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AFTER the battle of Alcazar, there remained but fifty of the Portuguese troops alive in Africa: most of these were prisoners to the Moors, and the remainder gaining with difficulty the christian fortresses, at length escaped homewards. The Moors in return lost above one-fifth of their gigantic army, but the pillage of the christian camp, (filled with all the riches of the East and West,) amply atoned, in their opinion, for such a loss.
This memorable battle lasted from morning till long after mid-day, and the sacking of the field of fight, continued till the next morning’s dawn.
While the infidels were thus employed, a benevolent dervise, whose piety was his authority and his protection, came to seek for such christians as might yet remain capable of receiving assistance: on the bank of the Lucos, among a heap of tall Lentiscos, he caught a gleam of light as if the moon-beams fell upon arms: the dervise stooped, and pushing away the shrubs, applied his lanthorn to the object. It was the figure of a young man, in armour, which bore marks of heavy and repeated blows; over his forehead curled a profusion of hair steeped in blood; the white and polished brow was trenched with a gaping wound, and the countenance lovely in death, was yet embellished by a look of youthful sweetness, which melted the good Mahometan’s heart; he knelt by the body, and gently raising it, dropped balsam upon the wounds; he then poured a cordial into the lips.
Presently he thought the brows were contracted with returning sensation: animated by this, he cautiously unfastened the knight’s cuirass, and opened the silk shirt beneath it; under this he saw the picture of a woman, which carefully putting aside, he exclaimed, “alas! poor youth, here is one, doubtless, that will sorely lament thee!” As he spoke he gently rubbed an aromatic liquid upon the Christian’s chest; the experiment succeeded; by degrees the motion of the heart was apparent—it increased—the body began to glow—and at last the stranger visibly breathed.
Many minutes elapsed ere the benevolent mussulman saw the object of his anxiety unclose his eyes; when he did so, he knew not that in succouring a desolate stranger, he was bringing back to life the king of Portugal, that foe to Mahomet.
Sebastian felt as if in a dream, but the last feeling to which he had been conscious when he fell, was now the first he was sensible of: he thought himself still pressing towards the river in search of Stukeley, and impressed with that idea, uttered his name, and made an effort to rise. Too feeble for exertion of any kind, he fell back upon the breast of the dervise, who in bad Portuguese assured him that he was in safety.
The unfortunate monarch bowed his head with a mournful smile of bitter recollection, without speaking. Meanwhile a servant attending the dervise, formed a litter of oak-branches, covering it with some of these soft, high grasses, which grow abundantly throughout Barbary, and placing Sebastian upon it, assisted his master in bearing him to their dwelling.
This was a retired cave formed by nature’s hand in a rock almost wholly overgrown with flowering shrubs; the entrance was shaded by lofty sycamores, and above it was heard the cooling sound of waters issuing from numerous springs.
Tranquillity, the tranquillity of perfect solitude, surrounded this habitation; Sebastian found himself conveyed through one rocky apartment, into an interior cell where he was laid upon a mattrass, and having some weak cordial given to him, left to repose: his enfeebled powers overcome with this simple nourishment, soon sunk into the blessed oblivion of sleep.
The dervise now and then came to watch his slumbers, but staid not to disturb them: whenever his patient awaked, he administered to him small portions of Tourkia bread melted in wine, (which was easily swallowed thus dissolved) and gently replacing his head upon the cushion of the mattrass, watched to see him sink again into his medicinal slumber.
The sun was at its meridian height the next day, when the king of Portugal fully awoke: the good mussulman sat by his bed-side. “How dost thou feel, my son?” he asked with an air of compassion.
Sebastian drew a sigh from the very depths of his heart. “As one,” he said, after a long pause; “as one deprived of all that makes life precious. Tell me, father, what have become of the Christians? I have yet one Portuguese in Africa?”
“Alas, my son!” replied the dervise, “they are all slain or taken captives; but the great Muley Moloch is fallen—the Xeriffs who fought against him, are also dead; and now his brother reigns in Morocco.”
Sebastian answered by a heavy groan, and threw himself back upon his mattrass: the slaughter of his people, pierced him with unutterable grief; though the consciousness of pious motives, and the certainty that treachery alone had produced defeat, served to reconcile him to himself.
Oppressed with apprehensions for the fate of Stukeley, and overcome with the remembrance of many of his followers whom he had loved, and had seen fall, the unhappy King uttered such deep and doleful groans, that the dervise believing him concerned at the prospect of slavery, bade him be of good cheer, and rest assured that he was still free.
“You are not fallen into the hands of a master, but of a friend,” said the aged man, “I will but detain you, Sir Knight, till I have healed your wounds, and then, with the blessing of our holy prophet, we will journey together to the castle of Tangier: it will not be the first time that Abensallah has conducted an unhappy christian to his countrymen.”
“And art thou a Mahometan?” exclaimed Sebastian, half raising himself with surprise, “how is it that thou breathest the very spirit of our benevolent faith?”
“The same God which spake through the lips of thy Sidie Messika,” replied the dervise, “inspires the hearts of all good men: besides, we venerate thy prophet’s moral laws, though Mahomet, a greater prophet than he, arose to outshine his brightness, as he had before outshone that of Moses. We are not so unlike in our faith, young soldier, but we might live in brotherhood on the earth. Would to God! that thy king, Sebastian, had studied his prophet’s laws more, and his spiritual superior’s less!”
“Hold, Moor!” cried the King, “I must not hear you impeach the authority of the representative of St. Peter.”
“Ah, my son!” returned the old man, shaking his grey locks, “dost thou not remember, that when this Peter struck off the ear of Malchus, though in defence of his Lord’s sacred person, thy prophet rebuked his zeal, bidding him put up the sword! How, then, dare the pontiff of Rome turn his sheep-hook into a weapon of offence?”
Struck with the force of this remark, which he was not prepared to answer, and disdaining to parry it, by retorting the bloody intolerance of Mahometanism, Sebastian was silent.
The dervise continued: “But let us not talk of our different creeds at this period; thou art sick and weak, and I should think of thy suffering body.”
The good man then dressed his companion’s wounds afresh, and spread before him palm leaves filled with fruit, together with a cordial drink and some Pharouk bread: by moderately partaking of these, the King was so refreshed, that he found himself able to rise, and walk up and down the cell. As he walked, he conversed courteously with Abensallah, though his discourse was mingled with many sighs, and he frequently lost himself in other thoughts.
The dervise noted his dejected looks with benevolent curiosity. “Thou hast lost, I fear, some dear kinsman in this fatal battle—some brother, or father, perhaps; and thy young heart not yet enured to sorrow.”—
“O, dervise!” exclaimed Sebastian, bursting into an agony of grief, “every living soul in the Christian army were to me like fathers and brothers. My countrymen, my brave countrymen! when you marched on so gallantly, could I have foreseen that I was leading you to——,” he stopped, then suddenly actuated by one of his rash impulses, abruptly added—“Abensallah, you see before you, Sebastian of Portugal.”
The dervise prostrated himself at his feet, “Young monarch, I bow to the lord’s anointed! thy misfortunes are thy security. Let the conduct of Abensallah teach thee hereafter to believe that there may be charity among mussulmen.”
Inexpressibly affected, the King motioned for him to rise, “Abensallah,” he said, squeezing his hand between both his, “Africa has already taught me a lesson I shall never forget: but I did not wage war against your prince from a false notion that he ruled over miscreants. I was actuated by zeal for that religion which, by limiting the prerogative of kings and the obedience of subjects, bestows equal blessings upon both. I would have conquered Africa to have freed her people from tyrannical rulers and tyrannical errors, to have afforded them opportunities of understanding our holy faith; not to have established a new despotism, and swayed with the iron mace of persecution—these ardent hopes are over; you see me here a fugitive, but with God’s leave, a King still.”
As Sebastian spoke the last words, a noble imperiousness sat on his youthful brow, his heart swelled with it, but quickly sunk again at recollection of his companions in arms.
Anxious to learn the fate of Stukeley, he besought the dervise to assist him in ascertaining whether he were dead, or captive; by searching the field of battle he hoped to arrive at some certainty. Abensallah in vain remonstrated against this hazardous enterprize, but no arguments availed with the still imprudent Sebastian; he was therefore reluctantly induced to propose their going on the night of the ensuing day, when all the Moors would be engaged in the celebration of one of their feasts, and the Portuguese monarch might perhaps pass unnoticed in the dress of a servant.
During the remainder of the day, Sebastian carefully attended to all the prescriptions of the dervise, he went soon to rest, and at break of day rose to breathe the air in safety at the mouth of the cave.
But two short days before, how differently had the king of Portugal beheld morning dawn!—then at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by zealous friends, strong in youth, health, and hope: now, a solitary fugitive, like some desolate wretch escaped from ship-wreck or an earth-quake, sunk in despondency, and reduced to infantine feebleness.
As the light spread over the distant plain of Alcazar, and the grey mists rose, from the stream of the Lucos, he could not refrain from shedding some tears, they were sacred to the sorrows of all who had lost friends on that luckless field: his softened heart then turned fondly to the image of Gonsalva, a treasure which yet remained to comfort him under affliction. Its heavenly beauty, the dewy smile which sat upon the lips, the tearful tenderness of the eyes to which a skilful painter had given all the effect of sadness, renovated his fainting spirit; he kissed it repeatedly, exclaiming, “At sight of thee, will not all this be forgotten?”
The appearance of the dervise, checked this lover-like weakness, he concealed his picture, and advanced to meet him.
They proceeded together along a narrow valley, formed by the rocks near the cavern, where frequently resting awhile, they breathed the refreshing air of the trees, and gently returned homeward.
Whenever Abensallah and his servant went to their devotions in the mosque of a neighbouring village, he fastened the entrance of his dwelling, to prevent the intrusion of ill-intentioned persons: he now left his Christian guest, with many intreaties that he would recruit his strength with frequent nourishment, and continue to inhale the fumes of Tauz Argent, a fragrant weed which in those days was esteemed, when burned, sovereign for inward weakness.
Left a whole day alone, the King had leisure to revolve over the extraordinary revolution of his fate: the uprightness of his intentions (for it must be remembered that he measured his conduct by the rules of the church of Rome) seemed to warrant him in believing, that had not the treachery of Hamet interposed, his arms must have been successful, and half Africa rescued from its tyrants: he did not therefore account himself suffering under the wrath of Heaven, confident of whose favor he was again ready to risk his crown and his life if required. The kindness of the dervise appeared little less than a miracle worked for his preservation, and he fondly trusted therefore, that his present misfortunes were but passing trials.
Of the possibility of being betrayed by Abensallah he never once thought, convinced that the man who has performed one act of solid benevolence is incapable of being tempted by any reward to an act of baseness.
As returning strength and calmer reflection continued to banish the gloomy impressions under which he had first entered Abensallah’s cave, his spirit rose with his hopes; he felt as if he could hazard unheard-of perils for the sake of regaining Portugal, and ransoming his captive soldiers. Fain would the sanguine monarch have persuaded himself that most of his troops had escaped to the sea-coast; but amongst these he could not hope to find Stukeley.—Stukeley, who had sworn to follow him either into slavery or death!—
“And my poor little cousin!” he exclaimed aloud, “What is become of him?—Ah noble boy, thou hast gained thy wish-perhaps!—yet surely these barbarians would not kill a child!”—he sighed profoundly as he spoke, for his heavy heart denied the confidence of his words.
Racked with fearful impatience, to him the day seemed insufferably long: his devotions were merely short ejaculations breathed over a plain cross of the order of Christus, which he had worn under his cuirass, yet never at the foot of the golden crucifix in the church of his ancestors, and surrounded by all the religious in Portugal, had he prayed with such warmth or sincerity.
Abensallah did not appear to interrupt his meditations, till night was begun: cautiously entering, he crossed the first chamber, and advancing to the interior cell, saw with satisfaction that his guest was safe. “Alla be praised!” he exclaimed, “I had fears for thee my son; for the robbers of the mountains sometimes plunder even the dwellings of poor solitaries.—We may now venture forth; every one is enjoying the last hours of their feast, and we are, sure to pass unseen.”
Sebastian gratefully thanked him, and taking off the coarse vest and cloak with which the dervise had replaced his uneasy coat of mail, exchanged them for the still meaner attire of Ismael the servant. At the mouth of the valley he saw a mule tied to a tree, which Abensallah had provided for him to ride; this humane attention touched the King; he was, indeed, ill able to walk far, but it cost him an effort to accept such accommodation, when the venerable man had no other support than his staff.
It may truly be said, that at the period which brought him to the knowledge of Abensallah, Sebastian first tasted the sweet bitterness of obligation.—Gratitude is a sentiment unknown to Kings; for having all things in their power, they learn to believe that they have a right to command all things. Sebastian, now stripped of that power, began to feel the original equality of man, and found his heart warmed by a perception of pure benevolence, hitherto unknown: from this perception flowed nobler notions of human nature in general, which made him welcome his new emotion of gratitude, not only as honorable but delightful.
The moon shone cloudless above the rocks and rivulets which lay between the cave and Alcazar; brightening the tops of the high palms, while the ground beneath their branches was thrown into deep shadow. Some fortresses, (visible from afar,) gave an air of warlike severity to the scene. Sebastian proceeded in silence, for his thoughts were now busied with mournful anticipations: Abensallah spoke not, and nothing disturbed the universal stillness but remote bursts of rejoicing from the Moorish villages.
As they moved among steep and thickly-wooded hills, a new and horrid sound made the King pause, and look enquiringly at the dervise: “That comes from amidst the unburied slain;” Abensallah faulteringly observed—“It is the howling of hyenas and tygers.” While speaking, he took a small harquebuss from under his garment, and prepared to load it.
For the first time in his life Sebastian’s cheek was completely blanched and his nerves shaken; the ghastly image those words had raised, momentarily unmanned him, but recovering, by a violent effort, he quickened the pace of his mule, and came direct upon the plain of Alcazar.
The moon shining above the arms and armour of the dead, covered them with a sheet of light: Sebastian hastily put his hand to his eyes, and remained a few moments without courage to look again; but at the explosion of Abensallah’s harquebuss, he raised his head and beheld the beasts of prey which that sound had alarmed, hurrying away, with backward glare from their horrid banquet.
The dervise’s harquebuss was re-loaded and again fired, till every savage animal had disappeared; he then assisted his shuddering companion to dismount, and having fastened the mule to a tree, supported him across the plain.
Their steps were soon impeded by scattered groups of horses and riders, that had evidently perished in flight: these groups become more frequent, till at length the ground was no where visible.
As Sebastian knelt down among these perishing bodies, his senses were nearly overcome with their noisome exhalations and ghastly appearance: some of them were half devoured by the wolves, and every trace of the divine image fearfully effaced: except by their shields and the caparisons of their horses, he could not have known his most intimate associates.
Grief and horror become now too strong for outward expression; Sebastian neither spoke nor sighed, but moved from heap to heap with fixed eyes and a wan cheek: sometimes he forgot his errand, and remained gazing on a confusion of bodies, banners, and arms, till the voice of the dervise recalled him. “This is a lesson for Kings!”—said Abensallah;—Sebastian shuddered, and at that moment felt as if his single hand had murdered every victim before him: his countenance expressed this sentiment so strongly, that the dervise sought to change the current of his feelings by suggesting, that his friend might have escaped, since they had not yet found his corpse.—Revived by this suggestion, the unfortunate monarch rallied his scattered spirits and proceeded in his painful task.
Advancing a little onward, he stumbled against the venerable bodies of the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, lying together, embracing the staff of a standard, which had belonged to the holy banner: a few paces beyond these, among a heap of swarthy moors,
“Like some white poppy sunk upon the plain,
Whose heavy head was overcharged with rain,”
lay his page, Diego. The noble boy had been killed at the moment his master’s Arabian was shot, and now lay stretched out beneath it.
At this piteous sight Sebastian’s heart was wrung with an excess of regret; he burst vehemently into tears, and bending to the fair body as he raised it, repeatedly kissed the half-closed eyes: their conversation on the morning of the battle was present to him again.—Vain prophesy! here was its fulfilment!—
Overcome with this recollection, and with the thought of Diego’s parents, Sebastian staggered as he arose, and was forced to catch at the dervise for support; another shock awaited him; his eye fell on the mangled body of Count Vimiosa: his limbs now shook violently, and the idea of Donna Gonsalva’s grief, displaced every other image. Shocked by his looks, the dervise caught his arm and hurried him away.
Insensible to any outward sensation, the King suffered himself to be led along, till suddenly starting from his stupor, he found that they were many paces from the slain. Abensallah would not hear of returning, “We must pass three nights there instead of one,” said he, “before we can examine half that woeful field.—Let us return then, my son, trusting that the same merciful providence which succoured thee, has preserved thy friend. Sorrow and fatigue overcome thee—lean on my shoulder—if we can but reach yonder tower, its walls will shelter us.”
Without answering, Sebastian turned his head back and fixed an earnest look upon the wide scene of slaughter behind them: fire kindled on his cheek, and in his eyes:—it suddenly blazed out.—“Accursed beyond hope of mercy,” he cried, “is the soul of him whose treachery caused all these to perish! from this plain their blood will cry aloud for vengeance, even at the last dreadful day!”
Exhausted with this momentary transport, the enfeebled monarch suffered his head to fall against the shoulder of Abensallah, who seized the opportunity of drawing him towards a resting place. The watch-tower in ruins, and shaded by high cypress trees, stood dark and noiseless; as they approached it, the sound of their steps alarmed some goats that had lain down there, and they bounded away: in their flight they rolled along a broken helmet, which Sebastian immediately recognized; breaking from Abensallah, he flew to an object under the tower, and beheld the corpse of Stukeley.—Throwing himself on the body and clasping it in his arms, he exclaimed, “O gallant Stukeley, and art thou too, fallen!”
The accidental circumstance of having perished alone, removed from the contagion of other bodies, and sheltered from hot winds by the tower and the trees, had preserved the chivalric Englishman from any change: his features were indeed paler than when in life, but the same character of wild sublimity was impressed on them. It seemed as if the soul, in quitting its mortal habitation had left there the eternal impress of its own greatness.
The armour of Stukeley was completely rusted with blood, by his side lay a lance shivered to pieces, and his hand still grasped a broken battle-axe.
Abensallah lifted up the helmet his companion had dropped, and saw that it was beat in upon the top, as if with repeated blows of a mace: he gently replaced it on the ground.
Meanwhile Sebastian hung over the remains of his friend in an agony of blasted hopes, bitter retrospections, and unavailing regrets: it was long ere he could command this tide of grief; but recovering by degrees, he rose with a calmer air, and besought the dervise to lend his aid in committing the honored clay to earth.
Without hesitation the charitable Mahometan consented to carry the slaughtered warrior to his own dwelling, and there see him peacefully buried.
“Moor!” exclaimed the young King, with passionate gratitude, “Should I live to regain my kingdom, and with it my African possessions, your countrymen will owe to you blessings and privileges hitherto unknown.”
Abensallah called on Allah to witness this promise, then hastened away to bring the mule.
When Sebastian was left alone, he threw himself along the ground by Stukeley’s body, and remained stedfastly looking on it: the well-known face, the still ruin, the melancholy midnight, and the destructive plain before him, together with the mournful sound of a neighbouring rivulet, deepened the desolate sadness of that moment: he fastened his lips on the chilling hand of his unconscious friend, while the hollow echo of his own sighs rung through the neighbouring chambers.
Abensallah found him in the same mournful attitude. Having assisted each other in placing Stukeley’s corse on the mule, they proceeded slowly, by a longer though less toilsome way than they had come, to the rocks.
When they reached the cave, Sebastian was so sick from the fretting of his wounds, that he could with difficulty gain its entrance: Ismael met them, and lifted their lamented burthen into the second chamber. There the king watched it for the remaining hours, while Ismael and the dervise were digging the last bed of the hero.
Two hours after day light the grave was finished, Stukeley was buried with his sword and spurs, as the peculiar badges of knighthood, which was supposed swift to succour and strong to avenge; his body was wrapped in a coarse shroud of Moorish cloth, but his head was uncovered; the thick glossy hair gave beauty still to the now marble features:—Sebastian thought of the time when he had hoped to have decorated that majestic head with a crown.
When the grave was closed, he placed upon it a rude cross of wood which he had shaped during the night, and kneeling down by it pronounced a prayer for the gallant soul. Abensallah and Ismael moved away.
Rising from his knees, the young King attentively surveyed the place, that he might remember it at a future day; it was particularized by a few marks not easily forgotten: the place itself was a narrow recess turning out of the valley; it was half encircled by perpendicular heights of stupendous steepness, the sides of which were only clothed with mosses, and at their feet flowed an inconsiderable rivulet; towards the lower end grew a cluster of locust trees, between which and the mountain rose Stukeley’s grave.—So concealed, it was not likely that any human eye would ever discover or disturb the sacred cross.
Somewhat soothed by this thought, and the consciousness of having performed the last duties to a faithful friend, Sebastian rejoined the dervise with less emotion. “We must now dismiss painful recollections,” said the worthy Abensallah, “let us think of nothing, my son, but your perfect recovery and your safe conveyance from Africa.”
“Ah father,” exclaimed Sebastian, “you speak like a man without hopes and without regrets!—Your holy life, exempt from particular affections or selfish wishes, places you beyond the reach of that grief which renders it impossible for me to dismiss painful recollections.”
“I am not, therefore, free from sorrow,” replied the dervise, “heedless youth! I do mourn—but it is for human nature in general: alas, I mourn more for its frailties than for its miseries.”
“True—true—” repeated Sebastian, smiting his breast—“you say right, Abensallah; had we no errors we should have but few sufferings.”
Our dervise, more solicitous to impress humane sentiments than eager to propagate peculiar tenets, seized this opportunity of discoursing with much wisdom upon the duties of a sovereign: his companion listened with attention and replied with frankness.
He detailed with simplicity some of his own plans for diffusing comfort in more equal proportions through all ranks of his subjects, and noted the salutary reforms already made by him in the Portuguese government; he described the liberal mode in which he had intended to conduct his African conquests, mixing these details with so many just and noble observations, that Abensallah could not help lamenting the battle of Alcazar.
To have lived under the rule of a King (though Christian,) who would have ameliorated the Moor’s condition by parental care, and sought to win them into schools and churches, without prohibiting their mosques, appeared an object of desire, when compared with the grinding tyranny of their native Xeriffs, and the brutish ignorance to which their laws condemned them.
Abensallah continued to hear his royal guest with that complacent pleasure with which virtuous old age perceives generous principles in youth; but he had lived long enough in the world to know that youth does not always act in conformity with its principles, nay, that its most amiable qualities may be wrought by interested persons into a foundation for the opposite vices. So blindly devoted to the infallibility of papal authority, and so abhorrent of any religion which disputed it, Abensallah rightly doubted whether Sebastian, in the event of complete success, would have persevered in his system of moderation: intolerant persecution might have been easily brought to bear the aspect of religious duty, and that commanded or recommended by a spiritual superior, would soon have swept away every barrier opposed by a character naturally candid.
Such reflections as these, by teaching the dervise to consider his companions’ misfortunes as a necessary discipline, silenced any further regret; yet Sebastian’s sweet and animated manner had so won upon his affections, that he could not help exclaiming, “I shall be loth to part with thee, my son; but we shall meet again in paradise.”
Touched by such kindness, the king pressed Abensallah to accompany him into Portugal, adding to many arguments the entreaties and promises of a grateful spirit, conscious of possessing in his own dominions the means of fulfilling them all.
“Did I live only for myself, answered the dervise, I should perhaps gladly leave a land where I see nothing but misery, but the more miserable it is, the more I am called upon to remain. My holy profession, and the peaceful life I lead, gives me frequent opportunities of assisting captives to escape, or of conveying intelligence from them to the Christian fortresses; if the old man of the rocks were gone, what would become of these poor strangers?—Added to this, I am frequently able to terminate the bloody feuds of my countrymen—to restore harmony amongst brethren, and bring back rebellious children to their parents; these are my treasures, King! which would be poorly exchanged for all your benefits. I shall however, bless you daily; and I will preserve from injury the grave of your departed friend.”
At this mention of Stukeley, clouds gathered over the face of Sebastian; making an effort to dispel them, he hastily uttered some grateful expressions, and then discoursed upon the means of discovering such of his subjects as might have survived the battle.
Abensallah promised to make diligent search for such captives, and to use all his influence for their release.
Sebastian squeezed his hand, exclaiming with generous warmth, “Slacken not your exertions Abensallah for the meanest of my people; I stand indebted to every man whom I brought from Portugal for his liberty. If I part with the whole of my revenue, pawn the jewels of my crown, make myself a debtor to half the monarchs in Christendom, and after all, become a beggar throughout my own dominions for contributions and gifts, I will do it to ransom these gallant sufferers.—Should I reach Lisbon, my first step will be to raise money and send it over to the governor of Tangier; from his hands you will then receive whatever sums may be needful.”
“And should I in my inquiry, find Christians of other nations, perhaps aged men bowed down with sorrow and toil, languishing to die in their native land—”
“Ransom them—ransom them!” interrupted Sebastian, tears glistering in his eyes, “first restore liberty to my Portuguese, for remember, freedom is a debt I owe them—then take all the superflux, and purchase with it happiness for others. There are two noble Portuguese, Abensallah, whom I pray you to search for with a father’s anxiety: one is my dearly-loved cousin, the prior of Crato, the other Don Emanuel de Castro; he saved my life at Alcazar. When you find these, shew them this ring, and say that he who gave it you, is alive, and then I hope, in Portugal.”
“How shall I know these gallant gentlemen?” asked the dervise, “you may know Don Emanuel de Castro,” replied Sebastian, “from all the world: though you should behold him in the vilest habit and employment, yet will such an air of nobleness shine through them, that you cannot help discovering in him an extraordinary man. He is of larger proportions than I, his visage oval and full of thought, his complexion dark olive, his eyes dark grey, somewhat melancholy but very sweet; on his left hand he has a deep scar, got in the wars of India.
“The prior of Crato is of a different mould: though some years older than De Castro, he has preserved almost the roundness and floridness of boyhood; his fair curling hair, light blue eyes, and jovial manner, will soon point him out: he will rejoice to see this ring!—and so will De Castro,” added the King, after a pause, “as it is a token of my safety, he will rejoice, though it was a gift of Gonsalva’s.”
“’Tis a fanciful ring for a warrior,” observed the dervise, curiously eying the bauble, which after the gaudy fashion of those times was formed by various precious stones into a miniature garland of flowers.
“Oh father!” exclaimed Sebastian, passionately fixing his eyes on it also, “that ring was given me by the loveliest and most beloved of women.—I have no other token to send to my friends, or I would not part with that—it must serve too, as a pledge for the governor of Tangier: she who gave it knows I would have defended it with my life, and therefore would not resign it but for the sake of fulfilling a duty.”
Hurried away in thought to the beautiful creature whom this incident recalled, Sebastian forgot every thing else and sunk into silence: he dwelt with tender delight upon the unequivocal proof she had given him of her attachment, which bestowed and avowed ere she could suspect his royal station, carried with them the charm of disinterestedness. He then reproached himself for those fantastic jealousies to which he had sometimes given way, when he saw her dancing with another, and confessed now, that her apparent insensibility at times, had arisen only from a little female coquetry, delighting in power, and willing to prove its extent.
Thus satisfied with her affection, he felt no apprehension of being coldly received, because he returned not a conqueror; the Moors themselves attested his gallant conduct in the field, and the brilliant success of their onset had shewn, that but for the perfidy of Hamet, the day would have been won by the Christians.—What then had he to fear? perhaps given up as lost, he would return to revive his Gonsalva’s widowed heart; she would love him the more for his dangers and distresses, and that delicate pride which had stifled the expressions of tenderness to a powerful, splendid monarch, would impel her to the same monarch, become poor and unfortunate.
Observing his guest absorbed in reflections, which from the expression of his countenance did not appear unpleasant, the worthy Abensallah gently removed into his outer chamber, for the purpose of giving audience to some distressed people who came to implore his counsel.—Meanwhile Sebastian remained leaning on his rude couch, his ideas wandering from late sorrow, over the enchanted ground of the more distant past, till gently wearied, thought glided into dreams, and dreams at last ended in long and profound sleep.
The wounds of Sebastian and his consequent feebleness now daily disappeared, and Abensallah was therefore enabled to make longer excursions from the cave, for the sake of gaining information for his guest: his habitation, always considered sacred, was not likely to excite suspicion as a Christian’s hiding place; and even if it did so, the inner apartment was a secure retreat, being so contrived as to deceive the most prying observer.—Ismael’s fidelity had been too often tried in similar circumstances to be doubted now, so that Abensallah left him without apprehension, to attend Sebastian; whom, however, he knew only as a Portuguese knight.
On the good dervise’s return from Alcazar-quiver, he brought strange intelligence.—After the fatal battle, Hamet Abdulcrim, the new emperor, had strictly enquired for the King of Portugal; he was told that he had fallen: this assertion having been made by Don Nugno De Mascarenhas, the King’s chief equerry, he was sent to the field in order that he might produce a proof of his veracity by finding the King’s body.
In the place he described, was indeed found a corpse in green armour, much maimed and disfigured: the Portuguese who saw it, confessed it to be that of their sovereign, and therefore assured Hamet Abdulcrim that any farther search for Sebastian alive, was useless.—Information of his nephew’s death was now forwarded to Philip of Spain, (the late Xeriff having been in alliance with him,) and when Abensallah heard the tale, a messenger from Madrid was hourly expected to beg the body, and to procure the release of some Castillian prisoners.
On first hearing this account, Sebastian’s inflammable blood took fire, for he believed himself wilfully abandoned by his people; but the next instant made him cool again. It was impossible not to perceive that Marcarenhas, who had always loved his master, could be only actuated by the desire of facilitating his concealment in Barbary, should he be living, and seeking the means of escape; this well-meant deceit had evidently given a hint to the other persons examined by the Xeriff, and to it, probably Sebastian might finally owe his preservation.
Neither the King nor the dervise could approve of absolute falsehood; though they were tempted to think it excusable, under such peculiar circumstances as the present, flowing as it did from loyal zeal and patriotic considerations.
Alarmed at the diffusion of such an error throughout Europe, Sebastian’s anxiety to revisit Portugal became extreme; but as they must travel on foot, Abensallah assured him that it would be culpable rashness to commence a long journey before he was completely restored to health; Arzile, the nearest Christian fortress, lay at some leagues distance, and to avoid notice, they must take a circuitous route thither, hiding themselves in the day, and proceeding through the changeable air of night.
Sebastian’s impatient nature was ill-suited to any delay, but necessity is an imperious mistress; he was therefore obliged to turn his attention towards acquiring health; and by obliging Abensallah on that point, facilitate the hour of their departure.
Each night and morning he now tried his strength among the mountains, in excursions of increasing length, gradually habituating himself to heat, fatigue, and evening damps: his wounds were at last thoroughly healed, and even the dervise could no longer refuse assent to the fresh glow that began to mantle on his cheek.
Sebastian’s eagerness had nobler sources than selfish satisfaction; he lamented every hour thus wasted at a distance from the kingdom where all his duties were centred, he wished to ease the hearts of such as mourned him dead, and above all to commence the promised work of liberation for his followers: it must be confessed that the prospect of again beholding Donna Gonsalva, and of restoring her to happiness, gave additional ardour to those honourable anxieties.
When his importunity finally prevailed on Abensallah to fix the day for their departure, pleasure sparkled in his eyes; it was the first time pleasure had appeared there since he had seen the dervise.
“Ah my son!” exclaimed the holy man, “thou must suffer many more sorrows I fear, ere the spirit that breaks forth in that bright light is finally quenched.”
“And why should it be quenched?” asked the young monarch.
“Because, replied Abensallah, it is full of an extravagant hope of such unfading raptures as are only to be found in paradise. ’Tis the very spirit of youth which falsely believes all it loves, immutable: Time that shews thee the mutability of every thing, even of human character (for alas! how insecure sometimes is virtue herself,) will extinguish, or give a new direction to this erring fire.—Hast thou my son never felt, even in the midst of what is called felicity, a sort of feebleness in thy power of enjoyment, which seemed to make happiness mock thy very grasp? commune with a beloved friend, behold this glorious scene of earth and heaven, and thou wilt acknowledge, even at the moment of liveliest emotion, that in all sublunary things we feel the want of some faculty by which we might enjoy or possess them more intimately: this faculty, whatever it may be, is doubtless reserved for another state of being. Turn and plant thy thoughts then on sublimer objects: with views thus changed, thou wilt no longer hurry impatiently through life, in search of that blessedness for which our souls are expressly formed, but will journey calmly on towards the eternal abiding place, where our Creator treasures up for the faithful, raptures ineffable.”
“I am not unmindful of that glorious eternity, be assured, good father,” returned the King, “yet I frankly acknowledge, that unless I were to believe in the permanence of human excellence, long known and long tried, life would not merely lose its charm, but become hateful to me. In yon humble grave lies one, who, had he lived, I could have anchored my soul on. Yes, gallant Stukeley! our knot of love was soon broken, but the memory of thy noble and endearing qualities can never leave me!”
At this short apostrophe to his friend, Sebastian’s animation disappeared, and a train of reflections succeeded, well calculated to amend and to enlarge his heart.
The ensuing night having been fixed on for their journey, Abensallah and Ismael went in the evening of the present day, to a neighbouring village, for the purchase of such portable provisions as would be requisite to take with him: left free to range over the valley, Sebastian’s steps naturally turned to the resting place of his friend, as he was so soon to quit it never to return; but it was among his mental promises to have the honoured dust transferred to Portugal when he should return thither.
The shadows of evening were now deepening, the gloom of the rocks as he passed along; though the sun had been long set, the air burnt like a furnace; the ground too was scorching; and the colour of the verdure being lost in the grey of twilight, contributed with this unrelenting heat, to give an air of savage sterility to the scene.
Dried up by powerful suns, the mountain stream was known only by its stony channel; Sebastian hastily crossed it, and pushing through the matted boughs of the locust trees, a solitary bird shot from amongst them, and startled him with her piercing cry; long after she was flown, he stood listening to her fearful echo.
What a spot for the last bed of a hero! yet Stukeley slept in it undisturbed!
Never before, had death been so impressed on the senses of the young monarch. The desolation of the place, its now awful stillness, the deepening twilight, the devouring element by which he was surrounded, (for he knew not how to deem it air) and the strong contrast to them in his own animated hopes and busy thoughts, agitated him strangely; he stood as if transfixed, gazing on the mound of earth, without venturing to pollute what seemed to him so sacred, even by an embrace.
He was roused from this trance by the sound of voices; one resembled that of the dervise, and it was calling on Alla for succour: regardless of personal risque (though unarmed,) Sebastian rushed into the valley, and soon reached the spot whence these cries proceeded; an aged Moor was struggling with a band of robbers; though not Abensallah, he could not refrain from bursting upon the plunderers, and attacking them with the limb of a tree, which, blown off by some storm, had lain luckily in his path.
The blows of this unwieldy club, falling with inconceivable rapidity on every side, soon obliged the robbers to quit their prey, and turn on their new antagonist; they surrounded him, attacked him fiercely with their horrid knives, and one of them, succeeding in stabbing him behind, he dropped from loss of blood.
Enraged at the escape of their first victim, (a rich merchant, who had been coming to ask the prayers of Abensallah,) the Alarbes, or mountain dwellers, as they are called, were on the point of wholly sacrificing the royal Portuguese to their vengeance, when a faint flash of lightning cast a gleam over his breast, and discovered through the folds of his coarse galebia, the costly setting of Donna Gonsalva’s picture; the head of the band immediately seized this precious prize, and soon lost in admiration of the diamonds all ideas of slaughter; he now ordered the Christian dog (as he scornfully termed his captive,) to be lifted on a mule, directing one of the men to bandage his wound, and ride on the same beast.
Totally unconscious of what was doing, having fainted from effusion of blood, the ill-starred monarch was lifted up, and placed before one of the Alarbes; the fellow spurred his beast, and followed by the whole troop, set off on full gallop out of the valley.