Nor does the subtle flattery of this hesitation on his part displease her.
Softer and sweeter grows the mild fire of her eyes as she leads him apart and seats herself beside him within the golden estrada under the rich velvet curtains, heavy with gold embroideries, of the royal canopy at the upper end of the apartment, out of sight and hearing of the archbishop, Beatrix, and the rest.
At length Ferdinand finds voice and tongue to speak. The landmarks of court restraint, of tyrannous etiquette have vanished in the mystery of this midnight meeting. He forgets that she is a great princess, that their enemies are many and powerful, fighting for a crown. He forgets all, save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence, sprung as it were out of the gloom, and that if she so will it she is to be his wife. Wild words of passion are on his lips, vague, inarticulated, his hands clasp hers, his arm steals about the slender roundness of her form.
Nor, for a time, can Isabel rouse herself from the gentle violence of his touch to say plainly what is in her mind. But, putting him from her, she speaks at last in serious tones.
“That you have won my heart, fair Infante,” she says, “I will not deny; but had my love and my duty not been agreed, I would have called you to me all the same.”
A shade of displeasure comes over Ferdinand’s glowing face as he flashes a look at her of pain and mortification. So young, yet so determined!
“Aye, but you must hear me!” she adds, rising to a sudden sense of her duty. “As future Queen of Castile, not as Isabel of Trastamare, I wed you. To me my country is more than life; its privileges, customs, laws, all must rest as they are; no foreign intrusion will be tolerated. As you will be in Aragon sole ruler, in which I shall in no way interfere, but with all my soul maintain you, so must I in Castile; and Castile, as the most powerful state, must be your country and your abode. Our cordial union will be the strength of Spain, but must be that of two independent states, each ruled by its own Cortes.”
“Surely, my princess,” urges Ferdinand, who has listened to her with evident embarrassment, “such serious discussions are premature. The Church and custom teach that the husband must be superior to the wife. Even if seated on the throne, a union begun in division may end ill.”
“Not in my case,” answers Isabel, with decision, “for it would be no union at all. We are met to discuss the terms on which we wed. I have seen too much confusion and anarchy not to speak plain. The union of Aragon and Castile would form the unity of Spain. So would I have it between us two. But cost me what it may (and that your loss would cost me much after seeing you, I confess), I can consent to no division of power; I ask none, I give none. The government of the two lands must lie in the Cortes and the fueros, not in our will.” Then, noting the dark look which has come creeping like a cloud over his handsome face, she rises. “It is not too late, my lord, to withdraw from our engagement, should the terms I offer you appear to you unjust.”
“What!” cries Ferdinand, starting up, “you have brought me to heaven’s gate, and now you would turn me out? No! royal princess, not after we have met. Let Spain live in us, and generations of kings to come hail our name.”