l of the church,
within the choir, in which the prince's remains were deposited. But they
did not rest there long. In 1573, they were removed, by Philip's orders,
to the Escorial; and in its gloomy chambers they were left to mingle
with the kindred dust of the royal line of Austria.[1533]

Philip wrote to Zuniga, his ambassador in Rome, to intimate his wish
that no funeral honors should be paid there to the memory of Carlos,
that no mourning should be worn, and that his holiness would not feel
under the necessity of sending him letters of condolence.[1534] Zuniga
did his best. But he could not prevent the obsequies from being
celebrated with the lugubrious pomp suited to the rank of the departed.
A catafalque was raised in the church of Saint James; the services were
performed in presence of the ambassador and his attendants, who were
dressed in the deepest black; and twenty-one cardinals, one of whom was
Granvelle, assisted at the solemn ceremonies.[1535] But no funeral
panegyric was pronounced, and no monumental inscription recorded the
imaginary virtues of the deceased.[1536]

Soon after the prince's death, Philip retired to the monastery of St.
Jerome, in whose cloistered recesses he remained some time longer
secreted from the eyes of his subjects. "He feels his loss like a
father," writes the papal nuncio, "but he bears it with the patience of
a Christian."[1537] He caused despatches to be sent to foreign courts,
to acquaint them with his late bereavement. In his letter to the duke
of Alva, he indulges in a fuller expression of his personal feelings.
"You may conceive," he says, "in what pain and heaviness I find myself,
now that it has pleased God to take my dear son, the prince, to himself.
He died in a Christian manner, after having, three days before, received
the sacrament, and exhibited repentance and contrition,--all which
serves to console me under this affliction. For I hope that God has
called him to himself, that he may be with him evermore; and that he
will grant me his grace, that I may endure this calamity with a
Christian heart and patience."[1538]

Thus, in the morning of life, at little more than twenty-three years of
age, perished Carlos, prince of Asturias. No one of his time came into
the world under so brilliant auspices; for he was heir to the noblest
empire in Christendom; and the Spaniards, as they discerned in his
childhood some of the germs of future greatness in his character, looked
c