“Well then,” replied Sebastian, “I may frankly own that I came with the King, and must return with him to Lisbon. My visits here are secret; Don Sebastian has always expressed such disdain at lovers, that if he knew me capable of humbling myself to such a merciless tyrant as your fair self, I fear he would blush for my altered sentiments. Allow me to hope, charming Gonsalva, that you will permit me to see you here again at this hour to-morrow? The King will soon return to Lisbon, and then I shall see you no more.” Sebastian pronounced the last words with a sigh, and anxiously looked on the heavenly features of Gonsalva for an expression of answering regret: those heavenly features were as usual brilliant with delight; her heart did not appear touched by the intimation of this separation. “Do you see that tower yonder?” she asked, pointing to a part of the house which rose above some trees--“my apartments are there: under the tower-window passes a neglected path half choaked with shrubs, where if you chuse to ramble and take the chance of seeing me, and being noticed, I shall not command you away. A short excursion by moonlight will do you no harm: but mark me--no serenading.” “Then it is at night I am to expect the happiness of seeing you?” “Have I not told you, not to _expect_ any thing? if you won’t consent to take even trifles as unlooked-for favors, you will lose my friendship. I _will_ be absolute in my way; a very counterpart of your royal master. Fare you well, Don Fabian, if you should miss seeing me at my window, take this as a complete adieu: and, do you hear, when you return to Lisbon, do set about curing both yourself and the King, of your abominable insolence.” Away flew the volatile beauty with the grace of a nymph, leaving Sebastian pierced with pains which he dreaded to analyze; too certain they were occasioned by her seeming indifference. Something like resentment swelled his proud heart as he recalled the tenderness of his parting manner, and the carelessness of hers: he felt as if he had been duped; and execrated himself for having yielded even momentarily to a weakness which had thus sunk him into the play-thing of a coquet. To have gained gently upon her affections, and fanned an infant fire with the softest breath of respectful love, had been the aim of his wishes; but to worship an idol without a heart, feed an inhuman deity with groans and tears, to dote on what he could not esteem, was a meanness he scorned. “You _have_ seen me for the last time, insensible Gonsalva!” he exclaimed, as turning from the view of the tower, he rushed towards the mountains. Vexed at himself, and irritated with disappointment, he rode to Crato in a mood that clouded his physiognomy. The prior was waiting his return: Sebastian scarcely noticing him, seized a bundle of dispatches sent from one of his ministers, and began to read them eagerly. Don Antonio ventured a jocular remark upon his disturbed countenance.