Again smiles and pleasures appeared at Cachoeira; again the beautiful Blanche led the gay dance under her favorite trees; again she decorated with flowers on each returning day of her birth, the loving Barémel, now grown old and indolent. Meanwhile, the hopes of her parents, though chastised, were not annihilated; the letters of De Castro still informed them that his zeal was untired, and that, although adverse political events might delay their wishes, he yet believed that all would prosper at last. Even Gaspar began to reconcile himself to these languid expectations, when he was one day summoned to the presence of his friend and King. Sebastian was standing alone with an opened letter in his hand; the contents of which had evidently taken the colour from his cheek: never before had Gaspar seen him so pale. He raised his eyes on the entrance of the latter, and said in a low voice, “Gaspar, you must support me--my heart will not have strength of itself--such a sacrifice is demanded! all-gracious God! must I acquiesce?” Sebastian stood with his clasped hands raised to his head, though that was bent down with the air of one whom the prospect of some impending misfortune has completely subdued. “What means my liege?” exclaimed Gaspar, “what sacrifice is demanded?” “My child!--my child Gaspar!” interrupted Sebastian, fixing a wild look on him, then instantly turning away: Gaspar spoke not; bewildered by the many conjectures to which these few words gave rise, he stood silent. Meanwhile Sebastian recovered. “They would have my daughter in their hands;” he resumed. “Of whom do you speak sire?” “Of the English:” replied the King, “ere they will attempt aught for Portugal, they must have a hostage in their possession, a gaurantee of my good faith: De Castro in his zeal, had named my daughter, and it is her they demand. O Gaspar, how shall I tear her from her doting mother?” Relieved by this imperfect explanation, Gaspar found voice to inquire more particularly. Sebastian shewed him the letter from Don Emanuel; its contents were unusually important. Disgusted with the timidity of Henry IV. and alarmed by his secession from the Protestant interest, England began to cast an anxious eye on every Prince of her own complexion in religion and politics: it was now therefore that the agents of Sebastian obtained from her a favourable hearing. Leicester was dead, and his place in the heart of Elizabeth, was filled by the young Earl of Essex, then the idol of the court, the camp, and the city: his generous soul was touched by the affecting narrative of father Texere. Yet new in cabinets, and too benevolent for a system of mere policy, he embraced the cause of a suffering King, with all the ardour of youth: he led Texere to the Queen; and refusing any other discussion of so delicate and sacred a subject, called on her to determine at once, for justice and Don Sebastian.