"I was anxious to thank your Excellency for the aid you afforded me last

night," returned Don Luis; "and I therefore seized the earliest moment

to pay my respects."

"Ah! that reminds me that you need not be detained in Lisbon to appear

as a witness against the ruffians. They did not intend to take your

life, it appears, but mistook you for another person; however, a few

weeks' imprisonment will benefit them; and I conclude that you do not

intend to remain long away from Court. The king looks with a jealous

eye on those who absent themselves, wishing to see himself, as he ought

to be, surrounded by his nobles, who seem often to forget that they but

hold their rank from him, and that, at his pleasure, they may again

become mere commoners."

"My movements will depend entirely on my father's will," answered Don

Luis; "and, after my long absence, he will probably desire me to remain

with him."

"Your father is a man I much esteem," said the Minister; "and regret

that some slight he conceives himself to have received should have

driven him from Court; for I cannot suppose that he is tainted with

disloyalty to our sovereign, which is more than I can say for some of

the haughty fidalgos of the land, whose pride, by heavens! soars so

high, that they seem to consider themselves his superiors; let them

beware, or it shall be brought low enough."

The manner of the speaker for a moment became excited; but he quickly

resumed his usual calm demeanour, as he continued--"Offer my compliments

to your father, and say I must request he will not detain you long away,

for I feel confident that his majesty will wish to give you some

employment suitable to your rank, and the high talents I know you to

possess."

Don Luis, surprised at the compliment, for he could not conceive how the

minister knew anything about him, could only bow in return; nor was he

particularly pleased with its authoritative tone, as coming from a man

whom he had been taught to consider, on account of his birth, but of

little consequence; particularly when he heard threats uttered against

the class to which he belonged. The Minister, eyeing the young man

narrowly, to observe the effect of his observations, then addressed a

few sentences to Captain Pinto, during which time Don Luis, happening to

look in the direction of the secretary, observed that his glance was

fixed on him; but it was immediately withdrawn, the latter person

applying himself studiously to his occupation; it was, however,

sufficient to attract Don Luis's attention more especially to his

countenance, which he could not help fancying that he had seen somewhere

before, and at no great distance of time. It was not probable that he

had met him abroad, so that it could have been only on the previous

day;--perhaps he had passed him in the street--for he possessed only an

undefined, dreamy sort of recollection of the countenance;--when, on a

sudden, it struck him that those expressive eyes and features were the

same he had for a moment seen in the corridor of the Jesuits' College.

Yet it was extraordinary that a person employed by one who was a

professed enemy of that order should have been found holding

communication with them, and he felt confident that the secretary had

either been playing false to his master, or deceiving in some way the

holy fathers. However, he wisely, for the present, kept his counsel:

determining, as in duty bound, to take the first opportunity of

mentioning his suspicions to his cousin, Father da Costa, between whom

and the Minister he knew there was no cordiality. He had just arrived

at this conclusion, when Carvalho again turned to him, making many

minute inquiries about his travels in England, which showed him,

notwithstanding his declarations to the contrary, to be well acquainted

with the laws and customs of that country. "Ambassadors," he observed,

"have less chance than any other strangers of learning the true state of

a country; it is the interest of everybody round them to blind their

eyes; and if they attempt to move about incognito, and alone, they are

considered as spies, and every action is watched. In despotic

countries, such as Austria, and I hear also in Russia, the matter is

much worse; and I have heard of the whole country, by the borders of a

road, being populated, and villages built, on the occasion of the visit

of some distinguished personage, which vanished when he had passed by;

though he went away with the impression that it was one of the most

fertile and populous countries in the world."

The Minister smiled at his own story, as, in duty bound, did his guests,

and Don Luis began to doubt that he could possibly possess the violent

and sanguinary temper which was reported: he made many more inquiries,

and seemed much pleased with the answers Don Luis gave; then, in the

most bland, and courteous manner, informed him and Captain Pinto, that

he would no longer detain them, begging the former to call upon him on

his return to Lisbon. As they rose to depart, Don Luis caught the eye

of the secretary again turned towards him, with a sort of inquiring

glance, but he had no opportunity of observing further, as he was

obliged to follow the captain from the room.

As they were crossing a corridor, and about to descend the stairs, a

young girl passed them, with light ringlets falling over her shoulders,

and laughing blue eyes. In no way abashed at sight of the strangers,

she bowed gracefully, and bounded on. "Who can that fair creature be

who passed us?" asked Don Luis.

"The eldest daughter of the Minister by his present wife, Donna Leonora,

Countess Daun, whom he married during the time he was envoy at the Court

of Austria;" answered Captain Pinto; "she shows her mother's Saxon

blood."

"Yes, and her high birth," said Don Luis: "she is very beautiful."

"Very," was the Captain's laconic reply.

"You appear to have pleased Senhor Carvalho," observed Captain Pinto, as

they walked homeward; "I should advise you to profit by the advantage."

"Why so? he will probably soon forget me," said Don Luis.

"Indeed he will not. He takes an interest in your welfare, from a

youthful friendship for some member of your family, who is no more, and

from whom he received some deep obligation, which he would repay to you;

and now you understand why he desired to see you."

Note. Hear the king!--a cry for help.

Volume 1, Chapter VII.

The Portuguese, with much _naivete_, relate a story which is told

against them, that Noah, a few years ago, paid a visit to this our

planet, on which he once on a time played so conspicuous a part; but

that, as he travelled from country to country, and kingdom to kingdom,

his fond anticipations of reviving the early recollections of his living

days were far from being gratified; for not a spot of earth which his

rather numerous progeny now inhabit could he recognise, so many changes

had all undergone, and nowhere did he find himself comfortably at home

till he arrived on the shores of Lusitania. How did his heart beat with

tender remembrances, as he travelled through the country! "Ah!" he

exclaimed, enraptured, "this is indeed the land I love; the self-same as

I left it: the same system of agriculture, the same style of

architecture, the identical roads, not a stone removed, a few more ruts,

to be sure, caused by passing time, like the wrinkles in a friend's

face; the same manners, and the same customs. Ah! beloved Portugal,

constant and unchangeable; here will I take up my abode." Saying which,

the venerable patriarch pitched his tent, where he sojourned during his

stay on earth; and the inhabitants, in hope of being honoured by another

visit, still adhere to the same system.

Now, although there can be no doubt that the above is a very witty

story, we can assure our readers that it is not perfectly correct in all

respects, inasmuch as there are fine churches, though it is difficult to

determine the order of their architecture; and there are palaces and

castles, which we do not in history find there were when Noah dwelt upon

earth; but we do very strongly suspect that the roads, if there were

any, could not have been worse. Also, with respect to inns, or houses

of public entertainment, they cannot be very much improved since his

time; for anything more execrably bad than they generally are, in any

country within a week's sail of England, can scarcely be conceived; and

we have good reason to suppose that they have not very much altered

since the days of the Marquis of Pombal.

In describing, therefore, a Portuguese country inn of a hundred years

ago, the picture of one of the present day will fully answer our

purpose, even of that to which we are about to conduct our readers,

which yet exists with few marks of change about it. It stands on the

northern edge of a wild sandy common, broken into irregular hillocks,

partially sprinkled with gum-cistus, gentian, the flowering heath, and

other low shrubs and plants, while, in the far distance, is perceived

the long dark line of a pine-forest. The ground on the other side of

the inn is cultivated, though very imperfectly; and here and there a few

mean cottages may be seen, with heaps of dirt in front, and pools of

mud, in which the favoured pigs of the inhabitants delight to wallow.

The inn is a long low building, the bush hung out on a pole in front

being the sign that all are welcome to enter, as was once the custom in

England. The walls are of rough stone, having a row of windows, with

red shutters, rather battered, and destitute of glass, on the upper

story; but the only opening on the ground floor is the large entrance

door, which leads at once into a spacious stable, strewed with straw,

and with no very great attention to cleanliness; a manger, running round

it, without any divisions for stalls; so that the animals therein may,

at will, amuse themselves by kicking at each other, free from those

unsocial restraints which English civilisation has introduced; very like

a certain class of liberals, who would do away with wholesome laws, much

for the same sensible object. This is decidedly the best part of the

building, as much attention being paid to the comfort of the animals as

to that of their owners; though, by a partition of rough deal boards, an

apartment is separated from it to the right, which serves the purpose of

kitchen, parlour, and bedroom, to the greater part of the family and

guests. On a low hearth, on one side of it, a wood fire blazes, the

smoke escaping through the doors and windows, as it best can; and on the

walls, near the fire-place, are hung a few large and very ordinary

kitchen utensils, the other parts being adorned with horse furniture,

rows of onions, dried fish, and other provisions of the coarsest sort.

A rough deal table and benches run close to the wall the whole length of

the apartment; and there is a shorter one on the opposite side, near the

fire. The floor is of clay, perfectly black, and beaten hard, but worn

into irregular undulations and holes where most trodden on. We are now

describing the past and the present, and probably the future, for many

years to come, though we cannot pierce the gloom of the dark abyss of

time; but as our business is rather with the past, we prefer adhering to

that tense. The further end of the room opened into a sort of

stable-yard, from which freely entered at all times several long-legged,

thin white swine, with a youthful progeny of grunters, who were allowed

to satisfy their inquisitive natures, if not their appetites, by poking

their snouts into every pan or utensil they met with in their

peregrinations, receiving now and then a gentle rebuke, administered

with the bottom of a frying-pan, by the nimble-handed damsel who

officiated as chief of the culinary department, accompanied by a no very

complimentary epithet, at which they grunted forth their disapprobation,

and continued the same proceedings. Besides the pigs, numerous fowls

appeared to be welcome visitors, being allowed to establish their roost

on the rafters of the roof, in one corner, and to hop about and pick up

what escaped the vigilance of the yet more favoured animals. Nor must

we forget, having begun with the dumb species, instead of the nobler

part of creation, to mention two or three dogs, whose appearance was far

from prepossessing, as they stalked about among the guests, in eager

expectation of the morsels thrown to them, or of the crumbs which fell

from the table. They were of a dirty yellow colour, their heads

something like that of a fox, but with bodies lean and gaunt as a wolf,

to which race they appeared to belong. Such is the large dog of the

country; but there is every gradation of shape, size, and colour, down

to the smallest turnspit, to give any specific name to which would be

impossible. Having described the dogs, we must now mention the agile

Griskenissa, the youthful queen of those regions. She was a

laughing-mouthed damsel, her lips rather thick and full, disclosing the

most pearly teeth, her nose _retrousse_, between a pair of large

sparkling black eyes, and her figure rather more fully developed,

particularly about the bust, than would accord with the Venus de

Medicis. A rich bloom brightened the nut-brown tint of her not very

delicate complexion, whose dark hue was increased by her occupations

over the fire. Her hair was drawn back, fastened in a knot behind, and

covered with a coloured handkerchief, a white one being thrown over her

shoulders. The sleeves and skirt of her gown being tucked up, exhibited

a pair of stout arms and legs of the same build, destitute of stockings

or shoes. The noise of her tongue was, as Captain Rolando, in the

"Honeymoon," describes most unjustly that of her sex in general, like

the clatter of a mill; the more she moved about, the faster it went, the

grist being the questions and jokes of her guests, to which she failed

not to give some sharp repartee. She was aided in the actual work of

cooking by an old crone, who, now bending over the fire, was engaged in

stirring a mess of broth simmering in a large pot, while a little boy,

clothed in the smallest quantity of raiment which could possibly cover

his body, was employed in bringing wood to feed the flame. The master

of the house generally walked about with his hands in his pockets, a

cigarito in his mouth, and his cap set rakingly on one side, by far too

fine a gentleman to attend to the wants of his guests, though

occasionally, to those of higher degree, he would condescend to make a

low bow as they departed, provided they paid well, and shared with him a

bottle or so of his best wine.

The sun had some time set, the apartment being thrown into obscurity,

except near the blaze of the fire, and at the further end of the long

table, where, round a brass lamp of that elegant shape used by the

Romans, and still to be seen in Italy, were seated the landlord and four

or five of his guests, deeply immersed in some game of cards, their

countenances exhibiting all the eager passions of men who had large sums

at stake. Indeed, several gold and silver pieces were seen to change

hands, to the evident rage of the losers; though, from the dress and

appearance of the men, one would not have expected to find them

possessed of so large an amount. Their costume was soiled, and patched

with divers shades of cloth: it consisted of short braided jackets, and

red waistcoats, loose trowsers and long gaiters, with a red sash round

the waist, in which was stuck, without any attempt at concealment, a

long knife, in a sheath, towards whose hilt the hand seemed to have a

natural tendency to move. On their heads they wore round, low-crowned

hats of black felt, with rather broad brims, which, pulled a little

forward, effectually concealed the features.

At the smaller table, near the fire, were several other people,

discussing in silence their suppers of cabbage broth, inattentive to

what was going forward at the other end of the room. Two hours of the

night had passed away, the card party yet eagerly proceeding in their

game, with slight variations of fortune, when the clatter of horses'

hoofs was heard, and the boy was loudly summoned to hold a lantern while

the animals were stalled and fed; and, soon afterwards, two men, wrapped

in large riding cloaks, entered, and glancing at the guests near the

fire, advanced towards the end of the long table. The gamblers, looking

up for a moment, received them as friends; but their interest in the

game was far too intense to permit their attention to be withdrawn for a

longer period; the others looking patiently on, till one of the former

sprang from his seat, exclaiming, "By St. Anthony, I play no more:

curses on the game; I've lost my last testoon, and owe more to boot.

How to pay my debts I know not."

One of the new comers, fixing his eyes on him, smiled significantly.

"What, Salvador," he said, "know you not how a man of spirit may best

recruit his exhausted finances? Banish all fears, I will soon put you

in the way of it."

"Thanks, senhor, I have trod it before," answered Salvador; "but I like

not the sight of the gibbet in the distance."

"Fool!" muttered the other; "no man of courage is frightened at such a

phantom."

What further might have been said was cut short by another of the party

dashing the cards to the ground, and trampling on them almost with

screams, in his fury at having become the loser of all his wealth,

darting fierce scowls at those who were the gainers, particularly the

landlord, who had managed to pay himself well for the time occupied in

the game, and who, now calling to the boy, ordered him to pick up the

scattered pack.

The game now terminated; and the party, having again resumed their

seats, made many inquiries of their newly-arrived friends. "We little

expected to see you here so soon," said the Landlord; "what made you

leave Lisbon so suddenly?"

"A cursed mistake we committed last night, when two of our friends fell

into the hands of justice. We had been engaged by the Conde de San

Vincente, who gives us plenty of employment, to get rid of a rival of

his in the affections of a certain lady; and, after following our man

for some way, who we knew would make no resistance, and, feeling quite

sure of him, just as Miguel was about to give him his quietus, out he

whips his rapier, and uses it so manfully, after knocking down Miguel,

that he kept us at bay till a friend came to his assistance; but we

should have got the better of them both, when, who should pass by but

the devil, in the shape of Sebastiao Joze de Carvalho himself, who

forthwith seized on Miguel and Baltar, whom he has clapped into prison;

and we, thinking Lisbon may be too hot for us, came off here; for he is

not apt to let any escape whom he may wish to find."

"Ah! San Vincente is a man I like to serve," said another. "His very

cowardice is a recommendation, as he first pays one well to commit a

deed he dare not do himself, and then double to keep it concealed."

"Yes, if it were not for the hatred of the proud fidalgos for each

other, we honest, humble men should not be able to exist."

"Ay, thank the saints, they give us work enough to keep our hands in

practice, though scarce enough to let us live like gentlemen," cried

another.

"Forsooth, the profession has fallen into much disrepute lately, since

pretenders to it offer their services to commit a murder for a couple of

crowns. Such shabby villains ought to be scouted from society,"

exclaimed a fourth. "When a man does undertake to do a piece of work,

let it be for something, or he is acting dishonestly towards others,

besides being guilty of a meanness of which any gentleman ought to be

ashamed."

"Silence, Senhores, silence!" exclaimed the Landlord, looking round;

"your conversation is becoming of a nature not fit for common ears: and

see, some persons at the other table are opening theirs to listen."

"Never fear," answered one of the last comers; "we are not ashamed of

our profession, as long as it is exercised with credit."

"That may be," said the Landlord; "but you must remember the

respectability of my house. I might lose my customers, if it were known

I had the honour of your friendship. No offence to you at the same

time."

"Well, well, Senhor Bernardo; say no more on the subject," said the

other, laughing. "Ah! see, here comes your daughter with our supper;

both dainty morsels, I doubt not."

"Of the latter you may taste at will, but with my Rosa I should advise

you not to attempt to make free; for she uses but scant ceremony towards

those who offend her," answered the Landlord.

"Not I! I never offended a pretty girl in my life. Hey, my bright

Rosa?" said the guest, chucking her under the chin as she placed a dish

of rice and stewed fowls on the table; but in return for the liberty, he

received a sound box on the ear; and she tripped off, laughing, before

he could catch her to renew the offence.

"Carramba! but your daughter does hit hard," exclaimed the man; "though

let us see if her cookery will make amends for her cruelty."

As Rosa, having placed another dish on the table, was again hastening

away, she encountered from a personage who just then entered the room a

fresh attack of the same sort, but, it must be confessed, with scarce

the same obduracy; for "Oh, Senhor Frade!" and a loud giggle, was the

only answer she gave to the salute, which sounded through the apartment.

"Pax vobiscum!" exclaimed the person who had committed this atrocity, as

he advanced out of the obscurity towards the group among whom he espied

the landlord, well knowing that there would the best cheer be found. As

the light fell on him, he exhibited a broad, sinewy figure; and throwing

back his cowl, his shorn crown and coarse brown robes, with satchel by

his side, proclaimed him to belong to the mendicant order of the

Capuchins, his well-filled cheeks showing how assiduously he pursued his

avocation. His bullet-shaped head was encircled by a rim of coarse red

hair, to which colour his features assimilated; a broad snubby nose, and

a pair of blear, though keen, roving eyes, made up the man. He was

welcomed by all the party, with whom he appeared to be on the most

intimate terms.

"Now, for the love of the saints, my pretty Rosa," he exclaimed, as he

took his seat at the post of honour near the master, "bring me something

to eat, for I am almost dead with hunger and thirst;--anything will

serve; a stewed pullet or so, or some broiled pork and lemon; you know

that I am not particular as to the things of the appetite;--and hark

you, my Rosa dear, if you can find the remains of a bottle or so of old

wine, bring it, in the name of the Virgin; for I am thirsty and tired."

The holy Father's request was not disregarded, and he was soon busily

employed in discussing the viands set before him, failing not to do

ample justice to Rosa's cookery, during which time he would not answer a

word to the numerous questions put to him; but, having finished, and

wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gown, giving a last pull at his

bottle of wine, his tongue was loosened, and all the party bent their

heads forward to listen to what he had to communicate; the subject of

the conversation being such as to oblige them to speak in tones not loud

enough to be heard beyond their immediate circle.

"What news do you bring us, Senhor Padre?" asked one of those who had

lost at cards. "Have we a chance of picking up a little booty? for we

are very low in the world."

"Ah, my son, always thinking of lucre and worldly gain," answered the

Friar, laughing, "but I am in an amiable humour, and will not tantalise

you long."

"Well, Padre, no delay; out with your news," exclaimed several of the

party, bending still closer round him, with eager expression of

countenance.

"Know then, my sons, that there is a chance of some work to-morrow

morning which may fill our empty pockets; but recollect, we all share

alike; I am not to employ my wits, and to wear myself into a phantom to

gain all the information, and then to allow my convent to be deprived of

the just profits."

"Never fear, Senhor Padre, your convent shall not suffer in the

division," said the Innkeeper; "but come, let us hear your news."

"'Tis this, then. As I passed through the village of Santa Cruz, I

learned that the noble Senhor Goncalo Christovao and his family are

staying at the Quinta of the Conde de Villarey, on their way to Lisbon,

and their mules and litters are to be in readiness to start to-morrow

morning at daybreak, they having the intention of breakfasting here. So

there's a double chance for you, Senhor Estalajadeiro. You first get

well paid in an honest way for the stewed cats and tough old cocks you

furnish them; and then our friends here will reap the harvest that

remains, no slight one, if I mistake not; for there are, besides Senhor

Christovao and and his fair daughter, Donna Clara, so I learned, three

maid-servants, all of whom, depend on it, will be decked out in their

gold ornaments, though they will make some slight fuss in delivering

them; and then there are the escudeiro and three other servants, who

will run away on the first show of a blunderbuss, as will, probably, the

whole troop of muleteers who accompany them."

"Bravo, most holy friar! you deserve our warmest thanks for your

services to us," exclaimed one of the party; "and where would you advise

us to wait till our friends pass?"

"Has not your own sense pointed that out to you?" answered the Friar.

"At the edge of the moor where the pine grove commences, I should advise

you to watch, and you can then have a clear view over the common on one

side, while you must place a scout to see that no one approaches on the

other."

"Admirable generalship!" exclaimed he who had before spoken. "Were it

not for your shaven crown, you would make us a capital leader, if you

had courage enough to face the danger."

"Courage!" cried the Friar, casting an angry look at the speaker.

"Because I do not bluster and bully, you think I have not courage. I

have done, and would do, many a deed you dare not!"

"Ah, friar, you boast already, do you? Remember, what are you, but the

jackal to our prey? I'll venture you would turn pale at the sight of a

few drops of blood."

"Fool, 'tis you will turn pale at sight of your own blood!" exclaimed

the Friar, springing up, and drawing from a sheath under his gown, a

long sharp stiletto, which he plunged with a steady hand into the fleshy

part of the shoulder of the man who had spoken. "Now remember not to

taunt me again; and recollect your life was in my power; an inch more of

the steel would have silenced your tongue for ever."

"Peace, Senhores, peace!" exclaimed the Landlord, seizing the arm of the

friar, who without effort shook him off. "Remember the credit of my

house; and if you wish to shed blood, let it be outside my doors."

"Do not fear, my friend," answered the Friar coolly; "'Tis but a slight

lesson I gave to Senhor Joze here, to speak more respectfully to one of

my cloth in future. Come, man, I can cure as well as kill;" saying

which, he bound up the arm of the wounded man, who, like a cowed hound,

submitted without another word.

"Bravo, Frade, bravo! you are a fine fellow, and shall have all you

wish," cried the rest of the respectable assemblage.

"Well then, my friends," said the Friar, "to convince you that if I am a

jackal, I am a lion also, I will lead you in person to this adventure;

but then remember I must have the lion's share also."

"Agreed! agreed!" exclaimed the party. "With so holy a guide we must be

successful."

"The plan is then arranged, senhores," said the Landlord; "and now to

bed. Remember you must rise betimes to be in readiness for the work, as

it will not do to be observed quitting my respectable house on such an

errand after the sun is up."

The party now broke up, some stealing off to make their couches in the

stable, others in different corners of the room; while the landlord,

dismissing his daughter and the rest of his household to their places of

repose, drew a seat near the fire, where he and the friar remained for

some time in earnest conversation. The latter then rolling himself up

in his gown, and pulling his cowl over his head, fell fast asleep on the

bench, the host retiring to an upper room which he inhabited.

We have, as yet, described only the lower part of the house; but it

possessed also an upper story intended for the accommodation of any

guests of higher rank who might honour it with their presence. The

greater part was occupied by one large chamber, surrounded by small

recesses, in which were placed beds of most execrable hardness,

invented, one might suppose, to counteract any tendency to effeminacy

which the climate might have caused. As if in mockery, over the beds

were thrown gaily worked cover lids, beneath which, alas! by the

uninitiated traveller, neither peace nor quiet was to be found, as

swarms of fierce inhabitants of two rival races were ever ready, like

the Lilliputians on that renowned voyager Captain Lemuel Gulliver, to

avenge on the body of the intruder any inroad made on their territory.

Curtains were hung across some of the recesses intended for the guests

of most consideration, and a rough table and benches were placed down

the room, the windows, as we have before said, being destitute of glass,

and the walls of aught but the rough mortar. Such were the only

accommodations afforded even to the highest ranks; but the inns received

little patronage from any, for, in the first place, no one moved about

more than was absolutely necessary, and, when they were obliged to make

a journey, the house of any gentleman on the road was always hospitably

open to them, as is the case at the present day.

The cold grey light of the early morn had just broken upon the world,

when a party of horsemen sallied out of the inn, mounted on most

sorry-looking animals, the small horses, or rather ponies of the

country, but whose nimble and surefooted paces belied the estimation one

formed of their qualities at the first glance. The men wore their large

broad cloaks, one side of which being thrown over the shoulder, and

almost over the head, completely concealed their features, while the

rest hung down, covering their own bodies, and a great part of those of

their horses.

The robes of the friar were not perceived among them; but there was a

most suspicious-looking figure who took the lead, with a broad slouched

hat on his head, fastened tightly down with a handkerchief under his

chin, and from beneath it appeared a rim of closely-cut red hair, and a

ruddy face with a pair of twinkling eyes, the rest of the form, which

was evidently of no slender mould, being enveloped, like the others, in

a broad cloak. Their ponies carried them at a pace between a canter and

a quick shamble over the heath we have described, in the direction of

Lisbon, towards the long line of dark forest which was seen in the far

distance from the higher ground on which the inn stood.

The master of the inn remained at the door, watching them till they

could be no longer distinguished from the shrubs and clumps of heath

which sprinkled the ground. "May the devil prosper them!" he exclaimed,

"for were it not for such gentry, my very good friends, I might e'en

shut up my house and go begging or robbing like them." Having thus

given vent to his thoughts, he retired within to say his prayers, and to

calculate the probable amount of his share in the profits of the

expedition.

Volume 1, Chapter VIII.

The glowing sun of that lovely clime was already high in the heavens, in

which not a cloud or vapour was to be seen; the air came soft and pure

over the heath, laden with balsamic odours; and a blue, sparkling,

transparent haze played over the ground, giving the promise of a

scorching day. The notable daughter of the landlord stood at the door

of the inn, her fingers busily employed in spinning from the distaff

stuck in her waist, while she sang, at the top of her voice, an air,

which, at the end of each verse, fell into a low cadence, and amused

herself, by looking along the road in each direction, for the approach

of travellers. At length, a cloud of dust rising in the north, greeted

her eyes; and as it gradually drew nearer, she heard the jingling of

bells sound faintly through the air, the most pleasing music to the ears

of a Portuguese innkeeper, when she perceived that it was caused by

several litters, sumpter mules, and a party of horsemen. She hastened

in to give the joyful intelligence to the rest of the family, who, with

her father, quickly assembled at the door to welcome the travellers,

whoever they might be; for, as there was no other inn for several

leagues on either side of them, there could be no doubt that they would

there stop to bait their animals, and refresh themselves.

The Landlord muttered to himself, with an oath--"They are very numerous,

and, if they choose to fight, my friends will have the worst of it.--

Patience! I shall make my profits, at all events. Ah, honesty and a

regular business is the best policy;" with this consoling reflection, he

waited the arrival of the party.

An arriero, or muleteer, came running on in front, to announce that the

illustrious fidalgo, Goncalo Christovao, was approaching; and soon

afterwards, a dignified and venerable gentleman, on a stout horse, rode

up, accompanied by a grave-looking personage, in the dress of a

Benedictine monk, and followed by two servants, who, throwing themselves

from their mules, respectfully assisted him and his companion to

dismount, when they stood ready to receive the first litter which

arrived.

We have often, on entering a church or palace in Italy, been directed to

some picture, kept closely veiled from the vulgar eye; and, as the

curtain was drawn aside, have been delighted, by viewing the lovely

portrait of a Madonna or Venus from the pencil of Rafaelle or Titian;

and far more, as the dignified cavalier drew aside the curtains of the

litter, would the eyes of our readers have been enraptured, by the

vision of bright and rare beauty which was disclosed; for surely, not

even those great masters of the sublime art could, in their most

blissful moments, have conceived or executed aught more perfect.

"Oh, Jesus Maria, how lovely!" exclaimed the laughing Rosa, paying an

unaffected tribute of admiration to nature's choicest work; and clapping

her hands with delight, as the Portuguese peasantry invariably do, when

they behold anything that causes admiration or surprise, she ran forward

to offer her services.

The lovely vision we have mentioned was, as the acute reader may have

supposed, a young lady; and, as she descended from the litter, leaning

on the gentleman's arm, her figure was perceived to be rather above the

ordinary height of her countrywomen, but slender, and most gracefully

formed; her face, as we have said, was beautiful, and very fair, with

light brown ringlets escaping from under the blue hood of her travelling

dress. In those days, the fashion of wearing bonnets had not been

introduced even among the highest ranks; the hood or veil, thrown over

the head, being considered sufficient protection; and certainly, a more

elegant covering than the head-dresses worn in France or England at the

same period. Indeed, an out-of-doors dress was scarcely required, as

ladies seldom appeared abroad, except in their carriages or chairs: even

in the present day, were they to take more exercise than they are in the

habit of doing, their youthful promise of beauty would not be so sadly

unrealised, as it too frequently is. As soon as the young lady had

alighted, and had been ushered into the inn, the other litters drew up,

from the first of which descended a respectable-looking old dame, with

spectacles on nose, a parrot on a stand, two bird-cages, and a sleek,

long-haired Angola cat. From the appearance of the old lady, she was

the _Ama_, the nurse, or governess to the fair girl. A damsel followed

her out of the litter, with sundry packages and baskets of eatables.

Two other waiting women got out of the third litter, short, dark, and

black-eyed girls; while the fourth was empty, probably, for the

accommodation of the master. Five or six baggage-mules, and two mounted

men-servants, brought up the rear, besides a number of drivers belonging

to the litters and mules, who kept up with the cavalcade on foot.

As his distinguished guests retired into the house, the landlord, bowing

most obsequiously, ushered them (alas! through the stable and kitchen),

up a sadly narrow and dirty flight of steps, to the room we have

described before, where the servants spread a repast they had brought

with them, the landlord being perfectly content with supplying the

muleteers and their animals with food.

Rosa could scarcely keep her eyes from the young lady, as she bustled

round her, offering to perform any service in her power; and when, at

length, she had contrived to separate her from the rest of her party,

looking down on the ground as she spoke, she whispered "Do not be

afraid, senhora, whatever sort of people you may meet on the road, for I

am sure they would not harm any one so lovely."

"What do you mean, my good girl?" asked the lady, in a sweet tone. "We

are not likely to meet any one to harm us, for they say the roads are

perfectly free from robbers."

"Oh no, senhora, Heaven deliver us from robbers; I do not speak of

them," answered Rosa, in a hesitating manner, "but there are all sorts

of odd people about, and I thought I would put you on your guard, that

is all. I am sure they will not harm her," she uttered, as she turned

away with a tear in her eye.

The young lady was not at all alarmed by the hints the good-natured girl

threw out; indeed, she so little attended to them, that she forgot all

about them a minute afterwards.

The travellers, after remaining nearly two hours at the inn, their

horses and mules being refreshed, again proceeded on their way, the host

redoubling the obsequiousness of his bows as they departed, and wishing

them, with much apparent earnestness, a successful journey. The track,

for it did not deserve the name of a road, lay over the uncultivated

moor we have before spoken of; the hollows and hillocks they were

obliged to cross or to circumvent, much prolonging the distance, the

utmost pace the litters could advance being scarce a league an hour; a

great contrast to the present railroad speed of other countries. This

slow progress was very fatiguing, increased by the fine dust, dried by

the summer heats, which rose in thick clouds at every step the animals

took; there was also scarce a breath of air, the fervent rays of the sun

shining with uninterrupted force on their heads.

Senhor Christovao and the grave friar rode on in front, out of hearing

of the rest of the party; the latter evidently endeavouring to press

some matter of importance on the consideration of the gentleman.

"Depend on it, senhor, the peaceful serenity of a monastic life is the

most happy lot a female can enjoy in this vale of tears; there, free

from the cares and disappointments which her sisters in adversity are

doomed to suffer, she spends her days in prayers and thanksgivings, in

anxious expectation of the arrival of her heavenly Bridegroom."

"Your arguments are very powerful, Senhor Padre," returned his

companion; "but yet I feel some compunction in depriving my daughter,

against her will, of the innocent pleasures which accord with her age

and sex."

"Such ideas are but the instigations of the evil one, jealous that an

immortal soul should be lost to him for ever," answered the Priest.

"Trust not to any feelings which war against the spirit on the side of

the flesh. No human mind can conceive the dark machinations which the

father of sin employs to drag forth a chosen child from the bosom of our

holy Church, except we, who in our avocations study his works, and are

prepared to repel him with the arms of our faith."

"You doubtless speak words of truth and wisdom," said the gentleman;

"nor would I hesitate to allow my daughter to follow the bent of her

inclinations, did she feel any calling for the life of the cloister; but

she knows not what is to be her fate, or the reason of our going to

Lisbon, for I have never yet ventured to inform her of my intentions."

"Let that be my care," returned the Priest, frowning darkly. "I will

prepare her gentle soul for the happy change. But have you never, then,

informed her of her mother's dying wish, delivered to me after she had

received extreme unction at my hands, that her daughter should be

dedicated to the service of the Church?"

"I confess, Father, that I have hesitated to speak to her on the

subject, fearful of throwing a gloom over the bright and elastic spirits

of her youth," returned Senhor Christovao.

"Know you not, that the sooner the wings of a young bird are clipped,

the less will it wish to fly; and therein have you done wrong; but

clearly do I perceive the work of Satan again, in this seeking to ruin

your soul, and that of your daughter. Ah! he is even now riding near

you, plotting deeds of darkness. Get thee gone, thou spirit of evil!"

he exclaimed with vehemence, making the sign of the cross. "Avaunt

thee, Sathanas! Fear him no longer, my son; he has flown off to the

regions of iniquity, from whence he came."

"With you by my side, I fear not the evil spirit," answered the Fidalgo,

though the expression of his countenance belied his words; "and I will

take the earliest opportunity of putting your directions into execution,

though I knew not that my wife had expressed a wish that her daughter

should enter a convent. During her last illness, you informed me she

often prayed that I would permit her child to assume the veil, rather

than I should compel her to wed against her inclination. This I

consented to do, trusting she would nor wish to rebel against my will in

the choice of a husband: as yet, her heart is free, and I have arranged

that she shall marry, though yet she knows not of it, the young Conde de

San Vincente, one of the oldest Puritano families, and one of the most

wealthy; so that he is in every way unexceptionable. He is also a great

friend of my son, who is very anxious for the match; and he tells me

that the count is longing to see his intended bride. I therefore trust

I shall have no difficulty on the subject, and that Clara, who has

always been a dutiful child, will make no objections."

"With all these arrangements I was perfectly acquainted," said the

Priest, in a calm tone; "but suppose she objects to marry the young

count, will you not then follow her mother's wishes? or, I may say

more--for, know that your wife devoted her daughter to the Church, and

the quiet of her soul depends on the fulfilment of her vows."

"Father, you press me hard," exclaimed the Fidalgo, in a tone of voice

which showed that his feelings were galled; and his ghostly confessor

saw that he might be going too far. "I seek to do what is best for the

honour of my family, for my daughter's happiness, and for the repose of

the soul of my departed wife; what more would you have me do?"

"It is enough," returned the Priest; "you promise, then, that if your

daughter, Donna Clara, refuses to obey your wish that she should marry

the Conde de San Vincente, she shall assume the veil, with the portion

that you would bestow on her if she wedded; for, remember, if you do

not, it is at the peril of your own soul, of her's, and of that of your

departed wife."

"I promise so to do, holy Father, if thus her sainted mother vowed her

to the Church," exclaimed the Fidalgo; "but I know that my sweet child

will not for a moment dream of disobeying my wishes."

"I seek alone the good of her precious soul," returned the Priest; and

for some time they rode on in silence.

During this discussion, the fair subject of it, little suspecting that

her fate was being thus summarily settled, was thinking alone of the

amusements she was to meet with in the capital, to which this was her

first visit, her life having been spent in the quiet seclusion of her

father's quinta, at a short distance from the city of Oporto, whose

pointed walls could be seen from the windows of the mansion. All before

her was unknown, and she had painted it bright and beautiful; for her

soul was pure, and her mind contented and happy; nor had all the

specious reasonings of the intriguing monk, who acted as her father

confessor, been able to sully the one, or cast a gloom over the other;

for God has benignantly afforded a sacred shield to some of the fair

beings of his creation, whose own weakness and loveliness would expose

them to the attacks of the darkly designing and wicked, who, though they

see not, yet feel its power, and wonder at their own defeat.

Senhor Goncalo Christovao was the head of one of the oldest and purest

noble families of Portugal, their motto being, "Kings descend from us;"

not one of his ancestors having intermarried with any other family,

unless they could show an equally pure escutcheon. Though of the

highest class of fidalgos, he disdained to accept any title, which he

saw often bestowed on men whom he looked down upon on account of their

birth, priding himself far more on the antiquity of his own descent.

This system was, at that time, strictly adhered to by a certain number

of families, claiming the high distinction of being called Puritanos, or

those of pure race, they being the highest class of fidalgos. The

Fidalguia rank above the Nobres, and are entirely independent of all

titles: they are divided into a great number of classes, according to

the quarterings on their shields, each considering it a disgrace to

marry out of their own pale.

The Nobres rank with the English esquire, being simply gentlemen who

carry arms, though they often rise to rank and influence, from which,

indeed, no class of the present day are debarred; but, until the time of

Pombal, the Fidalguia had exclusively retained among themselves every

post of power and authority, wreaking their vengeance on any who

ventured to interfere with what they considered their privileges.

This short digression is necessary to explain the position in society

held by Goncalo Christovao, for so he delighted to be spoken of. After

riding for some time in silence by the side of the priest, he guided his

horse close to his daughter's litter, remorse and sorrow combating in

his heart with the superstition and bigotry the friar had endeavoured to

instil into it; but when he was about to speak on the subject he

intended, his courage again failed him, and he smiled as he gazed on his

lovely child, and inquired how she bore the fatigues of the journey.

Two weary hours passed away in crossing the moor, before the party

reached the borders of one of those large pine-forests, with which the

face of Portugal is so thickly sprinkled. The trees grew so closely

together that it was impossible to see far amongst them; and a high bank

rose on one side of the pathway, which led through a deep dell, with a

sparkling rivulet running at the bottom of it. It was a shady and cool

spot; but after having just quitted the bright sunshine, a certain

gloomy air appeared to hang over it, and for the first time the warning

of the maid at the inn occurred to the mind of the fair Clara. "Oh! my

father, what a dark forest this seems!" she exclaimed; "are not robbers

sometimes met with in these places? I know not why, but I do not feel

so happy as I did before, and cannot help wishing you had more people to

guard you."

"Fear not, my sweet child," answered the Fidalgo; "we muster too strong

to dread an attack from any band of robbers we are likely to encounter;

and if any should dare to molest us, they shall pay dearly for it."

The words were scarcely uttered, when several musket-shots were heard,

as if discharged from among the trees; and one of the servants fell from

his mule,--the blood streaming from a wound in his side; and the animal

of one of the other men reared, and rolled over, with his rider, to the

ground. Donna Clara trembling with agitation, gazed anxiously at her

father, who, drawing his sword, looked around, fearful lest any other

shots from the unseen assassins might injure his child.

Confusion and dismay took possession of all the individuals of the

cavalcade; the women in the litters screamed loudly and long, and the

men stood aghast, not knowing which way to turn to meet their

treacherous foe.

"Lift your fellow from the ground, and push on in close order," cried

Goncalo Christovao; "we must not remain here to be murdered. Look well

to your arms, and miss not your aim, if any of the villains show

themselves."

But, alas! the order was useless; for, before the party could advance

many paces, another volley was discharged among them, bringing down one

of the hindmost litters, containing the maid-servants, whose shrieks and

cries of terror utterly confounded the men, who stood paralysed, without

attempting to offer assistance; and, at the same instant, eight

horsemen, with pistols in their hands, dashed from among the trees

towards the fidalgo and the litter of Donna Clara.

"Do not attempt to fire!" exclaimed one who appeared to be the leader of

the band, "or you will repent it. You are in our power, and we might,

if we had chosen, have killed every one of you; but, provided you make

no resistance, we do not wish to shed blood, and are sorry for having

hurt the servant. Deliver your money and jewels quietly, and you shall

pass on: if you refuse, we shall possess ourselves of them without

ceremony."

"Wretches! how dare you thus speak to me?" demanded the Fidalgo,

indignantly. "Retire instantly, and allow my people to pass without

molestation, or I will order them to fire."

"Hark! to the fidalgo--he is vapouring!" cried one of the band.

"If you dare to resist, you shall be the first victim, Senhor Fidalgo!"

exclaimed he who had first spoken. "And remember your daughter--her

fate be on your own head!"

The priest rode fiercely towards them, exclaiming, "Begone, wretches! or

dread the anathema of the Church on your souls!"

"Hark to the priest--he's preaching!" cried one with a broad-brimmed hat

drawn over his eyes, laughing. "Pooh, pooh, Senhor Padre, we are not

afraid of mother Church; so do not waste your breath: we can get a

priest to curse you in return, you know."

The brow of Goncalo Christovao grew dark with anger. "Vile miscreants!"

he exclaimed, "you shall not intimidate us. Forward, my men!"

The servants who were near their master prepared to obey; but the

muleteers seemed no way inclined to fight.

"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed the captain of the banditti. "Fire on the

fools!"

Several shots were discharged; but, fortunately, none of the party were

injured; and the robbers, drawing their swords, rushed on with loud

oaths, but were met with steady courage by the fidalgo and his two

attendants--he parrying, with great skill, every blow aimed at him, till

his servants were both disarmed, but his arm growing weary, at length,

of wielding his blade, a sudden blow wrenched it from his grasp, and he

was thrown with violence to the ground. The priest, in the meantime,

remained by Donna Clara's litter, though he looked fully willing, had he

possessed a sword, to have joined in the fray; while the muleteers stood

trembling by, without attempting to interfere.

"You would have acted more wisely to have saved us this trouble,"

exclaimed the leader of the robbers, as they prepared to bind the hands

of the servants,--several of them dragging the priest from his mule, and

treating him in the same way; the muleteers falling down on their knees,

and crying for mercy, expecting every moment to have their throats cut.

The fidalgo remained stunned on the ground; and, when the robber

approached the first litter, to see whom it contained, Donna Clara,

overcome with terror at seeing her father, as she supposed, dead, had

fainted. The ruffian gazed with astonishment not unmixed with

admiration, at the fair girl, now with her eyes closed, as pale as death

itself; and for a moment he fancied that some shot must have struck

her,--awe preventing him from even daring to touch her, till her gentle

breathing convinced him that she lived; but his courage soon returned.

"Quick, now, my men!" he cried. "Look into the pockets of these

gentlemen, and put gags into the mouths of those senhoras, who are

screaming loud enough to be heard across the forest, if they do not

choose to be silent, and to deliver up their trinkets quietly. The

baggage-mules must accompany us, till we can examine their burdens at

our leisure."

The banditti lost not a moment in obeying these orders, though they

found considerable difficulty in executing some of them; particularly in

gagging the maid-servants, who fought most desperately, before they

would deliver up each separate article of their ornaments. The more

booty the robbers acquired, the more their avarice increased.

Donna Clara had now partially recovered; and, looking wildly

around,--"Oh! my father, my father!" she exclaimed, "where are you?"

At the sound of her voice, a new idea seemed to strike the robber

leader. "Ah! methinks this fair lady would fetch a high ransom," he

exclaimed. "Come, senhora, you must condescend to make use of a less

easy conveyance. Do not be alarmed, your father is not seriously hurt,"

he added, in rather a softer tone; "and if you will quietly accompany

us, no harm shall befall him."

"Go with you! oh, whither?" cried the young lady, in a tone of horror.

"Oh, allow us to pursue our journey, and my father will reward you."

"We trust not to the promises of a fidalgo, but take care ourselves to

secure the rewards we require," answered the robber. "Come, lady, no

more delay. You must leave your litter, for it cannot pass between the

trees where our path lies." Saying which, he rudely seized the arm of

the lovely girl, who had not attempted to move till he touched her, when

she instinctively drew back; but she was as a dove in the talons of a

vulture; and, dragging her forward, he compelled her to descend to the

ground.

Trembling with terror, she gazed around, when she beheld the form of her

parent, and, breaking from the bandit, threw herself, with a shriek, by

his side, raising his head, and endeavouring to recall him to life. As,

regarding none around her, she hung over the inanimate form of her

parent, chafing his temples, kissing his pale cheek, and using every

effort to recover him which her affection dictated, even the hardened

ruffians paused ere they attempted to drag her from his side; but the

love of gain triumphed over all the better feelings latent in their

bosoms, which her beauty had for the moment elicited, and he who

appeared to be the captain was again approaching her, when the fidalgo

gave signs of returning animation, and, opening his eyes, gazed

anxiously at his daughter. She uttered a cry of joy, on discovering

that life yet remained, giving expression to her feelings by tender

endearments; but the ruffian was not to be deterred from his purpose a

second time, and, seizing her arm, attempted to tear her away. With

slender efforts she endeavoured to resist the outrage, clinging still

closer to her father. "If you have the feelings of men, you cannot be

so cruel as to compel me to leave my father thus," she exclaimed. "Oh,

wait, at least, till I see him in safety."

"Come, come, this is absurd folly, and waste of much precious time,"

cried several of the band in impatient tones.

"Give the old gentleman a shake, which will soon bring him to himself;

and let him understand, that if he does not ransom his daughter in the

course of three days, he will not see her again," said he with the

slouched hat.

In vain the fair girl pleaded for pity, as two of the robbers held her

in their grasp, while the others raised her father, who was now

sufficiently recovered to comprehend his situation. He of the slouched

hat again made his proposal, with threats of vengeance if it was not

acceded to.

"Hear me!" cried the Fidalgo, in a tone of rage and agony. "You dare

not commit the base outrage you propose, or the vengeance of every

honest man in Portugal will follow and destroy you; but yet, if without

further delay you set my daughter at liberty, I most solemnly promise

you any sum you may venture to demand. Do you consent?"

"No, no, senhor," answered the leader: "we have risked our necks, and

must be paid with good security; nor do we consider the empty word even

of a fidalgo sufficient. You must send us the money, or you know the

alternative, while we retain your daughter in our power."

"Wretches, no! 'tis impossible I should consent!" exclaimed Goncalo

Christovao. "I would rather stab my daughter to the heart, and then

plunge the dagger into my own breast, than trust you."

"As you like, senhor; but we do not intend to give you the choice.

Here, tie this noble fidalgo to a tree, with his servants round him, and

the priest to offer him consolation, and perhaps by the time some

traveller comes by, he may have thought better on the subject," said the

leader.

"You dare not do it, villains!" exclaimed the Fidalgo, his agony

increased to the highest pitch. "Release my child, or the vengeance of

Heaven will fall on your heads."

"Gag him, gag him!" cried several of the band, as they dragged him

towards a tree to bind him to it.

"If you are less than demons, hear me!" he again exclaimed, as he put

aside indignantly the rough hands near his face. "Let my daughter and

her attendants go free, and she shall forward the ransom, while I remain

with you."

"Oh no, senhor!" answered the Captain; "you are doubtless a very

valuable and important person; but that would not at all answer our

purpose. You would cause us much more trouble to keep; and if, by any

chance, the ransom did not arrive, we could, after all, only kill you in

revenge, while your fair daughter would make a charming wife to some of

us. You understand, senhor! 'Twill lower your pride a little, when you

see one of us kennel dogs, as you call us, your son-in-law. Think of

that. These are our terms; and we do not alter them. Again, I say, we

must have done with this folly. Collect all the party, and curses on

them, while I hold the lady."

The banditti, according to their leader's order, now set to work in

earnest, binding the fidalgo, the priest, and the servants to trees at

some little distance from each other. They then treated the muleteers

in the same way, who deplored, with tears, the loss of their animals;

but when it came to the females' turn, one of them contriving to get the

gag out of her mouth, set up a scream loud enough to be heard at the

distance of a mile, to which she continued to give reiterated utterance,

struggling so bravely, that it was some time before that implement to

which it is said women have so great an aversion, could be replaced.

"Do not attempt to escape, Senhor Fidalgo," said one of the robbers, as

approaching Goncalo Christovao, and drawing his long knife, he

flourished it in the air. "Remember we could just as easily have cut

your throat as let you live, and thank the saints that it is not our

interest to do so. Some one will doubtless set you free before night

approaches, otherwise you may find the wolves rather troublesome--

adeos."

Donna Clara, too much overwhelmed with terror and agitation even to

utter a faint scream, remained a passive spectator of the scene,

scarcely comprehending the extent of her danger; nor was it till the

captain of the banditti lifted her on his horse, that she seemed to

return to consciousness, and even then she appeared less alarmed for her

own safety than for that of her father.

The robbers, having effectually rifled every one of the travellers, even

making the muleteers deliver up the few coins they possessed, collected

their booty, and driving the baggage-mules together, took a pathway

which appeared leading out of the main track across the forest. The

captain remained the last, to see that nothing was left behind; when,

bearing Donna Clara before him on his saddle, deaf to her prayers and

entreaties, and regardless of her father's agonised glances, he turned

his horse's head to follow his companions.

Volume 1, Chapter IX.

There are some feelings of the heart so intense that language possesses

no words of sufficient force to describe them; and such was the passion

which wrung the bosom of the proud fidalgo, when he saw his daughter, a

being he loved, a part of himself, carried off by wretches so base and

low that he looked upon them as formed of different materials from

himself. It was far worse suffering than the martyr at the stake is

doomed to bear; and rather would he have beheld his child torn by the

wild beasts of the forest, than thus exposed to the lawless violence of

such men. The agony of his fury deprived him almost of sensation, and

of life itself; but the robber chief heeded him not, further than giving

utterance to a scoffing laugh, and bestowing a glance of triumph and

derision, over his shoulder, as he was disappearing among the trees;

when, at the same moment, one of the band, who had been kept as a scout

at some distance along the road, was seen galloping to the spot at a

furious rate; and, as he perceived the captain, "Fly!" he cried, "fly!

danger is near. A party of horsemen are close upon my heels." At these

words the robber, plunging his long spurs into his horse's flanks, urged

him between the thick-growing trees, followed by the scout, into the

depths of the forest, where they were completely concealed from view.

The faint cries which, in her terror and despair, Donna Clara uttered,

were yet heard, when a horseman approached, urging on his steed at the

utmost speed, and the heart of the father heat again with the anxious

hope of succour for his child; for, even as he flew along, his

appearance bespoke him a cavalier of rank, being also followed by four

servants at a short distance in the rear. He reined in his steed when

he came near the spot where Goncalo Christovao was bound, and was about

to dismount.

"Think not of me, senhor," exclaimed the Fidalgo. "But hasten through

that path to the right, and rescue my daughter from the hands of

ruffians who have borne her off."

At that moment a faint cry was heard through the forest, nor needed the

cavalier other inducement to dash forward in the direction from which it

proceeded, pointing with his hand, as he rode towards the trees, to the

party who remained bound, to indicate them to his servants, one of whom,

as he came up, leaped from his horse, and busied himself in releasing

them, while the rest galloped after their master into the forest. No

sooner did the fidalgo find himself at liberty, than seizing a sword

which had been left on the ground, he rushed off in the direction his

daughter had been carried, followed by his faithful escudeiro, who was

the next person released from his bonds. The rest of the servants and

the priest were soon set at liberty, as were some of the muleteers, the

former hurrying off to join their master, entirely forgetting, in their

haste, to release the women; but, fortunately for them, the muleteers

had either more gallantry, or were less anxious to enter into danger.

The priest also stalked off in the same direction, muttering dark curses

on the heads of the robbers. When released by the muleteers, the old

nurse was in an almost insensible state, from terror at the danger of

her young charge; but the youthful females, even before their arms were

set at liberty, made most significant gestures to have their mouths

cleared of the handkerchiefs so unceremoniously thrust into them, which

operation was no sooner performed, than, as the renowned Baron

Munchausen's horn, when brought near the fire, gave forth the tones

frozen up during the winter, so did they give vent, as if to make amends

for their compulsory silence, to the most piercing shrieks, one trying

to outvie the other in their loudness and number, so that it might have

been supposed they were undergoing some fresh attack from the robbers,

instead of being released by their friends. The old nurse threw herself

on the ground, giving way to her terror in tears. "Oh my child! my dear

child!" she cried; "they have torn her away, and I shall never see her

more."

We must now follow the course of the young cavalier, who had arrived so

opportunely on the scene of action; indeed, were we not writing a true

history instead of a romance, we might be supposed to have brought him

in merely for dramatic effect; but we can assure our readers, that in

this, as in every other instance, we are adhering closely to the very

voluminous, though rather illegible manuscripts, from which, with

infinite labour, we are culling the present volumes. Perhaps, also,

more interest may be taken in his adventures, when it is learnt that he

was no other than Don Luis d'Almeida, on his way from Lisbon to his

father's quinta, near Coimbra, accompanied by Pedro and some other

attendants. As, with considerable risk, he galloped between the trees,

he did not even turn his head to see if his servants were following, so

eager was he to rescue the daughter of the venerable-looking person he

had observed bound. As may be supposed, from the intricacy of the

thickets and the closeness of the trees, very slow progress could be

made by people encumbered in any way as the robbers were, and thus

scarce three minutes had passed before Don Luis perceived them a short

distance in advance, they being unconscious, from not hearing his

horse's hoofs on the soft grass, that they were pursued. He was thus

enabled to approach close to them before he was discovered, when, seeing

only one man, the whole band reined in their horses, the hindermost

wheeling with the intention of cutting him down, their leader ordering

them not to fire, lest the report of their arms should show where they

were: but the first who attempted to attack him paid dearly for his

temerity; for, drawing a pistol from his holster, he discharged it, and

the ruffian fell from his horse. This success somewhat checked the

ardour of the rest in closing with him, and at the same time drew the

attention of his servants to the spot. Fortunately for him, too, the

robbers, having fired their guns, had forgotten to reload them, and

before they could do so, his attendants were seen urging on their horses

through the trees. The banditti, upon this, drew back together to

reload their pieces; but Don Luis, seeing the advantage this would give

them, drew his sword, and rushed on the foremost, his valour excited by

catching sight of the light robes of the lady among them, the trees

growing thickly around preventing more than one attacking him at a time.

The captain of the band now approached, still holding the fainting form

of Donna Clara in his grasp. "Fire, you fools!" he cried. "Never mind

if you hit Damiao. It cannot be helped; for we shall be cut down in

detail, if we get not rid of yon daring madman. Fire!"

Two of his party obeyed; but their aim was uncertain, and the balls

struck the trees near them.

"Fire again!" shouted the Captain; and another of his men having loaded

his piece, discharged it; but it was for the destruction of a friend;

for the ball striking Damiao's horse, the animal fell, and Don Luis,

dealing a blow on the ruffian's head before he could recover himself,

rode furiously at the captor of the lady. His three followers at the

same time coming up, gave full occupation to the remainder of the band,

who were, however, still superior in numbers; and though their courage

was somewhat lessened by the loss of their companions, yet the hopes of

keeping possession of their booty induced them, led on by him with the

slouched hat, to continue the combat. The bandit chief, encumbered as

he was by his fair prize, would have been completely unable to defend

himself from Don Luis's furious attack, had he not interposed her as his

shield; but the young cavalier was not thus to be baffled; for, changing

suddenly his sword to his bridle hand, and leaning forward, he so

dexterously clasped the lovely girl round the waist, that the robber,

completely taken by surprise, relinquished his hold, and beheld her

securely seated in front of her rescuer before he had time to draw a

weapon for his defence; when Don Luis, again changing his sword to his

right hand, dealt him a blow on the shoulder, that completely disabled

him from further resistance. A shot from the pistol of Pedro had

likewise severely wounded him with the slouched hat; and the shouts of

Goncalo Christovao, and his attendants, being now heard, the banditti

lost courage, and, turning their horses, galloped after their wounded

leader, leaving Don Luis master of the field, with all the booty, except

the jewels and money they carried about them. With the fair charge he

held in his arms, it was impossible for him to attempt to follow; nor

did he think fit to risk the lives of his attendants in a pursuit,

which, considering that the robbers were probably well acquainted with

the country, would no doubt prove fruitless.

As, his faithful Pedro holding his horse, he gently lifted Donna Clara

to the ground, he now, for the first time, observed her extreme beauty;

and, though he had fancied his heart seared to all female attractions,

he could not help acknowledging that he had never seen one so lovely as

the fair girl to whom he had just afforded such essential service.

"Fear not, lady," he said, in a tone modulated by his feelings; "you are

free from all danger, and your father, also, is unharmed. See, here he

comes to assure you of his safety."

As he spoke, the fidalgo arrived on the spot, and Don Luis's heart beat

quick with new, undefined sensations, as Donna Clara, forgetting all her

terrors and danger on seeing her father in safety, sprang forward, and

fell weeping on his neck, while he folded her in a tender embrace. For

some minutes neither could find words to give utterance to their

feelings of joy, which were too deep, too tender, indeed, for mere

words; the father standing gazing on the lovely countenance of his

daughter, as she reclined in his arms, while she looked up with an

inquiring glance to assure herself that she was not deceived. At

length, the Fidalgo addressed Don Luis with that dignified air which

marks the man of true nobility.

"Senhor, you have bestowed an inestimable benefit on me," he said: "let

me not longer remain in ignorance of the name of one to whom I would

endeavour to offer that earnest gratitude which, however, no words can

express."

"Oh! do not speak of gratitude, senhor," answered Don Luis: "it is I who

have to rejoice in my happiness at having been of service to one so fair

and lovely as your daughter. My name is Don Luis d'Almeida."

"Ah! the son of one whose reputation I well know," answered the Fidalgo.

"And truly delighted I am to hear by whom so great a weight of

gratitude has been imposed. My name, also, you may probably have heard;

it is Goncalo Christovao."

"A name so illustrious I could not fail to have heard, senhor," answered

Don Luis; "and my satisfaction is doubled at knowing to whom I have been

of service." The fidalgo bowed in return for the compliment, at which

he was well pleased; nor did it fail to increase his estimation for the

person who paid it.

"But pardon me, Don Luis," he said; "we ought no longer to remain here;

for those wretches are capable of any treachery, and may return to fire

on us at a distance."

"You observe rightly, senhor; we will no longer delay here," answered

Don Luis; and, offering his support to Donna Clara on one side, while

her father aided her on the other,--she, expressing her thanks to her

gallant deliverer much more by looks than words,--they conducted her

towards the spot where the litters had been left; the patient mules

having stood quiet during the whole time of the affray.

The muleteers, with shouts of pleasure, collected their scattered

beasts, whom they had never expected to see again, and busily employed

themselves in putting the litters and baggage to rights. Leaving the

body of the slain robber as food for the wolves, the servants dragged

forward his companion who had been wounded, one of them, more humane

than the rest, attempting to stop the blood flowing from a deep wound in

his shoulder, but in vain; yet the man, though he felt himself to be

dying, would give no information respecting the rest of the banditti.

They were close to the road, when they encountered the priest; and the

wounded robber, seeing a person in the clerical dress, earnestly

entreated that the consolations of religion might be administered to

him. At a sign from the priest, he was therefore placed on the bank,

facing the road, and the servants retiring, the holy man knelt down by

his side, to hear the confession of his sins, before which he could

offer none of the satisfactory comforts of absolution; but the detail

occupied a considerable time; for his peccadillos were, alas! of no

slight magnitude, nor of little interest, it would seem, by the look of

earnest attention which overspread the countenance of his listener. The

robber threw many a dark imputation on the characters of some of high

rank and influence in the realm, by whose instigation he had committed

various atrocities, yet unconfessed and unabsolved. "Now, Father," said

the dying man, "absolve me from these sins which press most heavily on

me, and I will afterwards make confession of the remainder."

"Not so, my son," answered the Priest; "you must make a clear discharge

of your conscience; for I may not afford absolution to a heart yet

loaded with iniquity."

"Oh! Father, I am dying, and feel that I am a miserable sinner!"

ejaculated the man, with a feeble voice; "but there is a deed I swore

not to reveal to any one, and I may not break my oath. Oh! grant me,

then, absolution, ere I die."

"That may not be," answered the Priest; "oaths made to sinners like

ourselves, for a wicked purpose, can be annulled by a minister of

religion, as the only way of making retribution for the crime."

"It was a deed of blood, Father, but I sought not to do it of my own

accord; another instigated me to it by bribes which my poverty could not

resist, and I swore never to reveal it."

"I have said such oaths are valueless!" exclaimed the Priest eagerly.

"Come, haste, for your last moments are approaching, when you will be

consigned to the terrible flames of purgatory, for thousands and

thousands of years, without a mass said for the repose of your soul, if

you do not go at once to the ever-burning and bottomless pit, among

infidels and heretics."

The hair of the man stood on end with horror, at the picture of torment

offered to his imagination; his eyeballs rolled wildly, as with clenched

hands he for an instant sat upright on the ground, and seemed as if

about to rise altogether.

"I will confess, I will confess!" he cried, "though I break my oath.

'Twas the young Conde de San Vincente who hired me by a large bribe to

do the deed. There was a lady whose affections he sought to gain, but

her husband was--Oh, Father, where are you? I am cold--very cold!"

cried the man.

"Who was the husband?--you slew him?" asked the Priest, stooping down

over the dying wretch.

"He was the"--but ere he could pronounce the name which hung quivering

on his lips, he uttered a loud shriek, and, with a convulsive shudder,

fell back a lifeless corpse. The priest, however, had heard enough for

his purpose; and uttering, or pretending to utter, a prayer over the

body, he rose from the ground, and some of the servants coming up, one

of them threw a cloak over the distorted features of the dead man.

While the scene of horror we have described was enacting, Don Luis had

been actively employed in restoring order to the scattered cavalcade;

his first care being to place Donna Clara in her litter, in which her

old gouvernante accompanied her. The fidalgo was too much injured and

fatigued to remount his horse, and therefore took his seat in his

litter; the two wounded men-servants being placed in the third, while

the females mounted the mules of the former; one of the mules of the

fourth litter having been wounded, they were unable to support a burden.

These various arrangements having been made; the fidalgo, with many

expressions of gratitude, would have bid farewell to his deliverer; but

Don Luis, fearful that the brigands might again return, insisted on

escorting him and his daughter to Leiria, the nearest town on the road

to Lisbon, where, if thought advisable, a guard might be procured. "I

should be performing but half my devoir as a knight, if I were to quit

you in the middle of the forest," said Don Luis; "a few hours' delay can

be of slight consequence to me, and I may happily be of some further

service to you."

"I cannot refuse your courteous offer, senhor," answered the Fidalgo,

pointing to his daughter. "For my daughter's sake, it is most

acceptable, as I yet tremble for her safety."

Further delay being unnecessary, the party was again put in motion, Don

Luis now riding by the side of the fidalgo's litter, and ever and anon,

notwithstanding his previous intentions to the contrary, approaching

that of Donna Clara, to inquire if she had recovered from her alarm, and

to assure her that she had no further cause for fear; an assurance in

which, proceeding from the lips of so handsome a cavalier, and uttered

in a tone of respectful courtesy, she could not fail to put implicit

confidence. Notwithstanding his words, however, he kept a constant and

watchful glance on every side, having also given private instructions to

his own people, and to those of Goncalo Christovao to have their arms in

readiness for any sudden attack. By insensible degrees he was led to

enter more into conversation with his fair companion, and, as he spoke,

his words became animated with a new spirit; all thoughts of the past

being banished from his mind, while the roses again returned to her

cheeks before blanched by fear, her soft eyes beaming with a strange and

undefined happiness.

While Don Luis rode on to address the fidalgo, the old Nurse began to

comment on his appearance. "What a handsome young cavalier is that,"

she said; "so brave too,--why, the servants say he killed ten of the

brigands with his own hand! What a noble countenance he has! with such

sparkling black eyes! and how many polite inquiries he made after our

health! Oh! mine is sore shaken by the fright.--Is he not handsome?"

"Do you think so, good nurse?" answered Donna Clara unconsciously. "I

did not look.--He is very brave and very good, I am sure."

"That he is; and so gallant, too," said the Nurse. "How few young

gentlemen would take the trouble to turn back to protect us. What a

pity he is married!"

"Married!" exclaimed Donna Clara; and there was a sinking at her heart,

and she felt her cheek again grow pale, she knew not why.

"If he is not married, he soon is to be, to his cousin Donna Theresa

d'Alorna. The moment I heard his name I remembered that I had learned

all about it from Senhora Anna, his father's housekeeper, whose

birth-place is near Oporto, and who came back to see her kindred some

time ago."

While the old lady was thus running on, the subject of her conversation

again rode to the side of the litter; for it was extraordinary how

incumbent on him he considered it to make frequent inquiries respecting

the young lady's health. Now, many people will ask if Don Luis had thus

suddenly forgotten Donna Theresa and all his griefs; and though we

cannot, with perfect certainty, answer that question, yet we have strong

reasons to suspect that, for the time, he thought very little about

either one or the other; nor had he, indeed, from the moment when he

dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks, as he rode forward to rescue

Donna Clara from the power of the brigands, and, as now he rode by her

side, gazing on her lovely countenance, and regarding her as one who

confided in him for protection, he knew not how it was that all nature

seemed suddenly to have assumed a brighter garb, and the weight to have

been lifted from his heart. We must, however, beg no one to suppose we

mean to insinuate, either that he had fallen in love with the lady, or

that she had fallen in love with him, at first sight; because all people

of mature judgment agree that, if such is possible, it can occur alone

to very silly young people; and that the descriptions of such folly are

to be found only in the most absurd and extravagant romances. Of

course, therefore, in a grave history, like the present work, we should

not venture even to hint at such a thing; and, with regard to his

affection for his cousin, it must be remembered that she had treated him

with great cruelty and deceit; and that young hearts, however their

possessors may fancy them seared and blighted, are of a very elastic and

reviving nature, requiring but the warm sun and genial showers of spring

to restore their freshness and bloom.

However that may be, when Don Luis again rode up to the side of the

litter, his thoughts dwelt on no other subject than its fair occupant,

and he felt a slight sensation of disappointment, as, instead of leaning

forward to hear what he had to communicate, she reclined back in her

seat. "I fear Donna Clara is fatigued with all she has undergone," he

observed.

"Yes, senhor," she answered, with a half averted eye, "I have, indeed,

yet scarcely recovered from terror, though I know it is foolish to be

further alarmed; but--" and she hesitated to proceed.

"Do you know, Senhor Don Luis," exclaimed the old Nurse, eager to speak,

and at the same time to relieve the embarrassment of her charge, "that I

have heard a great deal of you, and seem to know you perfectly well,

though I never saw you before. Ah! senhor, I have heard, too, of your

fair cousin, Donna Theresa, and am surprised she is not with you; for I

thought you were to have been married before this."

At Donna Theresa's name a cloud passed across the cavalier's brow.

"You must have been misinformed, senhora," he answered gravely. "My

cousin is engaged to the Marquis of Tavora."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, senhor," said the old Nurse; "I hope I have not

offended by the question; but I hear that she is a very lovely young

lady."

"Oh no, no, you have not offended," said Don Luis, as he rode from the

side of the litter, to avoid showing the blush which burned on his cheek

at hearing an affair so lightly alluded to, which he had fancied unknown

to the world. Very different was the effect of his words on Donna

Clara; for though she felt that, whether he was single, engaged, or

married, ought to be a matter of complete indifference to her, yet a

certain uneasy sensation seemed removed from her breast, and she again

leaned forward to speak, when she found he was no longer by her side.

More than an hour elapsed before Don Luis again approached the litter,

during which period the young lady unconsciously allowed a number of new

sensations, which had never before been known to her, to take possession

of her heart; and she welcomed his return with a smile whose sweetness

might have softened the bosom of a stoic,--and certainly her gallant

deliverer was not one. For the remainder of the journey he did not

leave the side of her litter for more than a few minutes at a time,

always gladly again returning to it; and, although they had emerged some

time before from the dark forest of pines, and were traversing a

comparatively thickly-peopled country, so that all fear of the brigands

was banished, yet he insisted on accompanying the party to the end of

their day's journey. As the travellers wound round the base of a hill,

the bright rays of the evening sun were throwing a ruddy hue on the

topmost turrets of the once proud castle of Leiria; which, standing on

the summit of an eminence, situated to the north of that most ancient

town, now burst on their view, enclosed in an amphitheatre of hills,

surrounding a smiling, well-cultivated valley. A road winding round the

foot of the hill conducted them, through the narrow streets of the town,

to the house of a fidalgo, who, though absent, had requested Goncalo

Christovao to take up his abode there.

Don Luis spent the evening in the society of the fidalgo and his

daughter; nor did he lose the ground he had gained in the estimation of

either; though the priest regarded him with frowning looks, keeping a

lynx-eyed watch on every expression of his countenance, and on each word

he uttered: the whole party, however, overcome with fatigue, were glad

to retire at an early hour to rest.

The sun had already risen above the walls of the town on the following

morning, before Don Luis thought of ordering his horses, and he then

considered it but an act of common courtesy to wait till he had seen one

of Donna Clara's attendants, to inquire how their lady had borne the

fatigues of the journey, and at last, when a black-eyed soubrette

tripped down stairs, she kept the handsome stranger in conversation with

abundance of questions in return, hoping that he neither had suffered in

any way, and finishing by assuring him that her young mistress would be

quite offended, she felt sure, if he departed without allowing her again

to thank him in person for his gallantry. These observations, we must

remark, were entirely the damsel's own ideas; for, of course, Donna

Clara would not have dreamed of delaying Don Luis in his journey on her

account; but so thought not the soubrette, and she was merely acting

towards her mistress as she would have wished others to do towards

herself; for it is remarkable what quick perceptions her class possess

on such matters. He therefore could not be so ungallant as to refuse

her request, and then he bethought him also that he ought to pay his

respects to Goncalo Christovao, who had not yet issued from his sleeping

apartment. He had for some time been pacing the drawing-room with

rather impatient steps, when, on facing the door, it opened, and Donna

Clara appeared, enveloped in the full and graceful drapery of her

travelling dress, a slight pallor on her delicate cheeks, her eyes soft

and liquid, and with a slight degree of bashfulness in her manner as she

advanced into the room. There seems to be always a brighter halo of

freshness and purity, circling round a young and innocent girl when she

first greets the early morn with her smile of gladness, before the

glowing sun of noon-day has cast his scorching beams upon her head to

dim the seraph-like lustre of her beauty. So lovely, indeed, did Donna

Clara appear to the eyes of Don Luis, that for a moment, as the blood

rushed quickly from his heart, he stopped, unconsciously, to gaze with

admiration involuntary; but, recovering his usual manner, he approached

her with graceful courtesy, to inquire if she had suffered from the

terror and fatigue of the previous day. She answered, in tones of

silvery softness, a sweet smile beaming on her lips, and, as she spoke,

his eyes wandered over her features, imprinting every lineament

indelibly on the tablets of his memory. Though he knew it not, neither

age, grief, nor madness itself, could efface that image of beauty he had

drawn. Years might pass away, his own eyes might grow dim, that lovely

form might fade, but there it would remain, unchangeable, cherished, and

adored!

Though old age has stolen on us, it has made us neither sullen nor

morose, and we can yet find pleasure in recurring to the fresh days of

our youth, when a lovely face had power to make an impression on our

hearts; and we can thus vividly picture to ourselves many of those, seen

perhaps but once, suddenly bursting on our view, like a picture of

Titian's, never to be forgotten; and it is from those we describe the

fair creatures we would introduce to our readers. Now and again we have

met the same, we have fancied, in the person of a younger sister, or a

daughter, or perhaps of no kindred except that of sentiments and

disposition, which always give a similar expression to the countenance.

Sometimes, too, we have met the self-same being, changed, alas! from the

creature of angelic loveliness we once knew;--the roses have fled her

cheeks, the sylph-like form is no longer there; we hear no more her soft

silvery voice; but soon some old familiar expression, some reference to

past days, conjures up the former image in all its glowing tints of

loveliness, and we deem our youth again returned, and once more do her

joyous laughter and the sweet notes of her voice ring, like fairy music,

in our ears. 'Tis for this reason that we esteem painting the first,

the most divine of the arts; for, with regard to music, the hand or the

voice may fail; with poetry, the language may alter or be lost, and the

words bring no meaning to the senses; but painting has survived the

destruction of kingdoms, the dispersion of nations, a people whose

language and very name would have passed away, but that the productions

of this art remain to tell their history. Who has not gazed with

rapture on some lovely, almost speaking, portrait of one absent, or

perhaps lost to us for ever? As we have stood before it, we have seemed

to hold converse with it; the eyes have appeared to burn with the

mysterious light of intellect, and the lips to move; and we have

answered to the words we in fancy heard! Can poetry or music work this

magic effect? No; they have their own charms--and oh! how powerful our

soul confesses! but we have seen paintings which combine all, which have

poetry in every line, and music in every tint.

We are fond, we confess, of making digressions, either when travelling

through beautiful scenery, or in conversation, to sketch the views, and

to cull the flowers to be found on each side of our path, which, however

pleasant to ourselves, who know what is before us, is a bad system to

pursue, we own, when our readers are anxious to proceed with our

history, and we must therefore apologise to them for our wanderings, and

promise in future to keep as much as possible in the direct path.

We must again request our readers to understand, that we do not affirm

that Don Luis was in love with Donna Clara; but that we merely wish to

explain clearly that he was not at all likely to forget her, which

circumstance may be of consequence to remember for the elucidation of

the subsequent part of this narrative; to hasten on with which, we need

not give the conversation which took place between them, because, also,

though highly interesting to themselves, it may not be so to our

readers.

At length, however, Donna Clara appeared to be seized with a fit of

timidity, wherefore we do not know; for Don Luis was most respectful,

and he intended to appear as reserved and cold as he was fully convinced

he felt; and we can only guess, therefore, that it was at the time he

was employed in making that mental portrait we have described, in which

process his eyes were necessarily fixed on her fair features. Now his

eyes had a melancholy, tender glance, owing to his late unhappiness; and

we have observed that, from the pitying nature of the female heart, such

always make the strongest impression on it; and it is a fact for which

we will vouch, that, precisely at the same time, she was making the same

use of her eyes, in drawing on her mind, though in a slightly different

way; for, while his were fixed while he spoke, with a steady gaze, her

glances were but for a moment, ever and anon, lifted to his countenance,

and again quickly thrown on the ground, as a miniature painter does in

the practice of his art. Now, the young people were taking each other's

miniatures in the most artistical way, though they were not aware of it;

nor was the operation quite finished (for they found much pleasure in

prolonging it) when Goncalo Christovao entered the room to relieve his

daughter from the slight embarrassment she was beginning to feel. The

morning meal was then placed on the table; and, during the time

necessarily employed in discussing it, they threw in a few finishing

touches, before omitted, which certainly made the portraits very

perfect--fully equal to those from the pencil of Rochard, who so

frequently, while preserving an exact likeness, improves on the beauty

of the originals; though it was impossible such should be the case with

the miniature Don Luis carried away of Donna Clara, however much she

might have flattered him.

Breakfast in those days was composed of different materials from what it

is at present in England, tea being used by very few in the morning

except as a medicine, light wine and water being drunk instead, with a

little bread, the noon-day meal and the supper being the only

substantial repasts.

During the course of conversation, Donna Clara mentioned a serious loss

which had occurred to her of a small case of jewels. "I prized them

highly, not for their intrinsic value, but that they were my beloved

mother's; nor have I even ever lifted them from the box since she last

placed them there."

Don Luis, of course, as a man of gallantry, vowed that he would use

every exertion to recover them, though he could scarcely tell how he

should set about the task. Donna Clara, we need not say, thanked him,

with many blushes, for his kind intentions; at the same time more

minutely describing her lost treasure, for she could not resist a sort

of presentiment that he would recover it.

The morning meal having been discussed in the way we have described, and

a very pleasant way Don Luis thought it, though it had not a fattening

effect on him certainly, for he quite forgot to eat anything, the

litters were ordered to the door, and he had the honour of leading the

young lady to her seat, in doing which he was quite surprised to

discover a slight trembling of her hand, as unavoidably he gently

pressed it, though nothing of the sort occurred with Senhora Gertrudes,

the old nurse, as most gallantly he placed her opposite to her mistress,

by which slight attention he completely won that most respectable old

lady's heart. He then offered his arm to the fidalgo, who gave him a

warm embrace at parting, making him promise to visit him soon at Lisbon.

He then observed that the curtain of Donna Clara's litter was loose, so

he flew to secure it, for which service he received a rich reward in a

sweet smile and a few words of thanks; they, of course, required a

suitable answer, and thus he lingered by her side until the whole

cavalcade were waiting his last bow, to be put in motion. He delayed

them some time before he discovered such to be the case, and was aroused

only by hearing the fidalgo's voice inquiring of the muleteers why they

did not proceed, and their answering that they were ready. Donna Clara

then bent her head, and waved her hand, Goncalo Christovao bowed, and

all his attendants took off their hats, which salutation being returned

by Don Luis, the whole party moved forward; but he did not quit his

position till the last faint tinkle of the mules' bells had died away.

He might have stood there longer, as Pedro, who had been making his

private comments on what he observed, thought very probable; but knowing

that it was high time his master should be in the saddle, he brought his

horse close to him, making the animal rear a little, while he held the

stirrup, a very significant gesture for him to mount. Looking round,

and seeing all his party prepared, he threw himself on his horse,

courteously returning the bows made by the bystanders, and set forward

to retrace his steps of the previous day. Having now introduced two

very interesting young people to each other, we will leave them to

pursue their journeys in different directions, while we turn to other

scenes and fresh characters, for none of which, however, have we so much

regard as for those we have just quitted.

Volume 1, Chapter X.

In looking over the many various and bulky documents before us, from

which we are compiling this history, we see an account of a personage

who played a conspicuous part in the scenes we are about to describe.

Dom Joseph Mascarenhas and Lancastre, Duke of Aveiro, was descended from

Dom George, a natural son of John the Second, King of Portugal, called

the Perfect. He was hereditary grand master of the house of the King of

Portugal, president of the court of the palace, and one of the high

lords of the kingdom. He was not born to this high rank, owing it more

to a caprice of fortune than to any good qualities he possessed. His

elder brother, the Marquis of Gouvea, having fallen in love with the

wife of a fidalgo of the first order, and won her affection in return,

which was discovered by the husband; as the only way of enjoying their

criminal passion, he fled with her to a foreign country. Such,

according to the laws of Portugal, is considered a capital crime, and

punished by perpetual banishment, which sentence being carried into

effect against the marquis, his younger brother succeeded to his title

and estates. An uncle of the Gouveas, Father Gaspar de Incarnacao, one

of the many priests by whom the old king, John the Fifth, was

surrounded, being soon after nominated Prime Minister, through his

interest, the dukedom of Aveiro, which had previously become extinct,

was bestowed on Dom Joseph. During the reign of that imbecile and

fanatical sovereign, he had enjoyed considerable influence at Court,

when he had made a deadly and personal enemy of Sebastiao Joze de

Carvalho, then a young and daring adventurer, without power or

influence, who had presumed to lift his eyes towards a lady of his

family, whose affections his handsome figure and gallant manners had

won. The duke, highly indignant at the daring presumption of one whom

he designated as a low-born plebeian, strenuously opposed the match,

threatening vengeance on the head of the lover if he presumed to

persevere, at the same time insulting him with every term of opprobrium.

But the man who was destined to curb and break the haughty spirits of

the whole body of a potent nobility, was not likely to be deterred from

his purpose by the threats of a single family; and, in spite of all

their care, he bore the lady off from the seclusion in which they had

immured her to keep her out of his way. In consequence of this insult

to the honour of his family, the duke had sworn the most deadly

vengeance against Carvalho, taking every means to thwart his aspiring

aims; and thus did the blackest hatred rankle in the breasts of both,

each seeking the first opportunity to destroy the other. His duchess,

by whom he had one son, the Marquis of Gouvea, yet a child, was sister

to the Marchioness of Tavora, but devoid of her pride and ambition, and

devoted entirely to her domestic duties.