But what did he care for these gaudy accoutrements! He looked at the thick, dark hair, at the plump little face beneath the feather-decorated hat, at the wide eyes and the rounded cheeks. This was his Maria Manoela whom he loved. He could see that she was frightened—frightened of all the pomp of Spain, which must match that of Portugal. There she was, his dear little cousin as yet, his wife to be.

He wanted to cry out: “Oh Maria … Maria Manoela, do not be afraid. I am here to protect you.”

Then he wondered whether, much as she feared all these people, she feared her husband more.

If only he could have gone to her, pushed aside all these people. If only he could have said: “I will dismiss all these people and we will ride away together!”

The heroes of old might have done such things, but not the modern Prince of Spain.

He wondered what she had heard of him. Was it something to frighten her? Could it be that she had not liked his picture as he had liked hers? For a moment his restraint all but deserted him. This was, after all, the most important day he had yet lived through. There was his wife-to-be, and here he was, in the crowd, looking on like any humble sightseer. He all but pushed his way through the crowd to go to her.

But lifetime habits were too strong.

He remained perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on the glittering young girl, as the bridle of her mule was taken by Don Luis Sarmiento, who had recently been Ambassador to Portugal. Now Don Luis was leading her under the brilliant canopy where she would receive the homage of the city magistrates.

All eyes were upon her, and not one of those attendants guessed that in that assembly was the Prince himself.

“Long live the Infanta!” shouted the people.

And if he did not shout as loudly as some, none spoke those words more fervently than Philip, her future husband.

He stood beside her, weighed down with splendor, while the Duke and Duchess of Alba, his sponsors, hovered close, and the Archbishop of Toledo performed the nuptial ceremony.

All Salamanca was en fête. The streets were filled with people, and the merrymaking would continue for days. From all over the country came the great noblemen to attend the wedding and the banquets and tourneys which would follow. The students from the University were given free meals to celebrate the marriage, for Philip, in his silent observation, had discovered what would please his subjects most; the people of the town were to be given the best bulls for their entertainment, and the finest matadors were coming from all corners of Spain to perform in Salamanca on the occasion of the Prince’s wedding.

And, standing before the Archbishop, Philip was aware of nothing but his bride’s covert glances. Her hand trembled in his. It was the first time she had seen him, for etiquette insisted that they should not see each other until the wedding day.

How he longed to reassure her! Poor little Maria Manoela! She was a few months younger than he was, and he was only sixteen. As he stood close to her he realized how young she was. She was a child, which was what he had never been allowed to be.

He had heard that she had wept bitterly in her apartments in the palace of the Duke of Alba; she had cried for her mother and her home in Portugal. She had admitted that she was afraid of her cousin Philip, for she had heard that he never laughed—and at home in Lisbon she and her family had laughed very much.

“But,” said Philip’s informant, “we made the Infanta laugh, your Highness. She could not help it when the Duke’s comic dwarf did his tricks for her. And she was amused with the Duke’s monkeys. She laughed so much at their antics that she forgot your royal Highness.”

He would tell her that she would not long need dwarfs and monkeys to cheer her. Soon he would show her that she had nothing to fear.

He wanted to press her hand, but he did not do so. He had been rehearsed in the solemn ceremony, and he was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.

The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.

Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.

After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.

Would they never be alone? he wondered.

He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?

“We are cousins,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And now … we are married.”

“Yes.”

She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.

He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips …”?

But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.

They danced together in the house of Christóbal Juarez.

“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.

“I … I crave your Highness’s pardon. I … I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”

He wanted to say: “Yes … yes. But I like the Portuguese way. I like it because it is yours …”

But he could not say those words, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her what he felt.

But there was time.

He said: “We have all our lives together.”

But again he sensed the fear in her. Did she think even that remark was a reproach?

Now they were truly married.

She was a little less frightened. He had not said all that he had meant to. He was too shy. It was, he had discovered, not possible to guard the feelings for sixteen years and then let them fly freely and naturally. They were like birds that had never learned to fly; and because their wings had been clipped they would never fly high and free.

Haltingly he had made love to her.

“You must not be frightened, Maria Manoela,” he had told her. “It … is expected of us.”

She seemed grateful for his gentleness. But she had expected that. Doubtless she had heard many stories of him. They would have said to her while she cried in her Lisbon home and begged them not to send her to Spain: “He will not be unkind. He is cold and stern, but never violent.”

She was ready to laugh—though not with him. She liked to lie on her couch with her attendants about her, eating sweet-meats while they talked of their home in Lisbon; she liked to watch the dwarfs; she liked to hear the Indian slaves speak in their strange language. Such things amused her.

But when Philip appeared she would be subdued, although she did not shiver when he caressed her, as she had at first. She grew plumper and complacent.

Once he said to her, after he had previously rehearsed the speech: “It is a good thing for a Prince to find that he can love the wife who has been chosen for him.” And she gave him great joy by laughing in her childish way and putting her arms about his neck, saying: “It is even better for a Princess to find that she loves the Prince they have chosen for her.”

Her words and gestures were so delightful that he wished to continue with such a happy conversation.

“Then you love me, Maria Manoela?”

“It is my duty to love you.”

“But apart from the duty?”

She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “I was so frightened. They said that you did not laugh. And you do not much. But you are so kind to me and … I do not fret for Lisbon now.”

He must remember that she was still a child, even though the difference in their ages was so slight. She had not discussed matters of state with a great Emperor; she had never had to listen to the discourse of generals, archbishops, and statesmen.

He thought of the home in which she must have been the petted daughter. Little petting had come his way—except from Leonor. That was all to the good, for petting did not help a prince or a princess to face what it was necessary to face. What if this little girl had fallen into hands other than his? His cousin Maximilian would have been impatient with her childishness. What would the Emperor, who was so vigorous, have thought of her? Philip thought of the French King who would not bother to hide the mistresses he preferred; he thought of the lusty man in that far-off island kingdom, who had beheaded yet another wife. She was not so unfortunate, this little Maria Manoela, to have fallen to Philip of Spain.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want you to love …” But it was difficult to talk of love. He finished lamely: “… to love Spain.”

One day, he thought, I shall tell her everything that is in my mind. There is time yet, for we have the whole of our lives before us.

But he could not dally with his wife for long. He was the Regent of Spain, for even such an important event as the wedding of his son could not keep Charles from his exploits abroad.