that Muley Hamet should fulfil the latter part of their treaty, he was now conscious of possessing in this article, (if infringed) a justifiable plea for turning his arms against so faithless an ally.

On completing this compact with the Moor, and receiving some mercenaries from Germany and Flanders, the King called a general assembly of his nobles and ministers.—After eloquently detailing his motives for taking arms, and the advantages likely to result from it to all Christendom, he proceeded to say, that he convened his council, not to ask their advice, but to instruct them in his aim, and to receive their concurrence. He called God to witness, that his first and dearest aim was the preservation of unnumbered souls who now groaned under the sinful yoke of a detestable religion, and perhaps wanted only to live under a Christian government, and be taught by Christian teachers, to awake from their delusion: he pathetically painted the miseries of his captive countrymen to whom the Portuguese arms were about to give freedom: he then commented on the political advantage of acquiring a maritime frontier in Africa for the protection of their trade with the gold coast; and lastly, he avowed a strong desire for honorable distinction. His impetuous youth here dwelt delighted, and laid claim to some indulgence for this last infirmity of noble minds: he finished an animated confession of that infirmity, by these words from Cicero.

“Should we in the pursuits of virtue have any of its rewards in view, the noblest of all, is glory: this alone compensates the shortness of life, by the immortality of fame; by this we are still present when absent from the world, and survive even after death. By the steps of glory, in short, mortals mount to heaven.”

This speech produced very different effects upon his hearers: the younger were already converts to his opinion; but the old and experienced, who had lived long enough in the world to foresee the probable termination of this military romance, received their King’s determination sorrowfully. Each, in private, endeavoured to persuade him of the impracticability of subduing Africa with a handful of men, unsupported by foreign succours, and depending for their safety in a great measure on the good faith of an infidel ally: they expatiated upon the exhaustless numbers of the Moors, and their knowledge of their own country, where he, would fight upon ground he knew little of, where in the event of a defeat he might be so bewildered as not to get back to his transports, and must consequently resign his troops either to starvation or captivity.

Similar arguments were pressed on him by the ambassadors of foreign courts; but they served only to inflame the courage of Sebastian, and to exasperate him against their masters, those cautious monarchs who proved themselves nominal sons of the church, since they would not contribute one detachment towards his enterprize. His uncle too, the Cardinal Henry, opposed the expedition, and aided by the foreboding lamentations of the Queen dowager, frequently agitated their rash kinsman by unavailing remonstrances.

Sebastian listened respectfully to each; but, seduced into the belief of being born for the destruction of Mahometanism, persevered in his resolution.

To the enchantments of Donna Gonsalva he continually turned from these vexations: her wit enlivened him, her syren voice soothed the most turbulent emotions of his soul, and his unsated eyes found ceaseless delight in following the graceful varieties of her face and figure: yet Sebastian had a void in his heart; a something unfilled, unsatisfied, which he placed to the account of the imperfection of human felicity. Donna Gonsalva was exquisite in person and mind; she certainly loved him, but her love did not meet either the delicacy or the intensity of his: her feelings were obtuse in those trifles to which sensibility is tremblingly alive: she would often pursue her own sprightly pleasures with such eager forgetfulness of him, as to mortify and displease him. Two or three times he had entered her apartments at Xabregas in the bitterness of a spirit traversed and exhausted by political disappointments, and she had not observed it: his watchful passion was never one moment insensible to the slightest variation of its object; not even the mist of an unpleasant thought could shade that heaven of beauty, without disturbing his repose—and she—yes she, often saw him agitated or depressed, without observation.

It was at these periods that Sebastian acknowledged the torments and the omnipotence of love: he saw a defect in his idol, yet he worshipped her still.

But what could he desire more than to be loved with all the powers of her soul? if that soul wanted some of the energy of his, was it not her misfortune rather than her fault? his reason assented to this, though his heart frequently burst out into fond complaints which Gonsalva silenced by the warmest assurance of preference. Under the immediate impression of his grief, she would lose no opportunity of evincing her tenderness, and then Sebastian’s transports would return: but attentions which do not flow spontaneously from a natural softness, seldom are lasting; Donna Gonsalva would soon forget her lover’s character, because her own was of a lighter stamp, and gay thoughtlessness uniformly succeeded a short solicitude.

This perpetual inconsideration deeply wounded the King; for a lover like him, expected to throb in every pulse of her heart. Racked with repeated mortifications, that perhaps owed their existence to an impassioned fastidiousness “which I beseech ye, call a godly sin”—he looked anxiously towards the hour of his departure from Portugal, secretly hoping to endear himself by danger, or at least to rouse some of those sensibilities which were as wholly concealed now by ceaseless gaiety, as when no anxieties existed to call them forth.

Don Antonio was ever Gonsalva’s advocate; sometimes rallying, and sometimes more seriously reproving his royal cousin for pampering a sickly sensitiveness, which thus poisoned life’s chief blessing.

Sir Thomas Stukely, ignorant of his illustrious friend’s discontent, unconsciously increased it; for one night in a walk among the gardens of Ribera, under the boundless and starry heavens, he poured into the attentive ear of Sebastian, the story of his early life: that story, though it might be comprised in a single incident, was deeply interesting to the young King, whose heart, penetrated with one affection, delighted to sympathize with every other; yet he listened sadly, for he thought the more of Gonsalva’s temperate feelings.

The untimely death of a brother, long and justly beloved, had driven Stukely a wanderer from his country: that brother’s character, made up of every estimable and endearing quality; his fraternal love “exceeding the love of women,” were depicted in the heart-wringing language of a regret increasing with time.

“We lived in our native Devonshire,” continued Stukely, “far from the excitements and the temptations of a court; ignorant of any mortal happiness beyond each others deserved encomiums. One fatal day, hunting among the woods round Illfracombe—my erring spear—I cannot describe it!—this brother, dearer to me than existence, this soul of my wretched life, fell through a disastrous accident by my hand!—But he died with forgiveness on his lips—he died kissing the hand that smote him!”—

Stukely’s voice assumed a fearful hollowness as he spoke the last words, his eyes rolled back upon themselves, and his pale countenance expressed the extremity of despair; but the next moment rapture illumined him, and he wildly resumed—

“Oft in the dead of night his voice I hear,
Like harp angelic, bidding me rejoice,
Not weep his fate; for now he dwells in bliss,
High, full, seraphic, far transcending all
That heart of man can image, and with eye
Cleared from its mortal dross, beholds the end
Of human suff’ring; weeps no more the woes
Of fellow dust, but sees unnumbered crowds,
Multitudes vast—of ev’ry race and tint—
Dreaming of pain awhile, but to awake
In beatific and eternal Heaven!”

Accustomed to hear his friend converse by snatches in a strain resembling poetry, Sebastian made no remark on this momentary rhapsody: Stukeley paused awhile, and then continued:

“After the loss of my brother, I know not what strange calamity fell on me. I sometimes think I could not have been in my right mind. Memory retains a confused notion of my having once formed a visionary project of colonizing Florida, then but newly discovered, erecting over it the sovereignty of an order still purer and more self-denying than the orders of Jerusalem and Malta: I can recollect displeasing the young queen Elizabeth with my romantic ambition. At length, when my intellect recovered its cruel shock, I found myself in a court, filled with the professors of a new religion; it was impossible for me to stay, even to hear their doctrines. I passed from England to Ireland, from Ireland to Italy, sorrowing and self-condemned for my involuntary crime; there, my arms have been constantly employed against the enemies of our holy church. This wandering warfare; this renunciation of home, country, and kindred, is the penance to which I have condemned myself: may it tend to expiate my guilt!—My grief it cannot cure.” Again Stukeley mused awhile, and again he abruptly added, “’Tis a distinguished privilege to die in defence of the sacred cross! I swear never to abandon it! We will plant the blessed banner on every mosque in Morocco, or perish in the attempt.”

Gladly seizing the last subject suggested by Stukeley, Sebastian forbore to comment on the melancholy commencement of their discourse, leading him to talk of the meditated war, of which religion formed the only basis.

Public affairs now hastened to a crisis: the armament was complete, and the fleet equipped; the Pope had transmitted his blessing, with a present exceeding in value that of the consecrated rose: it was an arrow which had pierced the side of St. Sebastian!

In their armour and field accoutrements, the nobility displayed infinite splendour; and as desolated Portugal could not furnish many private soldiers, the troops composed chiefly of gentlemen volunteers, seemed but a gallant shew of accomplished knights.

The royal-standard (embroidered by Donna Gonsalva) was carried in procession through the streets of Lisbon, to receive the benediction of the archbishop; it was then delivered into the hand of the Marquis Villa-real, and the army marshalled around it.

After this august ceremony, the troops prepared to embark, while his officers and men were exchanging adieus with wives, sisters, and parents, Sebastian hurried to take leave of Donna Gonsalva: she had for some days yielded to an excess of grief, and had shut herself up from all society. At sight of her royal lover clad in the shining livery of war, she flung herself into his arms with tears and cries; distracted at the possibility of eventually losing him either by death or changed sentiments, she wildly expressed a wish to become his by a secret, but binding tie.

Sebastian pressed her to his breast in a tumult of tender delight, “dearest treasure of my life!” he exclaimed, covering her fair brow with kisses, “at this moment your Sebastian is blest to the utmost extent of his fantastic desires.—Ah, Gonsalva! why have I ever believed you indifferent, or incapable of exquisite love? be assured I go now, confident of possessing your heart; I go to conquer for your sake, to return worthy of you, covered with the spiritual dew of heaven, its blessing and the blessings of millions:—but ask me not to forfeit my right to this dear hand, by evading the conditions upon which it has been awarded to me; I have promised our holy father to engage in an expedition against the infidels—successful or unsuccessful, I will return to Portugal, and either share my glory with you, or—perish the possibility of mischance!” Donna Gonsalva now redoubled her tears and her endearments; and tying round his neck a picture of herself, conjured him to remember that her existence was interwoven with his own.

As the enamoured King repeated his belief of her sincerity, he added tenderly, “These tears, these sighs, my Gonsalva, can never be absent from my thoughts: be assured that whenever you think of your Sebastian, whether at the dead of night, or in the hurry of day, he is at that moment thinking of you.”

His eyes overflowed as he spoke; he strained her to his bosom, held her there an instant, then broke away. While moving towards the door, a favourite dog that had always been his companion, leaped up, and licked his forehead. “Farewel, Barémel!” said the softened king, “I cannot take thee,—Stay with my Gonsalva, and be cherished for thy master’s sake.” On pronouncing these words, he gently pushed the faithful animal aside, and hastened out of the apartment.

The royal equerries waited with their sovereign’s Arabian, at the gates of Xabregas; Sebastian vaulted into his seat, and with a soul raised to rapture by the undisguised fondness of Donna Gonsalva, rode towards the place at which the troops were ordered to assemble.

There, the King and the soldier took their turn: he rode along the lines formed by his army, proudly exulting in their strength and appearance. His animation diffused cheerfulness through the soldiery; and a short address, exhorting them to patience, perseverence, and fidelity, was answered by loyal acclamations: the word was then given, and the army began its march.

The figure of the young King, (clad in a suit of green armour) full of youth, spirit, and hope, was picturesquely contrasted by the wild sadness of Stukeley, the light and shade of whose countenance at one time flashed the fire of a warrior, at others was lost in a gloom of unavailing regret. Don Antonio of Crato, formed a contrast of another sort; his gold armour was gayly adorned with bosses and chasings, which the priest’s vestment did not entirely conceal; his florid aspect seemed equally free from thought and care: but there was one knight among the troops whose face expressed many thoughts and many feelings: It was Don Emanuel de Castro.

Without attempting to see or to address Sebastian, he had signified to the master of the horse his intention of furnishing five hundred harquebusiers for the expedition: through that nobleman’s interference this offer was not only accepted, but he was permitted to head them himself; and thus allowed an opportunity of retrieving his sovereign’s lost favour. De Castro now rode among the noble volunteers, with a serious brow.

His steady judgment, neither hurried away by the romantic sanguineness of the inexperienced Sebastian, nor actuated by that indifference to life which left Stukeley without a wish to estimate danger, nor constitutionally careless of every thing beyond present enjoyment, like the prior of Crato, foresaw much to apprehend from the inadequacy of their armament. A thousand gallant vessels, with their bravery of tackling and of sails, made a noble shew in the bay; and twenty thousand troops, in all the gloss of unstained arms, and unbroken spirits, presented an imposing spectacle to the gaze of enthusiasts. But what were these in reality, when contrasted with perhaps more than a hundred thousand enemies upon their own ground? De Castro’s prophetic heart ached in the midst of general exultation.

The various regiments were now embarking: as they marched along the shore the sun flamed upon their banners and coats of mail; the inspiring trumpet resounded from all the neighbouring echoes; pealing bells rung joyously from the city; and at intervals the discharge of ordnance from adjacent forts, was seen to shake the ships and the hills.

Impatient to be the first embarked, Sebastian rode eagerly through his people, amid their shouts and blessings, as if returning in triumph; his youth, his personal graces, and the imposing dignity of his cause, made every heart follow him. As he leaped into the boat which was to bear him to the royal galley, he uncovered his head, and waving aloft his flowing helmet, seemed to be commending Portugal to the protection of Heaven. By his side stood his favourite page, and the Duke of Barcelos, two young sons of the Duchess of Braganza, his near kinswoman, and next heir to the crown: their tender childhood and gallant mien, their sweet faces, yet wet with a mother’s tears, caused a momentary pang in the multitude, but the sunny look of the King brightened regret into exultation, and loud acclamations pursued the track of his departing boat.

In a few hours more, the whole army was embarked, and then the fleet weighing anchor, sailed out of the Tagus. Prosperous winds swelled their sails to Cadiz, where they waited awhile for the promised succours from Philip II. the Duke of Medina Sidonia feasted the King and the knights there, with a munificence little inferior to royalty. After a week’s delay the expected supplies arrived; they consisted but of two thousand foot soldiers: the enraged Sebastian would have sent them back to his dissembling uncle, had not the Duke of Medina found some plausible excuse for his master’s conduct, and faithfully promised further aid in his name.

Quickly irritated, and as easily appeased, the ingenuous monarch believed this hollow apology, and returning the courteous entertainment of his host by conferring on him an order of knighthood, re-embarked with his army for the shores of Africa.

The Portuguese fleet crossed the mouth of the streights, and passing within sight of Cape Spartel, coasted along as far as Tangier, where Sebastian, with his English friend Stukeley, were landed, and the remaining troops under Diego de Souza, and Antonio of Crato, proceeded to the fortress of Arzile.

The Moorish princes Muley Hamet and his brother-in-law, Cid Albequerin, were at Tangier, with a few armed followers, to receive the king of Portugal: they delivered into his hands hostages for their fidelity, conjuring their Christian ally not to listen to the deceptive representations of the Xeriff Muley Moloch, whose ambassador was now arrived at the fortress. Sebastian re-assured them, though he could not refuse the Moorish envoy, an audience.

On being admitted to the royal presence, the African delivered a letter from his master, wherein moderation and spirit were admirably blended. This letter declared the Xeriff prepared in all points for war, and ready to meet it; but while he made such a declaration, he besought Don Sebastian to weigh well the value of men’s lives ere he rashly threw away his own and those of his subjects: he described with terrible simplicity the immensity of his resources, and the number of his armies, proving the improbability of success, though the Portuguese King were at the head of 20,000 heroes. Having exhorted him to spare to his people those virtues of his, that were yet only in the bud of blooming youth, he entered into a full discussion of his own pretensions and those of Hamet; by this discussion he laboured to shew that his right to the crowns of Fez and Morocco, was superior to that of his nephew; and that even were it otherwise, the latter had forfeited his claim by acts of cruelty and oppression. To secure peace, and the friendship of the christians, he offered Don Sebastian undisturbed possession of every fortress in Africa that ever had belonged or did now belong to Portugal, and he promised to add to each of them, a moderate tract of arable land.

After pressing this proposal upon the young monarch, he once more conjured him to weigh well the real interest of his subjects; concluding with a sentiment memorable in a despotic prince.

“You know, great prince, (or ought to know) that the regal power allotted us, makes us common servants of our creator; then of those people whom we govern; so that observing the duties we owe to God, we deliver blessings to mankind: in providing for the public good of our states we magnify the honour of God; like the celestial bodies, which, though they have much veneration, yet serve only to the benefit of the world. It is the excellency of our office to be the instruments whereby happiness is delivered to nations.”

Negociation upon a proposal of this kind, so inadequate to the grand object of Sebastian, was not likely to meet with his concurrence: he bade the embassador bear his refusal to Muley Moloch, with an expression of regret that such noble sentiments were not the production of a lawful and a christian ruler. He then dismissed the ambassador, and went with Sir Thomas Stukeley to examine the state of the fortress.

Stukeley was now become as dear, as he had ever appeared admirable, to this warm-hearted sovereign: in the close intimacy and domestic habits of a sea-voyage, the amiable parts of the Englishman’s character gradually disclosed themselves; and their tastes and principles proving consonant, the partiality of Sebastian increased so much, as to lead him into a disclosure, which had more of friendship than of justice in it. This respected the disposal of Barbary.

Every one presumed that in the event of a conquest, Sebastian would yield the empire of Morocco to Muley Hamet, and be himself crowned king of Fez: but he had long resolved to prove the disinterestedness of his motives, by awarding the throne of Fez to him who should most distinguish himself in the expedition. To rescue the Moors from ignorance and infidelity, by giving them a christian monarch and christian teachers, was the chief aim of his enterprise: unsullied honour was the only wreath he sought to preserve for his own brow.

By entrusting the secret to Stukeley, Sebastian unconsciously meant to give additional energy to his friend’s arms, and to secure for him the new monarchy: our gallant countryman received this information with grateful enthusiasm; but unwilling to take an unfair advantage of his competitors, besought the king to communicate it to all his nobles, when they should join the grand army.

Such generous conduct increased Sebastian’s esteem; he freely granted the request, adding—“They will all have my good wishes for their success, but you, Stukeley, will have my prayers.”

Orders were now issued for the Moorish forces under Muley Hamet, and the Portuguese who had disembarked at Tangier with their king, to be ready for marching to Arzile: there, the whole strength of their little army was concentrated.

A tedious march along a hot and arid coast, produced sickness among the soldiery; when they reached the main body, under Don Diego de Souza, they found it somewhat enfeebled through the same cause: but a spirit of enterprize still animated every breast; and as the immediate siege of Larache was determined upon, a military council was called for the purpose of ascertaining whether it were most advisable to proceed directly by land, through an enemy’s country, to the destined siege, or to re-embark and proceed thither by sea.

At this suggestion of prudence, the rash monarch took fire: he had not yet learned to separate true valour from that vain contempt of danger which makes a man put his life to the hazard for an inadequate object, or for the attainment of a good, attainable by less perilous means: he vehemently protested against the latter measure, and his experienced commanders were silenced without being convinced.

During the king’s stay at Tangier, his officers at Arzile had had time to learn the exact strength of the enemy, and what dependence was to be placed on the succours so largely promised by Hamet. Don Emanuel de Castro now ventured in council to address his sovereign, informing him that their Moorish ally had grossly exaggerated his ability and the inclinations of the Africans, as they appeared mostly unanimous in defence of the present Xeriff’s authority. That intrepid old man, he said, was now sick of a fever, but was yet rapidly approaching at the head of a hundred thousand men; fresh armies were forming in the rear and flank of the christians; and should these succeed in turning their other wing, (which they might easily do, if the Portuguese were marched inland towards Larache,) so surrounded and cut off from their fleet, destruction must follow. He therefore suggested the propriety of extreme caution. At this remark the king frowned, and issued decisive orders for proceeding to the river Lucos, (upon which stood the fortress) and fording it, though in the mouth of the enemy’s cannon.

“If we begin to think of defeat, or of providing for our own security,” he said sternly, to De Castro, “we are lost!—we have nothing to oppose to this ocean of Moors that you talk of, but the belief that we are invincible.—Give us only the enthusiasm of our ancestors, and the glorious field of Ourique will no longer stand unrivalled in the imperishable page of history.”

De Castro granted the justice of this reliance upon the omnipotence of opinion; yet a lurking suspicion of the Moorish Prince Hamet, made him foresee ultimate disappointment: he pointed out several traits in the infidel’s conduct, which indicated jealousy of the Christians, and Sebastian admitting their force, promised to observe him narrowly.

The army now began its march towards Larache, and halted between Arzile and Alcazar-quiver.—To proceed without a decisive engagement, was become impossible; for the Xeriff’s force, consisting of sixty thousand horse and forty thousand foot, had advanced by forced marches from Morocco into Fez, secured the passage of the Lucos, and suddenly shewn themselves, encamped in the plains of Alcazar.—Don Sebastian was for immediately advancing to give them battle; but against this step Muley Hamet opposed many plausible arguments: he proposed that the Portuguese should draw nearer to the coast, where, in case of extremity, they might be received into their ships; by throwing up entrenchments, they could there bid defiance to any assault, and would be secured from every species of want, by supplies of ammunition and provisions from the fleet.

“And for what is this delay proposed, now?”—cried the astonished Sebastian, “are we to abandon our enterprize even on the threshold? are we to shrink from the very difficulties we have courted, and fly before an enemy with whom we have not exchanged a single blow? do you think we came only to look at your countrymen?—In the name of God, prince, what coward’s counsel is this?”

Dissembling his rage at the indiscreet anger of the young King, Hamet coolly replied, that Muley Moloch was now master of all the fords and passages of the Lucos, from the ocean to the mountains of Benzeroel, that consequently an attempt to force these would be the attempt of madmen, since their troops were already fainting with a long sultry march, and nearly destitute of provisions: by avoiding an engagement for at least some days, they would give time for the arrival of King Philip’s promised succours, and might be further re-inforced by deserters from the usurper Moloch.

Perceiving his aim at last, and transported out of all patience, the unreflecting Sebastian forgot every thing but indignation: he started from his seat with a look of fierce defiance, crying out, “away with such dissembling! Moor, I can read your heart:—you would do without the aid of the Christians. In a few days, perhaps hours, you expect death to rid you of your uncle, and give you these kingdoms by some political trick—then would our treaty, aye and our safety, be left to your honour!—but thank heaven, my brave Portuguese are not to be thus trifled with!—we shall march forward; if without you, for ourselves,—for the release of christian captives—for the sake of the blessed cross; if with you, for your advantage as well as for our own,—and with a conscientious resolution to preserve our share in the compact inviolate.

“Prince! we are in sight of the enemy—behold me draw this sword, which I swear by the virgin mother of Jesus, never to sheathe till it has cut my way through yonder host!”

A sublime sterness sat on the brow of the young warrior while he spoke: in one moment the clashing of swords and the murmur of vows were heard throughout the assembly; as if electrified with the same fire, all the knights followed his chivalric example.

Hamet was silent: at length he bowed before the royal seat, saying in a subdued voice, “light of thy people, thou hast not interpreted my zealous caution with the usual charity of a Christian: let my actions speak for me!—I will follow thee unto death.”

“Prove that I have wronged thee, Hamet!” returned Sebastian, with a relenting smile, “and thou shalt find me more prompt to repair, than I have been to commit, this injury.”

Muley Hamet bowed submissively again; the clouds of passion and suspicion then fled from the face of the King, and demanding his officer’s attention, he proceeded to hear their separate opinions upon the subject under discussion.

Experienced and inexperienced, now decided on Sebastian’s side; even De Castro voted for giving battle to the Xeriff. Conduct that would have been prudent at Arzile, became cowardice at Alcazar: to begin retreating towards the coast, seemed at this period more hazardous than to risk an engagement; for in the former case, an enormous army hanging upon their rear, might harrass their retreat, and at last make an easy prey of the famished and fatigued soldiers: by the former plan the Portuguese would preserve a chance of victory, or at least secure to themselves honourable graves.

Gratified with his council, and pleasingly surprised to find Don Emanuel urgent for action, Sebastian graciously acknowledged that pleasure, and paying a just tribute to his rival’s warlike talents, resolved thenceforth only to remember his services.—He now gave him his hand with a look so effulgently expressive, that De Castro’s tranquil countenance became agitated with unexpected pleasure; he bent his knee to the ground, and ventured to put his lips respectfully to the hand that had been given him;—Sebastian suffered it to remain awhile in his grasp—then calling his knights to their posts, hastened out to reconnoitre and to marshal his troops.

All was now animation in the Portuguese camp; dauntless hearts, hot with religious zeal, made them eager for engagement: the King went at night from tent to tent, encouraging his men, and rousing their emulation by proclaiming his intention of instituting a new order upon that day, should Heaven bless his arms: to the highest distinction in this novel institution, even the humblest soldier might aspire, and be enrolled in the same proud list with his commander. From the private’s quarters he returned to his own tent, where assembling his officers, he imparted the magnificent prize destined for their reward:—the crown of Fez!