banished artifice, and she sunk to the ground, imploring him by name,
not to destroy her.
As self-preservation was now her first object, she besought him to
forgive her infidelity--to allow for the desperation of her present
shame, to be assured that the belief of his death and the unceasing
importunities of Don Antonio de Crato, had alone rendered her untrue. At
the name of her new lover the unfortunate Sebastian staggered a few
paces and fell against the side of the apartment: What a blow, to find
himself at the same instant betrayed by his friend and by his mistress!
Terrified at the consequences of her imprudent disclosure, Gonsalva
began to intercede for her guilty lover and her child: Sebastian ran his
eyes over her without speaking; despair and destruction was in that
devouring look; it increased the terror of Gonsalva, and she clung to
his knees, sobbing out expressions of penitence.--Invincible beauty
still gave an angel’s semblance to her deceptive features; as Sebastian
beheld that heavenly countenance deluged with tears, his head swam, his
heart melted, his convictions were shaken; Gonsalva saw her advantage,
and redoubled her seducing contrition; but at that moment the accidental
disorder of her drapery discovered that she would soon again become a
mother.
Recovered by this sight, he broke away, and hurried to the cradle: for
awhile he stood over it with a terrible countenance; his looks changed
every instant, all his joints shook, he did not speak, but the drops of
agony on his forehead seemed to say, “Live on! thou hast not betrayed
me.”
Hastily he averted his head from the mother and child, and without
having uttered a word, rushed from the apartment.
Darting along the private passages, and then taking the first path that
presented itself, he was soon several miles from the groves of Xabregas.
The mind of Sebastian was now in that tumultuous state which is the very
acme of misery; a state in which every object of suffering is distinctly
perceived, while memory appears sharpened by the very acuteness of
regret: like the waves of a stormy sea, thought urged on thought,
without order or intermission; those hours once spent with Gonsalva and
Antonio, and those expectations, which for fourteen long months had
cheered the gloom of slavery, now thronged on him like spectres. He
traversed hills, valleys, and woods, with the rapidity of madness,
vainly seeking to fly from himself.
Night was far spent, when he heard himself addressed by a stranger; he
stopt, and beheld an honest-looking man standing at the door of a
solitary little inn, where some travellers were just alighting from
their horses.
“What makes you journey through such a night as this?” said the man, “If
you have a mind for a shelter, stay here and welcome; by your garb you
seem a poor fellow and not able to pay for a supper--yet you shall have
something to eat nevertheless.”
Sebastian paused at the voice of kindness, and found that he was indeed
roving about under a dreadful storm: the rain failing in sheets had
wetted him through, and he was without a hat, having left it in the
chamber of Donna Gonsalva.--Bowing silently, he followed the benevolent
innkeeper.
On the threshold of his door the good man paused, and holding a lamp up
to Sebastian’s face, uttered an exclamation of surprise at his haggard
looks, adding, “However, there’s something in that countenance that
tells me I am not going to harbour a robber, so come in poor fellow.”
Sebastian followed him into a large kitchen where the horsemen who
preceded him were already seating themselves near a fire: by their dress
and mien two of them appeared noble, and the remaining four, their
attendants. They took no notice of the King, but called for wine and
omelets, and began discoursing about the weather: meanwhile the humane
landlord offered his humbler looking guest some cheese and onions;
Sebastian in a low voice declined the coarse supper; he wrapt himself up
in his capote and stood remote from the fire, thinking upon the past
scene with Donna Gonsalva.
Of her guilt, and that of his cousin Antonio, he could scarcely doubt;
her own confession, and the existence of the child, were proofs
undeniable, and from the apparent age of the latter it was evident, that
their criminal intercourse must have begun ere the period of his
attachment to Gonsalva: the conduct and conversation of Don Emanuel,
(hitherto so mysterious) then flashed across his mind, and his blood
froze when he thought that, but for his persevering conduct, he might
have become the husband of Antonio’s mistress.
With what piercing regret did he recall the harsh treatment of the
generous De Castro, who had too surely suspected, if not known, the
guilty secret!--A groan now escaped him that made the company start:
fearful of exciting curiosity, he drew his cloak round his face, and
moved further from the light, complaining of a sudden pain.--The
travellers eyed him suspiciously and laid fire-arms on the table.
Of his Crown and his people, Sebastian thought no more; the monstrous
ingratitude of Antonio, the perfidy of Gonsalva, and their mutual
duplicity, (which he vainly endeavoured to trace back to some suspicious
circumstances,) alone occupied him; he did not even glance towards the
measures he should pursue for the recovery of his rights as a sovereign;
but while he sat lost in rumination, the sound of his own name made him
start: it was spoken in a conversation now held in Latin by the two
superior travellers.--Attention completely roused, enabled him to catch
every word, though the men spoke in low tones, and seemed afraid that
not even a learned language was a sufficient guard for their subject.
The moment these travellers laid aside their large feathered hats,
Sebastian recognized two of his own courtiers.
“You will find it difficult to convince me of this,” said the younger.
“What! you don’t doubt the fact?” cried his companion, “do you
disbelieve that a man, arrived from Africa, who asserted it to be true?”
“No, I do not question that;” rejoined the other, “but I believe the
fellow told an impudent lie. Don Sebastian fell at Alcazar, as sure as
yon poor rogue stands shivering in the corner.”
“I am not of your opinion:” answered the elder gentleman, “I was present
when this man from Barbary brought the intelligence to Don Antonio; his
account was so clear and circumstantial that I did not scruple to avow
my faith in it: and though Don Antonio pretended to treat it with
contempt; I saw it alarmed him dreadfully; and well it might, for the
return of Don Sebastian would be a day of awkward reckoning for him.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the other cavalier, “had Don Antonio believed the
impostor, policy would have made him stop the news-bringer’s mouth.”
“The Portuguese seemed to guess as much,” returned the former speaker,
“for though he promised to come again on the ensuing day, he posted off
from Crato to the houses of different nobles, telling the same story,
and praying to have it carried to the King.”
“Well! and why were all these persons unbelievers too, if the tale
appeared so true?”
“Why?--because every one of them are either pretenders to the
succession, or friends to the pretenders. Some were partizans of Philip
of Spain, others of the Braganzas, the Prince of Parma, &c. nobles who
knew well that the restoration of their former sovereign would not
afford them such a chance for power, as a scramble amongst numbers. Our
old Cardinal draws to an end, in a few months perhaps the Spaniard will
sit on his throne, (for in my opinion he stands the best chance), and we
all got a hint of the way to please Philip, by hearing how rigorously he
treated every officer who returned from Africa, and ventured to speak
doubtfully of Sebastian’s death. If Don Sebastian could get here by
miracle, he would not find a man in Portugal unbiassed by some faction;
he might return to his chains.”
That Sebastian of whom he spoke, was now kindling into fury; he gnawed
his nether lip, and grasped his cloak with a convulsive action.--The
last speaker resumed.
“Every body concludes that our present monarch relished the first report
of his nephew’s being alive as little as Philip; for I can tell you that
Don Emanuel de Castro would not have got the viceroyalty of Brazil had
it not been deemed politic to send him out of a country which he was
continually agitating by assertions of Sebastian’s existence: nay, the
silence of his ministers on the subject of this last report, and the
disappearance of the poor devil himself, speaks pretty plain; the rope
or the cup has most likely silenced him for ever.”
At this horrible conjecture, the joy of hearing that De Castro lived,
and was in a land of freedom, gave way to anguish, a second groan burst
from the unhappy King, the speakers stopt, and fixed their eyes on him.
“Who is this fellow?” asked one of them: “a sick traveller, I fancy,”
replied the landlord, drawing near and speaking softly, “or rather I
should think a poor youth crossed in love: for he has a noble
countenance, full of grievous wildness, and was roving about under all
that storm without feeling it.”
The good man now approached with a cup of wine, to which Sebastian put
his lips, that he might avoid importunity, acknowledging that he was
sick: the travellers resumed their discourse.
“For my part,” said one, “I would never draw a sword to rescue Don
Sebastian, his court was too moral for me: neither Venus nor Bacchus was
worshipped there, and where they are not worshipped, I beg leave to make
my congé. Besides, he put a public affront upon my cousin, the young
Marquis Cellamare: he happened to carry off the daughter of a merchant;
the old man got her back after one night’s absence only, yet he
complained to the King, and he insisted on Cellamare’s offering her
honourable reparation in presence of her family and his own: the girl
(tutored by Don Sebastian, no doubt), affected to despise such
reparation, preferred taking the veil, and refused him.”
“Refused him!” repeated the other.
“Yes, indeed: the degradation was thus made worse than if she had
polluted his illustrious blood by becoming his wife: you were not in
Portugal then, I know.”
“No, I was in Italy,” rejoined his companion, “now I know your
sentiments, I will frankly confess that I do not pray for the
rash-brained monarch’s return--he was liberal enough, to be sure, but
then he exacted heavy returns.--For instance, he gave me a regiment, but
it was on condition I followed his mad course to Morocco: fortunately
the opportune sickness and death of my wife kept me at home. No, no, Don
Sebastian made away with all his friends, when he led on twenty thousand
Portuguese like himself, to slaughter, at Alcazar.”
Quivering with restrained fury, his eyes striking fire, the young
monarch started from his seat, and half-sprung towards the ungrateful
miscreants--but suddenly recollecting himself, he turned away, and
hastily left the apartment.
As he went through a passage opening into a field, he found the
landlord had followed him: “What is the matter with thee, friend!” said
he, “my guests pronounce thee mad, and recommend my turning thee out: I
have not heart to do that--Lopez Vernara never yet closed his door on
the houseless.”
Sebastian turned round with a look of anguish somewhat sweetened by
grateful feelings; “I am not mad--not quite mad,” he said, “though at
this moment the most wretched of men. Fear nothing from me, honest
Lopez--suffer me only to rest in some place where the sound of human
voice may not reach me. I can reward thee, for I am not so poor as I
seem.”
The good innkeeper pointed to a barn at a little distance. “Go there,”
he said, “you will find plenty of clean straw, and no soul shall disturb
you. Jesu help thee, poor youth, thou lookest at thy wit’s end!” Lopez
turned back into the house as he concluded, and Sebastian wildly trode
the path before him.
The information afforded by the two travellers had thrown his mind into
fresh tumults: to find himself thus blotted out from his subjects’
hearts, hated for his justice, derided by those he had served, betrayed
by those he loved, forgotten almost by the whole world, an outcast even
in his own kingdom--was a consummation to his misery, which not even
misanthropy could have imagined. Murdered for his sake, Gaspar seemed to
cry aloud for vengeance: yet where was he to find the means of
retribution, when the court, the army, and the people, were steeled
against him?
What a return! and how fearful was the spectacle which it presented!--as
if a veil had been torn off by some invisible power, he beheld every
heart in which he fondly thought himself cherished, false to their vows,
and panting for his blood! his sick soul--“sick unto death,”--turned
from object to object with increasing anguish: the only human beings
whose love could be relied on, were out of his reach; De Castro, though
living, was beyond the Atlantic, Gaspar in the grave, and Kara Aziek in
the hateful empire of Morocco.
These convictions half-disordered Sebastian’s brain: he walked with an
irregular pace, sometimes stopping, then darting eagerly forwards;
alternately striking his breast and his forehead, repeating, as their
images shot through his mind, the names of Gaspar, Antonio, and the
perfidious Gonsalva.
Though it was his wish and his interest to remain unknown, the mere
circumstance of having passed unrecognized by two men whom he had so
often noticed, joined to the singular fortune of never having been once
suspected for their King by any of the Portuguese, now completed his
anguish: distempered in mind, he saw not a single exception to the
prevalent forgetfulness; but wild with grief, with indignation, with
blasted expectations, hurried into the barn and cast himself on a heap
of straw: “Leave me my reason, O, God!” he exclaimed, in a voice, the
tone of which proclaimed a reason just tottering on the verge of
madness.
At that sound, a rustling was heard amongst the straw, Sebastian started
up, the next moment a large rough dog sprung towards him, and leaping
against his breast, sent forth a cry of joy: “Barémel! Barémel!--O,
heaven! and art thou then the only one?” Interrupted by a gush of
tenderness, the houseless monarch clasped his dumb friend in his arms;
then recollecting the last time he had seen him, and the words he had
spoken, “Stay and be loved for my sake,” his heart became so subdued
that he burst into tears, and wept with all the vehemence of a woman.
Whining and fawning on him, Barémel lay at his master’s feet, with
upturned eyes, expressive of that instinctive attachment which so often
shames the affection of reasoning man: the King now stood painfully
contemplating this added proof of popular instability; “If thou hadst
become hateful to Antonio’s mistress,” he exclaimed, “was there none of
my court who would take thee in, and cherish thee for my sake!--poor
Barémel! from a palace to a shed!--the favorites of fallen princes can
hope for nothing better.”--He smiled gloomily, and sinking down on the
straw, laid his head upon the body of Barémel.
The happy animal seemed proud of his royal burthen; Sebastian then fell
into a train of less distracted but equally wounding thought, till by
degrees stupor succeeded to frenzy; his feelings became benumbed and “a
waveless calm” spread over them: imperceptibly every agitating image
faded away, till deep sleep, like midnight darkness, buried all things
in profound oblivion.
Early the next day, after seeing his nobler guests on their horses,
Lopez came to learn how the poor traveller had rested; he found him
asleep with Barémel. On advancing to awake them, the dog sprung and
seized the good man by his coat--Sebastian opened his eyes, and at his
command Barémel released old Lopez. “Thou’rt an honest fellow I’ll be
sworn!” exclaimed the latter, “or this dog would not have taken a fancy
to thee.--Come, get up and let me give thee some breakfast.”
Briefly thanking him for his offer, the King enquired how he came to be
in possession of a creature that had once belonged to their sovereign.
Lopez eyed him curiously; “So, thou hast been a courtier, friend! or
mayhap a soldier, and--” Sebastian interrupted him, willing to lull the
curiosity which might otherwise annoy him.
“I am a soldier,” he said, “lately escaped from Africa. After fourteen
months slavery, I have returned to my country to find some friends dead,
many perfidious; my rights usurped by others, and the woman I adored,
false,--false as hell!” he paused, and the before pale gloom of his
countenance, was now changed to the crimson flush of frenzy;--then
recollecting himself, he added, “wonder not that I am half
distracted--the sight of this dog, which I remember to have seen
following the King, has brought back some ideas that ought never again
to agitate this betrayed heart.--How did you get this dog?”
“Why, by good luck,” replied Lopez, “one of my cousins, you see, is
under scullion in the kitchen of the Donna Gonsalva Vimiosa--she that
our last King was to have married. Sorrow on her! what a jade she has
proved! worse, I reckon, than the woman you are raving about--Come, come
man, don’t shake so; women were sad deceiving devils ever since the
fall.--I dare say now, your jilt had not played the harlot with your
cousin, as this Donna Gonsalva has done? all the world cried shame on
her. You see, in less than five months after the King’s sailing for
Africa, she brings into the world a chopping child, at first my lady
tried to make it out the King’s, and said they were privately married;
but on Don Emanuel de Castro’s getting back from Barbary, he disproved
that story somehow, and she would have gone to die in the inquisition,
had not the prior Antonio boldly owned her and the child, procured an
absolution for them both from the Pope, and so forced the present King
to pardon her.
“See the world now!--the other day she was scorned by every body because
both she and her paramour were in disgrace at court, but since the King
gets so infirm and seems so averse to fix the succession, all the world
worships her again. People think, you see, that Don Antonio will have
the throne.”
“Where then are the Braganzas?” exclaimed Sebastian, “What claims can
the bastard Antonio make?”
“Why, you see,” replied Lopez, “this same Antonio would have the best
right if he could prove himself the lawful son of our cardinal King’s
brother, the late duke De Beja; and so since he cannot prove it, he
swears it; that is, he gives out that his father and mother were
secretly married.--As for the Duchess of Braganza, she poor soul
scarcely cares for a throne; her heart is out of this world.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Sebastian, “did she lose both her sons in that fatal
battle? Surely the Duke of Barcelos was only taken prisoner?”
“Only!” repeated Lopez, “Holy Mary defend us! you soldiers think nothing
of such matters. I can tell you, my lady duchess did not make so light
of it when she got her poor boy back again, with a face like a corpse.
He’ll never be the ruddy youth he was.”
“He is returned then?” said Sebastian sighing deeply, “but the noble
Diego, that wondrous child”--
“He never came back,” interrupted the good Vernara, “Alas, what a sad
day was that which brought the disastrous news! My cousin, who has a
sweetheart in the duchess’s family, was there when an officer came who
had received his last breath.--The pretty boy was killed by a cannon
ball: he fell in his place, following the King; and you may be sure then
that he fell in the thick of the battle.”
At this passing tribute to his bravery, the cheek of Sebastian suddenly
glowed; he turned aside to conceal his emotion, and Lopez went on; “the
King’s arm beat back the coward Moors that would have trampled over his
pretty page; so this officer that I was speaking of, had time to stop
and see if he could assist him, but the dear child made a sign that he
would not be taken off the field; he grasped the officer’s hand and
said, ‘tell my mother’--he could not go on, so pointing up to Heaven and
raising his eyes with such a smile as if he would have said he was going
to join angels like himself, he fetched a gentle sigh, and died.”
Lopez put the back of his hand to his eyes as he spoke, and when he
removed it again, it was quite wet with tears: the severer emotion of
his royal companion shook his voice, as he hastily said--“but this dog,
Lopez--you have not told me how it came into your possession.”
“O, aye, the dog--why you see the Donna Gonsalva took an aversion to it,
and ordered her people to put it out of her sight--that you know was
next hand to bidding it be killed--however nobody liked to do that, and
yet they were afraid to give it a courtier in case she should see it
again; so my cousin offers to take it to me, because, as he said, I had
a wonderful knack at gaining dumb creatures’ hearts, and would be sure
to make him stay with me; and sure enough, so it turned out; for Barémel
laid himself down as soon as Garcias brought him in, and never seemed to
want to go back again.”
Sebastian looked at the animal with an expression of piercing pain, for
he could not forbear thinking poor Barémel had had no caresses to
regret when he left Xabregas.
While such thoughts passed through his mind, he was tempted to ask
himself whether he were awake; a groan of bitter conviction followed the
question. “Do you remember Don Sebastian?” he said, abruptly.
“Not I, Lord help you; I never saw him.--Some folks say he’s alive
still, and that he’ll be amongst us when we don’t expect it; but for my
part I wish he may be dead, for he’d find but a dismal welcome in
Portugal. All his young nobles courting the prior of Crato because he
makes one in their lewd courses; the old ones sticking to the cardinal
on account of his peaceableness; the poor folks not knowing which side
to take for fear of their betters; Donna Gonsalva turned into a common
harlot,--mercy on us! I’d rather be a mouldering corpse in the shabbiest
burying-ground that ever was, than the living Don Sebastian with such
vexations to meet him.”
Sebastian suddenly laid his icy hand on the arm of Lopez, with so
convulsive a grasp, and such a ghastly smile, that the innkeeper turned
mortal pale, and began to tremble; he thought himself in the power of a
maniac, whom he pitied and yet feared: the wretched Sebastian seeing his
terror withdrew some steps, saying in a softened tone, “forgive my
strangeness, worthy Lopez: do not wonder that my own sufferings, and
sympathy with those of an unfortunate prince should thus transport me. I
will trouble you no longer, give me some food, for I must be gone.”
Lopez hastened to obey; alarmed by the varying complexion and eyes of
his companion, by his irregular steps and suffocated voice: he led him
into the kitchen, where he placed before him some coarse food, though
the best he possessed. Sebastian ate a few mouthfuls without sitting
down, and with an averted face, for there were soldiers and servants in
the place by whom he feared a discovery: having finished his scanty
meal, he walked quickly out of the kitchen, motioning for Lopez to
follow him.
By the time the corpulent innkeeper overtook him in an adjoining field,
he had drawn from his bosom the treasure of Kara Aziek, and selected
from it a bracelet of gems: this graceful ornament forcibly recalled its
generous wearer, and fixing his eyes on it with a mixture of regret,
tenderness, and consolation, he sighed often and deeply.
The gems sparkling in daylight rivetted the attention of Lopez, and he
ventured to commend their beauty: awakened by this remark, Sebastian
turned round; “Friend!” he said, with an air of gentler sadness, “your
kindness has not been thrown away upon an ungrateful man; I have found
one heart in Portugal worthy of a Portuguese: take this precious
present, turn it into money, and continue, with added means, to succour
the unfortunate. Do not eye me with distrust,” (he added, seeing Lopez
retreat doubtfully,) “I came honestly by it; ’twas the gift of one to
whom I owe my freedom. She is a Moor, Lopez, an infidel, join your
prayers with mine for her conversion and her salvation: promise me that
you will never pray, without soliciting the saints to intercede in
Heaven for her soul.”