She knows that this portrait of herself lies in the leaden casket; so that whenever a suitor comes to speculate upon the chance of finding it, how that sweet breath must break into flurries of dread which call into the eyes a distant alarm! For, before her father died, she had seen Bassanio, and secretly preferred him; and we hear him tell Antonio in confidence that "Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages." No doubt he did; but they escaped to him just like prisoners' glances that are in vague quest of some confederate instinct, and slip through a grating; for she was double-locked in durance of shyness and enforced seclusion, and, "in terms of choice," could not be "Solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes:" kept aloof and sacred by an oath to a dying father, yet so perfectly a woman that too little rather than too much betrayed her; for, as she says, "a maiden hath no tongue but thought." The princely suitors file before the caskets, pondering how to match her picture with herself. She has all the captivating glamour of a pure blonde. "Her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece; Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand, And many Jasons come in quest of her." While these Jasons agitate her heart by deliberating over the metals of the caskets, the real suitor lies hidden underneath the lead of her manner, and seems to stretch forth a forbidding hand. To the Prince of Arragon, while the cornets relieve her by executing all the flourish, she coldly says,-- "Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince: If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately." This is much more curt than the style of her address to the Emperor of Morocco, who, although wearing "the shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun," had something too of its warmth and openness in the manner of his wooing. "I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen." That went straight to her woman's heart. "I am black, but fair," it said; and, like Desdemona, she could see "Othello's visage in his mind." But Desdemona's heart was fancy-free. Portia not only had a mind that could not be fancy-led, but her heart was lying in Bassanio's hand, where its life woke, like the gem whose color kindles better at the touch of warmth. Still, the recognition of the Emperor's frank passion came forth, toned at once by respect and courtesy:-- "If my father had not scanted me, And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself His wife, who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet."