Don Christopher answered by a painful blush; Sebastian resumed, and his heart yearned towards him as he spoke, “You resemble your father in complexion; God grant you grace to resemble your grandfather in deeds!” “The infant Don Louis is the only parent I wish to remember,” replied Don Christopher, dropping his eyes, while a deeper dye covered his face. Sebastian’s eyes were still rivetted on him; for now he recalled that dreadful hour, when he had seen this young man a child in the cradle at Xabregas, and remembered anguish seized him with a transient pang. “Where is his father!” he whispered to Don Juan. “He is dead, my liege, at Florence.” Sebastian gave a sigh to their former attachment, then turning with animation to those around, said-- “Which of you will compare this wreck of Sebastian, with what the proud vessel was, in her day of brave appointment? Care may have furrowed this once smooth brow, but nothing could obliterate these well known marks.” As he spoke, he lifted aside his hair, and shewed a deep scar above the right eyebrow, which had been caused in his earliest youth, by an accident in hunting. “Here De Brito! is the memorial of a wound you saw me receive, on the most fatal of days,” and bending his head, he displayed another large cut above the forehead itself. “This body is flesh, not iron, on which a man may grave what he pleases, yet these marks are accidental; what I am about to shew, were imprinted on me by the hand of nature.” He now pushed down his cloak, and baring one shoulder, discovered on the exceedingly white skin, a singular mole resembling a dark seal or coin: at the same time he extricated his left foot from its sandal, and shewed another curious mark, well remembered by all his familiar associates. At these convincing evidences, those who secretly wavered between doubt and belief, uttered a cry of gladness, and again the tumultuous murmurs of joy and sorrow (for how could such recognition be made otherwise?) ran through the crowd. While the King was answering the many questions which followed this complete conviction, and thanking the surrounding strangers for their generous sympathy, Father Texere came forward, leading in his hand a monk in the vigour of life, tall and commanding, on whose acute brow were stamped energy and ability: “Sire!” he said, “suffer me to claim your notice for this excellent person, who of all men present, has sacrificed the most for your sake: it is now some months since he added his powerful support to our party.” “What is he, good Texere? to whom stand I indebted for the zeal you will find me warm to acknowledge?”