As Kara Aziek wrapt her arms around her babe, she seemed to enfold it with her whole heart; she felt as if she now possessed her Sebastian more perfectly than before: she loved him still in his offspring, and the idea of her own being never once mingled with this fond sentiment. His emotion was as heart-penetrating: in one moment every regret, every anxiety, every other thought fled from his mind; with his infant in his arms, and his eyes alternately resting upon it and Aziek, he wanted nothing more, here seemed the boundary of his views, here seemed the completion of all his wishes! When Gaspar first embraced the little Blanche, his heart overflowed at his eyes: forgetting the prudential caution which his royal master had long demanded of him, that of waving even in private, all forms of peculiar respect, he dropt on his knees, and holding up the child, exclaimed vehemently, “Is this noble babe to grow up in obscurity?--O Sire, are we ever to live thus, banished from our country?” Sebastian understood the appeal which Gaspar’s agitation would not permit him to finish; a sudden flush crimsoned his cheek, some of its former fire kindled in his eye--he took Blanche from his friend, and looking at her fixedly, remained for awhile in thought, then restoring her to her mother, turned towards him: “No Gaspar!” he said, “we shall not live ever thus; I hope to draw my last breath in our native land, and leave there on its throne, and in the hearts of its people, this smiling girl:--but once undone by rashness, I will not a second time be the cause of my own ruin. The favourable hour is not yet come; let us await it with confidence, let us sow the seed that is to reward us in the time of harvest: my child’s first years should pass in tranquillity and instruction.” Gaspar grew pale; “Years!” he repeated, “What Sire, are years to pass?” The King interrupted him: “I speak of what may, not absolutely what will be; Providence perhaps destines otherwise, and by some fortunate change in the politics of Europe, may open for me a path to Portugal. But through blood, through horror, and desolation, over the breaking hearts of thousands, never will I trample to my throne.--O Gaspar! there is a wound in this heart of mine, not to be healed; a wound which makes me a coward at encountering others! “The memory of what I have brought on wretched Portugal, palsies my arm, even as it rises to strike her oppressor; what a struggle! what proscription! what misery would follow if prompted by impatience,----no--speak of it no more; rely on my inextinguishable love for the people I once protected; and be assured that _I feel the rights of my child_.” Gaspar recognised in the tone of Sebastian, his master and his King; he bowed respectfully and stood silent.