Sir Thomas Stukely, ignorant of his illustrious friend’s discontent, unconsciously increased it; for one night in a walk among the gardens of Ribera, under the boundless and starry heavens, he poured into the attentive ear of Sebastian, the story of his early life: that story, though it might be comprised in a single incident, was deeply interesting to the young King, whose heart, penetrated with one affection, delighted to sympathize with every other; yet he listened sadly, for he thought the more of Gonsalva’s temperate feelings. The untimely death of a brother, long and justly beloved, had driven Stukely a wanderer from his country: that brother’s character, made up of every estimable and endearing quality; his fraternal love “exceeding the love of women,” were depicted in the heart-wringing language of a regret increasing with time. “We lived in our native Devonshire,” continued Stukely, “far from the excitements and the temptations of a court; ignorant of any mortal happiness beyond each others deserved encomiums. One fatal day, hunting among the woods round Illfracombe--my erring spear--I cannot describe it!--this brother, dearer to me than existence, this soul of my wretched life, fell through a disastrous accident by my hand!--But he died with forgiveness on his lips--he died kissing the hand that smote him!”-- Stukely’s voice assumed a fearful hollowness as he spoke the last words, his eyes rolled back upon themselves, and his pale countenance expressed the extremity of despair; but the next moment rapture illumined him, and he wildly resumed-- “Oft in the dead of night his voice I hear, Like harp angelic, bidding me rejoice, Not weep his fate; for now he dwells in bliss, High, full, seraphic, far transcending all That heart of man can image, and with eye Cleared from its mortal dross, beholds the end Of human suff’ring; weeps no more the woes Of fellow dust, but sees unnumbered crowds, Multitudes vast--of ev’ry race and tint-- Dreaming of pain awhile, but to awake In beatific and eternal Heaven!” Accustomed to hear his friend converse by snatches in a strain resembling poetry, Sebastian made no remark on this momentary rhapsody: Stukeley paused awhile, and then continued: