speak to you both, Sampayo and Texere--for both of you tread on the
precincts of spiritual rebellion.”
“Our sins be on ourselves!” said Texere, with an undaunted air, “neither
of us will shrink from an honest defence, when it is needful to make it:
now, it is for your illustrious prisoner that we speak, not for our own
principles. First admit his story to a fair hearing and investigation,
after that pronounce on his character; punish him as an impostor, or as
the King of Portugal, let our sacred superior exhort him to
reconciliation with the church.
“While the Portuguese are ready to receive their King, without insisting
on his abjuration of certain private opinions, he is King of Portugal
still.”
“What abominable doctrine is this!” exclaimed the ambassador, “is it a
son of the church, that dares proclaim the Vox Populi, Vox Dei? but I
forget myself--the speaker is Francisco Joseph Texere, a fellow hanging
between the heaven and hell of truth and error; one that has not yet
decided whether he is to adhere to the rock of St. Peter, or to follow
the standard of Martin Luther. I have heard of his residence in England,
his attention to her new theories, and the heretical books which he has
published, I am not surprized therefore, to see him abet the cause of an
impostor, or at least an apostate!”
Texere frowned severely, and disregarding the speaker further, resumed
his address to the senate: good father Sampayo suffered some tears to
trickle down his aged cheeks.
“It is our well-beloved monarch whom we would support,” he said mildly,
“justice and loyalty demand such conduct at our hands; and Christian
charity should teach us to hope, that when restored to his throne, and
placed again within the reach of spiritual instruction, his pious soul
will retrace its steps, and return to the bosom of the true faith!”
“We are bound to act solely by the Pope’s direction;” gravely observed
the Doge, “if you may obtain his holiness’s permission to hold converse
with this mysterious personage, the republic will cheerfully add her
consent--till then, he remains unseen by any one. This is our answer;
you may withdraw.”
Texere and Sampayo quitted the assembly, and retiring with their
Portuguese friends who waited them without, proceeded to consultation
upon their future movements.
It was deemed expedient for one of them to repair immediately to Rome;
and as father Sampayo’s orthodoxy and ghostly life had never been
impeached, the choice fell upon him. Careless of his age and
infirmities, he departed on the instant, and the remainder of the
Portuguese lingered in Venice to wait the event, to continue their
importunities, and to invite all such persons as remembered the figure
of Don Sebastian to join in demanding permission to see and to peruse
him.
The long interval of time which elapsed between this period and that in
which the different travellers met again, was spent in torturing anxiety
by Kara Aziek and Sebastian. Bereft of their faithfulest friend, the
devoted Gaspar, no one remained to share their hearts with each other,
but their far distant Blanche: yet of her, they dared not inquire.
Experience had taught them suspicion of all around them; and since the
very existence of Blanche was a secret between England and the late Don
Emanuel De Castro’s family, they blest his prudence, and resolved to
perish with anxiety, rather than betray their child into danger.
To believe her ignorant of their changed fortune, was to imagine an
impossibility: the interruption of their correspondence alone, would
arouse her inquiries, and those inquiries must lead to explanation. How
then, was she suffering? and how would her tender nature enable her to
live through months, perhaps years of constant apprehension?
These thoughts preyed upon each; yet neither of them gave utterance to
their sorrow. Sebastian never permitted himself to lament any other
misfortune than that of knowing himself the prime cause of so much
misery to the woman he loved; and Kara Aziek, afflicted by this
self-reproach, became solicitous to prove that her sorrows were not yet
so insupportable as he believed.
Mutually endeared by these mutual sacrifices, their prison still
enclosed two hearts that felt not a diminution of love; and even their
bitterest hours were sweetened by the fond glance of approval, the
tender smile of gratitude.
Signor Valdorno witnessed this dignified and true attachment with
feelings that did him honour; and though strict in the performance of
his duty, his manners were full of respectful pity, and his
communications on the events without, as explanatory as he dared
hazard. It was from him that Sebastian at length drew an account of the
various exertions which were still making by his friends; and at this
information his hopes revived.
The fitful day of his fate might yet change! so many vicissitudes had
already marked its progress, that he deemed it impious to despair; and
the more so, while allowed to retain those precious objects of his soul,
without whom, no destiny could bestow happiness.
In the midst of reviving hope, father Sampayo returned from Rome with
the Pope’s order to the Senate of Venice for an immediate and private
interview with their prisoner.
A bright sunbeam shone through the window of Sebastian’s chamber, on the
face of old Sampayo, as he entered where Sebastian and Kara Aziek sat
expecting him; a brighter beam, for it emanated from a comforted heart,
was there also.
Sebastian run forward to welcome him; Sampayo whispered a benediction,
and dropt a joyful tear over the hand of Kara Aziek, as he feebly
grasped it within his. “This is a happy or a sad hour to me, as my Liege
shall chuse to make it!” said Sampayo, slowly seating his exhausted
frame. “I come back charged with an important mission: the fate of this
dear lady, your own fate, honored Sire! the lives and comforts of
millions are now in your hands, a single word will destroy or save all.”
Kara Aziek looked on him with an anxiety which suspended her breath and
her pulsation: Sebastian already guessed the mission of Sampayo. “Say
on!” he cried, with a steady voice, “I am prepared to hear you with
attention and singleness of heart.--It is of God and our conscience,
that we are about to speak.”
There was something so impressive in the tone of his last words, and so
much of truth and dignity on his brow, that father Sampayo’s looks took
an impression of still deeper interest, and dropping on his knees, the
old man raised his hoary head and withered hands towards him, while
earnestly repeating.
“Ere I begin my mission, let me, Sire! charge you on my knees, to put
from you all obstinate prejudice, all proud presumption--all vain desire
of men’s praises for a seeming contempt of temporal things! avow
conviction and repentance if they touch your heart, and be content to
suffer a short odium from heretics, for the sake of your eternal
salvation, and for the worldly prosperity of Portugal. Let the example
of the pious Henry of France sustain your courage. I am come to invite
you back to the arms of our indulgent father; he empowers me to exhort
and to instruct you. If my humble endeavours may avail, he promises to
command every catholic Prince to concur in demanding the restitution of
Portugal: so must Philip yield up the crown, and your sceptre pass into
your royal hand in peace. No sword will be drawn, no blood shed, no
families divided by civil dispute, no fortunes ruined. Europe will
behold the long-exiled Sebastian calmly retake his seat amongst her
monarchs, and universal gladness will follow.”
Sampayo stopt, and Sebastian raised him kindly from the ground; but the
lofty smile with which he did so, answered the fearful inquiry of Kara
Aziek’s eyes: that smile spoke to her of a heavenly crown, not a
temporal one, and half-raised, half-sunk her trembling spirit. She
seated herself near her husband, while he placed himself in an attitude
of attention, requesting the venerable priest to continue his discourse.
All that zeal, and affection, and ability, can inspire in support of a
weak cause, was urged by father Sampayo: sincerely professing the
doctrines of Rome, he understood and explained them better than any
other man, but his explanations were unsatisfactory, his reasonings
barred by mysteries; he talked eloquently, but he talked in vain, for
he convinced not his hearers.
After frequent pauses, and as frequent renewals of the important theme,
his powers were exhausted, and he awaited the reply of Sebastian. The
latter gave him a long look, full of gratitude and esteem, and pressing
the hand of Kara Aziek as it rested trembling on his, he thus addressed
him.
“It is not my aim to change or to disturb the opinions of one who stands
on the brink of time, and whose holy life, and sincerity, though in
error, may redeem his creed: I have but to assure you father, on the
solemn word of an accountable man, that my heart has not yet been
shaken, nor my understanding momentarily enlightened by a single
argument adduced in support of papal Christianity. I feel and I believe
that the reformed religion of Luther approaches much nearer to the pure
doctrines of our blessed Redeemer, and as such I will profess it unto
death.
“If the recovery of my rights is to depend upon my abjuration of my
principles, I may say at once, “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Father! I fear not the censure of men, I court not their applause; but
the voice of God and of my conscience resounds from the depths of this
heart, warning me not to betray my everlasting soul for a perishable
honour.”
He now turned his softened eyes upon his wife, and went on. “I presume
not to read the decrees of Providence; whatever be the cup presented me
by the divine hand, shall we not drink it my Aziek? aye, drink it
together!--Does not thy virtuous spirit make the same covenant with that
of him who has known no joy on earth without thee, and almost fears
there would be none for him in heaven if he had not thee to share it.”
Aziek replied in whispered sighs upon her bosom, where she threw
herself, oppressed to agony: she exulted in the magnanimity of her
Sebastian; she shared his ardours, but she foresaw the price that must
be paid for the immortal crown he preferred to that of earth, and some
human weakness enfeebled without subduing her.
Sebastian knew her thoughts, and prized her heroism the more, from
seeing the tenderness with which it had to struggle. Father Sampayo was
plunged in sorrow; his arguments were now succeeded by lamentations and
entreaties; he wept, he prayed, but his tears only served to make
Sebastian regret without altering his resolution.
Day passed unheeded in this painful contest, till at length the
confessor was obliged to quit the prison. “This hope then is over,” he
said, preparing to withdraw, “your obstinacy, sire, is to be the signal
for our great superior’s pronouncing you once more an impostor, and
excommunicating all who appear in your defence. He persists in
declaring that the true Don Sebastian was the elect of God, and could
not fall into such accursed heresy. I have now no further hopes; all
rests on the good offices of your protestant allies. May the blessed
virgin and the saints intercede for your darkened soul! may a miracle
restore you! perhaps these aged eyes will never more behold you till we
wake together in--another world.”--The good man’s voice faltered as he
uttered the last words, for he dared not say in Paradise, since he
addressed a heretic.
Sebastian bent his knee to receive his benediction, and Kara Aziek
partook in the affecting farewel. Sampayo embraced and blessed them
together, then hastened out of the apartment.
The past scene would have dwelt long on their hearts, had not the
father, as he departed, drawn a packet from his vest, and put it into
the hand of Aziek; the writing was unknown to her, but opening it, she
glanced over these words: “A confidential servant of the Duchess Medina
Sidonia has ventured to entrust the enclosed to father Sampayo; he has
been long in Venice anxiously seeking some safe method of transmitting
it according to his instructions.”
Every shew of composure and self-command vanished at this moment from
the countenances of Kara Aziek and Sebastian; they tore open the letter,
they ran over it together with swelling hearts and frequent exclamations
of joy; its contents were indeed balm to their tortured minds.
The Duchess wrote to assure them of her inviolable fidelity to the
secret of their daughter’s birth, and to promise her continued
protection to the amiable girl through any change of fortune; she told
them that Blanche’s real parents had never yet been guessed at even by
Paula, the wife of Gaspar, for whose infant son the Duke of Braganza had
sent into Sicily, proclaiming his intention of repaying to the child
the timely service of his father.
Renewed vows of friendship, repeated exhortations to hope and patience,
and trust in Providence, concluded the letter of the Duchess; that of
Blanche, though filled with expressions of filial sorrow and love,
happily convinced her parents that she knew not the worst of their
destiny, but was encouraged to hope beyond probability or present
prospect.
Sweet were the tears that now stole down the cheeks of these illustrious
sufferers! they beheld the writing of their child, they believed her out
of the reach of their misfortunes, and their misfortunes ceased to
afflict or to affright them.
The consolation afforded by this unforeseen blessing, together with the
inward satisfaction of having sacrificed interest to principle, spread a
cheering light through their hitherto dreary prison, they were comforted
and revived; and patient in joy as in sorrow, they cheerfully resigned
themselves to await the good time of heaven.
While all within the prison was peace, all without was confusion and
indecision; every day messages and noble persons arrived from different
states, to know the fate of the extraordinary man whom the Portuguese
called their King. The friends of Sebastian zealously disseminated their
belief of his identity; the partizans of Philip and of Rome as hotly
proclaimed his falsehood. Venice herself knew not how to act; she began
to tremble for the consequences of her rash union with Spain, and to
listen with troubled attention to the remonstrances of France, England,
and the States-General. The city was now crowded with foreigners of
various ranks and ages, daily besieging the Senate with alternate
reproach and solicitation.
In the midst of this tumult, Don Christopher of Crato, arrived from the
court of London with a threatening letter from the English Queen. She
demanded a public trial of the pretended impostor, menacing Venice and
Spain with immediate destruction if they refused compliance. The terror
of a British fleet decided the irresolution of the Venetians, and
summoning a full senate, they consented to hear their royal prisoner.
It was in vain that the Portuguese lords prayed permission to be present
at this examination, in order to compare him with their own recollection
of the unfortunate Sebastian. The Seigniory alleged that the Portuguese
were all too desirous of believing the impostor to give an impartial
testimony, and that by questioning him on the events of his life, they
were more certain to detect him in contradictions.
Venice yet feared and hoped much from Philip, whose ambassador
alternately threatened and caressed her; and armed with assertions which
Morosini’s communications enabled him to fulminate, he now made one of
the assembly, proudly pronouncing himself the umpire, since he had
frequently seen the real Don Sebastian in his palace of Ribera.
It was midnight, and cold December, when Valdorno came to conduct
Sebastian into the presence of the senators: Sebastian wished never more
to lose sight of Kara Aziek, and with an air of high authority that
would not be denied, he persisted in making her his companion.
A solemn expectancy sat on the faces of the numerous senators who with
the Doge, habited in their most imposing habits, formed a semi-circle in
the grand hall of the senate-house. One massy branch of lights threw a
sullen gleam over the more sullen crowd: no sound was heard amongst
them, as the great doors were opened, and Don Sebastian appeared,
advancing between Kara Aziek and Signor Valdorno. He paused when he had
passed the threshold, and cast an undaunted look around the hall.
The King of Portugal was now at that period of life, when manly beauty
assumes a character of majesty, and awes rather than wins: the bright
colours of youth were no longer on his cheek, nor its luxuriant fulness
on his limbs, but his countenance was splendid still, for the fire of
his eyes was unextinguished. He looked
“Not less
Than archangel ruined.”
By his side stood the gentle Aziek, with loveliness faded, not
obliterated; graces so lightly touched by the hand of time, and so
interestingly mixed with looks of unresisting sweetness, that she
appeared born to contrast the severe dignity of Sebastian. But there was
a modest nobleness in her air that seemed as if love had copied the
object beloved, and made her worthy of it.
At the first sight of these august sufferers, murmurs of shame and
admiration ran through the assembly. Sebastian advanced to the Castilian
ambassador, whom his eagle glance had singled out, and stopping before
him, said in a high voice, “Here is one that should know me. Sir! whom
say you I am?”
The Spaniard who had half-discredited, half-believed the existence of
Don Sebastian, now amazed into perfect conviction, turned pale, and the
acknowledgment was bursting from his lips, when recollecting himself, he
turned aside, and said coldly, “I know you not.”
“We have sent for you, Stranger!” interrupted the Doge, as he saw
Sebastian hastening to speak, “not to question others, but to answer for
yourself, we are met here, without prejudice or partiality, to decide
between you and the most Christian King Philip III. of Spain, Portugal,
and the Indies. I charge you answer truly to the questions that shall be
put to you.”
“As an honest man desirous to have his truth apparent to all the world,
I am ready to answer you,” replied Sebastian, “I will forget awhile that
I am a King--aye Lords! a King: (he added, seeing them look strangely
at each other,) there are some amongst you that know I am so. Woe unto
them, sons of Judas! have they not betrayed me with the kiss of
friendship?”
Signor Morosini drew back at this expression, and averted his head; the
Doge proceeded to speak.
“How comes it, that you have thus long suffered the kingdom of Portugal
to be enjoyed by the sovereigns of Spain, if confident that you were its
lawful possessor?”
“Because I had not any direct promise of support from other Princes, and
abhorred the thought of plunging my people into war.”
“Where have you passed the long period of twenty years which has elapsed
since the battle of Alcazar? and how comes it that you are the husband
of a Moorish woman?”
“Part of that period has been spent in Barbary, part in Persia, the
remainder in Brazil. You ask me how it comes that I am the husband of a
Moorish woman, I answer, because I loved her, I owed her eternal
gratitude, and she deserved both sentiments.”
“What say you to the well-known fact of Don Sebastian’s body having been
found in a suit of green armour on the field of Alcazar?”
“I reply, that it was the body of some other person. Near the cave of
Abensallah, a Moorish hermit, who dwelt among the mountains of
Benzeroel, my armour will be found buried under a plane tree; the royal
insignia are on it; since Spain and Morocco are at peace, I challenge
you to have it sought for.”
“How comes it, that having passed this long period, first in Mahometan
countries, and lastly in a Catholic one, that you should profess
doctrines known only to a few miserable European states?”
“I was instructed in them by the Moorish proselyte of an English slave;
I heard, and examined, and believed.”
“Enough!” exclaimed the Doge, “now hear what you are said to be. A
Calabrian impostor: we have inquired, and heard of a strange person
bearing the name of Marco Tullo Cattizone, who abode some time at
Messina, and him thou art. This woman is--I know not what;--thy lawful
wife is the servant of the Duchess Medina Sidonia, and is now in this
city ready to swear to thee as her husband.”
“Peace!” exclaimed Sebastian, with a voice of thunder, and throwing his
arm round Kara Aziek with a look of protection. At that moment his eye
caught Morosini’s, and the tide of resentment turned: it was evident
that he was the informer, since after their first meeting, Sebastian had
directed Giuseppe to address his letters to Cattizone at Messina, and
doubtless having supposed that he bore that name, they had confounded
him with Gaspar, and discovering his wife, who concluding him to be her
husband, without intending to abet falsehood, was beguiled into doing
so.
Sebastian briefly stated these circumstances, adding, “of his evidence I
am deprived by the most cruel misfortune; my faithful follower is no
more; but his dying words attest my truth, and the noble Braganza is
prepared to repeat them. Let this woman you speak of, be brought hither;
she will quickly acknowledge that I am not her husband. If I am a
Calabrian, bring forward those who know my birth and lineage.--You have
state papers signed by Don Sebastian’s name, compare these signatures
with my hand writing now. Question me on the secret articles of our
various negociations; if you find me falter in my answers, then brand me
with imposture. Let my person be compared with the description of Don
Sebastian’s: shew me to my Portuguese, they will know the voice and the
features of their King, though time and sorrow have marked me with
their heaviest print: if my own people deny me, then let disgrace and
death light on me and mine.”
Sebastian concluded, and seeing that his last words had taken the colour
from Kara Aziek’s cheek, he gave her such a smile as might in calmer
times have transported her to fall upon his neck in an ecstacy of
delight: but now, it redoubled her anguish, by heightening her love, and
she remained wildly gazing on the men who had the fate of her husband in
their hands.
A sharp debate ensued amongst the Venetians. Some, moved by the
interesting softness of Kara Aziek, were forward to espouse the cause of
her husband, insisting on the equity of complying with his demands.
Some, awed into admiration of Sebastian, feared to maintain the
assertion of his imposture, but excused their conduct on the plea of his
apostacy: others, denounced him in the same breath as an impostor, an
apostate, a magician, calling for his instant delivery into the hands
of Rome, or of the Inquisition. All questioned him with perplexing
varieties of inquiries, which he compelled himself to satisfy.
The Castillian grew clamorous; and at each convincing explanation,
called out, “He is an impious sorcerer!”
But the senate, though far from unanimously believing this superstitious
assertion of their ally’s envoy, were too much afraid of papal power,
and of protestant indignation, to take a decisive part on either side:
they deemed it best to steer the middle course, and getting rid of
Sebastian without providing for his protection, leave him to his fate in
the midst of Philip’s adherents.
They commanded their prisoner to withdraw, and leave them to deliberate
on the nature of the decision they were about to pronounce. Sebastian
retired with Kara Aziek.
In a vacant anti-chamber, attended only by Signor Valdorno, whom
respectful pity kept silent, they sat awaiting the moment of their
recal. The tumult of sharp debate still reached them from the senate
hall: at each noisy burst, the blood retreated yet further into the
heart of Kara Aziek; her lips, her cheeks, her very eyes were pale:
violent tremblings alone gave to her death-like figure any semblance of
life. She sat with one hand closely grasping that of Sebastian, who
continued in low and tender tones to chide such apprehension.