“Highness,” replied Father Jerome, “she has returned to Southampton, where she is about to bury her woes in a convent. I applaud her determination.”
“Father, this step must be prevented,” rejoined Philip. “She must not take the vows.”
“I do not think she will yield to any persuasions to the contrary,” replied Father Jerome. “Her resolution is taken.”
“Make the attempt—I command you,” cried Philip, imperiously. “See her without delay. Use all the arguments you can employ. If you succeed, count on my gratitude.”
“Your Highness shall be obeyed, although I confess I like not the task,” said Father Jerome, bowing his reverend head.
“And as an earnest of my good will, take this purse, and employ its contents as you list.”
“I take it, only to bestow its contents on the poor,” said the priest, as Philip quitted the chapel.
Philip then mounted his jennet, and rode down the hill with his train. The changed expression of his countenance did not escape notice, but no one ventured to remark upon it. Under the guidance of Osbert Clinton, the prince made his way along the banks of the Itchen, to the old stone bridge, said to be the work of St. Swithun, and crossing it, re-entered the city by the eastern gate, and proceeded to the deanery, halting by the way to examine the ancient City Cross.
While Philip was making the various visits we have described, most of the inhabitants had opportunities of beholding him, and all were favourably impressed by his youth, his handsome person, his proud yet affable deportment, and, above all, by the grace and skill with which he managed his fiery Andalusian barb.
That evening, the Prince had a long conference with Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, and Don Juan de Figueroa, Regent of the Council of Aragon, a nobleman much in the Emperor’s confidence, and who had been sent to England, charged with a most important mission, which he had hitherto kept secret, but which he now proceeded to disclose to the Prince. The revelation then made seemed to yield Philip extraordinary satisfaction.