While he was thus revolving past events, the memory of his dearest friend often mingled with these thoughts, and by a natural association, reminded him that Caspar had left a son. “Where is he?” he exclaimed abruptly, pursuing his thoughts aloud, “twelve years ago, I was told that he belonged to your household, my son?” “Of whom do you speak, Sir!” asked the Duchess. “Of Juan Pinto Ribeiro,” replied Sebastian. The Duke’s features beamed with pleasure. “You ask after the most attached and estimable of my servants,” he said, “Pinto has always studied with me, travelled with me, lived with me more like a brother than a domestic: he is the comptroller of my household; and it is to him I believe myself indebted for the universal suffrages of my countrymen. His love for me and his devotion to our country, are sentiments of equal strength in his excellent heart.” “What do I hear?” exclaimed Sebastian in extreme emotion, tears trickling down his cheeks, “is it the son of my faithful Caspar that you thus commend! O my children, so many feelings, long, long since laid to sleep in this heart, now awake and overcome me, that I know not myself. Joy, and the recollection of other days, make an infant of me.” Sebastian bowed his venerable head, and as he did so, a slight colour flushed his pale face; for now he wept uncontrolled, and was ashamed of his weakness. Braganza respected his age and his tears, and drawing Luisa away to the couch of their son, they leaned over it together, occupying their attention with his childish beauty. After some moments silence, the King resumed in a low, faltering voice. “Let me see Ribeiro! after that I will take some rest:--my spirit is more wearied than my body, yet both require repose.” The Duke hastened to gratify his royal kinsman, and sending for Pinto, (who was the confidential person appointed to carry his final answer to the confederates) he led him up to Sebastian. Some faint resemblance to his father, (a likeness rather of lineament than of countenance) powerfully affected the venerable monarch: Pinto was nearly the age that Gaspar was when he left his master for the last time at Villa Rosolia, and this circumstance heightened the effect of the resemblance. Sebastian frequently embraced him, and as frequently repeated the name of his dead friend: he wistfully examined the face before him, but he did not find it the exact counterpart of Gaspar’s. Pinto’s eyes and air had the fire of his Italian mother: his look was neither so mild nor so tender as his father’s; but it was more pregnant with resolution and talent; it announced him what he was, an intrepid, ardent, faithful, and enterprizing man.