How does the outward lustre of a crown dazzle all eyes, and blind them to its thorny lining! ambition, more potent even than love, sees no defect in its object, but grasps at it with the avidity of a soul certain of seizing beautitude!—The nobles round King Sebastian looked at each other for awhile without speaking; then actuated by the same spirit, cast themselves at his feet in a transport of gratitude; their tumultuous and lavish protestations infused confidence into their sovereign, whose breast beat with the certainty of success: dismissing them soon after, he threw himself upon his palliass, for a few hours repose.
To sleep was impossible: Sebastian counted the night watches with impatience, and just as morning broke, had the mortification to hear rain falling heavily upon the roof of his tent: he leaped up, and hurried into the air.—The dawn was now beginning to glimmer over the extensive camp of the enemy, but the sky was moist and dark: to commence an attack under such circumstances would be fruitless; the showers blew directly in the face of his army, and would render their cannon and harquebusses, almost useless;—he was therefore forced to command a suspension of his orders.
After two hours of incessant rain, the clouds dispersed, and the sun shone out with intense heat:—the King then hastily roused his page (Diego of Braganza,) whose childish hands trembled while they clasped the rivets of his master’s vantbrace.
“What! you tremble my little cousin?”—said he, stroaking his fair hair, and smiling more tenderly than sportively.
“With impatience, Sire, not fear.”—replied the blushing boy.—Sebastian gave him a hasty embrace; “thou hast the soul of a soldier!” he cried, “if I fall to-day, may thy race sit on the throne of Portugal.”
“I would rather see a son of your majesty’s seated there:” answered the intrepid child—“it is not my ambition to be a King; but I wish to make myself greater than an ordinary King:——I would willingly live worthily, and die nobly!”
“Thou wilt do both, then, my brave cousin!” exclaimed Sebastian, “brief or lengthened, thy career will be glorious, for that sentiment contains a life of magnanimity.”
They were now issuing from the tent: Don Diego ventured to remark his King’s imprudence in wearing armour of a colour, which being held almost sacred by the Mahometans, would sharpen their resentment, and enable them to take a surer note of his person. “I chose it for that very purpose;” replied the monarch, “not to insult them, indeed, but to be easier distinguished by friend and foe.—besides, Diego, green is the colour of hope.”
Sebastian now left his tent, and put his troops in motion. If the genius of Portugal could be supposed to have beheld them from the heights of Benzeroel, tears such as immortals shed, might have flowed from her eyes: the flower of her nobles and of her peasantry, were now gaily marching to certain death.
For the first time since the foundation of their monarchy, the private soldiers were stimulated by the prospect of chivalric honour, and their leaders by the chance of a crown:—following their royal general both as their King and their benefactor, the glow of virtuous emulation was on every cheek, and in every heart.