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"What mercy do you practice, you who preach a gospel of mercy in the world, and cry for mercy now?" the Infante asked him. "But this is an infamy! What harm have those poor children done? What concern is it of theirs that I have offended you in performing my sacred duty?" Swift into that opening flashed the home-thrust of the Infante's answer. "What harm have my people of Coimbra done?
Well he guessed that shame at the result of the expedition, and sorrow for his own fate, had hastened the end of dom Duarte, and the infante's thoughts flew back to the day of the proclamation of the king, five years before, and to the prophecy of master Guedelha.
His boundless wealth condoned the ugliness of his person in the eyes of the singer, and the lavish income he placed at her disposal gratified her boundless extravagances, while it did not prevent her from being gracious to the Infante's many rivals and would-be successors.
The Infante's voice was so cold, his mien so resolute that the legate despaired of conquering his purpose. Abruptly he capitulated, even as the halters went about the necks of his two cherished lads. "Stop!" he screamed. "Bid them stop! The curse shall be lifted." Affonso Henriques opened the window with a leisureliness which to the legate seemed to belong to the realm of nightmare.
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