The more formal introduction of the archbishop follows. “Doña Isabel of Castile,” says the prelate who has seen so many deaths, births, and espousals in the House of Trastamare, putting aside the too zealous Don Gutierra, “I bring you your affianced lord. May God and Santiago ratify your choice!” Face to face they stood--the spouses. He is eighteen, she sixteen; both auburn-complexioned with the old Gothic colouring; she, marble-throated, serene, with the shoulders of a goddess and the gesture of a queen; he, bronzed by exposure, bright-eyed, manly, and portly; already incipient lines gather about his mouth, to harden later into an expression of severity and almost of cruelty; but he is gentle and smiling now, and his soldier-like bearing suits him well. For a moment he stands confused before Isabel, then casting from him the hooded mantle in which he is enveloped, he kneels before her and kisses her hand. “Oh! my Infanta, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice, a little sharp in its tone from the habit of command. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. But for the danger to your Highness from the opposition of the king, I should not have dared to approach you thus.” “You are welcome, Infante of Aragon,” says Isabel, raising him to her side. “The archbishop has been the agent of my warmest desire in bringing you. It is time, an armed force is about to secure me. That you have happily passed the frontier, I thank God.” A lovely colour has overspread her cheeks as she speaks. Her eyes are fixed on Ferdinand in an earnest gaze, which softens into a glance of exquisite sweetness. For the first time in her life she feels the thrill of that love which is to last her all her life, one love, entire and single, which comes down to us in history as the fairest example of wedded bliss. The effect she makes on Ferdinand, bold as he is in act and nature, and knowing that he comes as an accepted suitor for her hand, is altogether overwhelming. Night, darkness, the mystery of their meeting--so unlike a royal wooing--the youthful dignity of her presence, her beauty, far exceeding report, come over him in a passionate longing to carry her away and never let her go. Nor does the subtle flattery of this hesitation on his part displease her. Softer and sweeter grows the mild fire of her eyes as she leads him apart and seats herself beside him within the golden _estrada_ under the rich velvet curtains, heavy with gold embroideries, of the royal canopy at the upper end of the apartment, out of sight and hearing of the archbishop, Beatrix, and the rest.