“What is it I can do for thee, amiable Christian?” she resumed, “my heart is touched with thy situation.--So young, so brave, so generous as I hear thou art, thou must have many friends in thine own country, the remembrance of whom increases thy present sorrow: would I could restore thee to them! but I cannot; my power extends only to ameliorating thy condition.--What is it I can do for thee?” “Alas, nothing!” exclaimed the King, pierced with disappointment, “banished from my country, without hope of return, I no longer desire life. I was born, lady, in the midst of power, riches, and honors; I had the means and the will of blessing multitudes; I was surrounded by relations and friends. I am now a slave! if forced at last to abandon the hope of release, do you imagine that any thing can reconcile me to such a destiny? To your heavenly goodness I already owe all the comfort of which my miserable fate is susceptible: ah! could I persuade you to pity me yet further--to procure for me permission to inform one friend of my captivity, and so be ransomed from the Almoçadem!” “Christian!” said Kara Aziek, after a pause, “thy noble disregard of selfish considerations since thou hast been under the charge of Hafiz, deserves the exertions of all who love virtue; be assured, from this moment, that thou hast made a friend in Kara Aziek: she will continue to protect thee, she will cautiously labour to obtain thy release; but thou must not be impatient if the time be long, and the object lost. My father will not bear either too frequent or too earnest urging: if I would serve the Christians, I must do it prudently.” Sebastian put the embroidered hem of her kaftan to his lips: “You are my guardian angel, he exclaimed, and there are hearts in Portugal worthy of knowing yours, that shall one day bless you!” The young monarch’s emotion interested Kara Aziek, she wished to see him again more distinctly, and for this purpose lifted up her veil; the instant their eyes met, she dropt it with a modest blush. But her soft beauty, like that of the summer moon, instantaneously changed the impetuous ardour of Sebastian; a serene and delightful admiration succeeded to his agitation; her shape, her voice, her countenance, were all lovely, they breathed the tenderness and the purity of an angel, and though the radient image of Donna Gonsalva outshone the Moorish Beauty in splendor, it could only have been preferred by a lover. Every thing in Gonsalva was gay, resistless, triumphant; in Kara Aziek, touching, yielding, and humble; the one seemed a divinity to be worshipped, the other a tender creature to be loved.