"It is not exile--rest on high;
It is not sadness--peace from strife;
To fall asleep is not to die;
To dwell with Christ is better life."
In the meantime the slow years went by for the prisoners of Fez and
brought no change in the main features of their lot. One or two, like
the poor young Manoel, sank and died, and for these the survivors could
but give thanks; but still Fernando lived on and endured. Perhaps the
voluntary self-denials to which he had accustomed himself in earlier
years made him better able to bear these later hardships; but certainly
for seven long years he bore his cruel lot so firmly and so calmly as to
win the respect even of his jailers, while his fellow-captives loved him
with such entire and devoted affection that they could hardly be
miserable in his presence. They leant on him with a dependence strange
towards one who indeed could not defend them "from the least insult of
the meanest foe."
Long years of hopeless slavery did not as a rule raise the character or
ennoble the life. Many of the poor Christian slaves were degraded by
the tyranny under which they suffered to a lower level than the masters
who oppressed them, and became faithless, cowardly, and brutal. For
oppression does not of itself make men heroic. It is much to say of the
Portuguese that as the years went by they grew more patient, more manly,
and more Christian; while to Fernando the blissful end of his sorrows
shone ever nearer and more bright, till his daily trials seemed hardly
felt for the inward light that shone on them.
Perhaps this strange content defeated the intentions of Lazurac, or
perhaps Fernando's increasing weakness and helplessness made him fear
that he would soon lose his captive, and with him his hold over the
Portuguese nation; but Fernando was one day suddenly separated from his
companions and confined in a separate prison, the reason alleged being
that he was unable to perform the toil exacted from him.
This was the cruellest stroke that had ever fallen on them. They felt
utterly lost and forsaken, and for days could have no news of him, till
at last the more compassionate Hassan pointed out to them the dungeon
where he was imprisoned, and showed them a grating through which it was
possible, not indeed to see him in the darkness, but to hear him speak,
and then they heard his, "Ah, dear friends, this is joy indeed. You are
still free to move; and well, I trust, and patient?"
"But you, my son, my dear son," cried Father Jose, for once
inconsiderate, as he pushed aside Dom Francisco and pressed his face to
the grating, "have you food and tendance?"
"My father, I think I have not much more to suffer; I think I have never
yet been grateful enough for the love that has been with me all these
years. To-morrow you will come again?"
For trial had not changed the loving, clinging nature; it was the same
Fernando who, long years ago, had wept at the thought of life without
the beloved Enrique, who now, while he uttered no murmur and patiently
endured this last, worst suffering, felt that the loss of his dear
companions would kill him.
"Our Blessed Saviour was forsaken by His friends, while I am but
separated from mine," he thought, and rays of comfort stole into his
soul; but he was very ill, and growing weaker every day, and his heart,
though never rebellious, was very faint. Yet every day he had a
cheerful word for his visitors, rejoicing in their comparative freedom,
while to them the moment at the grating was the one point in the whole
day.
At last one day his door was opened, and two figures entered instead of
one, and in a moment Father Jose knelt beside him.
"My son, I am here," he said, in a trembling voice--