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.