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.