"Such moments as these," he exclaimed, "are they not well worth being
born for—born to enjoy them, and then to vanish into nothingness?"[4]
He smiled; his wife lifted her hand and shook it at him with a gesture
of mild reproach, and the cloud had passed over—they were too happy.
Everything seemed to unite for their advancement in honour, in
happiness, and in prosperity. There came a change, but in place—not
in anything to affect their well-being, to damp their joy, or to
ruffle the smooth current of their lives. The young nobleman was
appointed by his king ambassador to the court of Russia. It was a post
of honour to which he was entitled by his birth and education. He had
a large private fortune, and his young wife had brought him one not
inferior to his own, for she was the daughter of one of the richest
men in the kingdom. A large ship was about that time to go to
Stockholm. It was selected to convey the rich man's dear daughter and
son-in-law to St. Petersburg; and its cabin was fitted up as if for
the use of royalty—soft carpets under the feet, silken hangings, and
every luxury around.
Amidst the ancient Scandinavian ballads, known to all Danes under
their general title of Kœmpeviser, there is one called "The King
of England's Son." He likewise sailed in a costly ship; its anchor was
inlaid with pure gold, and every rope was of twisted silk. Every one
who saw the Spanish vessel must have remembered the ship in this
legend, for there was the same pageantry, the same thoughts on their
departure.
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