WHEN Sebastian was again capable of observation, he found himself in the heart of almost impenetrable mountains, surrounded by savage tribes, living in tents made of the bark and leaves of the palm-tree. These wretches seemed to have just as much civilization amongst them as rendered their vices more hideous, by taking from them the plea of ignorance: their business was plunder and murder; their pleasures, drunkenness and debauchery.
The habits of such a people were a constant source of horror and indignation to Sebastian; of their barbarous jargon indeed he knew nothing, but the force of these robbers’ passions imparted a detestable expressiveness to every action of their bodies and features, which made him but too well comprehend their ferocity and their profligacy.
Hitherto a surly old woman had dressed his wound, and supplied him with food, and from her he vainly attempted to obtain by signs Donna Gonsalva’s picture: she either did not or would not understand him.
Maddened by this loss, and desperate of release, ignorant of the place where he was, and hopeless therefore of escaping, he began to disregard life: neither the threats nor the violence of the Alarbes prevailed to alter his resolution of never submitting to the base occupations they assigned him; he was a monarch still, though deprived of his people and of liberty; and whether he lived or died, he was resolved to live or die undebased by submission to miscreants.
The firmness with which he endured all their torments, at first astonished, and at length exasperated, his brutal captors; they suffered him to behold the beautiful image of Gonsalva (now robbed of its setting) polluted by their brutish admiration, but steadily withheld it, in defiance of his frantic entreaties, his rash attempts to regain it, or his offer of treasures in exchange.
One day when Sarhamet the chief had exasperated him beyond controul, by deridingly kissing the picture, his fury burst forth so fearfully, that the Alarbe sprung out of his reach, and hastily dashed the contested object into one of the neighbouring torrents: nothing short of regaining his treasure could have given the captive King such joy; his wrath suddenly ceased, he dropt the arm just raised to elance a mortal blow, and approaching the torrent, beheld with satisfaction the divine colours of the portrait effaced by its foaming waters; he then turned quietly away, and returned to his former station.
Tranquillized by the certainty that his Gonsalva’s representative was thus rescued from profanation, he was able to controul his indignation at other circumstances, and to strive at obtaining his own freedom; but though he endeavoured to explain to these banditti, that if they would convey him to a Christian fortress they should be liberally paid, and loaded with gifts, they either did not comprehend, or much mistrusted his veracity: at length, wearied, out by his stedfast character, and tempted by the great price given for handsome Europeans by the Moorish grandees, Sarhamet meditated selling him.
This information, which was meant to vex, rather gratified their prisoner; to be again brought into the plains, was to be once more placed within prospect of liberty, and chance of meeting the reverend Abensallah: Sebastian’s health returned with hope; for though his last wound had been deep, it had been skilfully managed; and the purity of a good constitution, adding force to an invincible spirit, enabled him to bear without injury the piercing mountain air, and the frequent fasts to which the Alarbes had wantonly doomed him.
His improving looks quickened the eagerness of Sarhamet for selling him: solicitous to secure the moment of procuring a high price for his captive, the robber selected a dozen followers, and mounting them and Sebastian upon stout Barbs, set off with them one morning by day break, for the country house of a Moorish grandee.
Sarhamet and his brother rode on each side of the King; they were armed with guns and Moorish knives, and made signs to him, that if he attempted to escape, he must inevitably fall by the hands of the troops escorting them, whose naked weapons were placed in their girdles ready for that purpose:—Sebastian smiled, and motioned acquiescence; but it was a grievous smile, “as if he disdained himself” for so submitting to fortune.
Their journey was long and wearisome: the Alarbes, enured to every change of climate, travelled indifferently through nightly dews and noon-day heats; sometimes they halted after a burning day, upon the very summit of a snow-topt mountain, where they supped, and slept, with no other covering than the clouds; at other times they would journey through the night, and lay themselves to rest in valleys, among scorching rocks, that reflected thrice the heat of the sun.
Sebastian contemplated this iron strength, with something like envy: by rendering a man’s body independent, it gives additional stability to the freedom of his mind; he felt conscious that, had he been thus disciplined into invulnerable strength, he might have attempted, and perhaps effected his escape: but the intense heats had re-opened his last wound, and had in consequence so reduced his natural vigour, that he could not hope to succeed, though he should master two Alarbes who constantly watched him while the others slept. Completely unarmed, and cautiously removed from the spot where the horses were fastened, he was aware, that a contest with one Moor must awaken the others, and that he should perish under their daggers long before he could meet any shelter: by acquiescing at present, he might obtain his object hereafter; in the neighbourhood of a populous city, less hazardous means might be found, and Providence might again throw Abensallah in his way, or some christian friend, with whom he might share in an attempt at mutual deliverance.
These thoughts often occupied him, as he rested or rode among his ferocious companions; and still hope filled his sanguine breast, pointing to his country and to Gonsalva.
From the length of their journey, Sebastian conjectured that his late residence had been at the extremity of the Benzeroel mountains; he had therefore been in the same tract of country with the benevolent dervise, and was now far distant from him: at thought of never seeing him again, his feelings saddened, gliding naturally from Abensallah to the gallant Stukeley, and thence to the slaughter of Alcazar.
On the fourteenth day, Sarhamet exchanged his prisoner’s worn-out galebia for a coarse, but more becoming habit, telling him that they were on the point of finishing their career: Sebastian for the first time enquired the name and rank of the person to whom they were now going; he learnt in reply, that he was the Almoçadem of a cavila, (that is, governor of a province) high in favour of the reigning Xeriff, (having ably assisted in securing him the throne) and highly respected throughout Barbary. His dwelling was in the Valley of Palms, a delightful place, nearly three leagues beyond Mequinez.
After bathing, and re-dressing themselves, the whole party mounted their horses, and proceeded down a winding declivity into a most luxuriant vale: the country-house of El Hader lay before them. Having been a royal gift, the building was a moorish Cassavee of much magnificence, covering with its interior gardens, squares, piazzas, and baths, an extent of four miles. Sebastian paused awhile, admiring its rude splendor.
The high dome of green and gold, the tall cypress trees which appeared rising above the gilded railings of the squares, the fountains of white and azure marble, the gay piazzas chequered with coloured tiles, the lofty columns and massy arches, all presented a semblance of regal grandeur, which made his heart spring back to Ribera and Xabregas. The contrast of his situation now, with what it had been when in those beloved places, almost unmanned him; their scenes were so associated with the idea of Donna Gonsalva, that it was impossible for him not to heave some profound sighs as he entered the dwelling of a Moorish nobleman, a prisoner and a slave.
Sarhamet, with his brother and their captive, was admitted into a lower hall of the Cassavee, whence they were soon after led into the presence of the Almoçadim.
As the young and imperious King of Portugal passed through a crowd of Moors to the audience chamber of El Hader, and reflected that he was going to be sold for a price, like some ignoble animal, his heart might well be said to “grow too big for what contained it;” he was on the point of madly rushing upon all surrounding him, and so purchasing freedom with life. Had he not happily remembered that Portugal claimed a sacrifice at his hands, and that it was his duty to suffer, in the hope of living to repair the unintentional calamity he had caused her, his rashness must have transported him into violence that would have ended in his own destruction.
Fervently calling on every saint to endue him with patience, he walked slowly after Sarhamet, with a resolution of no longer observing the minutiæ of his fate: thus influenced, he scarcely noticed the approbation of El Hader and his retainers, but stood silent, wrapped up in his cloak, wilfully inattentive to the long bargaining of the Alarbe, and the enormous price at length paid down for him.
When the bargain was concluded, Sarhamet departed; the Almoçadem then addressed his new slave in vile Portuguese, telling him to adore Alla, for having advanced him to so high an honour as that of serving the greatest man throughout the Xeriff’s dominions; promising, in consideration of the christian’s fine appearance, to make him one of his household slaves.
The sentence of death would have been more grateful to Sebastian than this degrading favour. What! was he, a christian king, the descendant of kings, to wait upon an accursed infidel, and learn obedience to his nod? No, he would rather perish, he would suffer for his beloved country and for his friends all that pain, sorrow, and want, could inflict, he would for their sakes bend to almost any mortification; but it was impossible for him to yield to base servitude, and become the domestic servant of a Mahometan. Resolute to die in this determination, he calmly repeated it to El Hader, protesting he would only labour in the manly occupation of really useful work, the employments of the field.
The Almoçadem was a good-humoured, indolent man, not easily moved to wrath; surprized, therefore, but not irritated, he turned to his interpreter, bidding him ask the foolish christian if he knew the difference between a household and a field slave. The man who repeated the question, ended it by an explanation of the situations, assuring Sebastian, that if he remained in the Cassavee he would be superbly dressed, delicately fed, and comfortably lodged; that all his business would be to wait at his lord’s back with his hookha, or ride out when he went a hunting, with his lances and arrows: that, on the contrary, if he persisted in joining the field slaves, he would be doomed to hard fare, and worse lodging, and be urged to the most laborious tasks by stripes and blows.
At the last words, Sebastian’s eyes sparkled with fury, “Mark me, Moor!” he cried in a dreadful voice, “I am a man that will not survive disgrace: by the immortal heavens! if but the shadow of one of your whips ever falls upon this body, I will wash out the stain in blood! Beware then!”
The Africans looked on each other with astonishment: the Almoçadem smiled. “We shall see! we shall see!” he repeated carelessly, “if you do your duty I give orders that you shall not be beaten; but I must have all my slaves do their duty; so do you hear, don’t abuse my goodness by insolence and idleness. What are you, young man?—How did you get into that rogue, Sarhamet’s hands?—Were you one of the mad-headed followers of the mad King Sebastian?”
The captive monarch’s blood crimsoned his face: “I was in the battle of Alcazar,” he said proudly, “and were I free this moment, would again follow the royal-standard of Portugal over the plains of Barbary. The mad Sebastian, as you call him, on that day made the stoutest hearts in Morocco tremble.—May he live to make them quake again! I saw your routed Moors flying before him like scattered sheep!—the field was ours, till one of your infidel race, the detested Muley Hamet, turned like a traitor upon the troops he was affecting to aid.—”
“He did right,” interrupted El Hader, “by so doing he made his peace with Mahomet, and gained Paradise. But how could your hot-brained King build on the faith of a man who had broken his faith with the prophet by leaguing with christians? Ah! I see that touches you,—well, they are both gone to settle their accounts together in the other world.”
As he concluded, the Almoçadem turned to his interpreter, “Ephra, we must give this christian fool his choice; you know I am always desirous of leaving my slaves to experience.—Conduct him to field-work; and then, if he continues to despise the honor of attending upon me here, we must leave him to his fate.—Bid him withdraw.”
As El Hader rose while he was speaking, Sebastian naturally coincided with the movement, and turned away; he was therefore spared the mortification of being told to depart.
Ephra conducted him towards a long piazza, through which they passed into a large paved court, where several slaves were refreshing themselves between their hours of labour: struggling with his imperious nature, the unhappy monarch neither saw nor heard any thing, till a passionate exclamation, in pure Portuguese, struck his ear; he turned hastily round and beheld a young man, (whose face he remembered to have seen amongst his troops,) who dropping upon one knee, repeated in whispers—“O sire! what a change is this.”
Many and powerful were the reasons of Sebastian for remaining unknown to the Moors, but his feelings, ever superior to selfish prudence, now mocked controul; he stopt, and extended both his hands, which the soldier eagerly kissed; he would have spoken, but the words died on his lips: the Portuguese recovering from his transport of mixed emotion, into sorrow and habitual reverence, fearfully relinquished his sovereign’s hand, and turned aside to conceal some tears: Ephra rudely advanced and asked the meaning of this scene.
Before Sebastian could reply, the young soldier gently answered, that he was overcome by unexpectedly finding his commanding officer in the new slave, then he prayed permission to converse with him awhile, after which he would return to his occupations with redoubled diligence.
Ephra was a man not easily moved: he coldly denied this indulgence, telling the Portuguese to mind his present superiors and forget his past ones, adding sarcastically, “whoever your captain is, whether Don or Hidalgo, he is now a slave like yourself.”
Without venturing to remonstrate, the poor youth bowed and disappeared, while Ephra morosely continued to precede his royal companion.
Every thing now was unnoticed by Sebastian: this accidental meeting with one of his subjects had subdued him; the sound of those few words pronounced in their native accent, brought into his mind such crouds of tender and affecting images, that his heart was compleatly softened: until this moment he had felt utterly abandoned, and now the unexpected proof of being still loved and honored, even by one he might be said to have injured, affected him to weakness.
It was the weakness of Sebastian to wish for the love of his fellow creatures: time, only, could teach him to be contented with their esteem.
Having conducted his melancholy companion through the obscurest parts of the Cassavee, Ephra brought him into a large square of ground surrounded by mean buildings, where a number of Christians were at work: this place contained the slaves’ habitations, and was under the direction of a governor, whose office it was to see the several tasks fulfilled, and at night to lock up all the captives in their miserable lodgings.
At sight of a new victim, this man came forward; “Here, Ben Tarab,” cried Ephra, “our illustrious master has sent you this refractory Christian to teach obedience; give him work, and see that he does not attempt to escape: if you do not present him to the great El Hader when next he calls for him, your head will answer it.”
Ben Tarab bowed submissively, and Ephra left the court.
Sebastian’s eyes meanwhile were anxiously employed in scrutinizing the persons around him: they were Christians of all nations, some very old, others in the tender spring of life; but blood-drinking care, and flesh-consuming toil had left their traces on the youngest cheeks: every countenance was wan, every figure emaciated.
Amongst the various groups, he sought in vain for his cousin Antonio, or Don Emanuel de Castro; none but strange faces met his gaze, and as no one recognized him, he rightly concluded that none of his own army were amongst them.
Sebastian wished not for partners in affliction; and though anxiety led him to seek for Crato and de Castro, he was gladdened by not finding them under the task-masters of El Hader.
Ben Tarab soon assigned him a portion of labour: too much occupied with reflections on the miserable lot of others, to think any longer of his own, Sebastian performed his task mechanically, while viewing the scene before him.—In one quarter were groups of captives employed in stamping, with heavy weights, the damp earth with which the Moors form the walls of their inferior buildings; others were labouring to prepare this earth out of various materials; others again bringing sand, bricks, and lime, in loaded baskets upon their heads; while some were hewing stone, sawing wood, melting lead, or moulding ornaments for the nobler parts of the Cassavee.
Fainting with heat, toil, and thirst, these unhappy people were yet urged to their tasks with imprecations and blows; neither age nor infirmities pleaded for a moment’s indulgence: they toiled on, consumed by scorching suns, and unrefreshed by a single breeze.
The sighs and groans of the Christians pierced the heart of Sebastian; he heard them with anguish, for he was no longer that Sebastian whose nod could give liberty; a slave now, he had nothing to bestow but inward prayers for himself and for them.
Perceiving his new workman totally ignorant of labour, Ben Tarab roughly told him to observe how others did, and so learn the trade of them.—“What, I suppose you have been what Christian dogs call a gentleman, and therefore are good for nothing:—I have always ten times the trouble with gentlemen; they are either insolent, lazy, or stupid, and are only fit to do the work of horses or asses; one poor fellow is worth a thousand of you.—We never promote gentlemen here, so you may reckon soon upon being sent into the open country to draw the water-waggons, or dig for lime.—Why the plague am I to be troubled with you?—could not you have been kept amongst the household pack?”
The rage which seemed ready to burst in thunder from Sebastian, evidently intimidated Ben Tarab; he moved nimbly out of the reach of his arm, muttering in a sullen tone, “Get on with your job—do as well as you can.”
Recovering his self-command, the young King turned scornfully away, and pursued his occupation; it was chipping marble: The comparative easiness and delicacy of this employment, when contrasted with that of others, made him believe that he owed some gratitude even to Ben Tarab, for having thus favored him, he was therefore resolved to disregard in future the brutal language of the man, and think only of escaping insult by discharging his portion of labour.
In spite of this resolution he could never again look at Ben Tarab without something so alarming in his eyes, that the Moor feared to approach him, he shewed him his daily tasks, not daring to threaten any punishment for their non-fulfilment, and at length, sick of such restraint, offered to remove him into a different department. Sebastian caught at the proposal; he was solicitous to see all the slave of the Almoçadem, and frequently wished to meet once more with the young soldier whose dutiful remembrance had affected him so much.
“I perceive,” said Ben Tarab, “that you know nothing of the works we do here, and perhaps some other might suit your capacity better; every man has not the gift of doing all things.—We have slaves, now, that manufacture powder, and armour, and cast cannon; do you like that business?—What! you’re afraid of such combustibles?—You change colour at the very mention of them: there you and I agree.—We have others that hew and drag timber, some that get in our three harvests, some that make bricks, and a few that work in the great El Hader’s gardens.—I can promote you to any of these departments if you know how to be thankful for such a favor.”
“I know how to be thankful;” said Sebastian gently, “give me any occupation so it be but in the fresh air of heaven, and require little more than bodily exertion, and I will thank you sincerely.”—
“Well then,” replied the Moor, “you may as well change into the gardens; there you will have nothing to do, but trudge about, pruning and digging, fetching water from the fountains to the baths, plenty to do, and nothing to crack your brains with thinking of: if you behave well, and shew any signs of rare sagacity, you may get promoted, and become at last, fruit-gatherer and flower-gatherer for the women.”—
“Ben Tarab!” said Sebastian, after a thoughtful pause, disregarding the brute’s contemptuous air, “Is there any offer that could persuade you into becoming my friend?—procure for me permission to send to one of the Portuguese forts, and I will not only engage to be ransomed at a high price, but will faithfully promise you a hundred gold crowns for your kindness.”
“So then, you are a nobleman?” replied Ben Tarab, attentively eyeing him, “I thought so the moment I saw you: but hark ye my friend, the great El Hader prides himself upon despising ransoms; if the King of Portugal himself were living, and a slave within these walls, he must offer a thousand of such crowns as that he was crowned with, before he could move a true Mussulman: Slaves here, are slaves for life; and I hate you all too cordially ever to betray my trust and risk my neck for such scoundrels.”
As Ben Tarab ended, he disappeared with a malicious grin, and in a short time re-entered with an older Moor, who looked awhile at Sebastian, and then conducted him out of the court: the latter followed his steps in silence, strongly wrestling with his own outraged feelings, which were almost chafed into fury, by the mingled malice and cowardice of Ben Tarab.
After traversing several open quadrangles and stone galleries, they came at length to the gardens: they were admitted through magnificent gates, curiously wrought in open work of cast iron, and covered with gilding; as he entered, Sebastian felt an emotion long unknown to him, an emotion of delight.
The gardens were spacious and verdant, beautified with marble fountains and canals; their terraces were shaded by tall trees of the freshest green, and the air that fanned them was impregnated with the perfume of orange flowers.
Sebastian could not respire air thus perfumed, without instantly thinking of the gardens of Count Vimiosa; the first day he had seen Donna Gonsalva came back to his recollection with all the force of a present scene: he stopt, cast his eyes round, scarcely breathed, almost expecting to see her celestial beauty advance from some of the groves:—But he saw no one, till his conductor led on still further, and brought him to a spot where a few slaves were employed in cutting a subterraneous passage, from a bower of Arabian jessamine, to one of the baths.—Stopping at this place, the Moor shewed the King his new occupation.
After toiling in silence till long past sunset, the slaves were dismissed to their distant lodgings, where a miserable supper awaited them.
On re-entering the court where he had first laboured, Sebastian did not see Ben Tarab, he passed slowly along, noting every fresh group of new faces, without finding any that he knew: at length he perceived a cluster of Christians gathered round one who was sitting with a rude guitar in his hand, playing the symphony of a song; the King approached, and recognized the soldier, Gaspar. The young man, without observing him, began to sing with little voice, and less skill, but infinite feeling, these stanzas.
“O Time! thy waves that might have rolled
Thro’ channels gay with bordering roses,
Now slow and sad and sunless flow
Where not one flower its bloom discloses:
Say, will the blushing wreaths of joy
Beside thy waters blossom ever,
And sweets like breath of angels, throw
Around the purple wings of Zephyr?”
As he was going to repeat the song, his eyes met those of the King, and a flush of joyful surprize covered his pallid face; he rose hastily, reminded his comrades of supper, and in the midst of their tumultuous movements, drew near to one of the houses: he then glided in at an open door, making a sign for Sebastian to follow.
The King obeyed: no sooner were they alone, than Gaspar cast himself at the feet of his sovereign, uttering in a low voice the most affecting expressions of sorrow and of respect, deploring the fate of Portugal, thus deprived of her protector, and beseeching him to order his services and his life in any way conducive to his comfort.
Sebastian could not conceal his emotion: he raised Gaspar from the ground, with many gracious acknowledgements, assuring him that the only service he could do him would be to discover whether a ransom would indeed be refused by El Hader, or to aid in their mutual escape.—Gaspar’s answer destroyed every hope.
He represented that the Almoçadem avowedly picqued himself upon never giving liberty to the enemies of Mahomet; that as the whole of the domains were inclosed by high walls, and these regularly guarded day and night, the escape of a prisoner was impossible; nay, that even such captives as worked in the fields and quarries, were watched by Moors completely armed, therefore as hopeless of escape as the household servants.
“For myself, I scarcely care,” said the young soldier, (tears starting into his eyes even while he believed himself thus indifferent;) “but to behold my King so fated, drives me to desperation.—My life, sire, is of no consequence—except to a widowed mother and sisters, whom your royal bounty will hereafter save from want—perhaps you would deign to accept of my attempting something for your sake; should I fail, it will be nothing; I shall die in the performance of a duty; should I succeed, Portugal will owe her happiness to me.”
“What is it you would attempt?” asked Sebastian, seeing Gaspar too much affected to proceed.
“To scale the walls,” exclaimed the breathless soldier, “to flee by unfrequented ways to the nearest fortress, to convey thither the blessed tidings of my sovereign’s safety, and either return with a royal ransom, or joined by every Portuguese in Africa, march hither, storm the Cassavee, and——.”
“Brave Gaspar!” exclaimed the youthful monarch, animated with similar ardour, “Thou hast the heart of a knight: should we ever reach Portugal, claim knighthood at my hand. But I cannot accept of freedom on such terms; too many gallant soldiers have already been sacrificed by my imprudent reliance on the faith of a traitor: neither the lives nor the properties of my subjects shall be lavished to purchase my liberty. If these wretches knew my real rank, half my kingdom would not satisfy their avarice. No! let us trust to Providence.—I will watch the opportune moment like a lynx. I will try every method to bribe my gaolers—if I escape at last, be assured, Gaspar, I will remember you.”
Gaspar was going to press his former petition, when the sound of Ben Tarab’s horrid voice made him stop: “We must part, sire,” he exclaimed, “haste—mix with the crowd—we meet again to-morrow night.” While speaking, he hurried the King out of the house, and they were immediately absorbed by the multitude without.
Ben Tarab kept at a distance from Sebastian, who could not help smiling at his mixture of ferocity and meanness: it was soon bed time; and the slaves, separating, the King retired to a scattering of bean-straw in the corner of a brick-room, where he threw himself beside four other captives, and sunk, overpowered with sleep.
The break of day awoke him to the same toil, and the hour of supper again allowed him a short conversation with Gaspar. Every day brought with it but fresh causes for regret, while it diminished the delusions of hope. But where is the situation, however desolate, out of which it is impossible for us to extract some consolation? Sebastian found in his present state, a balm for part of that remorse which had so long tormented him.
While experiencing the benevolence of Abensallah, he had naturally thought with so much esteem of the Moorish character, that his expedition appeared almost preposterous, and the destruction attendant on it, doubly criminal; but now that he witnessed the real miseries of slavery, and the detestableness of a tyrannical government, which habituates every individual to the exercise of tyranny in his turn, zeal once more assumed the rank of a virtue, and lulled conscience to rest.—In addition to this, his own sufferings were softened by the power he fortunately acquired of alleviating those of others.
Among the garden-labourers were two aged men, for whom he frequently procured rest and refreshment, by fulfilling not only his own task, but part of theirs: when he saw them fainting with thirst and exhaustion, he would give them all that he had purposely saved from his scanty breakfast; their blessings were his luxuries, his only luxuries, but such as warmed his heart far beyond all the enjoyments of his former state.
Never till now had he known the full transport of doing good, for never before had he done so at the expense of personal privations: sovereigns, like gods, may scatter bounties with unsparing hands, yet never have this sacred, soul-ennobling consciousness. Ought we then to envy, ah! should we not rather pity that exalted station which demands from its possessor so many cares, and rewards him with so few pleasures!
Though the governor of the gardens knew no other language than his own, Sebastian managed to converse with him by signs, and to conciliate his favour: from the instant in which he found himself capable of benefitting the distressed, his servitude ceased to appear degrading, and he toiled incessantly; his strength and his taste made him inestimable; and by voluntary labour or ingenious plans of decoration, he soon won so much on Hafiz, that he gained frequent intervals of rest for his fellow slaves.
They were now employed in constructing and adorning a subterraneous passage, in imitation of a natural grotto: there Sebastian amused himself with a thousand tasteful fancies which enchanted the dull Hafiz, and procured for him new proofs of kindness: from this success his endeavours to please acquired fresh stimulus; he redoubled his efforts, hoping to win so far upon the Moor, as at last to gain liberty through this means.
After each day’s fatigue, the supper-hour was always welcome; it brought him into the society of Gaspar. The conversation of his humble friend was now Sebastian’s chief pleasure, for with him he felt himself Sebastian still; sympathy of suffering, gratitude for affection, and esteem of native goodness, united to heighten this pleasure: he talked with Gaspar of Portugal and liberty, of days past and days to come, with all the ardour of unbroken youth.
Gaspar, in return, canvassed every possible mode of escape, continuing to bewail the fate which separated him from his King: he was, however, inspirited by some information lately obtained—it was as follows: at certain periods the Moors permitted a few travelling friars, called brothers of the redemption, to inspect their slaves, and to agree for the ransom of such as they wished redeemed; one of these charitable men, a native of Spain, was expected at Mequinez, by the next new moon; but the Almoçadem having resolved never to sell any of his slaves, had always refused to admit the friar, so that it would be necessary for Sebastian to exert all his eloquence upon Hafiz, for him either to petition the Almoçadem himself, or to let the friar know there was a Portuguese nobleman under his care, who would reward him amply for importuning El Hader in his favour.
This information roused the sanguine nature of Sebastian; he believed himself already on the threshold of liberty, and faithfully swore to Gaspar that he would not accept of freedom without him for a companion.
Intoxicated with joy, and overflowing with devotedness, the young Portuguese fell at his sovereign’s feet, pouring forth a broken torrent of gratitude: Gaspar had been early taught to reverence and obey his King, and now the amiable qualities of that King, being shewn to him under the most affecting light, added to the principle of duty, every sentiment of affection.
At this moment, while kissing the earth beneath Sebastian’s feet, he was inwardly meditating a rash enterprize, full of danger, but fraught with heroism: expecting little from Hafiz, Gaspar meant only to wait till one attempt to gain him had been made and frustrated, and then he would immediately execute his own project. His work lay in the open country, where he was employed with other slaves in felling timber; there were periods when the Moors who guarded them, were scattered about, and therefore to be escaped, without instant notice: if Gaspar could get the start of them by a single half-hour (being very swift of foot, and well acquainted with a bye-road to Mequinez, where he had often gone with loaded waggons) he might hope to reach the friar, and communicate the secret of Don Sebastian’s existence.
Gaspar was certain that in pursuing him the Moors would first look among the woods and hills leading to the interior, and that consequently, though he was almost sure of falling eventually into their hands, his object would be attained: the friar would convey the important news to the christian forts, from thence it would be speedily transmitted to Portugal and Spain, and then he doubted not, an army or a ransom, would be sent to redeem their King.
Some anxiety however, was still connected with his enterprize, even if it should succeed: as Gaspar would hazard it without his royal master’s knowledge, he could not bear any proof of his veracity, such as a ring or piece of writing; he must rely solely on the sincerity of his manner, and on that natural desire of crediting what we wish, which is implanted in the human heart.
To disobey his sovereign on such an important point, he justly conceived a duty due to his country; for Gaspar, though born in the sixteenth century, had an intuitive conviction that his country’s claims were superior even to the commands of her rulers.
Filled with this daring project, the young soldier arose from his monarch’s feet with an illuminated countenance: a few moments after they separated for their different chambers.
The only indulgence which Sebastian had asked for himself, was the privilege of passing his nights in a solitary apartment, this request had been granted, with many assurances of its being an immense favour: he now repaired to the place, which was a small room, scarcely large enough to turn in, with a barred window and a straw bed. As he entered it with an emotion of pleasure, the change of his destiny forcibly struck him: what a cell for a King of Portugal, and the lover of Donna Gonsalva to behold with gladness!
He went up to the narrow window, and as his eye fell on nothing but the dark dwellings of the slaves, faintly lighted by the rays of a watry moon, he looked from them to himself, and sighed profoundly. Not three months back, he had worn the habit, and been surrounded by the glories of a powerful prince; he had been ministered unto like a god, till the most exquisite refinements of polished life had become natural wants; he was now a slave, clad in coarse garments, denied the common necessaries of his poorest subjects, forced to labour without intermission through the day, and at night be immured in a wretched chamber, where solitude was his only comfort!
For awhile, thought took so gloomy a cast, that he felt as if all that sunny period of his life had been no more than a dream. The memory of Stukeley appeared but the memory of some brilliant phantom; his rousing eloquence, that had always acted on the soul of Sebastian like the sound of the trumpet, was now passed away, his voice was hushed, his body gone down to dust!
Nothing gives such apparent length to any portion of time, as a complete change in outward scenes and inward feelings. Sebastian was scarcely able to persuade himself that all these new emotions had been produced by the events of so short a period as three months; he reviewed the incidents which had happened since his landing in Africa, with a bitterness of regret which was at length dispersed by the idea of Gaspar: in this faithful friend, providence was evidently preparing for him a zealous assistant; at any rate, if his attachment might not aid, it would assuredly console him, and was therefore to be gratefully accepted as a sort of earnest of the divine succour.
Elevated by this thought, Sebastian’s feelings changed with their usual rapidity, joy lightened his heart, and pouring out a fervent prayer over the little cross of his order, (which he still preserved,) laid himself to rest with the confidence of pious reliance.