Crabbed age and youth cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short;
Youth is nimble, age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Shakspeare.
They had ridden but a short way, when Lady Mabel, reining in her
horse, placed herself along side of Moodie, to ask how he felt now.
She feared lest he might be too unwell to undergo the fatigues of the
day. But, thanks to L'Isle's prescription, Moodie was already another
man. He sat bolt upright in the saddle, with a martial air, and looked
around as if ready for any emergency. She no longer felt any fears for
him. His curiosity, too, seemed to be awakened, for he said: "You are
a great botanist, my lady, and know every kind of plant. Pray, what
were those two tall trees near the farmer's house, with bare trunks
and feathery tops?"
"They are date palms," said Lady Mabel. "You see more and more of them
the nearer you get to Africa."
"Indeed!" said Moodie, with more astonishment than the information
seemed to warrant.
"Yes," she continued; "and they bear a luscious and nourishing fruit,
which, in the deserts of Africa, is the chief food of the people. It
is to them what oatmeal is to the Scot."
"And how far are we from Africa?" said Moodie, dreading the answer,
but striving to put the question in an indifferent tone.
"Why some people say that Africa begins at the Pyrenees, but Colonel
L'Isle, who knows the country thoroughly, says that the Sierra de
Monchique is the true boundary. The kingdom of Algarve, lying beyond
those mountains, is, in climate, soil, and vegetation, truly African;
and it is only the strip of salt water that separates it from Morocco,
that prevents its forming part of that country."
"I never heard of the kingdom of Algarve before," said Moodie,
pondering the information he had received. "How far are we from it?"
"We will not find it a long day's journey to one of the chief towns,"
said Lady Mabel. "Its name--its name is Mauropolis, the city of the
Moors. It lies on the border of Algarve, just like Berwick on the
border of Scotland, only Algarve is a beautiful and fertile country,
which poor Scotland is only to a Scot."
"It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest," growled Moodie in an
undertone. "Have you forgot, my lady, that you are yourself a Scot!"
"A Scot!" said she, deliberately, as if now first considering that
point. "My mother was an Englishwoman. So far, I am not a Scot."
"But your father! Your father, my lady!" Moodie angrily exclaimed. "He
is a true Scot, and knows the worth of old Scotland well."
"He does, indeed," said she; "and has always thought it an excellent
country--to come from; so he marched off at eighteen, and has seldom
been back there since."
"So we are on the borders of Africa!" exclaimed Moodie, speaking to
himself aloud.
"Why, do you not see Moodie, that the people grow darker, each day, as
we travel on?"
"The innkeeper at Evora is dark enough," said he, that truth flashing
on him; "but the farmer and his girls are browner still by many a
shade."
"You will think them fair," said Lady Mabel, "when you have traveled
far enough onward," and, leaving him confused and alarmed, she
cantered on to join Mrs. Shortridge.
Now Moodie was a shrewd man, perhaps a little too shrewd, with an eye
open to human depravity; he was learned, too, in his way; many a heavy
tome of Scotch controversial divinity had been thumbed by him as
carefully as his Bible; but he never dwelt on any thing he found there
not sustaining his preconceived notions. He involuntarily slighted
those parts even of Scripture that he could not wrest to his purpose.
Many an historical and traditionary fact, too, floated loosely on his
mind; but his geographical education had been sadly neglected. A
topographical knowledge of half a dozen shires, a general notion of
the shape of old Scotland, and a hazy outline of the sister kingdom,
made up all he had attained to. Had you laid before him a chart of the
sea coast of Bohemia, first discovered by our great dramatist, it
would not have startled him in the least, and he was ready to look for
Africa at any point of the compass.
He now saw clearly that this journey was part of a plot. L'Isle had
first won the confidence of father and daughter; then availing himself
of her love for botany, had habituated her to his presence and
protection on short excursions around Elvas; he had used the
commissary and his wife to beguile Lady Mabel from her father's
protection, under pretence of a short journey to a neighboring town.
Having now rid himself of the innocent commissary, he was leading her
by devious paths far beyond pursuit. Lady Mabel seemed bewitched, and
no longer saw with her own eyes. Was Mrs. Shortridge a simple gull or
something worse? "Perhaps," thought Moodie, "Colonel Bradshawe is
right;" for an eaves-dropping valet had given his scandal wings.
Moodie was not deeply read in romance; but he remembered the
traditionary tale of the young Scotch heiress, who, while a party of
her retainers were escorting her to the house of her guardian, was set
upon by a neighboring chieftain at the head of his clan. Her
followers, concealing the girl under a huge caldron, stood round it
for her defence, and when the last man had fallen the victorious
suitor carried off the girl, and married her for her lands. This, too,
was a plain case of abducting an heiress, not indeed by violence, but
with consummate art. Setting aside the rare attractions of the lady,
in Moodie's estimation the prize was immense. L'Isle, with all his
lofty airs, was but a commoner, with perhaps no fortune but his sword,
a mere adventurer, and Lord Strathern's broad acres were an
irresistible temptation; though, in truth, this coveted domain counted
thousands of acres of sheep-walk to the hundreds of plough land.
Having made this matter clear to his own mind, Moodie cursed in his
heart Lord Strathern's fatuity and the facile disposition Lady Mabel
had so unexpectedly betrayed. But, though sorely troubled, he was not
a man to despair. He resolved to watch L'Isle closely, and to rack his
own invention for some way to foil his schemes, while taking care not
to betray the least suspicion of them.
Meanwhile, Lady Mabel, as she could not herself visit Algarve, was
extracting from L'Isle a full account of that delightful region. And
he described well the picturesque and lofty mountains that cut off its
narrow strip of maritime territory from the rest of Portugal; its
tropical vegetation and its animal life, its perpetual summer,
tempered alternately by the ocean and the mountain breeze. When he
mentioned any fact which Lady Mabel thought might liken this region to
Africa in Moodie's imagination, she would turn and repeat it for his
benefit. Thus, the wolves and the wild boars abounding in the
mountains, became to him nameless monsters infesting the country; the
serpents were magnified in bulk, and the poisonous lizard redoubled
its venom. The fevers common there grew more malignant; the plague
broke out occasionally, and a few earthquakes were thrown in to
enliven the narrative. She garbled it too, sadly, suppressing the fact
that Algarve had furnished a large proportion of the adventurers who
had discovered and conquered India and Brazil, and its mariners of
this day, the best in Portugal, she converted into Barbary
corsairs. She said nothing about Algarve having been the first
province to rise against the French, or about the half-dozen
adventurous seamen who had sailed boldly in a fishing-boat to Brazil,
to inform the regent that Portugal still dared to struggle and to
hope.
L'Isle overheard and wondered at her perversion of his account of
Algarve, without detecting her motive, and Moodie thought her evident
desire to visit this region proved her little less than mad, for only
her version of select portions of L'Isle's remarks reached his ears.
"It is singular," said L'Isle, "that the Moors should have been more
thoroughly driven out of Algarve, the most southern province, than out
of others north of it. Its maritime position perhaps made it easy for
them to escape to Morocco. But the people are not so dark as in
Alemtejo, and many of the women are beautifully fair. In fact, I have
seen as lovely faces there as in any country but our own."
Lady Mabel took care not to enlighten Moodie by repeating to him this
observation, and he remained convinced that L'Isle had been describing
beforehand to the ladies the country he was leading them to.
"The heat, fatigue, and discomfort of the last four days had almost
worn out Mrs. Shortridge's strength, and now suggested to Lady Mabel
some sage reflections on travel in general, as the result of her
experience.
"Traveling is certainly one of the pleasures of life, with this
peculiarity, that it affords most pleasure when the journey is over.
With all the interest and excitement attending it, there are some
drawbacks. We gratify our curiosity at times at no little cost. In the
search after strange manners, the traveler may have to adopt them; in
inspecting the various conditions under which men can live, we must
often subject ourselves to these conditions, and thus acquire
practical experience in place of theoretical knowledge. We cannot,
like Don Cleofus, command the services of Asmodeus, to enable us to be
lookers-on without becoming parties in the scenes we witness. To know
how the Arab lives, we must for a time become an Arab; and to pry into
the inner mysteries of Hottentot life, you must make yourself a
Hottentot."
"And to estimate the prisoner's woes," L'Isle suggested, "you must try
the virtues of a dungeon--musty straw, and bread and water."
"That would be buying the knowledge dearly," said she; "but I would
like to try how the life of a nun would suit me."
"It would suit you the least of all women," said Mrs. Shortridge.
"You might die in the cloister, but could not live there."
"Oh, I am sure I could stand a short novitiate, say three or six
months," exclaimed Lady Mabel.
"Your novitiate, soon to end in freedom," said L'Isle, "would not help
you to the experience of the true internal life of the nun. It is
pleasant to walk, leading your horse by the rein, and at liberty to
mount when you like; but the essence of monastic life lies in the
conviction that you have turned your back forever on the world
without, with all its trials, its hopes and fears, its passions and
pursuits, and have given yourself religiously to tread through this
life, the narrow path you have chosen, to the next."
"You have convinced me," said Lady Mabel. "In my longing after a
varied experience of the conditions of life, I might sacrifice half a
year to the trial of one, but I prefer ignorance on this point to the
burden of a life-enduring vow."
"If our knowledge were limited by our own experience, we would know
little indeed," said L'Isle. "Our capacity to bring home to ourselves
other conditions than our own, depends more on the transferring and
transforming faculties of the imagination, than on the observing
powers of the eye. If, indeed, we had never felt bodily pain, we could
not feel for a man on the rack. Had we never known anguish of mind, we
might not estimate the mental agonies of others. But we have
feelings, for the exercise of which sympathy and imagination can
create conditions. We can feel with the captive in the dungeon,
without going down there to take a place by his side."
"Still, there is nothing like experience in one's own person," said
Mrs. Shortridge. "I can now sympathize fully with the toilworn
traveler, across a parched and thirsty desert, under a broiling sun. I
own that the pleasures of this journey far exceed its pains, thanks to
your care and company; but, as Lady Mabel says, the chief pleasure
comes afterward, and this journey will be still more pleasant next
week than now."
"In spite of its hardships," said Lady Mabel, "it has been so
agreeable to me, that I would have it last a week longer. As an
escort, interpreter, and cicerone, Colonel L'Isle has no rival. He
has, too, filled the commissary's place so well, that we have suffered
nothing from your good man's desertion."
The pleasure Lady Mabel expressed, and her frank admission that she
wished the journey longer, delighted L'Isle. He longed to tell her
that he was ever at her command as companion, guardian, and guide on
any journey, however long. But no--he must not say that. He had no
thoughts of matrimony--at least, just now. A remote prospect did
indeed float before his eyes, in which he saw himself having outlived
this war, and attained the rank of Major-General, returning home to
find Lady Mabel still lovely and still free to listen to a lover's
suit. This was but a bright vista of the future, hemmed in and
overhung by many a dark contingency, a glowing picture in an ebony
frame.
The character of the country underwent a change as they rode on.
Sloping downward toward the Guadiana, over a succession of hills which
concealed the descent, the soil became more fertile, but was scarcely
more cultivated than in the region which they had just left behind
them. The heaths and broom plants now gave place to a variety of
evergreen shrubs. Though the forest trees had vanished centuries ago,
the prospect was often shut out by the thickets that overspread the
country. An occasional spot of open ground indicated some attempts at
cultivation, but they saw few peasants, and but one village seated on
a hill, until passing a wretched hamlet, they reach the bank of a
brook. The shade of some trees, already in full leaf, in this
sheltered spot, tempted them to make here their noonday halt.
Seating herself on the fern and moss at the foot of an old
mulberry-tree that overhung the little stream, Lady Mabel pointed out
to her companions, that the trees around them were all of the same
kind.
"They were doubtless planted here," said L'Isle, "when the silk
culture throve in this country, a branch of industry, which, with too
many others, has almost died out. Civil disorder and foreign war have
been fatal to it. The Spaniards have made Alemtejo their highroad in
every invasion of Portugal; and the disasters of late years have
completed the ruins of this frontier, so long a debatable land. The
country around, is, for the most part, a heath-covered waste, or a
wilderness of brushwood; here the silkworm has perished, the peasant's
hand is idle, and the amoreira stands with unplucked leaves."
"The better for us," said Mrs. Shortridge; "we need its thickest
shade."
A solitary stork, by the rivulet, was engaged in that gentle sport
which Isaac Walton assures us, is so favorable to tranquil
meditation. Deep in reverie, the philosopher seemed not to heed their
presence. For a time, he stood gravely on one leg, then with a few
stately strides, drew nearer to them. They were commenting on his
sedate air, and disregard for man's presence, when Moodie came and sat
down within ear-shot of them. The bird now raised his head and gave
them a searching look. Then bending back his long neck, he uttered a
dissatisfied chatter with his snapping beak, and taking wing, sought a
sequestered part of the stream, remote from the intruders.
"The stork would not thus have shunned natives. He must have found out
that we are foreigners and heretics" said Mrs. Shortridge.
"It is this arch-heretic, Moodie, that he shuns," said Lady
Mabel. "His presence would drive away a whole congregation of storks,
who are almost as good churchmen as the monks themselves."
"Perhaps quite as good," said Moodie. "My arch-heresy consists in
protesting now and always against idolatrous Rome. Some here are not
quite as good Protestants as I am."
"I never called myself a Protestant," said L'Isle.
"Do you not, sir?" exclaimed Moodie. "Pray what are you then?"
"I never called myself a Protestant in defining my faith."
"And why not, sir," asked Moodie, adding in an under tone. "Now he
will show the cloven foot."
"Because mine is a positive creed, not to be expressed by negation. In
defining it, I can admit no term not expressing some essential
point. I would not mistake the accident for the essence. That God has
given his revealed word to man, is an essential point in my
belief. That Rome has misconstrued that word, may be true, but comes
not within the scope of my creed. I believe that Christ by his
Apostles founded a church to ramify through the world, like the
fruitful vine running over the wall. Some branches may have rotted
off, some may bear degenerate fruit, some in unpruned luxuriance may
bring forth nothing but leaves. Be it so. My belief is that the branch
I cleave to retains its vital vigor and produces life-sustaining
fruit."
"But how does this prevent your protesting against Rome?" objected
Moodie.
"It prevents my making that protest any part of the definition of my
faith. Names are things, and he who is perpetually dubbing himself a
Protestant, ends by making it the first article of his creed, that
Rome errs, and his active religion becomes opposition to Rome. Now I
find Voltaire quite as good a Protestant as you are."
"I can say nothing to that," answered Moodie, "never having met with
that gentleman."
L'Isle smiled for a moment, but went on earnestly to say: "We believe
that Christ not only gave us a father, but founded a church, and we
will not let go our hold upon it, as some sects and nations have done,
out of mere opposition to Rome. Our forefathers by God's providence,
set earnestly to work reforming it where corrupted, repairing it when
dilapidated, but did not pull it down, in the presumptuous hope of
building up another. They purified the temple, but did not destroy
it. They removed the idols, but did plough up and sow with salt the
consecrated spot, because it had been defiled."
"I see" said Moodie warmly, "that you aim your anathema at the Kirks
among other Christian bodies."
"Without anathematizing any one," L'Isle answered, "we take comfort to
ourselves, in the conviction that our church is a continuous branch of
that which the Apostles founded in Christ, and that it might have been
in essentials what it now is, were its history as closely connected
with the Greek church, as it is with that of Rome, or had it ever
stood unconnected with either of them. Never having been rebuilt from
its foundation, it has lost its apostolic character."
"You have given many branches to the vine planted by Christ," observed
Moodie. "Perhaps you admit the Church of Rome, to be one that still
bears fruit."
"To drop the figure of the vine, I will answer you by saying, that it
is possible for a Romanist to be a Christian."
"Are Christianity and idolatry one and the same?" said Moodie,
indignantly.
"Do you know how many dogmas the Kirk and Rome hold in common?"
answered L'Isle. "If you set down each article of Christian doctrine
in the order of its importance and certainty, you may travel the same
road with the Romanist a long way; nor is it easy to prove that Rome
does not hold to all Christian truths."
Moodie rose from where he sat and stretched forth a protesting
hand. But he saw that protest was useless here, so he withdrew to the
shade of another tree, and sat down to think what he should do for
Lady Mabel's safety. To refresh himself and sharpen his wits, he took
more than one draught from the bottle. The wine being old, mild and
delicate in flavor, he classed it in the same category with small
beer, far underrating its beguiling potency. This _vinho maduro_, the
_vino generoso_ of the Spaniard, was that which maketh glad the heart
of man, being of a choice vintage from a famous vineyard. It was rich,
oily and deceiving.
"Had Moodie not been too impatient to stay with us longer," said
L'Isle, "he might have heard me admit, that though the Church of Rome
has kept the truth, it has not been content with it, but has mingled
with it so large a mass of falsehood, that the truth it teaches is no
longer pure. It has not thrown away the God-given treasure, but it has
piled over it such an ever accumulating heap of rubbish that it is not
easily found. It may have guarded the fountain of life-giving waters,
but has so hedged it in with a labyrinth of superstitions and
ceremonial rites, that it is almost inaccessible to the flock."
"Call Moodie back, and redeem yourself in his opinion," said Mrs.
Shortridge. "He is now mourning over your approaching conversion to
Rome."
"It is useless," said Lady Mabel. "Moodie sets no value on
half-truths."
"Moodie denies there being any Christianity left in Popery," said
L'Isle. "I assert that there is many a thorough, though unconscious
Papist among Protestants. Popery is not so much an accidental bundle
of errors, as a spontaneous and necessary growth from corrupt human
nature. Thus many a charity, with us, originates in the hope of
atoning for sins; many seek salvation through vicarious but human
means; many a sectarian, especially among women is not so much the
member of a church, as the follower of an idolized man. There are
Protestant popes, whose words are bulls in their little popedoms, and
Protestant saints who, unlike those of Rome, are canonized in life by
their handful of followers."
"I think I could find a patron saint for Moodie," said Lady Mabel. "At
least I do not think he would have been startled as I was, on hearing
a minister of the Kirk, after exhausting his powers of eulogy on the
great Apostle of the Gentiles, crown his praise by likening the
prisoner Paul preaching boldly in bonds before the Roman governor, in
whose hand was his life, to John Knox, the mouth-piece of the dominant
faction, bullying a lady and his queen, a capture in their hands. This
was a strange canonization of John Knox, or a singular degradation of
St. Paul. But I see that our dinner waits us; and though this is a
charming spot, we must not linger here too long. I am sure," she
added, "that the shy and meditative stork, who left us so abruptly,
must be a deep theologian, for it was he who suggested this learned
discertation on the church."
The travelers dined here under the shade of the trees, and soon after
took horse again. Moodie threw himself into the saddle with a spirit
and activity which led Lady Mabel to say: "Your good wine, Colonel
L'Isle, has done wonders for Moodie. It carries him well through the
labors of the day."
"It seems to have cured his ailing body," said L'Isle, "but has not
mellowed his temper. He grows more crusty than ever."
"In him," said Lady Mabel, "crustiness is the natural condition, and
betokens health."
They had ridden but a little way, when she heard Moodie call to her,
and reining in her horse, she let him come up alongside of her. He
evidently wished to speak to her in private, for he kept silence until
L'Isle and Mrs. Shortridge were out of hearing, and looked cautiously
round to see that the servants were not too near.
"My lady," said he, in a solemn manner, "I have been looking at you,
wondering if you are the same girl I have seen for years growing up
under my eye."
"Another, yet the same," said she. "I have not yet quite lost my
personal identity."
"And how many months is it since we left Scotland?"
"Weeks you mean, Moodie, it is scarcely yet time to count by months."
"Weeks, then, have made a wondrous change in you."
"I suspect that often happens in the progress of life," said Lady
Mabel. "We seem to stand still for a while at a monotonous stage of
our existence; a sudden change of condition comes, and we leap forward
toward maturity. So, too, we may for years continue young in heart and
health; some heavy trouble or deep grief overtakes us, and we at once
are old."
"It is not a leap forward in life that you have made, but a leap
aside, out of your own character. It amazes me to see you galloping
wildly over this outlandish country, without a thought but flowers,
soldiers, and sightseeing. I sometimes think you bewitched."
"What is more likely?" said Lady Mabel. "To us silly women, flowers,
soldiers, and sightseeing, are the most bewitching things in the
world."
"But you have lost all caution, all fear, and let these friends of
yesterday lead you you know not whither."
"Traveling is one way to grow wise; and as to danger, what did you
leave Craiggyside for, if it was not to take care of me?"
"Heaven knows I knew not what I undertook. I find one young lady
harder to look after than twelve score of ewes, the kine, and the
crops, with the ploughmen, shepherd, and dairy-maid to boot."
"Pray do not tell that to any but myself. With such a character, so
far from passing for a lady, I could not get a place as lady's maid."
"You may laugh, my lady, but the danger is real and near. I do not
trust your new friends," and Moodie shook his finger at them before
him. "I know what is ordered must come to pass, and it is sinful to
repine at it. But I have known you from a girl, a child, for you are a
girl still, my lady, and it grieves my heart to see you galloping on
to Rome and ruin."
"Is that my predestined road?" said Lady Mabel. "Then I suppose I must
ride it, but it will be at a spanking pace," and giving her horse a
cut she dashed off to the head of the party, while Moodie gazed after
her in despair.
Hearing the tread of horses close behind him, he looked round and saw
L'Isle's servants at his heels, watching him closely. The thought
struck him, that he might find these men useful. So, falling back
alongside of them, he said to L'Isle's man: "Do you know any thing of
the strange country we are going to now?"
The man looked around for a moment with a puzzled air, but perceiving
that Moodie was under some strange mistake, he merely said: "I am
following my master, and leave him to choose his own road."
"We are playing the game of follow your leader, Mr. Moodie," said the
groom, dipping into the dialogue. "The Colonel leads, and we are to
follow you know; and d----t, we will play out the game."
"But do you know that he is leading you to the land of the Moors?"
"If he is going to the land of the great Black-a-moor himself, we must
shut our eyes and gallop down hill. His country is said to lie in that
way."
Moodie muttered something about a son of Belial, but he wished to use
these men, and not offend them. So, turning to the groom, with grim
sociability, he asked: "Can you speak the language of the people
hereabouts?"
"I can call lustily for meat and drink, and make my wants known at a
pinch."
"Can you hire me a messenger at the next place we stop at? You must
know," said he, in a confidential tone, "I left an important matter
sadly neglected in Elvas. It is my lord's business, and I would be
sorry to come to blame in it. Whatever it cost, I must send a letter
there without delay, and while I write, you must find man and
horse. He shall have two guineas the minute the job is done. Is that
enough?"
"Quite enough," the groom answered, gravely, while his companion
turned away his head to conceal a grin. "I know something about riding
express, and for two guineas I will find you a man to ride to Elvas
and back in double quick time."
"You shall have a guinea for yourself, if you prove a man of your
word, and send my letter in time."
"If I fail you, may your guinea choke me, for I mean to melt it down
into good liquor," said the groom.
"And I'll help him to drink your health in it, Mr. Moodie," said the
other man. "For a guinea's worth of liquor might choke a better man
than Tom."
With hope renewed, Moodie rode on after his mistress. On coming up
with them, he heard L'Isle and Lady Mabel talking Portuguese. To while
away an idle hour, she was taking a lesson in that tongue. This
annoyed Moodie, who suspected some plot, when they thus kept him in
the dark. But he consoled himself with the hope that his important
dispatch would yet be in time to prevent mischief, and he once more
refreshed himself with his bottle, being now well convinced of its
medicinal virtue.
Lady Mabel was in high spirits, talking and laughing, and occasionally
looking round at Moodie, enjoying the deception she had put upon
him. Her success in bewildering him, now tempted her to quiz L'Isle,
and she abruptly said: "It must have been a violent fit of patriotism
and martial ardor that made you abandon the thought of taking orders,
and quit Oxford for the camp."
"I never had any thought of taking orders," answered L'Isle, surprised
and annoyed, he knew not exactly why. "I only lived with those who
had."
"You lived with them to some purpose, then, and have, too, a great
aptitude for the church."
"It is not my vocation," said L'Isle, laconically.
"You have only not yet found it out. But it is not too late," she
persisted. "Your case, my good man-slaying Christian, is not like
Gonsalvo's of Cordova, who had but a remnant of his days in which to
play the penitent monk. These wars will soon be over, and you are
still young. If you cannot make a general, you may be a bishop in
time. Indeed, I already see in you a pillar of our church."
It was not flattering to an ambitious young soldier to hint that he
had so mistaken his calling. L'Isle was almost angry, at which Lady
Mabel felt a mischievous delight; and Mrs. Shortridge was highly
amused.
"It is but a small inducement I can offer you, among so many higher
motives," Lady Mabel continued. "But I promise you, that, whenever you
preach your first sermon, I will travel even to Land's-end to hear
it."
"Lady Mabel shall offer a greater bribe," said Mrs. Shortridge, with
an arch look. "If you will only exchange the sword for the surplice,
Colonel L'Isle, whenever she commits matrimony, no one but you shall
solemnize the rite."
Far from being tempted, L'Isle seemed utterly disgusted at the
inducement.
Lady Mabel blushed to the crown of her head, and exclaimed, "I am too
fond of my liberty to offer that bribe. That is a high and bare hill,"
she said, seeking to divert their attention. "Let us ride to the top
of it, and survey the country around."
"You may do so, if you like," said Mrs. Shortridge, composedly; "but I
have made a vow to do no extra riding to-day. This road is long enough
and rough enough for me."
Lady Mabel turned from the path, and, followed by L'Isle, was soon
ascending the hill. Moodie, somewhat under the influence of his
soporific draughts, was in a reverie, wondering whether Lord Strathern
would get his letter in time to send a troop of horse after the
fugitives, and whether it might not come within the provisions of the
military code to have L'Isle court-martialed and shot for running off
with his General's daughter, when, looking up, he missed Lady Mabel,
and then discovered her with L'Isle, scampering over the hill. In
great confusion, he rode up to Mrs. Shortridge, and asked, "Where are
they going now?"
"I scarcely know," she answered; "but Colonel L'Isle will take care of
Lady Mabel, so you can stay and take care of me."
Moodie cast on her a look of angry suspicion, which scanned her from
head to foot, and plainly pronounced her no sufficient pledge for his
mistress. Spurring his horse, he followed Lady Mabel at a run. The
animal he rode had often carried fifteen stone, in Lord Strathern's
person, over as rough ground as this, and made light of Moodie's
weight, which was scarcely more than nine. Without picking his way, he
made directly for his companions ahead; and the clatter of his hoofs
soon making Lady Mabel look round, she drew up her horse in haste, and
anxiously watched Moodie's career. A deep chasm, washed out by the
winter rains, was cleared by the horse in capital style, but Moodie
lit on his valise, and with difficulty recovered the saddle. Just
between him and Lady Mabel the last tree on the hill-side, torn from
the shallow soil by some heavy blast, lay horizontally on its decaying
roots and branches. Moodie rode at it with unquailing eye; and, while
Lady Mabel uttered an exclamation of alarm, the horse cleared it in a
bucking leap, throwing Moodie against the holsters; but he fell back
into his seat, and rode up triumphantly to his mistress. This
energetic demonstration seemed to overawe Lady Mabel. Turning from the
hill-top before them, she rode demurely back to the party, resolved
not to wander from the beaten path, or go faster than a foot-pace,
until Moodie had dismounted, and his neck was safe.
A peasant on an ass, coming down the road, had stopped and stood at
gaze at a distance, watching these equestrian manoeuvres. But when he
saw the party, now united, coming toward him, he turned short to the
left, and hastened away at a pace that proved that his _burro_ had
four nimble legs.
"That must be a thief," said Mrs. Shortridge, "afraid of falling in
with honest folks."
"Or an honest man," suggested L'Isle, "afraid of falling among
thieves. I have observed a growing dislike in the peasantry to meeting
small parties of our people in out of the way places. I suspect that
they are sometimes made to pay toll for traveling their own roads."
Their road was winding round the side of the hill, and they presently
got a glimpse of a cultivated valley before them. The spirit of
mischief suddenly revived in Lady Mabel's bosom. She fell back
alongside of Moodie, and said: "This way seems much traveled. It is no
longer a by-path; we may call it a high road in this country. We must
be drawing near to the city of Mauropolis. I wonder we have yet met
none of these turbaned Moors."
Moodie roused himself, and looked anxiously ahead. The mountain
shadows already fell upon the valley; but the evening sun still shone
upon a city opposite to them. It was seated high above the valley, and
flanked by two fortresses of unequal elevation, which partly hid it.
The Serra de Portalagre rising behind, overhung it, and the city
seemed nestled in a nook in the steep mountain side. Moodie from this
point did not recognize the place, but gazed on it steadfastly, with
no kindly feeling. "Edom is exalted. He hath made his habitation in
the clefts of the rock. He sayeth in his heart, who shall bring me
down?" But presently he distinguished the peculiar aqueduct, and his
eye roving westward, was struck by the familiar outline of _Serra
D'Ossa_.
"We have lost our road," said Lady Mabel, "and found our way back to
Elvas;" and, laughing merrily, she shot ahead, leaving Moodie too much
angered and mortified to enjoy the relief of his anxieties.
On reaching his quarters he went straight to his bed, to sleep off his
fatigue, his chagrin, and the good wine which had befriended yet
beguiled him.