“To go where?” She was distraught.
“Where?” He shrugged. “To Valladolid at first, and then... where God pleases.”
“And when shall I see you again?”
“When... when God pleases.”
“Oh, I am terrified... if I should lose you... if I should never see you more!” She was panting, distraught.
“Nay, lady, nay,” he answered. “I shall come for you when the time is ripe. I shall return by All Saints, or by Christmas at the latest, and I shall bring with me one who will avouch me.”
“What need any to avouch you to me?” she protested, on a note of fierceness. “We belong to each other, you and I. But you are free to roam the world, and I am caged here and helpless...”
“Ah, but I shall free you soon, and we’ll go hence together. See.” He stepped to the table. There was an ink-horn, a box of pounce, some quills, and a sheaf of paper there. He took up a quill, and wrote with labour, for princes are notoriously poor scholars:
“I, Don Sebastian, by the Grace of God King of Portugal, take to wife the most serene Dona ulna of Austria, daughter of the most serene Prince, Don John of Austria, by virtue of the dispensation which I hold from two pontiffs.”
And he signed it—after the manner of the Kings of Portugal in all ages—“El Rey”—the King.