Nothing seemed wanting to the happiness of the young bride and bridegroom, and that summer they made a kind of triumphal progress through the great cities of the land. The marriage of the heir-apparent could not have been celebrated at a happier time. It took place in the midst of negotiations for a general peace, to which the nation looked for repose after so many years of uninterrupted war. The Court of the Spanish sovereigns was at the height of its splendour; Ferdinand and Isabella seemed to have reached the zenith of their ambitious dreams, when death stepped in, and destroyed their fondest hopes. Seven months after Prince John's marriage, his sister, Isabella, was united to the King of Portugal. The wedding took place at the frontier town of Valencia de Alcantara, in the presence of the Catholic sovereigns, without pomp or parade of any kind. While they were detained there, an express messenger brought tidings of the dangerous illness of their son, the Prince of Asturias. Prince John, accompanied by his youthful bride, had been on his way to his sister's wedding when he fell a victim to a malignant fever at Salamanca. The symptoms speedily assumed an alarming character. The prince's constitution, naturally delicate, sunk under the violence of the attack; and when his father, who came with all possible speed to Salamanca, arrived there, no hopes were entertained of his recovery. Ferdinand, however, tried to cheer his son with hopes he did not feel himself; but the young prince told him that it was too late to be deceived; that he was prepared to die, and that all he now desired was that his parents might feel the same resignation to the divine will which he experienced himself. Ferdinand took fresh courage from the heroic example of his son, whose forebodings were unhappily too soon realised. The doctors fearing to alarm Margaret, who was expecting shortly to become a mother, had kept from her the serious state of her husband's health as long as possible. Knowing that he was ill, she was anxious to go on a pilgrimage to pray for his recovery. 'When at last she was allowed to enter his room on the 4th October 1497 she was shocked to see the change which a few days had wrought in him. Her dying husband bade her farewell in a broken voice, recommending their unborn child to her tender care. Margaret pressed her lips to his, but when she found them already cold, overcome by emotion, she had to be carried half-dead from the room.' Bowed down with grief, she did not recover from the shock of her sudden bereavement, and soon after her husband's death, gave birth to a still-born child.[11] [11] 'Je me tais de son mal d'enfant, duquel elle travailla douze jours et douze nuicts entières, sans intermission et sans pouvoir prendre réfection de manger ni de dormir.'--Jean le Maire, _Couronne Margaritique_.