“I do not ask thee!--I know not what I would ask of thee!” exclaimed the lovely Moor, in a tone of distraction, “thy life so precious--so dear--so dear to all thy companions--O Alla! is it to be thus madly thrown away! I would not have thee live disgraced, yet I would have thee live. Perhaps if thou wouldest join thy prayers with mine, and humble thyself to my father--prostrate at his feet, he could not surely----” “Prostrate at his feet!” interrupted Sebastian wildly, darting on her a look of indignation. “What! for myself!--for a Mahometan’s mercy!--No!--I will die as I have lived--a King!” The magnanimous and proud spirit of Sebastian, yet unsubdued by all his mortifications, now shone out in full force over his face and figure: like one awaking from some vanishing dream, Kara Aziek gazed on him, faintly repeating his last words: she stood transfixed, while thought, more rapid than light, was destroying every former hope. If a Christian King, what must be the daughter of a Moorish noble, in his eyes?--an atom!--a mote in the broad sunshine of regal glory: as well might she think to scale the immeasurable heavens, as to become the friend and partner of a King: in one moment she was hurled from him to a distance so remote, that it seemed madness to hope his heart would ever again throb with a single feeling answerable to hers. Shocked, chilled, despairing, she silently tried to cover herself with her veil, while half sinking in an attitude of reverence, excess of emotion overcame her, and she was forced to catch at Benzaide for support. The heavy sigh which came from Aziek’s heart as she fell on the arm of her maid, recovered Sebastian from his paroxysm; he now threw himself before her: “Proud as you may think me, gentle Aziek!” he said, “Behold the King of Portugal at your feet, soliciting pardon for his impetuosity: the discovery that fiery hastiness has made, will but increase your pity for an unfortunate man who, while languishing in captivity, has so much to lament.” He stopt, and Kara Aziek extending her hand to him with a varying cheek, answered faulteringly, “The King of Portugal was said to have fallen at Alcazar, and to be now buried in his native land--but I believe indeed that thou art he.--Thou art then that Sebastian I was taught to _hate_!” A deep but tender sigh burst forth with the last expression: how did that sigh appear to change the meaning of the word she uttered!--the touching voice in which she spoke, the tears that floated her momentarily-fixed, and then suddenly-averted eyes, were only too expressive of an eternal devotedness; but Sebastian, self-absorbed, saw nothing; he rapidly recapitulated to her all that he possessed in Portugal, and was now on the point of abandoning for ever.