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.