to Sebastian; he looked intently on the characters, sighed and sighed
again, for memory too forcibly told him, that in striving to succour him
she had lost her own peace. Closing the packet with a mixture of
gratitude and regret, he mounted the animal provided for him, and began
his route.
The men with whom he travelled, were too much occupied in calculations
of profits and losses to interrupt their companion’s reveries; they were
furnished with an order from the Almoçadem, purporting that Fabian his
slave was going on business to the sea-coast, and therefore not to be
detained on suspicion of being a runaway: in consequence of this, their
progress was unmolested, and they continued journeying on slowly, but
safely.
The traveller’s road lay near Alcazar; it crossed that fatal plain,
where, above twelvemonths before, the King of Portugal, at the head of a
few gallant troops, had rashly braved the whole force of Morocco: what
were his emotions when he now entered on it!
The meridian sun blazed over its broad and arid surface, marking with a
glaring light every spot affecting to memory: Sebastian transiently
closed his eyes, as if to shut out a picture, that, alas! was painted
yet stronger on his mind. That dismal plain covered with dead, such as
he had seen it with Abensallah, was even more present to him than the
one he actually saw: Stukeley, De Castro, the young Braganza, every dear
and lamented associate, pressed upon recollection; those deep wounds of
the heart which new anxieties had closed, now opened afresh, and he
became once more the prey of profound though unavailing remorse.
Given up to gloomy retrospects, Sebastian sought to indulge them alone
and at liberty; for this purpose he took advantage of his companion’s
halting for refreshment, and went to visit the tower where Sir Thomas
Stukeley fell. His path was whitened with human bones! he trod amongst
them hastily, yet apprehensively, for whether these were the last mortal
relics of Moors or Portuguese, they were still the relics of men.
Seen under the cheerful light of day, the broken watch tower was not in
itself so dreary an object as it had appeared by the glimmering of
moon-light, but Sebastian viewed it with still drearier reflections:
time had altered his sentiments, and taught him to consider the blood
shed under those walls, as blood shed uselessly and madly; but for his
fanatic enthusiasm, Stukeley might have been then living honored and
happy.
Struck with this thought he slowly approached the ruins, that he might
look for the last time on the spot where he had found his friend’s body;
as he advanced, two men issued from the shattered gateway, and passed
him; one of them started as he passed, and stopped--Sebastian moved on,
thoughtless of personal danger. He had gained the place he sought, and
had stood sadly contemplating it, when, on raising his eyes, as he
turned away, they were arrested by the sight of faces peeping at him
through the lower branches of some trees: in one of these he recognized
the dark scowl of Ben Tarab.
Instinctively he grasped the head of a loaded pistol which he wore in
his girdle; this action, and the sudden blaze of his eyes, made the
cowardly Moor relinquish his hold of the tree, its boughs closed as he
let them hastily out of his hand, preventing Sebastian from seeing
which way he went.
Somewhat disturbed at this unexpected rencontre, the young monarch stood
for a moment to determine on his future movements, he was too conscious
of Ben Tarab’s animosity not to apprehend its effects, and therefore
thought it best to rejoin his companions without incurring fresh risk by
attempting alone to find the cave of Abensallah: regretting this
necessity, he hastened from the ruins, and looking back, beheld Ben
Tarab and his comrade stealing between the trees and the wall in the
same direction with himself.
Once more he turned round and stopt, determining to accost the Moor and
be satisfied if the meeting were accidental; but on seeing him pause,
Ben Tarab again retreated and concealed himself among the broken walls:
Sebastian then resumed the road to his friends.
The travellers had pitched a tent on the plain, and were therefore
visible at a great distance: through the loop holes of the tower Ben
Tarab now watched the course of the King, and saw him enter their tent;
he then descended, and rejoicing at the chance which had led him to this
spot for temporary shelter from the heat, called his associate and ran
off to the town of Alcazar.
On rejoining the merchants, Sebastian thought it best to speak of his
adventure and the apprehension he grounded on it: one of the Syrians to
whom Hafiz had peculiarly recommended his favorite, proposed immediate
departure; if Ben Tarab wished to cast obstacles in their way, he might
easily find means for doing so, by questioning the freedom of Sebastian,
or by informing some of the Emperor’s officers in Alcazar, who would
then seize him for their master’s service. Under this idea it was fit
the whole party should hasten to get the start of the Moor.
Their tents were now struck, their camels re-loaded, and bidding adieu
to the pleasing hope of seeing Abensallah, Sebastian mounted a swift
horse and resumed his journey.
They had scarcely passed the boundaries of the plain, when a party of
horsemen from Alcazar, overtook and detained them: the King gave himself
up for lost; but he dissembled this despair, and met the scrutiny of the
Moorish soldiers with apparent composure. Surrounded by armed guards,
Ben Tarab could rail and threaten with impunity: he accused Sebastian of
being a runaway slave; to oppose this assertion, the principal merchant
simply produced the writing and signet to the Almoçadem, purporting that
the Christian who accompanied them was a servant of his, bearing
important dispatches to the Alcayde of Kouf.--At sight of this
convincing testimony, the Moors began to excuse themselves, and were
about to depart, when Ben Tarab called their captain aside and said a
few words to him in a low, furious tone; the officer directly
countermanded his men, telling the merchants that as they were going to
travel through a Cavila then in a state of insurrection, he would honour
the Almoçadem’s messenger by escorting him to the Alcayde and afterwards
protecting him back to Mequinez.
At this masterly trick of Ben Tarab’s the blood forsook the face of
Sebastian, but it rushed indignantly back, while haughtily braving his
fate he told the Moorish captain to lead on.--Ben Tarab eyed his
changing countenance with a doubtful look;--
“If thou art not a runaway,” he said, “thou and thy master will thank us
for this safe guard; and if thou art deceiving us, thy punishment will
not wait for the sentence of El Hader, whose signet thou must have
stolen; the Alcayde of Kouf will doom thee to death immediately.”
“_Thou_ art not my judge,” replied the King, directing a withering
glance towards him: intimidated by former scenes, the malicious wretch
nimbly fell into the ranks of his military comrades, and proposed
advancing in their journey; the merchants acquiesced. None but the
acquaintance of Hafiz knew the real destination of Sebastian, and they
were therefore pleased to find, that instead of being detained by this
adventure, it would expedite and protect them: they proceeded on their
way, headed and flanked by the soldiers, who were content to observe the
object of their suspicion riding in the centre:--
While Ben Tarab was exulting in an accidental meeting, which had thus
enabled him at least to annoy, if not to frustrate the supposed design
of his former enemy, Sebastian was ruminating upon some mode of escape:
not one presented itself: he must either confess that he was made free,
and going to embark for Portugal, or try a bold experiment on the
Alcayde.
To dare the former, would be madness, because all Christian captives
above the rank of artizans or peasants, belonged by law to the Xeriffs;
Ben Tarab could therefore plausibly question El Hader’s right to
liberate him, until his true rank were ascertained, and such a scrutiny
would be destruction: he then resolved to hazard a suddenly-conceived
stratagem.
During the time in which they halted for the night, he selected a superb
diamond from the jewels of Kara Aziek, and placing it in the embroidered
purse by itself, folded it in a piece of brocade after the Moresco
fashion, and deposited it in his breast. The character of the Alcayde
had been given him by Hafiz’s friend, to whom he communicated his plan,
and upon that he built for success.
After some days of wearisome travelling, and days full of agitation, the
cavalcade came in sight of the chief town in the province of Kouf; the
merchants were suffered to pursue their way to the port they sought,
leaving Sebastian, whom they dared not attempt detaining, solely to
fortune and his guards.
Ben Tarab’s ferocious eyes glared with satisfaction as he followed his
unprotected victim into the Alcayde’s house; disdaining to notice him,
Sebastian calmly proceeded.--while passing from the court to the
audience-hall, his upright mind shrunk from unmanly deception; he was
tempted to risk the truth, though convinced it would throw him again
into slavery; but his country, his duties, his beloved, all tugged at
his heart-strings, and aided by the universal toleration of stratagem
under circumstances like his, weakened every other impression: he sighed
over the bitter necessity of the act, besought Heaven to pardon it if
really culpable, then entered the hall.
His fate was quickly decided: the gem he brought, appeared an undeniable
proof that he came direct from El Hader; he presented it in his master’s
name, alledging that the Almoçadem had sent it as a friendly token,
requiring from his relation in return only a satisfactory account of the
province he governed, as it was said at Mequinez, to be ripe for
revolt.--The credulous Alcayde readily promised to give him every
information on the morrow; and immediately issued orders, for the guards
from Alcazar to be refreshed in his house, and lodged there during their
stay.
Sebastian now carelessly told him the story of their officious
protection, at which the foolish Alcayde laughed heartily, though he
deigned to say, they had not acted amiss; and telling the Christian to
repose himself wherever he chose, left him for the night.
It was quite dark at this time, and the room in which Sebastian
remained, opened into a piazza on the outer side of the house: the sound
of laughter and voices, mixed with the sharp notes of a tabor, and the
ringing of drinking cups, assured him that Ben Tarab and his followers
were already relaxing from their watchings, among the domestics of the
Alcayde.--The Syrian had hastily sketched out to him the site of a
neighbouring village, from whence he might possibly cross to Spain, (for
to reach Ceutah or Tangier undiscovered, was out of the question) and by
the rocks he saw towering before him, he knew the village must be at
hand: now then was the moment for flight. He felt in his sash to
ascertain if the remainder of Kara Aziek’s present was safe, and feeling
it under his hand, he pushed open a latticed door, and sprung into the
piazza.
A short winding path brought him to a slanting defile of rocks, whose
feet were washed by the united seas of the Atlantic and Mediterranean;
the sublime sound of their waves, first quickened the motion of
Sebastian’s heart and steps; he rushed forwards, and their vast volume
of waters, heaving under a clouded sky, burst upon his view.
Joy unnerved him; he stood rivetted for awhile, straining his eager eyes
towards the shore of Spain. Through the dusky night, the lofty rock of
Gibraltar (towering like some fabled giant) was alone dimly discernible;
its watch-fires cast a sullen gloom above the horizon, now ascending
steadily, now blown by sudden gusts along the air, roused by the
creaking of vessels, the King started from his trance, and hurried to
the village.
It consisted of a few fishing-huts, and except an old man and his son
who were busy in towing their bark to shore, all its inhabitants were
gone to rest. There was just light enough for these men to see in the
hand of Sebastian, a heap of sequins, with which he tempted them to put
off immediately for any port on the opposite coast: they hesitated only
a short time; his ardent intreaties and persuasive manner, but above
all, his gold, decided them to incur any risks, they once more hoisted
their sail, he leaped into the bark, and in a few minutes they were far
out at sea.
Is there a heart to which liberty is sacred, to which a country and a
home are dear, that does not throb with anxiety for Sebastian? and if
that heart has known the bitterness of long and hopeless exile from
these blessings, will it not paint his feelings only too faithfully?--
As the little boat flew direct before the wind, and the waves roared and
foamed round its slender keel, the King of Portugal sat motionless, like
one stunned; his eyes indeed moved; they roved over every object again
and again, to impress their reality upon his mind with that assurance he
felt it needed: doubtfully he hearkened to the splashing of the sea,
mistrusting the evidence of every sense, and unable to steady or to
compose his thoughts.
Assuredly joy overcomes us more frequently than sorrow: perhaps it is
because we arm ourselves against the latter, and abandon ourselves to
the former without reserve.
While myriads of bright visions were passing and repassing through
Sebastian’s entranced imagination, the fisherman and his son were
shifting their sail and tacking about with plodding indifference; they
neither observed nor shared their royal companion’s emotion.
The wind continued favorable, the coast of Africa receded, and the
fertile mountains of Grenada and Andalusia advanced from the horizon:
the vessel now ran into a creek, and disembarked her crew.
The moment Sebastian’s foot pressed Christian ground, he threw himself
down and embraced it; gratitude and adoration locked up the powers of
speech; so much pain and pleasure melted his heart, that it was too big
for utterance, and he wept. His companions did not long allow him an
indulgence of this honorable weakness, their voices made him start from
the earth, he flung them their reward, and then they hastened away.
CHAP. IV.
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!”