Whether the princess was an apt pupil, or merely the slave of her mother and the Inquisitor that lurked behind the throne, we cannot say, but the Portuguese lover consented to the odious bargain. The marriage was solemnized at Valencia de Alcantara, in the early days of the month of August, 1497, and the stipulated Tribute to Bigotry was duly paid. But before ever the bridal party had left the town, an express had arrived with the news of the mortal illness of the bride’s only brother; and in little more than a year the young queen herself, on the 23d of August, 1498, expired in giving birth to a son. The boy received the name of Miguel, and lived for nearly two years--the heir apparent of Portugal, of Aragon, and of Castile--until he too was involved in the general destruction. But some time before the death, or even before the birth of Miguel, another royal marriage had been concluded, whose results throughout all time were no less remarkable and scarce less important than that which handed over Spain to a Flemish emperor. For after infinite negotiations and more than one rupture, after some ten years’ huxtering about dowry, and a dozen changes of policy on the part of the various sovereigns interested in the alliance, Katharine, the youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, more familiarly known as Katharine of Aragon, had been married to Arthur, Prince of Wales, and the first act had been concluded of that strange and fateful drama that led to the Reformation in England. The dignified sadness of her story as Queen Katharine--insulted, divorced, and abandoned--the unwilling heroine of the great tragic drama that was played in the reign of Henry VIII. of England, is known to all men, who extend to her, with one consent, their pity and their respect. But those only who know something of the seven dreary and disgraceful years that she spent in the palace of her father-in-law, before she was permitted to know, even for a season, the happiness of a husband’s love, or to enjoy the great position of Queen of England, may alone understand the fullness of the measure of her wretchedness. In June, 1504, Isabella, who had for some time been ailing, and who seems to have suffered from some nervous disease, was struck down suddenly by fever. She had lived a hard life. She had never spared herself, or others. The unhappy marriages of her children had cast a dark shadow over her life. But hers was not the nature to repine. Diligent, abstemious, resolute, she had borne pain and suffering, and she was not afraid to face death. Unable at length to rise from her couch, as the autumn drew to a close, she continued to transact her accustomed business, gave audience to embassadors, chatted with privileged visitors, and, in the words of an astonished stranger, governed the world from her bed.