Spain, from north to
south, was frantic with desire to behold her fiery child, whose girlish
romance, whose patriotic heroism electrified the national imagination.
The King of Spain must kiss his _faithful_ daughter, that would
not suffer his banner to see dishonor. The Pope must kiss his
_wandering_ daughter, that henceforwards will be a lamb travelling
back into the Christian fold. Potentates so great as these, when
_they_ speak words of love, do not speak in vain. All was
forgiven; the sacrilege, the bloodshed, the flight and the scorn of St.
Peter's keys; the pardons were made out, were signed, were sealed, and
the chanceries of earth were satisfied.
Ah! what a day of sorrow and of joy was _that_ one day, in the
first week of November, 1624, when the returning Kate drew near to the
shore of Andalusia--when, descending into the ship's barge, she was
rowed to the piers of Cadiz by bargemen in the royal liveries--when she
saw every ship, street, house, convent, church, crowded, like a day of
judgment, with human faces, with men, with women, with children, all
bending the lights of their flashing and their loving eyes upon
herself. Forty myriads of people had gathered in Cadiz alone. All
Andalusia had turned out to receive her.
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