“You can hardly ask me for what I will not grant,” said the King. “Sit here, Fernando,” pointing to a couch by the fire. “You look pale—are you well to-day?”
“I am well and strong,” said Fernando. “You think too much of my weakness.”
And he remained standing, while Enrique, whose words of course carried greater weight, unfolded their cherished scheme. Duarte’s face grew very grave as he listened.
“This is your wish, my Fernando?” he said, moving over to him.
“The wish of my heart—of my life!” said Fernando, as he grasped Duarte’s hand.
“I fear that I see not the way to grant it,” said Duarte, with a reluctant gentleness difficult to contradict.
“Tangier,” said Enrique, “would be a splendid jewel to set in the crown of Portugal. We were young and untried when we took Ceuta; it is little likely that we should now fail.”
“I do not fear failure,” said Duarte; “assuredly not under your leading. Yet my father could not see his way to further conquests in Barbary, nor can I.”
“How so?” said Enrique, bluntly. He was quite as great a man as his brother, and though thoroughly loyal to Duarte, was not much accustomed to opposition from him, but rather to admiring assistance in whatever he proposed.
“I will tell you,” said Duarte, gently. “You are a greater soldier than I, Enrique, and your eyes see far into the possible future; but it is I who must consider the well-being of Portugal.”