possibility of being doomed to leave the world denied and reviled.
At length a person appeared at the door, Sebastian arose, but Kara Aziek
hung on his arm unable to raise her sinking frame. That moment was come
in which their fate was to be pronounced! Scarcely could Valdorno
support her on his stronger arm, as they followed Sebastian into the
council room.
The Doge was standing.--“Stranger!” he said, “he to whom you applied for
acknowledgment of your bold pretensions, the ambassador of our noble
ally, Philip of Spain, solemnly assures us, that your features are
unknown to him: we may not therefore, examine you further: to do so,
would be to insult the honour of a great sovereign, in the person of his
representative. We leave you at liberty to seek other investigation: and
as we acknowledge no other King of Portugal, besides Philip III. of
Spain, we command him who usurps that title, to depart this city within
three days, on pain of perpetual imprisonment.”
The Doge reseated himself, and with a shriek of joy, Kara Aziek fell
lifeless at the feet of her husband. Signor Valdorno hastened to raise
her in his arms: Sebastian cast on her a look of sad tenderness, but
attempted not to remove her from Valdorno. He turned to the assembly,
and viewing them with an undaunted and indignant air, that struck
conviction of his royal dignity to every soul, he said aloud, “Once more
I tell you, I am Sebastian King of Portugal. I go, with God’s help, to
prove this assertion on the war-fields of my country, since thus he
wills it.”
He vouchsafed no glance to Morosini, but passing his arm round Kara
Aziek, with Valdorno’s aid, carried her forth. A gondola was provided
for their conveyance to the lodgings of Don Juan De Castro: Kara Aziek
recovered her senses at the movement of the boat, and then so many
powerful emotions (joy relapsing into fear, gratitude suddenly checked
by remembrance of former evils, love for her husband, and indignation at
his false friends) shook her frame, that she evidently trembled on the
verge of death and madness.
Sebastian succeeded in beseeching her to let this agitation subside, ere
she mixed in a scene likely to increase it still more; it was long past
midnight, and as they entered De Castro’s house, he resigned her into
the care of a female domestic, whom they encountered in the hall,
desiring her to conduct the exhausted lady to a place where she might
take rest.
Having disposed of her who demanded all his care, Sebastian preceded the
courteous Valdorno into a saloon filled with a numerous concourse of
friends and strangers, and glaringly lighted. He advanced with his usual
kingly port into the centre of them, and stopped there without speaking:
Don Juan De Castro fell back amazed at the figure he saw before him.
De Castro retained the vivid image of a young and smiling warrior,
gallantly attired, bright with health, and happiness, and conscious
power; he now saw a man in the autumn of life, negligently habited,
darkened by foreign suns, wasted with many cares, dimmed by long
experience of this world’s uncertainty and emptiness. He scarcely knew
how to trust his sight: but as Sebastian, observing his trouble, and
conjecturing its cause, mournfully smiled, Juan precipitated himself at
his feet, exclaiming, “My King, my King!”
That well-remembered smile was decisive: at the same instant, several
other persons cast themselves on the ground, proclaiming the person they
beheld, to be their King.
Eyes, that had never wept before, now flowed in sympathy with the
Portuguese and their persecuted sovereign: Sebastian’s full heart
overflowed at every side; and calling each friend by their name, he
turned from one to the other, alternately embracing and raising them to
his bosom.
When they were standing around him, he cast a look over the circle, and
seeing them variously habited, most of them in disguises, which were
assumed for the purpose of dispatch on their different missions, some in
the fashion of France, some in that of England, some in that of Holland,
others as pilgrims, a few as mendicants; he smiled pensively again, and
said with a heavy sigh, “So many sorts!”--
The sad grace with which he spoke, once more touched every heart, and
renewing their exclamations, the Portuguese crowded about him to kiss
his hands and his garments.
Amongst this groupe he distinguished the Fathers Texere and Sampayo, De
Brito, who had last seen him on the field of Alcazar, when they fought
together in defence of the royal standard, Mascaranhas, his favorite
attendant, and a tall fair young man, whose countenance was peculiar
from its expression.
Sebastian fixed his eyes on this last, with extreme earnestness; the
colour fluctuated on the young man’s cheek; “Is it not a kinsman I
behold in you, young sir!” he said kindly, “Don Christopher of Crato, I
think.”
Don Christopher answered by a painful blush; Sebastian resumed, and his
heart yearned towards him as he spoke, “You resemble your father in
complexion; God grant you grace to resemble your grandfather in deeds!”
“The infant Don Louis is the only parent I wish to remember,” replied
Don Christopher, dropping his eyes, while a deeper dye covered his face.
Sebastian’s eyes were still rivetted on him; for now he recalled that
dreadful hour, when he had seen this young man a child in the cradle at
Xabregas, and remembered anguish seized him with a transient pang.
“Where is his father!” he whispered to Don Juan. “He is dead, my liege,
at Florence.” Sebastian gave a sigh to their former attachment, then
turning with animation to those around, said--
“Which of you will compare this wreck of Sebastian, with what the proud
vessel was, in her day of brave appointment? Care may have furrowed this
once smooth brow, but nothing could obliterate these well known marks.”
As he spoke, he lifted aside his hair, and shewed a deep scar above the
right eyebrow, which had been caused in his earliest youth, by an
accident in hunting.
“Here De Brito! is the memorial of a wound you saw me receive, on the
most fatal of days,” and bending his head, he displayed another large
cut above the forehead itself. “This body is flesh, not iron, on which a
man may grave what he pleases, yet these marks are accidental; what I am
about to shew, were imprinted on me by the hand of nature.”
He now pushed down his cloak, and baring one shoulder, discovered on the
exceedingly white skin, a singular mole resembling a dark seal or coin:
at the same time he extricated his left foot from its sandal, and
shewed another curious mark, well remembered by all his familiar
associates.
At these convincing evidences, those who secretly wavered between doubt
and belief, uttered a cry of gladness, and again the tumultuous murmurs
of joy and sorrow (for how could such recognition be made otherwise?)
ran through the crowd.
While the King was answering the many questions which followed this
complete conviction, and thanking the surrounding strangers for their
generous sympathy, Father Texere came forward, leading in his hand a
monk in the vigour of life, tall and commanding, on whose acute brow
were stamped energy and ability: “Sire!” he said, “suffer me to claim
your notice for this excellent person, who of all men present, has
sacrificed the most for your sake: it is now some months since he added
his powerful support to our party.”
“What is he, good Texere? to whom stand I indebted for the zeal you will
find me warm to acknowledge?”
“To Father Chrysostom, the most distinguished follower of our holy
Faith. He lately filled the office of almoner and confessor to the
Viceroy of Portugal, but struck by the recital of your story by Caspar
Ribeiro, and indignant at that atrocious act which brought Ribeiro to
the grave, he abandoned his high situation, resigned the revenues and
honours granted him by the Marquis Castel Rodrigo, and having travelled
through these countries at the peril of his life, boldly declaring your
existence wherever he went, and rousing the people to demand their King,
he has reached Venice, and become the most zealous for your Majesty’s
enlargement.
“On his eloquence we depend for reconciling his holiness to your
espousal of the new doctrines. Father Chrysostom is unimpeachable in
his own profession, and what he sanctions, no devout catholic may
venture to question. Sampayo and myself fail of surmounting the
religious prejudice which opposes you, Sire! for they accuse me of being
a Lutheran in my heart, and Sampayo of being too little careful for the
salvation of others.
“Deign then to accept the services of Father Chrysostom, and to admit
him into the number of your chosen servants.”
Sebastian extended his hand towards the lofty-looking Chrysostom, who
received it with respect, and the calm aspect of a man that is actuated
rather by reflection and principle, than by any enthusiastic impulse.
His thoughtful looks, his temperate words, his unimpassioned manner,
when connected with the knowledge of his ardent actions, made Sebastian
muse on the contrast between this sacrificing friend and the selfish
Morosini.
How different, thought he, look truth and falsehood; or rather, how
different does a steady and an unstable character express the same
feelings!
When Sebastian had urged many inquiries to Chrysostom respecting the
Braganza family, and the situation of Portugal, some of the Portuguese
would have learned from him the particulars of his own exile, but
sadness shaded his countenance, and praying them to forbear awhile,
since the relation of his adventures must painfully revive the memory of
early error, he proceeded to learn the state of his affairs at foreign
courts, fixing on fit operations for the future.
The unsettled posture of Holland forbade him to seek that asylum there,
which he purposed seeking somewhere; (an asylum was necessary to rest in
till Portugal should proclaim him, and his allies fulfil their
engagements of furnishing him with men and money.) England was beginning
to dread a change, for Essex was fallen into disgrace, Elizabeth, grown
so capricious with age and jealousy, that she changed her humour every
hour, and no longer listened to the solicitations for Don Sebastian,
since her favourite was not nigh to urge them. France was the only
country that opened her arms to the fugitive.
The King, deeply interested in depressing the house of Austria, and
convinced of Sebastian’s identity, from the representations of others,
had empowered Don Christopher to offer the persecuted monarch an
honourable asylum. It was to his court that Sebastian resolved to direct
his steps: while he hastened thither to join the army which Henry
offered to raise, [if swelled by succours from any other Prince;]
Sampayo and his companions were to return into Portugal, and proclaim
their sovereign; Braganza was to seize on the national fleet and the
treasury: two acts less difficult than they appeared, owing to the
devotion of the sailors to Don Sebastian’s memory, and the extreme
weakness of the Spanish garrisons.
Sebastian reckoned not on Castillian assistance; he did not even permit
himself to name his friends of Medina Sidonia; for he justly concluded,
that although he might trust implicitly where his own safety alone was
implicated, he should rigidly abstain from all imprudence when it might
endanger another.
He found that the Duke of Medina Sidonia had been suspected of having
favoured his cause, and had been strictly sifted by the minister of
Philip; but as no proof appeared of his knowing the stranger in any
other character than that of a Portuguese from Brazil, to whom his wife
had shewn attention out of regard to her brother’s memory, he was
dismissed with nothing more than a severe warning.
Upon this information Sebastian remarked in such terms that no one
present guessed him at all in correspondence with Medina; and
restraining his anxiety to learn, if possible, whether his daughter had
been alarmingly noticed, he returned to the subject of his departure
from Venice. No doubts could be entertained of the republic’s
willingness to further in secret, Philip’s aim of getting his rival into
his power, and this conviction rendered extreme precaution
indispensible. By the influence of Philip’s ambassadors, all the
passages into France and Germany were closed against them; wherever
Sebastian went openly, he must expect to be seized as a subject of
Spain, being pronounced a Calabrian. (Calabria now forming part of its
Italian possessions.) Father Chrysostom therefore proposed that their
numerous party should separate, and by different parcels, and different
ways, seek their different places of destination. He offered to risk
himself through Italy, with Don Sebastian alone, provided he would
assume the disguise of a monk, and travel under that character to a
free port, where they might embark for France.
This advice, after some consideration, met with general concurrence; it
was agreed that the King, with Aziek and their prudent guide, should
pass first to Chiozzi; from thence through Ferrara to Florence, so to
Leghorn, and finally take ship for Marseilles. Such of his Portuguese as
chose to join him on his route might rendezvous at Florence, where they
were not likely to be known or stayed, and they might then proceed all
together to Marseilles.
Upon this arrangement the consultation ended, and leaving their
well-beloved monarch to the care of Juan De Castro and of Don
Christopher; the several Portuguese repaired to their respective
lodgings, wishing the morning soon to appear, since they were permitted
to return at noon, in order to be introduced to their Queen.
The next day re-assembled the friends of Sebastian. Kara Aziek entered
the apartment where they met, with extreme emotion, so much had she to
look back upon with horror, so much to look forward to with anxiety! yet
gratitude and joy were in her bosom, and on her countenance.
She presented herself to the Portuguese with a timid grace, (as if
beseeching them to love her for their sovereign’s sake) her gentle
demeanor won all their hearts, and when the separate nobles repeated
their oaths of fidelity to Sebastian, thanks, mixed with tears and
smiles, heightened the interest excited by her beauty.
Juan De Castro had undertaken the task of conveying letters to his
cousin Medina Sidonia, and to Blanche; this prospect gladdened the
mother’s spirit, and she now entered into discourse of their momentous
departure with cheerful courage.
The assembly separated before dusk, and at night-fall, attired as
pilgrims, with Father Chrysostom in his monk’s habit, Kara Aziek and
Sebastian took their eventful departure from Venice.
The speed with which they journeyed induced them to hope that they
should reach Florence (where Don Christopher and De Castro were gone to
await them) ere suspicion of their route could arise. The Venetians
concluded that Sebastian’s escape would, if possible be made to England,
and of course the Castillian ambassador’s search after him would be
directed to the shores of the Adriatic; this idea was what determined
Chrysostom to take the route of Tuscany.
CHAP. VI.
Day was just breaking when the travellers reached the gates of Florence.
“We are now safe!” exclaimed Father Chrysostom, “here ends our toil.”
“Not absolutely,” replied Sebastian, looking gladly around him, “till I
rest these weary limbs in Portugal, my fatigues cannot be said to
cease.”
“But we are almost safe,” whispered Aziek, “beyond the Venetian
territory we may breathe and dismiss apprehension.”
Chrysostom turned on her as she spoke, and his dark grey eyes assumed an
expression that made her recoil; ere she recovered from the strange
alarm they struck into her, he had seized a hand of each, and bringing
them through the gates which were just opening, stopped before a party
of military.
“Here ends our toil!” he repeated, in an altered, triumphant, and
ferocious tone, “Soldiers sieze this Calabrian! my duty is done!”
Sebastian was instantly surrounded by a band of armed men, who drawing
their swords at the same moment with a horrid noise, which drew forth a
shriek from Kara Aziek, flashed them before him with menacing attitudes.
Sebastian stood root-bound in their circle, his eyes fixed with
amazement on the perfidious Chrysostom: stunned by so atrocious a
perfidy, his faculties were for awhile overpowered: at length bursting
into such a tempest of rage as had been long unknown to him, he called
out, “Traitor! fear you not that heaven’s bolt will fall and strike
you?”
“Bridle this madness, impostor or apostate!” (whichever name you affect
most) replied the stern friar, “I fear no bolts; I look rather for the
mantle of Elisha! Chrysostom might indeed have dreaded divine judgment,
had he acted with the inconsistency of his reprobate brethren. Your
damnable creed is my abhorrence: whoever you are, for that creed I would
burn you at the stake, did I rule in Spain. My stratagem has succeeded;
I have secured to myself the gratitude of the whole church; and may
every pernicious heretic thus run into the snare of destruction!”
“And may every---- but no, I will not curse,” exclaimed Sebastian,
interrupting his own fierce transport. “God will avenge.”
“Thy ways are hard to understand, O Father all-powerful! teach me to
adore and to submit.”
His head fell on his breast at the last words, and he remained so
awefully wrapt in meditation that he saw not Kara Aziek fall at the feet
of Chrysostom, and wildly embrace his knees. Her supplicating voice
first awakened him: he recovered himself with a smile almost divine, and
tenderly raising her, said calmly, “kneel not there, my beloved! forget
not that we are in the hands of God as well as man; if _he_ commands to
spare, who shall destroy?”
Aziek answered but with low and grievous groans, while she continued to
hang upon him; and he, motioning for the soldiers to take him where they
would, prepared to follow them.
More confounded by this majestic acquiescence, than by the fiercest
violence, Chrysostom stood with a troubled look: “Is this hypocrisy! or
what is it?” he exclaimed.
“It is Christian submission,” returned Sebastian, not deigning to turn
his eyes on him. The friar made an effort to resume himself: “Rather
say, coward consciousness of base desert! cease to profane the name of
our Redeemer, by uniting it with the accursed doctrines you profess:
your miserable imposture is over: you also, madam, may queen it no
longer, or if you will still appeal to some tribunal, prepare yourselves
for answering at the great judgment-seat of Heaven.”
Chrysostom’s withering eyes were levelled at both his victims; he stood
with his arm extended in the attitude of denunciation, and every
lineament of his gigantic figure seemed to grow in power and malignity.
Kara Aziek shuddered, turned deathly pale, and closing her eyes,
suffered her head to fall back upon the shoulder of her Lord.
Sebastian earnestly gazed on the man before him: “Of what stuff art thou
formed?” he said, “art thou man, or devil? is it avarice, or ambition,
or hellish bigotry, that has prompted thee to a deed like this? O! blind
to the merciful and faithful character of him thou professest to
follow! thinkest thou that he will reward thee for perjury and lies?
study his doctrines better.”
“Away with him!” cried Chrysostom, “the revilings of reprobate souls,
are the testimonies of the saints--my glory is his opprobrium.”
The soldiers now hurried their prisoner forward, who (suffered to hold
her in his arms from whom he trusted nothing but death would hereafter
divide him) still retained a gleam of comfort to illuminate future days
of darkest misery.
The loathsomeness of the dungeon into which they were thrust, was a
melancholy earnest of their intended treatment: but Sebastian complained
not; and all devoted to the hard task of detaining the flitting soul of
his Aziek, in its feeble tenement, he passed a weary day without
learning to what fate he was doomed.
His thoughts were less employed upon personal sufferings, than with
amazed consideration of the black treachery of him whom the Portuguese
had so incautiously trusted; and many were the censures he passed on
them for their credulity.
But in truth Sebastian blamed them unjustly: hypocrisy is the only evil
that walks unseen “by man and angels;” and father Chrysostom was a
hypocrite even to himself: he could cajole and cheat his own soul.
While his thoughts were in reality fixed upon earthly distinctions, he
believed they were solely turned towards heavenly ones. He fasted, he
prayed, he mortified his affections and his senses; he distributed alms,
he visited sufferers, he arrayed his body in “sackcloth and ashes,” and
he persuaded himself that he did all this from love and zeal for our
divine master. But it was the praise of men he coveted, rather than the
approbation of conscience; and having early fixed his eyes on the
triple crown, he placed not his foot except where the step promised to
lead towards that envied object.
His advancement had been gradual and sure: now it was likely to prove
more rapid. In his quality of confessor to the Portuguese viceroy, he
speedily heard of Sebastian’s re-appearance, and of the alarm which the
success of his various agents spread through the Spanish court. Rodrigo
acknowledged that it was Philip’s earnest wish to have the pretender at
his mercy; and upon this acknowledgment Chrysostom suddenly conceived
the bold plan of affecting zeal for the Portuguese monarch, insinuating
himself into his confidence, learning who were his secret abettors, and
in case the Venetians should not deliver him up to Spain, deceive him
into her power by the means described.
His affected renunciation of places and profits, together with a shew of
hot persecution from the Spanish and papal court, warranted the friends
of Sebastian in their fatal dependance on his superior talents: he
obtained his victim; and secure of the Duke of Tuscany’s concurrence,
apprized him of the day and hour at which they should enter the gates of
Florence.
Juan De Castro, and Don Christopher, who were already in the city, no
sooner heard of their King’s second detention, than aware of the danger
which menaced themselves, and conscious that by the captivity or death
of his friends, Sebastian’s situation would only be rendered more
hopeless, they fled hastily, severally betaking themselves to France and
England with entreaties for effectual aid from both those powers.
Meanwhile Sebastian was reconveyed, with the faithful partner of his
afflictions, from the Florentine prison, to the nearest sea-port, where
being embarked in a Spanish ship of war, and closely kept from the sight
of the crew, they set sail for Naples.
Sebastian rarely condescended to question the only person who was
allowed to attend him, for the man was cold and savage, and seemed
prepared to reply with insults; but on launching again upon that ocean
which he had so often traversed under such variety of fortune, he one
day broke silence, and asked whither they were going to take him. “To
the prison Del Ovo, for life,”--was all the answer of his attendant, as
he shut and bolted the cabin door.
Sebastian and Kara Aziek turned their eyes on each other: they needed
not speech to understand what was passing in each others hearts: their
daughter’s fate alone occupied every feeling.
“Ah, if I could be assured that her innocent life would be spared, her
days pass in peace,” exclaimed Kara Aziek, “my soul would find rest: I
could bound my little remnant of happiness with the walls of my
Sebastian’s prison, or I could die with thee, my husband--die gladly.”
She bent her face on his neck to hide her gushing tears, as she thought
of their perishing together.