DAY was just breaking over the high tops of an olive ground, beneath which stood a solitary cottage; Sebastian approached, and unwillingly roused its inhabitants: they were a simple good couple, and finding that their disturber was a Portuguese escaped from Barbary, they brought him in, forced refreshment on him, half-wearied him with questions, and at length resigned to him the only bed their habitation afforded.
Secure of freedom, and of all the blessings in its train, the King hastened to give repose, both to his body and to his mind; his exhausted spirit bathed itself in a long and deep sleep, which not even a blissful dream disturbed: the noon-day sun awoke him to a livelier sense of what he had regained.
Glowing with rapturous emotions, and eagerly anticipating that moment which should restore him to Donna Gonsalva, he knew it would be impossible for him to endure those delays which must arise, were he to declare himself in Spain or in his own dominions, ere he had reached Xabregas; he therefore determined upon travelling disguised, and giving himself the romantic delight of surprizing her.
Having told the people who lodged him that he was a Portuguese officer journeying homewards, he had no difficulty in procuring a guide and mules to take him through Andaluzia, the low condition of the men with whom he must associate during his journey, would render a recognition of his person very improbable, and relying on this circumstance, he left the sea-coast without apprehension of discovery.
In one of the valleys through which he passed, the ringing of a convent bell gave the welcome tidings of evening prayers; how many months had elapsed since that holy sound had spoken to him of heaven! he hastened to obey its summons, and leaving his guide in charge of the mules, went into the chapel: scarcely any one was there except a few poor monks. Sebastian prostrated himself before the image of his dying Saviour, and the emotion of his heart again flowed out in tears.
Tears like these the manliest eyes need not disdain shedding; nay, tears like these, honor him who sheds them.
Animated by this delightful act of duty, he retired immediately after the service, and regained the muleteer; they set forward once more towards Portugal.
Traversing the luxuriant vineyards of Andaluzia, they followed for some time the course of the Gaudiana, then crossing its stream, they left its wild rocky banks far behind, entering upon that part of Portugal which is denominated the kingdom of Algarve.
As Sebastian descended the steep heights that divide the two countries, the winds sweeping over his native land, came on his sense with imaginary sweetness: at every gale, the remembrance of former joys became more vivid, and his heart beat with additional impatience. Freedom had so intoxicated him, that he hoped even against probabilities, expecting to find his Gonsalva’s beauty and health unimpaired, and his uncle willing to resign the sovereign power without a struggle.
Sometimes grateful thought turned back to Africa, and a blessing on the gentle Kara Aziek would burst from his lips; but such thoughts were transient, for love, friendship, and a kingdom, were before him.
Travelling without intermission, only snatching a hasty meal occasionally at some goatherd’s cabin, or under solitary shades. Sebastian, with his guide, quickly traversed Algarve, penetrated through a pass of the Sierras de Caldaraon successively into the provinces of Alentejo and Estremadura, and at last found himself in the vicinity of his own capital.
Having dismissed his guide, he now sought some obscure house where he might make such enquiries as hitherto he had urged in vain: the people whom he questioned could merely tell him that the prior of Crato had, indeed, escaped from Barbary very soon after his capture, and that the cardinal King was declining fast.—Of Donna Gonsalva they knew nothing.
In those days information of court changes did not travel down to the lower ranks of society, as it does now in these freer times; newspapers and magazines were then unknown; the titled and the powerful were considered like so many gods, and their actions were as imperfectly known and as rarely scrutinized as if they really dwelt above the clouds.—Sebastian, therefore, was forced to satisfy himself with the belief, that if she had fallen a sacrifice to grief, her death must have become public, he consequently concluded that she was still living in the palace of Xabregas.
To Xabregas hastened the young and impassioned lover. While hurrying over the road which led to it, his warm fancy pictured in endless variety the circumstances of their meeting; the well-remembered beauty and enchantments of Gonsalva agitated him to weakness: “Another moment and I shall hold her in my arms!” he exclaimed, hastily advancing to the private gate of her abode. The gate yielded to his hand; he entered, and treading lightly across an angle of the garden, passed into a pavilion whence issued a secret passage leading into the state apartments of the palace.
The springs of every door were known to Sebastian; he pressed one, which opening, led him into the subterranean gallery: breathless, trembling, almost flying, he was at the entrance of a favorite room of Donna Gonsalva’s ere he thought of the alarm his appearance might cause her; he paused, and for that instant his limbs failed under him; but the sound of Gonsalva’s voice banished every temperate consideration, new-strung his nerves, and made him suddenly push open the door.
Donna Gonsalva was standing alone with her back towards him, she turned round, and Sebastian beheld again that resplendent beauty which had never for a moment been absent from his thoughts.—He rushed forwards and fell at her feet.
Overpowered with the violence and the variety of his emotions, her very name expired in sighs on his lips, and he could only cover her hands with kisses and with tears.
At sight of a man coarsely habited and obscured with dust, Donna Gonsalva uttered a cry of terror; but the action of Sebastian, his emotion, the well-known touch of his lips and hands, the very circumstance of his entering by a private way, made him apparent to her: she turned deadly pale, and sunk upon a seat without speaking.
Her impassioned lover hastened to support her in his arms: “Yes, Gonsalva!” he exclaimed, in a voice broken by excess of joy—“My own Gonsalva! it is your Sebastian who now presses you to his enraptured heart.”
Amazement! Donna Gonsalva struggled in his embrace. Still silent, she endeavoured to escape from his arms, sometimes appearing on the point of calling for assistance, and then suddenly checking herself.
The young King hastily threw off his hat and pushed aside his hair; “Look at me, my beloved!” he exclaimed wildly, “look at me and acknowledge your Sebastian; changed as my person is, surely my voice, this agitation—”
“Release me!” interrupted Gonsalva, averting her head still more,—“I know you not: Don Sebastian is dead.”
The King looked at her with surprize, amounting to stupefaction; “Dead!” he repeated, “you have believed me dead, and yet live on in health and beauty—Gonsalva, is this reception acted to try me?—O yes, yes,” he added, again falling passionately at her feet,—“You cannot have forgotten me,—you cannot have ceased to love the man who has suffered so long, so much, and so faithfully.” Again he wrapt his arms round her, and again she struggled and broke away.
As she fled towards one of the doors, her foot struck against a little couch and awoke an infant that was sleeping there. At the sound of a child’s cry, Sebastian was transfixed, but instantly recovering, he sprung forwards and tearing off the covering mantle, beheld a boy whose features appeared to mingle those of two well-known faces: his eyes flashed from the couch to Donna Gonsalva. Covered with confusion, and scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she hurried back, and threw herself on the bed to conceal the child.
Pale, aghast, speechless, lost in a mist of frightful apprehensions, Sebastian remained gazing on her; crowds of agonizing recollections, of vanishing hopes and wishes, floated confusedly before him. Was this the welcome he had expected? was this the fond Gonsalva whose gratitude and friendship he had pledged so liberally to Kara Aziek and to Gaspar? was this she, for whose dear sake he had slighted, afflicted, and abandoned the tenderest of hearts.
“Gonsalva!” he sternly said, after a long silence, “you know me, and you are false. Nay, attempt not to fly;” he added, seizing her arm with an iron grasp, “stay and explain this damned mystery.”
The hitherto-confounded beauty now haughtily raised herself, and making a bold effort, ordered him to leave her. “Whoever you are, she added, that dares usurp the name of Don Sebastian, and intrude thus upon my privacy, I command you to quit me: the King of Portugal, were he indeed alive would not have presented himself thus before me.”
The air of disdain with which she spoke was yet clouded with terror. Sebastian’s reason became unsettled: “by the blessed mother of Jesus!” he cried, “I know not what to think! is it possible that only fourteen months have so utterly changed my person, my voice, my manner, that you should doubt my identity? O Gonsalva, bless me but by saying that Sebastian’s memory still reigns in your heart, and I will soon convince you that it is he who now stands before you agonized and disappointed.”
Again love and hope, mingled with grief, floated his eyes; Donna Gonsalva uttered a few inarticulate, evasive words: in astonishment the King looked wildly at her, then at himself, and seizing the arm he had let go, he dragged her towards a mirror, where he gazed intently for a moment upon his own figure, exclaiming in a voice of thunder, “I am not so changed! you know me, faithless, inhuman woman!”
The fury of his looks made Gonsalva’s frail heart quail within her; fear banished artifice, and she sunk to the ground, imploring him by name, not to destroy her.
As self-preservation was now her first object, she besought him to forgive her infidelity—to allow for the desperation of her present shame, to be assured that the belief of his death and the unceasing importunities of Don Antonio de Crato, had alone rendered her untrue. At the name of her new lover the unfortunate Sebastian staggered a few paces and fell against the side of the apartment: What a blow, to find himself at the same instant betrayed by his friend and by his mistress!
Terrified at the consequences of her imprudent disclosure, Gonsalva began to intercede for her guilty lover and her child: Sebastian ran his eyes over her without speaking; despair and destruction was in that devouring look; it increased the terror of Gonsalva, and she clung to his knees, sobbing out expressions of penitence.—Invincible beauty still gave an angel’s semblance to her deceptive features; as Sebastian beheld that heavenly countenance deluged with tears, his head swam, his heart melted, his convictions were shaken; Gonsalva saw her advantage, and redoubled her seducing contrition; but at that moment the accidental disorder of her drapery discovered that she would soon again become a mother.
Recovered by this sight, he broke away, and hurried to the cradle: for awhile he stood over it with a terrible countenance; his looks changed every instant, all his joints shook, he did not speak, but the drops of agony on his forehead seemed to say, “Live on! thou hast not betrayed me.”
Hastily he averted his head from the mother and child, and without having uttered a word, rushed from the apartment.
Darting along the private passages, and then taking the first path that presented itself, he was soon several miles from the groves of Xabregas.
The mind of Sebastian was now in that tumultuous state which is the very acme of misery; a state in which every object of suffering is distinctly perceived, while memory appears sharpened by the very acuteness of regret: like the waves of a stormy sea, thought urged on thought, without order or intermission; those hours once spent with Gonsalva and Antonio, and those expectations, which for fourteen long months had cheered the gloom of slavery, now thronged on him like spectres. He traversed hills, valleys, and woods, with the rapidity of madness, vainly seeking to fly from himself.
Night was far spent, when he heard himself addressed by a stranger; he stopt, and beheld an honest-looking man standing at the door of a solitary little inn, where some travellers were just alighting from their horses.
“What makes you journey through such a night as this?” said the man, “If you have a mind for a shelter, stay here and welcome; by your garb you seem a poor fellow and not able to pay for a supper—yet you shall have something to eat nevertheless.”
Sebastian paused at the voice of kindness, and found that he was indeed roving about under a dreadful storm: the rain failing in sheets had wetted him through, and he was without a hat, having left it in the chamber of Donna Gonsalva.—Bowing silently, he followed the benevolent innkeeper.
On the threshold of his door the good man paused, and holding a lamp up to Sebastian’s face, uttered an exclamation of surprise at his haggard looks, adding, “However, there’s something in that countenance that tells me I am not going to harbour a robber, so come in poor fellow.”
Sebastian followed him into a large kitchen where the horsemen who preceded him were already seating themselves near a fire: by their dress and mien two of them appeared noble, and the remaining four, their attendants. They took no notice of the King, but called for wine and omelets, and began discoursing about the weather: meanwhile the humane landlord offered his humbler looking guest some cheese and onions; Sebastian in a low voice declined the coarse supper; he wrapt himself up in his capote and stood remote from the fire, thinking upon the past scene with Donna Gonsalva.
Of her guilt, and that of his cousin Antonio, he could scarcely doubt; her own confession, and the existence of the child, were proofs undeniable, and from the apparent age of the latter it was evident, that their criminal intercourse must have begun ere the period of his attachment to Gonsalva: the conduct and conversation of Don Emanuel, (hitherto so mysterious) then flashed across his mind, and his blood froze when he thought that, but for his persevering conduct, he might have become the husband of Antonio’s mistress.
With what piercing regret did he recall the harsh treatment of the generous De Castro, who had too surely suspected, if not known, the guilty secret!—A groan now escaped him that made the company start: fearful of exciting curiosity, he drew his cloak round his face, and moved further from the light, complaining of a sudden pain.—The travellers eyed him suspiciously and laid fire-arms on the table.
Of his Crown and his people, Sebastian thought no more; the monstrous ingratitude of Antonio, the perfidy of Gonsalva, and their mutual duplicity, (which he vainly endeavoured to trace back to some suspicious circumstances,) alone occupied him; he did not even glance towards the measures he should pursue for the recovery of his rights as a sovereign; but while he sat lost in rumination, the sound of his own name made him start: it was spoken in a conversation now held in Latin by the two superior travellers.—Attention completely roused, enabled him to catch every word, though the men spoke in low tones, and seemed afraid that not even a learned language was a sufficient guard for their subject.
The moment these travellers laid aside their large feathered hats, Sebastian recognized two of his own courtiers.
“You will find it difficult to convince me of this,” said the younger.
“What! you don’t doubt the fact?” cried his companion, “do you disbelieve that a man, arrived from Africa, who asserted it to be true?”
“No, I do not question that;” rejoined the other, “but I believe the fellow told an impudent lie. Don Sebastian fell at Alcazar, as sure as yon poor rogue stands shivering in the corner.”
“I am not of your opinion:” answered the elder gentleman, “I was present when this man from Barbary brought the intelligence to Don Antonio; his account was so clear and circumstantial that I did not scruple to avow my faith in it: and though Don Antonio pretended to treat it with contempt; I saw it alarmed him dreadfully; and well it might, for the return of Don Sebastian would be a day of awkward reckoning for him.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the other cavalier, “had Don Antonio believed the impostor, policy would have made him stop the news-bringer’s mouth.”
“The Portuguese seemed to guess as much,” returned the former speaker, “for though he promised to come again on the ensuing day, he posted off from Crato to the houses of different nobles, telling the same story, and praying to have it carried to the King.”
“Well! and why were all these persons unbelievers too, if the tale appeared so true?”
“Why?—because every one of them are either pretenders to the succession, or friends to the pretenders. Some were partizans of Philip of Spain, others of the Braganzas, the Prince of Parma, &c. nobles who knew well that the restoration of their former sovereign would not afford them such a chance for power, as a scramble amongst numbers. Our old Cardinal draws to an end, in a few months perhaps the Spaniard will sit on his throne, (for in my opinion he stands the best chance), and we all got a hint of the way to please Philip, by hearing how rigorously he treated every officer who returned from Africa, and ventured to speak doubtfully of Sebastian’s death. If Don Sebastian could get here by miracle, he would not find a man in Portugal unbiassed by some faction; he might return to his chains.”
That Sebastian of whom he spoke, was now kindling into fury; he gnawed his nether lip, and grasped his cloak with a convulsive action.—The last speaker resumed.
“Every body concludes that our present monarch relished the first report of his nephew’s being alive as little as Philip; for I can tell you that Don Emanuel de Castro would not have got the viceroyalty of Brazil had it not been deemed politic to send him out of a country which he was continually agitating by assertions of Sebastian’s existence: nay, the silence of his ministers on the subject of this last report, and the disappearance of the poor devil himself, speaks pretty plain; the rope or the cup has most likely silenced him for ever.”
At this horrible conjecture, the joy of hearing that De Castro lived, and was in a land of freedom, gave way to anguish, a second groan burst from the unhappy King, the speakers stopt, and fixed their eyes on him.
“Who is this fellow?” asked one of them: “a sick traveller, I fancy,” replied the landlord, drawing near and speaking softly, “or rather I should think a poor youth crossed in love: for he has a noble countenance, full of grievous wildness, and was roving about under all that storm without feeling it.”
The good man now approached with a cup of wine, to which Sebastian put his lips, that he might avoid importunity, acknowledging that he was sick: the travellers resumed their discourse.
“For my part,” said one, “I would never draw a sword to rescue Don Sebastian, his court was too moral for me: neither Venus nor Bacchus was worshipped there, and where they are not worshipped, I beg leave to make my congé. Besides, he put a public affront upon my cousin, the young Marquis Cellamare: he happened to carry off the daughter of a merchant; the old man got her back after one night’s absence only, yet he complained to the King, and he insisted on Cellamare’s offering her honourable reparation in presence of her family and his own: the girl (tutored by Don Sebastian, no doubt), affected to despise such reparation, preferred taking the veil, and refused him.”
“Refused him!” repeated the other.
“Yes, indeed: the degradation was thus made worse than if she had polluted his illustrious blood by becoming his wife: you were not in Portugal then, I know.”
“No, I was in Italy,” rejoined his companion, “now I know your sentiments, I will frankly confess that I do not pray for the rash-brained monarch’s return—he was liberal enough, to be sure, but then he exacted heavy returns.—For instance, he gave me a regiment, but it was on condition I followed his mad course to Morocco: fortunately the opportune sickness and death of my wife kept me at home. No, no, Don Sebastian made away with all his friends, when he led on twenty thousand Portuguese like himself, to slaughter, at Alcazar.”
Quivering with restrained fury, his eyes striking fire, the young monarch started from his seat, and half-sprung towards the ungrateful miscreants—but suddenly recollecting himself, he turned away, and hastily left the apartment.
As he went through a passage opening into a field, he found the landlord had followed him: “What is the matter with thee, friend!” said he, “my guests pronounce thee mad, and recommend my turning thee out: I have not heart to do that—Lopez Vernara never yet closed his door on the houseless.”
Sebastian turned round with a look of anguish somewhat sweetened by grateful feelings; “I am not mad—not quite mad,” he said, “though at this moment the most wretched of men. Fear nothing from me, honest Lopez—suffer me only to rest in some place where the sound of human voice may not reach me. I can reward thee, for I am not so poor as I seem.”
The good innkeeper pointed to a barn at a little distance. “Go there,” he said, “you will find plenty of clean straw, and no soul shall disturb you. Jesu help thee, poor youth, thou lookest at thy wit’s end!” Lopez turned back into the house as he concluded, and Sebastian wildly trode the path before him.
The information afforded by the two travellers had thrown his mind into fresh tumults: to find himself thus blotted out from his subjects’ hearts, hated for his justice, derided by those he had served, betrayed by those he loved, forgotten almost by the whole world, an outcast even in his own kingdom—was a consummation to his misery, which not even misanthropy could have imagined. Murdered for his sake, Gaspar seemed to cry aloud for vengeance: yet where was he to find the means of retribution, when the court, the army, and the people, were steeled against him?
What a return! and how fearful was the spectacle which it presented!—as if a veil had been torn off by some invisible power, he beheld every heart in which he fondly thought himself cherished, false to their vows, and panting for his blood! his sick soul—“sick unto death,”—turned from object to object with increasing anguish: the only human beings whose love could be relied on, were out of his reach; De Castro, though living, was beyond the Atlantic, Gaspar in the grave, and Kara Aziek in the hateful empire of Morocco.
These convictions half-disordered Sebastian’s brain: he walked with an irregular pace, sometimes stopping, then darting eagerly forwards; alternately striking his breast and his forehead, repeating, as their images shot through his mind, the names of Gaspar, Antonio, and the perfidious Gonsalva.
Though it was his wish and his interest to remain unknown, the mere circumstance of having passed unrecognized by two men whom he had so often noticed, joined to the singular fortune of never having been once suspected for their King by any of the Portuguese, now completed his anguish: distempered in mind, he saw not a single exception to the prevalent forgetfulness; but wild with grief, with indignation, with blasted expectations, hurried into the barn and cast himself on a heap of straw: “Leave me my reason, O, God!” he exclaimed, in a voice, the tone of which proclaimed a reason just tottering on the verge of madness.
At that sound, a rustling was heard amongst the straw, Sebastian started up, the next moment a large rough dog sprung towards him, and leaping against his breast, sent forth a cry of joy: “Barémel! Barémel!—O, heaven! and art thou then the only one?” Interrupted by a gush of tenderness, the houseless monarch clasped his dumb friend in his arms; then recollecting the last time he had seen him, and the words he had spoken, “Stay and be loved for my sake,” his heart became so subdued that he burst into tears, and wept with all the vehemence of a woman.
Whining and fawning on him, Barémel lay at his master’s feet, with upturned eyes, expressive of that instinctive attachment which so often shames the affection of reasoning man: the King now stood painfully contemplating this added proof of popular instability; “If thou hadst become hateful to Antonio’s mistress,” he exclaimed, “was there none of my court who would take thee in, and cherish thee for my sake!—poor Barémel! from a palace to a shed!—the favorites of fallen princes can hope for nothing better.”—He smiled gloomily, and sinking down on the straw, laid his head upon the body of Barémel.
The happy animal seemed proud of his royal burthen; Sebastian then fell into a train of less distracted but equally wounding thought, till by degrees stupor succeeded to frenzy; his feelings became benumbed and “a waveless calm” spread over them: imperceptibly every agitating image faded away, till deep sleep, like midnight darkness, buried all things in profound oblivion.
Early the next day, after seeing his nobler guests on their horses, Lopez came to learn how the poor traveller had rested; he found him asleep with Barémel. On advancing to awake them, the dog sprung and seized the good man by his coat—Sebastian opened his eyes, and at his command Barémel released old Lopez. “Thou’rt an honest fellow I’ll be sworn!” exclaimed the latter, “or this dog would not have taken a fancy to thee.—Come, get up and let me give thee some breakfast.”
Briefly thanking him for his offer, the King enquired how he came to be in possession of a creature that had once belonged to their sovereign. Lopez eyed him curiously; “So, thou hast been a courtier, friend! or mayhap a soldier, and—” Sebastian interrupted him, willing to lull the curiosity which might otherwise annoy him.
“I am a soldier,” he said, “lately escaped from Africa. After fourteen months slavery, I have returned to my country to find some friends dead, many perfidious; my rights usurped by others, and the woman I adored, false,—false as hell!” he paused, and the before pale gloom of his countenance, was now changed to the crimson flush of frenzy;—then recollecting himself, he added, “wonder not that I am half distracted—the sight of this dog, which I remember to have seen following the King, has brought back some ideas that ought never again to agitate this betrayed heart.—How did you get this dog?”
“Why, by good luck,” replied Lopez, “one of my cousins, you see, is under scullion in the kitchen of the Donna Gonsalva Vimiosa—she that our last King was to have married. Sorrow on her! what a jade she has proved! worse, I reckon, than the woman you are raving about—Come, come man, don’t shake so; women were sad deceiving devils ever since the fall.—I dare say now, your jilt had not played the harlot with your cousin, as this Donna Gonsalva has done? all the world cried shame on her. You see, in less than five months after the King’s sailing for Africa, she brings into the world a chopping child, at first my lady tried to make it out the King’s, and said they were privately married; but on Don Emanuel de Castro’s getting back from Barbary, he disproved that story somehow, and she would have gone to die in the inquisition, had not the prior Antonio boldly owned her and the child, procured an absolution for them both from the Pope, and so forced the present King to pardon her.
“See the world now!—the other day she was scorned by every body because both she and her paramour were in disgrace at court, but since the King gets so infirm and seems so averse to fix the succession, all the world worships her again. People think, you see, that Don Antonio will have the throne.”
“Where then are the Braganzas?” exclaimed Sebastian, “What claims can the bastard Antonio make?”
“Why, you see,” replied Lopez, “this same Antonio would have the best right if he could prove himself the lawful son of our cardinal King’s brother, the late duke De Beja; and so since he cannot prove it, he swears it; that is, he gives out that his father and mother were secretly married.—As for the Duchess of Braganza, she poor soul scarcely cares for a throne; her heart is out of this world.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Sebastian, “did she lose both her sons in that fatal battle? Surely the Duke of Barcelos was only taken prisoner?”
“Only!” repeated Lopez, “Holy Mary defend us! you soldiers think nothing of such matters. I can tell you, my lady duchess did not make so light of it when she got her poor boy back again, with a face like a corpse. He’ll never be the ruddy youth he was.”
“He is returned then?” said Sebastian sighing deeply, “but the noble Diego, that wondrous child”—
“He never came back,” interrupted the good Vernara, “Alas, what a sad day was that which brought the disastrous news! My cousin, who has a sweetheart in the duchess’s family, was there when an officer came who had received his last breath.—The pretty boy was killed by a cannon ball: he fell in his place, following the King; and you may be sure then that he fell in the thick of the battle.”
At this passing tribute to his bravery, the cheek of Sebastian suddenly glowed; he turned aside to conceal his emotion, and Lopez went on; “the King’s arm beat back the coward Moors that would have trampled over his pretty page; so this officer that I was speaking of, had time to stop and see if he could assist him, but the dear child made a sign that he would not be taken off the field; he grasped the officer’s hand and said, ‘tell my mother’—he could not go on, so pointing up to Heaven and raising his eyes with such a smile as if he would have said he was going to join angels like himself, he fetched a gentle sigh, and died.”
Lopez put the back of his hand to his eyes as he spoke, and when he removed it again, it was quite wet with tears: the severer emotion of his royal companion shook his voice, as he hastily said—“but this dog, Lopez—you have not told me how it came into your possession.”
“O, aye, the dog—why you see the Donna Gonsalva took an aversion to it, and ordered her people to put it out of her sight—that you know was next hand to bidding it be killed—however nobody liked to do that, and yet they were afraid to give it a courtier in case she should see it again; so my cousin offers to take it to me, because, as he said, I had a wonderful knack at gaining dumb creatures’ hearts, and would be sure to make him stay with me; and sure enough, so it turned out; for Barémel laid himself down as soon as Garcias brought him in, and never seemed to want to go back again.”
Sebastian looked at the animal with an expression of piercing pain, for he could not forbear thinking poor Barémel had had no caresses to regret when he left Xabregas.
While such thoughts passed through his mind, he was tempted to ask himself whether he were awake; a groan of bitter conviction followed the question. “Do you remember Don Sebastian?” he said, abruptly.
“Not I, Lord help you; I never saw him.—Some folks say he’s alive still, and that he’ll be amongst us when we don’t expect it; but for my part I wish he may be dead, for he’d find but a dismal welcome in Portugal. All his young nobles courting the prior of Crato because he makes one in their lewd courses; the old ones sticking to the cardinal on account of his peaceableness; the poor folks not knowing which side to take for fear of their betters; Donna Gonsalva turned into a common harlot,—mercy on us! I’d rather be a mouldering corpse in the shabbiest burying-ground that ever was, than the living Don Sebastian with such vexations to meet him.”
Sebastian suddenly laid his icy hand on the arm of Lopez, with so convulsive a grasp, and such a ghastly smile, that the innkeeper turned mortal pale, and began to tremble; he thought himself in the power of a maniac, whom he pitied and yet feared: the wretched Sebastian seeing his terror withdrew some steps, saying in a softened tone, “forgive my strangeness, worthy Lopez: do not wonder that my own sufferings, and sympathy with those of an unfortunate prince should thus transport me. I will trouble you no longer, give me some food, for I must be gone.”
Lopez hastened to obey; alarmed by the varying complexion and eyes of his companion, by his irregular steps and suffocated voice: he led him into the kitchen, where he placed before him some coarse food, though the best he possessed. Sebastian ate a few mouthfuls without sitting down, and with an averted face, for there were soldiers and servants in the place by whom he feared a discovery: having finished his scanty meal, he walked quickly out of the kitchen, motioning for Lopez to follow him.
By the time the corpulent innkeeper overtook him in an adjoining field, he had drawn from his bosom the treasure of Kara Aziek, and selected from it a bracelet of gems: this graceful ornament forcibly recalled its generous wearer, and fixing his eyes on it with a mixture of regret, tenderness, and consolation, he sighed often and deeply.
The gems sparkling in daylight rivetted the attention of Lopez, and he ventured to commend their beauty: awakened by this remark, Sebastian turned round; “Friend!” he said, with an air of gentler sadness, “your kindness has not been thrown away upon an ungrateful man; I have found one heart in Portugal worthy of a Portuguese: take this precious present, turn it into money, and continue, with added means, to succour the unfortunate. Do not eye me with distrust,” (he added, seeing Lopez retreat doubtfully,) “I came honestly by it; ’twas the gift of one to whom I owe my freedom. She is a Moor, Lopez, an infidel, join your prayers with mine for her conversion and her salvation: promise me that you will never pray, without soliciting the saints to intercede in Heaven for her soul.”
Again Lopez thought his companion mad, and gently putting aside the bracelet, exclaimed, “Poor youth! I would not rob thee for the whole world; thy brain is disordered, thou knowest not what thou are doing.”
Touched with such uncommon disinterestedness, the amiable monarch exerted himself to convince Lopez that he was perfectly reasonable and sincere; after much difficulty he succeeded: Lopez took the jewels, and gave up his title to Barémel. Sebastian squeezed the hand of his host, and telling him to remember the Moorish lady in his prayers, plunged into a neighbouring thicket.
The royal wanderer was now journeying towards the river Zadaon, near the extremity of which lay the home of Gaspar: he hoped to learn there something of that humble friend, to have preserved whose life he would willingly have poured forth all his blood; and hope yet surviving every shock, began to soothe him with promises of Gaspar’s safety.
On that subject alone, could hope exert her heart-supporting influence, all others were desperate; and the wretched Sebastian, blasted in every tender expectation, dishonored by the matchless depravity of her who was to have shared his throne, wished only to find some gloomy solitude where he might bury his shame and his despair.
A betrayed lover cannot easily learn to think of the woman who once entranced him, in any other manner than that to which he has been accustomed; impressions repeated again and again are not to be immediately effaced by one impression, however just; the heart retains its first print of excellence long after a faithless object has ceased to impress it: we may regret without weakness for a while, what it would be meanness to love on, for ever; in short, we may lament that the brightest vision of our days was but a vision!
Sebastian could not revert to his last interview with Donna Gonsalva, and not find his thoughts hurried away by a multitude of softening recollections; past looks of tenderness, impassioned replies, tears, caresses, the touch of her hand, the tone of her voice, thrilled through his veins with the force of present existence; then returned the conviction of her baseness, and he cast himself on the ground, bathing it with tears, and uttering a thousand distracted exclamations.
His devious course was too frequently interrupted by these bursts of despair; but he quickly recovered himself, for friendship yet claimed a share in his soul, and whether Gaspar lived or died, his family had claims on the protection of Sebastian.
Travelling through the wildest, because least frequented roads, the King procured food at goat-herds’ huts, or from passing muleteers; his remaining sequins gave him the means of paying these people well, and the watchfulness of Barémel rendered any precaution for his personal safety wholly needless: at night they slept together amongst woods, and in the day journied along, rarely noticed by those who met them.
During his route, Sebastian had more than once taken out the letter given him by Kara Aziek, but his bleeding heart shrunk from the pain of reading sentiments so tender and so noble; sentiments which would revive too forcibly the vanished virtue of Donna Gonsalva. “Another time,” he exclaimed, as he returned the sealed vellum to his breast, “another time, matchless angel! for woman I will not call thee. I was to have read this after my re-union with——,” that perfidious name died upon his tongue; he started up, called to Barémel, and hastened to lose thought, in the rapidity of violent motion.
Remembering the directions originally given by Gaspar, Sebastian left the Zadaon on his right, and entered some beautiful meadows, among which stood the cottage of his friend’s mother. The mists of morning were but just beginning to clear away from its low roof, and no sound of man or cattle came from the fields around. He approached the cottage; its windows were closed, its garden in ruins: the silence that reigned there caused his heart to stop; could it be possible, he thought, for the family of Gaspar to have shared his cruel fate? grief and horror seized him at this suggestion.
With an unsteady hand he shook the fastened door, calling loudly for admittance: after several attempts to rouse the inhabitants, if inhabitants there were, he was preparing to relinquish them in despair, when a casement was cautiously opened, and a female voice was heard to ask, in a tone of extreme alarm, who was there; this question was only answered by a hasty inquiry of whether she belonged to the family of Gaspar Ribeiro.
At this demand the young woman uttered a faint cry, exclaiming “O, don’t harm us!—indeed, indeed, he is not here.”
Perceiving that she mistook him for some officer of justice, the King told her in a tone of convincing gentleness, that he was a friend, not an enemy; one that had shared captivity with Gaspar, and sought only the satisfaction of beholding him again.
At this assurance the girl hastened down, and opening the door, admitted Sebastian into a low, earth-floored room, in which he saw a younger girl, half clothed, pale, and trembling: their resemblance to Gaspar, and the desolateness of their situation, struck him so forcibly, that uttering an expression of concern, in which the name of his friend was more than once repeated, he sat down to recover himself.
The two young women looked at him fearfully: his habit, indeed, was mean and shattered, but the nobleness of his countenance, the grandeur of his mien, awakened a suspicion of his real character. “My brother spoke but of one companion in slavery,” said Marakita, the eldest, hesitating as she proceeded, “and to him he gave a pledge at parting, a ring which—”
Without speaking, Sebastian held out his hand, and Marakita recognizing on it a coarse bauble that had once been her own, hastened to prostrate herself at the feet of her sovereign: struggling in vain to repress his extreme emotion, Sebastian raised her and her sister, desiring them to tell him the fate of their brother. Marakita took out a letter from an old leather case which she had hidden under a stone of the door-way, and gave it the King; opening it, he read eagerly as follows.
“Most honoured sovereign, and may I venture to say, dear as honoured! should these ill-written lines ever come into your hands, (and God alone knows how to bring that blessed event to pass) I hope they may be given you on your throne; then you will not forget, sire, the poor orphans who present it, nor blush to acknowledge their self-exiled brother: but if, as I fear, it should be given to you after your unassisted return, O! let it warn you to trust no man in Portugal. Interest and ambition have corrupted every heart.
“They who should have loved their King most, have injured him most. I have personally applied to Donna Gonsalva, to Don Antonio, to the Dukes of Braganza and D’Aveyro, nay, to the Cardinal Regent himself, and all have pretended to disbelieve me. I have been imprisoned for my zeal, but thanks to an honest fellow-soldier have escaped, and am at this moment writing in a vessel bound for the land of Brazil: a man who is leaving her, and will journey towards the interior, has promised to convey this packet to my sisters. May the saints guide him on his way!
“I go, sire, to make a last effort for justice. Don Emanuel de Castro, the most upright of your majesty’s subjects, having been ransomed out of Barbary, is at present the Viceroy at St. Salvador; his great soul never yet knew any other ambition than that of being unsurpassed in virtue: he will hear and credit my story, and assuredly will interest the powers of Europe in his master’s cause.
“Rely on him, sire, and if he still rule in the new world when your majesty receives this letter, follow me thither: O! trust not your precious life amongst a set of traitors, who have thirsted even for the blood of your humble messenger.
“Obeying the call of a superior duty, I trust my family confidently to the Holy Spirit: fortunately no one knew more of me than my name, and my sisters may therefore live without fear of molestation.
“I invoke Jesus, and the Virgin Mother, to hear all those prayers I daily put up for the good Kara Aziek and for my injured sovereign!—I throw myself at his august feet, and venture to kiss and to embrace his sacred hands.—
“The devoted GASPAR.”
The first emotion of joy which had for some time warmed the frozen heart of Sebastian, now glowed there; transported out of himself by this unexpected assurance of his friend’s existence, he exclaimed aloud, “Not at his feet Gaspar, in your King’s arms!”—
A profound sigh followed these words, and Sebastian’s mind was soon filled with so many torturing remembrances of the worthlessness of others, that he forgot both his situation and his companions. Starting from a reverie at an action of Barémel’s, he addressed the awestruck girls, enquiring about their condition and their resources.
From the younger he learnt that they obtained a living by working in vineyards, (their mother having died while Gaspar was in Africa,) and that the eldest might be married to the son of a wealthy muleteer, did she possess only a portion of five gold crowns.
How often had the present of Kara Aziek kept Sebastian from feeling the sharpest sting of misery, an inability to reward services or to bestow relief! he now took out the Moorish handkerchief in which it was wrapt, and bidding Marakita advance, put into her hands some ornaments of precious stones; “Take these,” he said, “they are all that is left an injured monarch to bestow; they will enrich your husband, and enable you to give a portion to your young sister when she is of an age to marry: the remainder I go to share with Gaspar.—Do not shew these gems for awhile; I may then be far from pursuit—far from a country where love, loyalty, friendship, the ties of blood, and the closer bond of affection, exist no more for me.”
Alarmed by the excessive wildness of the young monarch’s looks and voice, and well informed of his sad story, the two sisters shed tears in abundance, timidly asking a few questions, and scarce venturing to raise their eyes, while they invoked blessings on their royal benefactor and on their brother.
Much affected, the King returned their blessings, adding with a strangely-frantic smile, “Hear me, ye guardian saints of Portugal,—unless I am Heaven’s outcast also!”
The sun’s broad light now warned him to begone; and repeating his injunctions, he bade adieu to Marakita and her sister.