Braganza strained her to his breast, his fine countenance all glowing with patriot joy, then eagerly snatching the hand of the majestic old man, he exclaimed,--“Hasten! hasten, my father! that is the call for me,--our country, our beloved country is unchained.” A deeper flush illumined his face as he spoke, and the ardour of his feelings burst forth in tears. It was not usual for Braganza to weep, and these tears gave testimony to the noble source whence they flowed. Yielding to the impulse of his hand, Sebastian and Luisa hastened with him out of the house; his servants had already prepared every thing for their instant conveyance to Lisbon; they crossed over, and entered the city. Sebastian had followed, pale, silent, and uncertain; so many reverses, so many unforeseen shocks had assaulted him at periods of his greatest prosperity, that now he hesitated to believe too soon, or to trust the evidence of other senses than his own. The gates of Lisbon were thrown open; they were crowded with armed citizens, wearing the colours of the Braganza’s on their caps and scarfs; the banners of Portugal waved from every public building, the convents and the houses were lighted up, and the whole city resounded with the cry of “Long live Juan the IVth, King of Portugal and of the Indies.” Pinto met his new sovereign at the entrance of the palace: he fell at his feet, and his manly countenance was overflowed with tears; he attempted to speak, but could not. The archbishop, the clergy, the nobles, and the other patriots, hailed their King with loud and repeated acclamations. “Where is the Duchess of Mantua?” asked Braganza, pausing, ere he passed the threshold, “My friends, let her be respected, and honourably conducted beyond the frontier. No blood I hope will flow.” “One victim only!” exclaimed a bold young man, starting forward, and advancing a sword yet red with blood. “This sword (be it enrolled and sainted for the deed) searched the heart of Vasconcellos. I found him hidden in the Vice-Queen’s chamber: I drew the quivering villain forth, and at the same moment a hundred weapons was in his breast. The tyrant is dead! I cried, let liberty live, and Don Juan King of Portugal! At that cry, all Lisbon echoed a shout of triumph, the Spaniards dropt their useless arms, and the contest was ended.” “The Duchess of Mantua has been removed to Xabregas, Sire,” said Pinto, who now found voice to speak. “The citadel, the arsenal, the fleet, all is your Majesty’s. Vasconcellos alone has perished, and his crimes called for the vengeance of heaven.” Braganza, bowed in token of assent, ashamed of the momentary pang which the death even of one person caused to his humane heart: he then turned to the surrounding multitude, and with an air at once full of thankfulness and of dignity, acknowledged the services of his friends; promised love and protection to his people; and recommending to them all, mercy towards their unresisting enemies, retired into the palace.