The duke, at the time of which we write, had retired, during the heat of

the summer, to his country-house of Azeitao, on the borders of the

Tagus, at some distance from Lisbon. A hot and sultry day was near

drawing to a close, the setting sun just tingeing the topmost boughs of

a grove of shining leaved orange-trees, beneath whose shade the master

of the domain had for some time past been pacing, in no very enviable

mood, it would seem, from the fierce and discontented expression which

sat upon his brow, and the violent action in which he was indulging.

His outward appearance certainly did not betoken his lofty birth and

ancient lineage, except that the haughty and imperious air he wore

showed that he was accustomed to have his commands implicitly obeyed;

his figure being low, and destitute of symmetry and grace. "Curses on

the man who has dared to come between me and my plans," he exclaimed, as

he struck his clenched hand against his brow. "Trusting in the

confidence the king has foolishly reposed in him, he has dared, not only

to treat me, the chief noble in the realm, as an equal, forsooth, but

with marked insult and disdain, to exhibit his hatred and jealousy of my

rank; but he shall not continue so to do much longer, all powerful as he

deems himself. Would that the assassin's knife could reach his bosom!

but the fools are afraid of his giant strength and figure, and declare

that no steel can harm him. Oh, that heaven or hell would send me aid

to work out my vengeance!--I would give half my wealth to see him dead

at my feet!"

"What wouldst thou, my son?" said a voice, in a deep and hollow tone.

He started, with horror on his countenance. His thoughts, his

conscience told him, had been evil, and he was one over whom

superstition and bigotry held full sway; for a moment, therefore, he

expected to see the father of sin in a bodily presence rising up before

him. He looked up, and beheld a dark figure of gigantic height, it

seemed, amid the thickening shadows of the trees. A cold sweat stood on

his brow. Had his dark thoughts then conjured up a spirit of evil?

With noiseless steps the figure approached over the soft mossy ground,

and, instead of the unwelcome visitor he had expected, he saw the Father

Malagrida standing before him. He breathed more freely, and felt his

courage revive in the presence of so righteous a man, whose sign alone

was sufficient to keep at bay the whole infernal host.

"What would you, my son?" repeated the Father. "Some half-uttered

sentences fell on my ear, and I observed your violent action. Tell me,

my son, what thoughts oppress your bosom, and I will pour balm into it."

"Father, you cannot aid me," said the Duke; "it is beyond your

province."

"There is nothing beyond my province, there is nothing I cannot

foresee," exclaimed the Jesuit, in a deep tone. "Think you I see with

the mortal eyes men see with, or judge with the judgment of the vulgar?

No, my son, my spirit is elevated above the world. The vision of

prophecy illumines my mind, and where men of common souls, unenlightened

by Divine grace, grope on in the dark, like blind moles, all before me

is clear and light. Speak not, then. I know your thoughts, and you

need not fear to indulge in them; for they are righteous and sanctified.

You would seek to inflict a just punishment on the evil doer--you would

chastise him who has elevated himself, by aid of the spirit of darkness,

to a post of power, in order that he may heap damnation on his own head

by afflicting with cruelties and insults those chosen of the Lord as his

servants."

"Father, you have divined my thoughts," exclaimed the Duke. "I was, at

the moment you arrived, considering by what means I could bring down

punishment on the head of that man, Sebastiao Joze de Carvalho, equally

the foe of the fidalgos and of religion."

"All means are allowable when the end proposed is holy," answered the

Jesuit. "And what more righteous object than the punishment of the

wicked? Be assured, my son, that Heaven will avenge itself in due time

on the destroyer of its servants, and blessed will those be who are

chosen as the instruments to work out its inscrutable ends. Hear me,

Duke of Aveiro! The Lord of Heaven has chosen me, as he did the most

holy prophet Balaam of olden time, whose deep learning taught him to

understand the language of the beasts of the field; and to me he has

given in charge to deliver his messages to the kings and potentates who

rule the world. Thus does he declare that he who is exalted shall be

brought low, and that he who will protect his servants shall be exalted

even to sit on the regal throne."

The Duke started. "Is such the message Heaven deigns to send to me?" he

exclaimed, as he gazed with a look of doubt and astonishment at the

speaker.

"Ah, thou confidest not in my sayings," exclaimed Malagrida; "thou

doubtest that I speak the words of inspiration. Beware, Duke of Aveiro,

beware of the temptations of Satan!"

"Holy Father, I believe your words," answered the Duke, trembling.

"Rememberest thou not, then, that in thy veins flows the royal blood of

Portugal? then why not mount that throne when he who now reigns has

departed? Say! ought he to rule a Catholic people, who cherishes the

persecutor of our holy religion, who confides in one who would destroy

the bulwarks of the Church, who has driven its most devoted servants

from his presence? No, my son, I will answer for you, no. Such a man

ought not to live, and blessed is he who does the work of Heaven in

destroying him."

The Duke stood gazing on the Jesuit as one whose senses are bewildered

by the sudden communication either of joyful or disastrous intelligence.

Had he ever before indulged in thoughts such as these words conjured

up? Yes, he had; but, as he thought, he trembled; but now all his fears

were banished, and those imaginings which he had before fancied were the

instigations of the evil one, he was now told, were the inspirations of

the Divine will. Neither the Duke nor Malagrida had moved since they

first met; the tall gaunt figure of the priest appearing of still

greater height from a bright gleam of sunshine, which, piercing through

the foliage, fell upon his head, as he waved his arms wildly round while

he spoke; the former now standing in the deep shade beneath the thickly

growing orange-trees, which extended in a long avenue, the ground

beneath being striped with lines of the brightest gold and black. Now,

some may suppose that Malagrida was an impersonification of the evil

one, come to tempt the unfortunate Duke to his destruction; but such was

not the case. He had from his earliest day's been an enthusiast, with

an eager mind, weakened by the exercises of superstition, and now

insanity was making rapid progress over it, though he still retained a

considerable spice of that species of cunning which often accompanies

madness, pointing out the best means of attaining what was most

advantageous to him. He thus, while he fancied that he was giving

utterance to the inspirations of Heaven, was perfectly well aware that

he was making a tool of the weak and bigoted Duke, not discovering that

he was himself influenced by another his superior, but who, in his

estimation, was vastly his inferior in talent and holiness. Respecting

the latter quality he might not have far erred.

He stood gazing down on his noble dupe for several minutes. "Come," he

said, "my son, whose brow I may some day see graced by a regal diadem,

let us walk beneath this shady grove, and talk further on this subject.

Should Heaven not alter its intention of placing you on the throne of

these realms, you will not forget the interests of the Church, and of

one of its most devoted servants, who has been the privileged and true

prophet of your elevation."

"No, holy Father, trust to my gratitude," answered the Duke. "The

Church, under my protection, shall flourish in full power; and you shall

ever remain the guardian of my conscience, and my spiritual adviser."

"Such is well, my son," answered the Jesuit; "and, ere long, your good

intentions will be rewarded. In the meantime, be prepared for the

events which are at hand, and be not dismayed by the difficulties in

your path. He who would succeed must suffer all things, and dare all

things; nor fear but that the Church will grant absolution, even unto

the shedding the blood of the wicked."

"I understand your words; Father," answered the Duke, in an agitated and

hollow tone. "The matter you speak of is of deep importance, and

requires mature consideration; yet would I hazard all to destroy that

upstart Carvalho, who so insolently lords it over us nobles, by birth

his masters."

Thus conversing, the Duke and Malagrida continued pacing the orange

grove till the quick coming shades of darkness made it no longer safe to

speak aloud on such dangerous subjects, lest any, unperceived, might

approach and overhear them.

As the name of the Father Malagrida was at one time known over a great

part of the Catholic world, by some lauded as a saint and prophet, by

others scorned as an impudent hypocrite and impostor, we may be excused

for giving a slight sketch of his history.

Gabriel Malagrida, an Italian, was born in 1689, at Mercajo, in the

Milanese, and was thus, at the time we have introduced him, upwards of

sixty years old. At an early age he migrated to Portugal, then the

paradise of priests and religious adventurers of all classes, but

particularly of the Jesuits, who possessed the supreme control over the

consciences of the royal family and the chief nobility; and into that

order he was there, after the usual probation, admitted. His peculiar

talents were soon discovered, and he was despatched as a missionary to

South America. Over the whole of that part under the dominion of

Portugal he travelled barefooted and alone; his only sustenance the wild

roots and herbs, which he dug with his own hands; his body being covered

with the marks imprinted on it by the teeth and claws of the wild beasts

he encountered. Having escaped the glories of martyrdom, such a life

fully entitled him to the character of a saint of the very first order,

which, on his recall by his superior, he took every opportunity to

improve; adding to it that of a prophet and worker of miracles,

thousands being ready to swear to the fulfilment of the predictions he

had uttered, and to the miracles he had wrought. King John the Fifth,

of pious memory, who ever preferred the society of bigots, flatterers,

buffoons, and fools, to the cares of government, for which he probably

felt a consciousness of total incapacity, leaving his kingdom to rapid

decay, while he was slowly toiling to merit heaven and gain forgiveness

for rather numerous peccadillos, which private memoirs hint he had some

difficulty in giving up, had distinguished Malagrida by marked

partiality, and had performed what were called exercises under his

direction. He had, likewise, been a favourite with the queen, Mary Anne

of Austria; and, on his return from South America, the present king,

Joseph, then Prince of Brazil, had gone out to meet him, and throwing

himself at his feet, had implored his blessing. It is, indeed, scarcely

possible, in the present day, to conceive a Court so completely debased

by superstition, so overrun by herds of slothful, ignorant, or designing

priests, as was that of Lisbon; from whose worse than Augean filth it

was Carvalho's Herculean undertaking, in some degree, to cleanse it for

the time. Malagrida having thus retained almost supreme power over the

consciences of the chief persons in the realm for a long series of

years, his hatred was rancorous and deadly against the man who had

deprived him of it; and the Minister had occasion for the utmost

watchfulness and talent to guard himself against the secret machinations

and the public attacks with which he and the rest of his order attempted

to destroy him.

When Carvalho first returned to Portugal, after his embassy to the Court

of London, he had paid every respect to the Jesuits, particularly to

Father Moreira, the confessor to the Prince of Brazil, in order, by his

aid, to gain the confidence of the heir to the throne; but no sooner did

he find his power secure, than he threw off the mask and proclaimed

himself the enemy of the whole order, whom he declared the chief cause

of the ignorance and bigotry of the people.

It is not surprising, therefore, that they should regard with fear and

hatred a man so opposed to all their principles of government; and,

accordingly, they used every means in their power to instigate the

people against him, thundering anathemas on his head from their pulpits,

and spreading tracts, loaded with abuse, among all circles. No one

equalled Malagrida in the measures he took, or the daring he exhibited;

but, though years first rolled on, the bitter and relentless vengeance

of the Minister ultimately overtook him.

Such was the man we left with the Duke of Aveiro: their conference was

yet unfinished, when, having taken another turn, they had reached the

further end of the avenue, which led to a small grotto of stone-work,

surrounded by a thicket of low shrubs. Malagrida laid his arm on the

shoulder of the Duke, exclaiming, with deep energy, "Nought but the

death of the persecutor of its servants will satisfy the vengeance of

Heaven."

A hollow voice echoed, "the vengeance of Heaven!" and, at the same time

a noise was heard in the shrubbery. Both the monk and the noble

started--perhaps neither had quite deceived themselves as to their

secret aims.

"Avaunt thee, Sathanas, if thou art the spirit of evil," exclaimed

Malagrida.

The Duke trembled with agitation. The rustling noise was again heard.

"Ah! 'tis some villain spy," he cried, drawing his sword and rushing

towards the spot. "His death shall secure his silence."

Being now persuaded that it was a mortal enemy he had to encounter, his

boldness returned, and, without hesitation, he sprung into the thicket;

but all was silent: the gloom preventing his seeing many feet before

him. He beat about for a considerable time, plunging his sword into

every bush that appeared darker than the others; but to no purpose, for

the sound was not repeated. Malagrida watched on the outside, but no

one appeared.

"It was a deception of the evil one, to turn us from our path," he

cried. "Come forth, my son, and fear not. That was no mortal voice we

heard, and with me you need fear no spirit of darkness."

The Duke at length came out of the shrubbery, his dress torn and

disordered, and his voice yet trembling with alarm. "Surely some one

must have been hidden there," he said: "yet, if there was, he must have

escaped, and will report our words to one who is not likely to forget

them."

"Fear not; no mortal could have remained undiscovered," answered the

Jesuit; "and of nought else need you be afraid."

"Since you affirm it, Father, I am convinced also that the noise was

caused by no mortal being," said the Duke; "but we ought no longer to

remain here. I like not this threatening gloom. Let us return to the

more open ground: the air here is oppressive and damp, and aids to

conjure up doubts and fears to my mind."

"Again, I say, fear not; but remember my words--both dare and do,"

returned Malagrida. "It is now time that I should depart."

"First come, then, to the house, holy Father, and take some refreshment

and rest," said the Duke.

"My body requires neither food nor rest when I am about a great work,"

answered the Priest. "It is advisable, also, that I should be observed

by none of your retainers. Return, then, to your house, and forget not

what I have said. I will tarry in this spot to see if the evil one

shall again venture to make his presence known, and if he comes not

before long, secretly, as I came, will I again depart. Farewell, my

son."

The Duke, however, was unwilling to leave the side of the holy man, with

the prospect of a long dark avenue before him, which he must traverse

alone, exposed to the assaults of the spirits of evil; but Malagrida

signed him to depart, waving his arms wildly round, and then, turning

towards the grotto, disappeared in the gloom.

He waited not a moment longer, but with quick steps hurried towards his

house, his heart beating with apprehension; and, as he went, he fancied

that he heard voices on every side gibbering and muttering threats and

curses against him, till his terror made him break into a run; nor did

he stop till he arrived at the door of his mansion. Pale and breathless

with the exertion, his brow covered with perspiration, he rushed into

the room where his duchess was sitting, not perceiving her, and threw

himself into a seat. She looked up, alarmed, marking his disordered

appearance.

"What is the matter with my lord?" she said, as she approached him, and

took his hand.

The contact of a human being, and one for whom he possessed as much

affection as he was capable of feeling for any, revived his spirits.

"Oh! nothing, nothing!" he answered. "A freak made me run faster than I

have run since I was a boy."

"I rejoice to hear it; for I feared you were ill, or that something had

alarmed you," returned the Duchess.

"Oh no! I am well--perfectly well," exclaimed the Duke, bursting into a

wild laugh. "Ha! ha! What think you of the title of Queen, fair lady?

Would it not be a proud thing to be a king, to trample on the neck of

that insolent plebeian Carvalho, who now lords it so boldly?"

"He is a bad man, my lord," answered the Duchess, meekly; "and Heaven

will punish him."

"Bad! he is the incarnation of the evil one," cried the Duke, stamping

his foot. "But you answer not my question. Would you not be a queen,

and see your Marquezinho a prince? Ha! then you might be proud indeed!"

"I seek not for more than I possess," answered the lady. "Oh! my lord,

indulge not in such dangerous thoughts: they can but bring destruction

on your head. That you do think of them I know too well; for I have of

late heard you muttering them in your sleep."

"Then go to bed, and dream of them yourself, fair lady: you will find

them pleasant and enticing," said the Duke, again laughing.

"It is early, my lord, and the sun has but just set," answered the

Duchess.

"Oh, I forgot--I forgot!" exclaimed her husband. "No matter, you must

keep country hours. It is good for the health: so to bed--to bed, and

dream of a royal crown."

"'Tis a dream, my lord, which has cost many a one his head," said the

Duchess, sadly.

The Duke started, and his pallor again returned. "What folly is this?"

he exclaimed, angrily. "I spoke but in jest.--Now, obey me, and to

bed!"

The duchess turned a look of grief towards her haughty lord; but,

accustomed to obey his imperious commands, she retired to her room.

"That woman is not to be trusted," muttered the Duke, when left alone.

"She has neither ambition nor courage. It was folly to speak to her on

the subject."

We constantly observe that weak and vain men have some parasite attached

to them, who plays on the former quality by flattering the latter for

his own individual interests, at the same time despising and often

destroying the very person who supports him, like the noxious weed the

tree to which it clings; and such an one had the Duke of Aveiro, in the

person of his secretary, master of the household, and chief butler,

Captain Policarpio d'Azevedo; for in all those capacities did that

worthy gentleman serve him, besides holding a commission in the army.

The duke now summoned his confidant, ordering supper to be brought, and

having disencumbered himself of his morning costume, and dressed in a

light gown, he seated himself at table. Captain Policarpio soon

appeared, bearing a dish, which he placed before his master; and then

took his station behind his chair, while a troop of other servants

followed, with the remainder of the repast, who were ordered forthwith

to retire. It may seem strange, but it is a notorious fact, that at the

time of which we speak, and even until very lately, commissions in the

army were procured by the nobles for their domestics, as a reward for

services often of a very doubtful nature. Many of the principal

fidalgos retained in their household three or four of these gentry

holding the rank of captain, who waited on them at their meals, dressed

in their uniforms, and often decked with the Order of Christ; and it was

not till the army was remodelled by Lord Beresford, that the abuse was

finally abolished. It may be supposed that an army so organised could

not be in a very efficient state, or possessed of officers with a very

high tone of feeling among them. It also showed the arrogant

dispositions of the fidalgos, who thus attempted to assume even more

than the state of princes.

"You have now served me faithfully for some years, Policarpio, and it is

time your services were more amply rewarded," began the Duke.

"Oh, your Excellency is too kind, too generous; for when you are served

for love, why speak of reward?--the satisfaction of following so good a

master is in itself sufficient payment," answered the Escudeiro, sidling

round, so as to come in sight of his lord.

"Because it is my pleasure to repay those who serve me faithfully and

well as you have done," answered the Duke. "It may soon, too, be in my

power to reward you far more than I have yet done; for when the master

rises, so will those who follow him. Mark that, Policarpio!"

"How can my lord rise higher than he is at present?" said the flatterer,

surprised at the question, and eager to learn to what it might further

tend. "Is not my lord already one of the greatest men in the kingdom,

both in rank and wealth?"

"I was so, truly, under the reign of our late pious king; but things

have changed, and a vile upstart has dared to insult my honour; but the

day will come, and soon, too, when I may have my full revenge, and he

who now triumphs in power shall writhe beneath my feet."

"May my lord have success in all his wishes, and enjoy full revenge on

all his enemies!" answered the Escudeiro.

"Wishes are but of little avail, without action," observed the Noble;

"and much must be accomplished before my hopes are fulfilled."

"Whatever need be done, I will undertake to serve you, my lord,"

answered Captain Policarpio, bowing, and laying his hand to his heart.

"Ah, my friend, you are a man in whom I can place implicit confidence,"

said the Duke; "and I know that you would rejoice in my prosperity.

What think you, then, if the crown of Portugal were placed on my brow?

Would not then my friends have cause to esteem themselves fortunate?"

"Those are already fortunate who serve your Excellency; and no one is

more calculated to adorn a throne," answered the subtle follower,--his

own ambition taking fire on the instant at thoughts of his master's

aggrandisement, in the advantages of which he might well expect to

participate. "And well do I feel assured that you will not neglect

those who have hitherto obeyed you faithfully. Do but point out the

means to attain your aims, and no scruples, no obstacles shall deter me

from prosecuting them."

"Well, well, we will talk of that anon, my worthy servant," answered the

Duke. "It is but lately Heaven has thought fit to inspire my heart with

such mighty aims; nor have I yet been able to form any plans; but this

alone I know, that while that enemy to our holy religion, Sebastiao Joze

de Carvalho exists, all will be fruitless; and he who would do me

service will strike a poniard to his heart. In this will he commit no

sin, as I have been assured by Heaven itself, in the sacred person of

one of its most devoted ministers."

"I should fear nothing to serve my master," said Policarpio. "But how

can the death of the Minister alone place your Excellency on the

throne?"

"Hark, you!" whispered the Duke, drawing his servant close to him. "The

king himself may die. He is weak and sickly; or he may be killed while

hunting; he may be thrown from his horse, or a shot may strike him.--Ha!

dost thou understand me?"

The attendant nodded, a smile of satisfaction passing over his features.

"I comprehend, I comprehend; nor will your Excellency's hint be thrown

away."

Much more, to the same effect as the above, the Duke spoke, a mixture of

blasphemy, folly, and daring, to which his worthy servant listened with

profound humility and attention, fully determined to take advantage of

the knowledge he had gained; if successful, to follow the fortunes of

his master, or to betray him, if he saw a probability of his plans

failing: and thus are traitors nearly always served.

However, we must confess that we take no interest in these personages,

or their conversation; nor do we believe that it would either instruct

or amuse our readers--which is our only aim in writing--were we to

detail it: we therefore refrain from doing so. Indeed, would the truth

of history allow us, we would gladly consign all bad characters to the

shades of oblivion, and describe such only as had high and noble motives

for their actions; but, alas! as the world is constituted, did we do so,

we should be most justly accused of compiling an extravagant and absurd

romance, without either truth for the groundwork, or nature in the

colouring; thus neglecting what we conceive are the great rules to be

observed by those who would paint an historical picture of days gone by.

We are, therefore, compelled to introduce such a man as the Duke of

Aveiro, in whom we have sought, but sought in vain, to discover some

redeeming qualities; but he appears to have possessed but few friends,

even among his own class, and those of his own political opinions; as he

is described by all as a man singularly ignorant and grossly

superstitious; of a vindictive and savage disposition, and arrogant and

haughty to all who approached him. We wished to have drawn him

otherwise; but we found it impossible so to do and adhere to truth.

This we mention, that our readers may not suppose we have caricatured in

his person a Portuguese nobleman of the past century, who could thus

weakly yield to the instigations of a designing madman like Malagrida,

and believe in his blasphemous prophecies; but we can assure them that

we have faithfully translated the very language of that person, avoiding

even much that might shock the ear of the present generation.

The insane ambition of the Duke being once kindled with the hopes of

promised success, every thought of his mind was occupied with projects,

equally replete with wickedness and folly, to compass his end; nor did

he from that time forth again know one moment of tranquillity or

happiness. Leaving his duchess and young son at Azeitao, he, a few days

afterwards, set off for Lisbon, with a nephew, who constantly resided in

his house, accompanied by his constant attendant, Captain Policarpio,

and followed by a train of servants.

Volume 1, Chapter XI.

We invariably feel much satisfaction, when, in turning over the pages of

the manuscripts before us, we come to the name of Don Luis d'Almeida,

albeit he played no very conspicuous part in the events of the times;

yet we take pleasure in following his course, and we also feel tolerably

certain that we are about to read of some interesting adventure.

We left him, followed by his train, riding through the narrow and

winding street of Leiria, towards the gate by which he had entered the

previous evening. As he wound down the rugged pathway, after passing

the gates, he cast a last look at the battered moss-grown walls, and

ruined towers of that ancient town, now for ever associated in his mind

with the fair young being from whom he had there parted, and then,

putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, at the great risk of

breaking his neck, his followers in vain endeavouring to keep him in

view. His luggage also would certainly have been left to the mercy of

the brigands, had he not fortunately recollected that such might be its

fate; so he wisely drew in his rein, and allowed his horse to proceed at

its own pace till his party should come up with him.

He could not discover the reason, but so it was, that, although

proceeding towards his home, he did not enjoy his morning ride half so

much as that of the last evening. It could not be because a certain

young lady was travelling south while he was going north; for he

thought, and fancied that he thought very wisely, that he could not take

any interest in one, although he acknowledged her to be very lovely,

whom he had neither seen nor heard of twenty hours before. He concluded

that it was because he disliked solitude, and he had now no one with

whom to converse; but, for some reason or other, he did not think half

so much of the infidelity and treachery of Donna Theresa; and when he

did think of the subject, he began rather to pity her, and to

congratulate himself on having escaped from the toils of a heartless

coquette. It was some time, however, before the last happy idea

occurred to him, for at first his feelings towards her were rather

bitter; then he was angry with himself for indulging in them, and then

very miserable, and then, as if by magic, appeared the portrait he had

Daguerreo-typed in the morning, of Donna Clara in her travelling mantle

of blue silk.

But we shall never carry Don Luis to his home, and back again to Lisbon,

if we do not proceed at a faster rate. To account for his having four

persons in his train, we must explain that, besides Pedro, one other

only was his own servant, the third was a native of Galicia, of that

hardy race called Gallegos, who come with willing hands, light, honest

hearts, and empty pockets, to make their fortune in Portugal; and the

one in question was returning to enjoy the fruits of his labour with his

family, in respectable independence in his native land, now mounted on a

stout mule, with his pockets well lined with gold. He had easily

obtained permission to accompany Don Luis thus far, having once served

in his father's house. The other man was a tenant of the count's, whom

legal business had called to Lisbon. Pedro, whose heart was light and

free, amused himself from morning till night by singing, in high glee at

returning once more to his home to relate all the wonders he had seen in

his travels.

After waiting a couple of hours at a small village on the road to bait

their animals and recruit themselves, it was late in the day before they

entered the forest in which the attack on Goncalo Christovao had been

made, and the party began to look around, in expectation of a fresh

encounter with the banditti, although that kind of gentry were not fond

of meeting with those from whom little booty, and abundance of hard

blows, were to be expected. However, as they neared the scene of the

encounter, even Don Luis began to think it would have been wiser to have

procured a guard, or waited for a larger party of travellers, lest the

banditti, observing their small number, might, to revenge themselves for

their defeat, pick them off from an ambush at a distance. Pedro no

longer sang his merry songs, his fellow said all the prayers he could

remember, the Gallego vowed a candle to Saint Jago de Compostella, and

the farmer a pig to the priest, if they escaped the danger. The

muleteers who had charge of the baggage, though they had seen nothing of

the fray, caught the contagion of fear, giving but scanty promise of

fighting if brought to the trial. The body of the robber was no longer

there, but at a little distance from the spot where he had been left,

lay his hat, and part of his dress, torn and bloody, telling plainly

that Christian sepulture he would never now enjoy; for limb by limb had

the body been borne off by the savage inhabitants of the forest. Don

Luis stopped a moment involuntarily on the spot, shuddering at the

wretch's fate; but Pedro, being in no romantic humour, hinted to his

master that all the time they were affording an opportunity to the

comrades of the deceased to take better aim, and begged him to move

forward without delay, declaring that he saw the muzzle of a gun

projecting from among the thick-growing leaves beyond the bank.

Accordingly they proceeded down the hill, and crossed the stream, the

rest keeping close to Don Luis, and splashing him not a little in their

hurry to get across, looking anxiously behind them, to see if the

brigands were in their rear, and expecting every moment to hear the

sharp click of the locks of their carbines, with the ringing report of

their discharge, each hoping that he should not be the one picked off.

When they mounted the opposite hill, and had arrived on the open heath,

the hearts of all the party beat more freely, and as they got beyond

musket range of the wood they laughed at their previous terrors, no

longer feeling inclined to scold their master for the coolness he had

shown, or the slow pace at which he had chosen to ride.

The sun had just sunk as they reached the inn where Goncalo Christovao

and his family had rested the day before, at the door of which the buxom

Rosa was standing, busily employed in spinning, and looking out for a

stray traveller; and of course her delight was proportionably great,

when she found that so large a party, with so graceful a cavalier, were

about to honour the house with their presence.

The horses and mules were stalled, and Don Luis was shown upstairs,

while Pedro set himself to work to aid Rosa in preparing his master's

supper, during which operation he exerted his utmost powers of pleasing

to ingratiate himself in her favour. But she was either out of humour

at something, or offended by his addresses, for she returned his

attentions with scanty courtesy, appearing anxious to get rid of his

presence; that, however, was not so easy a matter, as he had never been

remarkable for either bashfulness or modesty: at all events, if he ever

had possessed those qualities, he had most effectually eased himself of

them during his travels. Do all he could--praise her beauty, her

figure, or her voice as she sang at her employment over the fire--Rosa

was not in the mood to be won by any of his fascinations, and insisted

on carrying up some of the dishes herself; perhaps it was from her very

natural wish to see more of his master, as she had not every day the

opportunity of admiring so handsome a guest.

As she was preparing the table, Don Luis could not help observing a

handsome ring, with a sparkling diamond, on her little finger, an

unusual ornament for a person of her class, though with her gala costume

she might have worn ear-rings and several gold chains. He made no

remark till she went down stairs and returned again, when, in a playful

manner, he admired the jewel. "Sim senhor, it is very pretty," she

answered, rather confused, and busied herself in putting the dishes in

order.

"What kind friend gave you so pretty an ornament?" said Don Luis; "I

fear you run a great risk of dimming its lustre."

At that moment a noise, which sounded very like a growl, though it might

have been a groan, proceeded from one of the recesses in the room,

across which a curtain was drawn.

"What noise is that?" exclaimed Don Luis, "Have you any sick person in

the house?"

"'Tis an unfortunate frade, a very holy man, who was taken ill here last

night," answered the damsel. Another growl interrupted her

observations. "I'll run and bring you up an omelette, senhor," she said

quickly, as she escaped out of the room.

Pedro gave his master a nod, as much as to say, "I do not exactly

believe her," when, running towards the curtains, he poked his head

between the in, and then took the liberty of drawing them aside, so as

to let the light fall into the recess, where a pair of ferrety eyes were

seen glaring forth, with no very amicable expression, on the intruder,

while a ruddy countenance, with a red rim of hair under a black skull

cap, appeared above the bed clothes.

"In the name of all the saints, let down the curtain, and allow a sick

man to rest in peace," exclaimed a gruff voice. "The light hurts my

eyes, and prevents me from sleeping."

"Your pardon, senhor," answered Don Luis, politely. "My servant's

curiosity has made him commit a solecism in good manners, for which pray

excuse him."

"Well, let him draw the curtain, and leave me to repose," returned the

voice, ending the sentence with what sounded very like an oath, too

profane to proceed from such reverend lips.

Pedro did as he was ordered; but not until he had taken another glance,

to assure himself that he had before seen that pair of eyes at no very

distant period, though he did not express his opinion aloud to his

master, nor could he venture to do so by signs; for he felt a moral

conviction, that they were still glaring on him through some opening in

the drapery, an idea which, as may be supposed, made him feel anything

but at his ease. He determined, however, to keep a narrow watch on the

inmate of the recess, and on the movements of several other

doubtful-looking personages whom he had seen about the inn; yet he was

puzzled how to prevent them from guessing that his suspicions were

aroused; for he knew that every word he uttered in the room would be

overheard; and, if he whispered to his master, it would make the matter

still worse; therefore, like a prudent statesman, he determined to wait

the course of events.

By the time he had arrived at this determination, Rosa returned, and

began to clear away the dishes, when he observed that she no longer wore

the ring on her finger; yet he forebore to make any further observation

on the subject. He waited till he was preparing his master's couch for

the night, when he seized the opportunity to make him comprehend his

suspicions, by pointing significantly towards the recess, in which the

sick friar lay, then, putting his head on the pillow, and shaking it,

and drawing his finger across his throat, and again shaking his head; by

which signs, Don Luis understood him to say, "If you do go to sleep, you

will have your throat cut;" no very pleasing prospect for a person so

overcome by weariness, that he could scarcely keep his eyes open.

Pedro, however, merely meant to advise him not to go to sleep till his

return; and he then hurried out to hint his doubts, if possible, to the

rest of the party, and to desire them to come up stairs immediately,

where they could roll themselves up in their cloaks, in the corners of

the room, begging them on no account to separate.

Don Luis, having also his suspicions aroused, observed, as he looked

round the room, that his luggage, with his holsters, had been piled up

close to the recess in which the friar slept. It might, certainly, have

been placed there by accident; but, for caution's sake, as he walked

about the room, he very quietly removed his weapons, and hung them up

close to his bed, carefully examining the primings of his pistols.

Pedro soon returned with the rest of the party, and, having assisted in

undressing his master, who threw himself on the bed, he rolled himself

up on the ground close to him, while the other men followed his example

in another corner, from whence, in a few minutes, loud snores

proceeding, gave notice of their being wrapt in sleep. A small lamp,

burning in the centre of the room, gave a dim and uncertain light,

throwing long shadows from the tables and chairs, and exhibiting a troop

of mice, like tiny phantoms, playing on the floor, and picking up the

crumbs from the evening repast. Having gazed at these objects for some

time, till they grew still more confused, Don Luis could no longer

resist the inclination he felt to close his eyes, persuading himself

that, after all, there was no cause for fear.

Two or three hours passed quietly away, when, on a sudden, he was awoke

by an exclamation from Pedro; and, starting up, he beheld him grasping

tightly the legs of a man, whom he recognised as the invalid friar; who,

with uplifted arm, was on the point of plunging a long knife into poor

Pedro, having already possessed himself of the holsters, when Don Luis

sprang up, and seized him firmly.

"Spare my life, senhor," he said with the greatest coolness; "I was not

going to take yours; but merely to carry your weapons out of harm's way;

for I do not like to see such murderous things in the hands of youths."

While he was speaking, Pedro had contrived to rise and seize his other

arm.

"How dare you tell me so abominable a falsehood?" exclaimed Don

Luis.--"Wretch! you are in my power, and deserve to die."

"I am in your power at this moment, I very well know," answered the

Friar; "but, if you were to kill me, you would not benefit yourselves.

I should therefore advise you to allow me to return quietly to bed, and

I shall be grateful; if not, a cry from me would bring a whole party of

men, who have sworn to avenge themselves on you, and who would make

small ceremony in cutting all your throats, and burying you before

morning."

"I grant you your life, then, in trust that you will show your

gratitude," said Don Luis.

"Was a Capuchin friar ever ungrateful?" exclaimed their prisoner.

"Well, then, I should advise you to barricade the door, load your arms,

call your servants, and declare, if any body tries to enter, you will

shoot me. Now, having given you my advice, let me go quietly to bed

again, for I really am ill, and undertook only to withdraw your pistols,

lest you should hurt anybody with them."

"Well, Senhor Frade," answered Don Luis, laughing, "you certainly are a

most cool and impudent gentleman; but I will trust to you, when we have

secured the door; in the meantime, you must consent to sit quiet for

awhile, with your arms tied behind you, in this chair."

"Take care what you are about, senhores. You hurt my arm, which I

sprained badly the other day, or you would not have caught me so

easily," observed the Friar.

"Oh!" thought Pedro, as he saw that the friar's arm was bandaged up and

bloody, "Well, well, holy Father, you must sit quiet then," he added,

aloud, then called to his fellow-servant: "Come here, Bento, and take

the liberty of shooting the friar through the head, if he attempts to

call out, while I assist our master in securing the fortress. I'll be

answerable for your getting absolution."

The friar was therefore obliged to sit down, while Bento stood over him;

Don Luis, and the rest of the party, with as little noise as possible,

placing the tables and chairs against the door, though such a barricade

would offer but slight resistance, should any strong force be used

outside. They then examined the room well, to see that no one else was

hidden there, and to discover if there were any other outlets, by which

they might be surprised.

In the course of the search, as Pedro was looking into the cell of the

friar, he discovered a broad-brimmed hat, thrown under the foot of the

bed, so he brought it out, and placed it on that reverend person's head,

nodding most approvingly, as if to an old acquaintance; then threw it

back to whence he had taken it.

"You may now retire to your couch, Senhor Frade," said Don Luis.--"We

will no longer disturb the tranquillity of your slumbers; and, on

condition that you do your best to aid us, you shall not suffer."

"I promise you, on the honour of a friar, that if I can help it, no harm

shall happen to you; and in return, you must promise me, on the honour

of a fidalgo, that you will never mention to any human being that you

have seen me here, or allow your people to do so, whatever your

suspicions may be; for I have repented of certain little peccadillos I

have committed, and intend to lead a new life."

"If you adhere to the conditions, I promise not to betray you," said Don

Luis.

"Very well; and now, in mercy's sake, don't keep me up in the cold any

longer," said the Friar.

"Permit me first, senhor, to deprive you of that delicate little

penknife," said Pedro, taking the friar's dagger from his hands, "and

now, pray retire to your couch."

The friar was not long in doing as he was ordered; and, as if to

convince them of the purity of his conscience, he was soon fast asleep,

as might be supposed from his loud snores.

Not long afterwards, some one was heard pressing against the door.

"Curses on the lazy friar," muttered a voice outside, in a low growl,

yet loud enough to be heard through the crevices of the walls,--"He's

snoring away like a hog, without thinking of his promise to us."

"Open the door, and steal softly in," said another voice. "You can

easily get possession of their arms, when we can rush in to bind them,

and then it will be time enough to bind the estalajadeiro, and the rest

of the household, though I suspect Senhora Rosa will give us some little

trouble; however, we can let her loose the first, to release the rest,

when we are far off with the booty."

"A very good plan, doubtless; but I am not going to run the chance of

being shot by that hot-headed youngster. What can have become of the

frade? Hark! the lazy brute is still snoring on, forgetful of our

interests."

"Will nothing waken him?" said another voice. "Try the door again."

Another attempt was now made to open the door without noise. Don Luis

and his servants stood prepared, with pistols in hand, to defend

themselves, while Pedro kept his eye on the snoring friar, who, the more

the people outside spoke, made the louder nasal music to drown their

voices. After the door had been several times gently shaken, and the

wooden fastening turned in several ways to no purpose--

"Carramba!" exclaimed one of the voices. "They have secured the door

inside, and, unless that houndish friar will wake up, we shall be foiled

completely. Curses on the fool! There he snores away. This delay will

never do; we must dash open the door, and cut all their throats."

"By Saint Anthony, nothing would give me greater satisfaction," said

another. "I long to revenge myself for the loss that youth caused us

yesterday, and see, Heaven has delivered him into our hands!"

"So do I; but the estalajadeiro declared he would have no murder, nor

any of the horses taken, which might be traced to give his house a bad

name; and that nobody should know he had a hand in it."

"That is very well; but I should like to know what we are to do then?"

asked another.

"There is only one way left: dash the door off its hinges, tie the young

fidalgo and his servants to the beds, and walk off with whatever we may

find convenient."

"Agreed, agreed!" said two or three voices. "Your plan is a good one,

Rodrigo. Call the others up stairs. Remember, we all rush in together;

and do not forget to give the friar a good beating, as if by mistake, to

punish him for his stupidity. We would dash his brains out if he were

not useful."

The Friar snored louder than ever. Several feet were heard ascending

the stair; then there was a sudden rush, and the ill-secured door was

dashed off its hinges with a loud noise, falling inside, when a dozen or

more dark forms were seen attempting to scramble over the tables and

chairs.

Don Luis fired his pistol, unwisely, perhaps--one ought to try

negotiation before going to war--and the ball took effect on some one in

the rear; then changing his sword to the right hand, he rushed forward

to meet the first who should enter, while his servants discharged their

pistols at the aperture, now crowded with human beings.

"Murder! murder!" shouted the Friar, leaping up in his bed, as if just

awoke from sleep; but Pedro kept his eye upon him.

"Carramba! fire in on them, or we shall have more holes in our ribs than

the doctors can cure."

"Hold!" shouted the Friar: "if you do, you will kill me, you fools!"

The robbers heeded him not, throwing a volley into the room; but no one

fell. At the same time, a shrill female voice was heard crying out,

"Murder! murder!"

"On, comrades! We must not be baulked by this foolery!" and before the

smoke cleared away, making a desperate rush, they leaped over all

obstacles into the room, the headmost attacking Don Luis with great

fury; but they were not good swordsmen, and for several passes he easily

kept them at bay. Numbers, however, must soon have overpowered him,

those behind again loading their muskets, when he received succour from

a quarter he little expected.

"I will keep my promise, and soon clear the room of these rascals, while

you go and aid your master," cried the Friar to Pedro. "By all that is

sacred, I will."

Before Pedro had time to answer, he sprang up, seizing a thick oak stick

from the head of the bed, and rushed towards the robbers, flourishing it

over his head, and exclaiming, "I will pay you for your kind intentions

towards me, my masters."

This sudden reinforcement made the parties more equal; for Pedro, seeing

that the friar really intended to aid them, was able to assist his

master. Down came the friar's stick on the head of the foremost

robbers, and blow after blow descended with more execution than the

swords of Don Luis and his party.

"The friar has turned traitor," shouted several voices. "Cut him down,

cut him down!"

"Hold, hold, ye fools!" cried the Friar, in return. "Back, back, or it

will be the worse for you!"

At that instant the innkeeper seemed aroused from his slumbers; for his

voice, also, was heard exclaiming, "Back, back, ye cursed idiots! What!

would you have my house looked upon as a den of thieves for this night's

work? Back, back! or by the Holy Virgin some of you will not live to

repent it!"

He seemed to be enforcing his orders by blows; for a scuffle was heard

outside, above which arose the shrill tones of a woman's voice, the

robbers appearing to be giving way.

The man with whom Don Luis was chiefly engaged glared fiercely on him.

"You killed my brother yesterday, and I will be revenged on you," he

exclaimed. "I know you, Don Luis d'Almeida: you foiled me before; but

we shall meet again ere long, when this blade shall drink your life's

blood:" saying which, with curses on his companions for their cowardice,

he bounded down the stairs after them, leaving Don Luis and his

attendants masters of the room; while the innkeeper and the friar were

seen on the top of the stairs, the latter still flourishing his cudgel,

and vehemently abusing the banditti in no measured terms. The voices of

the robbers were heard outside, in high and fierce dispute, the sounds

gradually dying away as they gained a greater distance from the house.

The innkeeper, followed by the friar, then entered the apartment, making

many apologies for the outrage. "I hope, senhor, you will not bring

ruin on an unfortunate man, by mentioning the occurrences of the night,"

he said, in a supplicating tone. "You see, senhor, I am entirely in the

power of those gentlemen, and could not avoid what happened; therefore,

as none of your party are hurt, and you have wounded two of the

banditti, I trust that this punishment will satisfy you."

"Oh yes, yes; I know that Don Luis will be generous, and act like a true

fidalgo," interrupted the Friar. "You see that I kept my word; so in

future remember you may trust to a friar's promise: and now, by your

leave, cavalheros, I will go to bed again, for the night air does not

agree with me, and my shoulder is painful." Saying which, he composedly

walked to his recess, and covered himself up with the clothes.

"I ought to make no terms with you," said Don Luis; "yet, having no wish

to ruin you, I shall not complain, if you will undertake that we receive

no further annoyance."

"Oh yes, senhor, yes; on my word of honour as a gentleman, you shall be

unmolested," returned the Innkeeper, putting his hand to his heart, and

bowing low.

"The fidalgo will do as we beg him, I know," cried the Friar, from his

dormitory; "so go away, and leave him to finish the night in peace."

"You will not blame me, senhor, for what has occurred. Well, senhor, I

am happy again, so, if your servants will help me, I will put up the

door, and leave you to repose."

Though Don Luis was not to be deceived by the humble demeanour of the

innkeeper, or the cool impudence of the friar, his only prudent plan was

to pretend to believe them. He therefore waited till order was restored

in the room, and the innkeeper had bowed himself away, when, loading his

pistols carefully, he threw himself on his bed to wait for daylight.

Pedro, however, still suspecting treachery, did not trust to a word that

had been said; but, as soon as he saw that his master was again asleep,

drawing a chair to the table, he sat himself down with his pistols

before him, and a flask of wine, which, standing quietly in a corner,

had escaped destruction. "Now, Senhor Frade," he thought, "if you play

me false--and I cannot say I trust you--I will have a pop at you with

one pistol, while the other shall bring down the first man who attempts

to come in at the door." The other servants, though very much

frightened at first, dropped off, one by one, to sleep; but he,

conquering his drowsiness, kept his eye on the friar, every instant

expecting to see the banditti rush into the room. He earnestly longed

for day, to quit the place; and, at length, his wishes were gratified by

seeing a pale stream of light gleaming through the ill-closing shutters,

when, as it grew brighter and brighter, he hurried to open them, and to

let in the fresh morning air, rousing his master and the rest of the

party.

The Friar sat up in his bed and nodded familiarly to him. "If you had

trusted to me you might have spent a pleasanter night, Senhor Pedro,"

said he: "I hope, however, you enjoyed your vigils. Good morning, Don

Luis: you remember your promise."

"I do not intend to betray you," answered Don Luis; "but you must do me

another service. Some jewels were stolen from a young lady who

travelled this way yesterday, and I must insist on their being given to

me, that I may restore them to their owner; now, I doubt not that you

are able to procure them for me. Will you undertake to do so?"

The Friar thought for a minute. "If I undertake to procure the jewels,

what am I to expect in return?" he asked.

"You well know that you deserve nothing, and that I am too lenient in

allowing you to escape unpunished," answered Don Luis; "but I will give

an hundred milreas to the person who brings them to my father's house in

the course of a week."

"The bargain is struck," answered the Friar. "And now, senhor, adeos: I

shall always retain a high respect for you."

"I cannot exactly return the compliment," said Don Luis; "but I shall

always remember you, as the most daring, impudent scoundrel I have ever

met."

"Va com Deos. Get along with you; you are joking, fidalgo," returned

the Friar, laughing. "I am but a poor mendicant servant of heaven, and

be assured I shall not forget you in my prayers."

Don Luis did not answer him; but, followed by Pedro and his other

attendants, bearing the luggage, he repaired to the stable, where their

beasts were saddled, and they were soon ready to depart.

The landlord made his appearance, followed by Rosa, with tears in her

eyes: "You will not be cruel, senhor, and make a complaint about what

happened last night," she said; "for if you do, you will ruin us all,

and we shall be sent to prison, or turned into the road to starve."

"I have already said I would make no complaint," answered Don Luis;

"and, Senhor Estalajadeiro, I must discharge my bill to you."

"Oh, senhor, I cannot think of such a thing after the inconveniences you

have endured," answered the landlord, bowing; "yet, senhor, I am a poor

man with a family. It is but a trifle, four milreas in all, for which I

shall be thankful."

"Very well, here is the amount," said Don Luis, giving him the money;

"and I should advise you to be more careful in future what guests you

entertain." Saying which, he leapt into his saddle, and, with his

attendants, resumed his journey towards his home, the landlord bowing

most humbly till they were out of sight.

Pedro, eager to let his tongue have full play, took the liberty of an

old servant, and rode up to the side of his master, whose horse's head

he allowed to be just a little in advance, as a mark of respect. "Those

people at the inn are very great rascals, senhor," he began.

"There can be but little doubt of it," returned his master.

"Ah, senhor, and the greatest of all is the friar. Do you know, senhor,

he was one of those who attacked Goncalo Christovao, yesterday? I

marked his slouched hat, his ferret eyes, and the cut on his shoulder,

which he declares is a bruise: now I saw plenty of blood about it, and

blood does not flow from a bruise in that way."

"I suspected as much," said Don Luis; "but were I to make a complaint

against him, no notice, probably, would be taken of it; for his robes

will protect a friar as long as he is guilty of no heretical opinions,

even though he may have committed murder, and the other people would

take an early opportunity to revenge themselves, while I should not

benefit society."

"You were quite right, senhor, in what you did," answered Pedro; "I wish

merely to observe, that we must not trust to any of them; for, depend

upon it, both the friar and the landlord are in league with the robbers;

though, for some reason or other, it did not suit them to cut our

throats, as the rest wished to do. I hope that, none of them are on the

watch to pick us off as we ride along; and if it pleases you, senhor,

had we not better push on as quick as we can through this grove? These

trees afford such close shelter to lurking foes, who may shoot every one

of us without our being able to get near them."

Notwithstanding Pedro's apprehensions, they passed the grove in safety,

and again emerged into a more open country, partly cultivated, though in

a very careless way, with a few miserable hamlets and cottages scattered

here and there; and round the fields near them were trained vines,

propped up some four or five feet from the ground, from which the thin

common wine used by the poor people is made.

Towards the close of a long day's journey, during which they had twice

rested their horses, Don Luis and his followers arrived in front of a

handsome gateway, over the top of which the arms of the Almeidas were

placed, beautifully carved in stone. He gazed at them with pride for an

instant, while Pedro dismounted to open the gates; and, as he entered a

long avenue of cork-trees, his heart beat with the fond anticipation of

again being pressed in the arms of a father who fondly loved him, and

for whom he, in return, felt the most devoted affection and respect.

The sun shone brightly through the trees on the broad open space in

front of the house, in the centre of which a bright jet of water

sparkled high in the air, throwing on all sides its glittering drops, as

it descended again into a large circular tank swarming with fish of gold

and silver scales. A flight of broad stone steps, with heavy

balustrades, led up to the entrance door of the house, which was, as is

usually the case, of a single story, the ground floor being used only

for servants' rooms and offices. It was a long low building, with two

wings, the centre part receding and forming a court in front between

them. Over the entrance were again seen the arms of the family,

delicately carved, on a large stone shield; and in many parts of the

building were either small shields or devices taken from it; but,

besides these ornaments, the house had few lordly pretensions. Just as

they arrived in front of the mansion, a servant belonging to the

premises caught sight of them, and shouting at the top of his voice, as

he ran forward to meet them, "The young Count, Don Luis, our Morgado, is

arrived," seized his young master's hand, and covered it with kisses.

The noise brought out the heads both of male and female servants from

various windows, who, when they saw who had arrived, popped them in

again, and hastened down, each anxious to be the first to welcome their

young lord; so that, by the time he reached the steps, a number had

collected to offer their congratulations. At the same moment, a

venerable and dignified-looking person appeared at the door, whom Don

Luis no sooner saw, than, leaping from his horse, he sprang up the

steps, regardless of all the smiling faces on each side, and threw

himself, half kneeling, into his arms. His father, for it was the old

Count, embraced him affectionately. "My son, my son," he exclaimed,

"your return restores light and joy to my heart; nor have you, Luis,

disappointed my fond expectations. I am proud, very proud of you."

What words could be more gratifying to a son's ears? and Luis was a son

to appreciate them.

After the first greetings with his father were over, he turned to the

old domestics, who, with smiling countenances, stood around, anxious to

show their pleasure; nor was their zeal feigned, for there is in

Portugal that kindly communication kept up between master and servant

which causes the latter to take a warm interest in all connected with

the welfare of his superior. Suffice it to say, that sincere were the

rejoicings throughout the household at the return of their young lord;

nor was Pedro forgotten, as he took very good care to assure himself.

Volume 1, Chapter XII.

Here we have arrived at the last chapter of our first volume, without

having advanced any way in our story; but it is, we conceive, an error

on the right side, as the chief interest will be found in the two

following ones, without any fear of our materials being exhausted.

We have also placed ourselves in a dilemma; for while we are anxious to

describe certain events which befell Don Luis, our gallantry would lead

us to follow the fair Donna Clara on her journey to Lisbon; for,

although far advanced, as we are, down the vale of years, and

invulnerable to the soft blandishments of the sex, that feeling, or

sentiment, still retains its influence over us, owing to our having been

educated before the civilisation of our countrymen was refined by their

intercourse with the Indians of North America, or the intellectual

inhabitants of Australia--before, indeed, the days of modern chivalry.

It is remarkable that, although Senhora Gertrudes exerted herself to the

utmost to amuse her young lady, Donna Clara found her journey from

Leiria to Lisbon very long and tedious; and it more than once occurred

to her, how far more agreeable it would have been had Don Luis d'Almeida

been travelling in the same instead of in a contrary direction; but she

did not utter her thoughts to her old nurse--indeed, she scarcely

acknowledged them to herself. The weather, too, had become dark and

gloomy, and the horses of a small body of cavalry, whom her father had

procured as an escort for part of the way, created a dust and

disturbance, the men looking much more like banditti than soldiers, so

that she was very glad when the towers of Lisbon, and the broad flowing

Tagus, appeared in sight. When the travellers were within a short

distance of the city, a party of cavaliers were seen approaching, who

drew in their reins as they came close to the fidalgo; one of the

foremost leaping from his horse, and advancing towards him. He was a

young man of graceful and refined exterior, dressed rather in the

extreme of fashion, with an abundance of lace to his ruffles and shirt,

his waistcoat richly flowered, and jewels glittering on the handle of

his sword; his countenance, also, bore strong marks of dissipation, and

there was a wild, careless manner in his whole air.

"Welcome to Lisbon, my honoured father; and my fair sister, I trust she

has not suffered from the journey. I have brought my friend, San

Vincente, out to meet you," he added, introducing a young man, whose

dark handsome countenance was disfigured by a lowering brow, and a

furtive glance of the eye. Both gentlemen bowed low and often.

"I am most happy in having so early an opportunity to make the personal

acquaintance of one of whom I have heard so much, and with whom I hope

shortly to be yet more intimate." The count bowed lower still at the

compliment, and the priest, who rode near his patron, eyed him narrowly.

"We received notice of your approach but at a late hour, and instantly

mounted our horses to ride forward to meet you," said the young Fidalgo.

"Excuse me, I will now go and address my sister;" and he rode up to the

side of her litter. "Ah, my pretty Clara, blooming and fresh as ever!"

he said, after the first greetings were over. "I am delighted to see

you drawn out of the seclusion of that horrid place, Oporto, to enjoy

the gaieties of the capital, where you will soon get rid of that bashful

timidity which sits so ill upon you. Ah! I have a friend whom I must

introduce to you, the Conde de San Vincente; see, he is riding by the

side of our father. You have often heard of him, of course?"

"I have heard his name mentioned," answered his sister; "but little else

respecting him."

"You will know more of him soon, then. He is an excellent fellow, and a

particular acquaintance of mine; rather proud and haughty towards the

scum of the earth, the lower orders, and not of a very forgiving temper

if insulted; but those are qualities ladies seldom find fault with. I

will bring him up to you presently, to pay his respects."

"Oh no, no, do not inconvenience the count. You will have another

opportunity of introducing your friend," said Donna Clara.

"What a timid little bird you are," answered the young Fidalgo,

laughing. "Now, I dare say your heart is fluttering with agitation.

Why, the count is dying to see you, I have so praised you to him; and as

soon as he can escape from the side of our father, he will come to throw

himself at your feet."

He soon afterwards rode on and joined his father and the count, when,

having contrived to bring their conversation to a close, he returned

with the latter to the side of his sister's litter. Clara cast a

hurried glance at the countenance of her brother's friend, and with that

quick perception with which some women are fortunately endued, in that

one moment she read more of his character than her brother had

discovered during the whole course of his acquaintance; not that she

could dream of the dark crimes and vices of which he was capable; such

was impossible to her pure mind; but she saw something there which she

did not like, she knew not what, and she returned a cold bow to the many

flourishes of his hat, and chosen phrases of compliment with which the

count honoured her.

Though rather piqued at her indifference, he was not in the least

abashed; but kept his place on one side, while her brother rode on the

other, endeavouring, though in vain, to win her attention by flattery to

her beauty and by stories of the day, till they arrived in front of the

palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, a relation of Goncalo Christovao,

where he had been invited to take up his abode during his stay in

Lisbon. The count threw himself from his horse, and offered to hand

Clara from her litter, an attention she could not, without marked

rudeness, refuse; but as her hand touched his, a shudder passed through

her frame, such as, it is said and believed, the victim feels in the

presence of his destroyer; and she turned aside her head, to avoid the

glance of those dark baneful eyes, which she felt an undefined

consciousness were capable of withering her young pure happiness, her

very existence itself.

Again bowing coldly to him, she withdrew her hand, when he was obliged

to take his leave, while she flew to join her father, who with great

ceremony conducted her upstairs, and introduced her to the old

marchioness, who, surrounded by a number of old women, more hideous, if

possible, than the witches in Macbeth, was standing ready to receive her

guests at the entrance of the ante-room leading to the state apartment,

a mark of very great distinction. She was a lady well advanced in

years, of most grave and formal aspect; every motion of her body, and

every thought of her mind, being regulated by what she considered the

strict rules of etiquette. Her dress, like her mind, was composed of

the stiffest materials, her gown being of a thick rich silk, capable of

standing alone without the wearer, making a loud rustling as she moved

forward and curtsied to Clara, whom, timid and blushing, her father

presented to her; when the old lady bestowed a kiss (rather savoury of

snuff, it must be owned) on each side of her face. "You are a very

pretty young lady," she said, staring at her; "so was I once; but the

world since then has changed with me, as it will with you. I am glad to

see you, Goncalo Christovao," she added, though her looks belied her

words; for it appeared impossible that any feelings of gladness could

exist beneath that rigid aspect. "Remember, you are to make my house,

and all it contains, entirely your own during your residence here: a

daughter of yours will not be guilty of any of those levities in which

young ladies of the present day are too apt to indulge; and I hear that

you have brought your most excellent confessor with you, who will instil

into her mind those principles of decorum and religion so essential in

the conduct of a young lady." The marchioness having delivered this

oration, led the way to her room of state, her attendants drawing aside

to allow her and her guests to pass, and then followed in line, and

arranged themselves on each side of the apartment.

The conversation was continued in the same stiff and formal strain, so

that poor Clara was delighted when she was allowed to retire to the

rooms appropriated to her use, where Senhora Gertrudes was ready to

receive her, not at all more pleased than her young lady with the

attendants of the marchioness.

Although, during the excitement of the journey, Clara had borne up

against the effects of the terror she had endured, when she attempted to

rise on the morning after her arrival, she fell back on her couch weak

and feverish, and a severe illness seized her, which for many days

confined her to her room; during which time numerous were the inquiries

made at the door of the palace, the fame of her beauty having spread

among the nobles of the city, all eager to see the new ornament which

they hoped was to be added to the Court.

The most constant visitor was the Conde de San Vincente, for his fiery

passions had been at once captivated by her tranquil beauty; the very

indifference she had exhibited towards him serving to increase the

flame, so that, looking on her as his affianced bride, he vowed the most

deadly vengeance against any who should venture to come between him and

the consummation of his hopes. He had sufficient tact carefully to

conceal his character from her father, as he had, indeed, the darker

shades from her brother, who would not otherwise have continued on the

same intimate terms with him, though, it is to be feared, from the low

state of morals at that time in society, he would not have treated him

with the scorn and hatred he deserved.

Unremitting, therefore, in his attentions to the fidalgo, making

promises of large settlements, and a handsome establishment, he

completely won him to forward his wishes; indeed, in those times, few

fathers ever thought of asking their daughters' consent in forming for

them a connexion in which the whole happiness of their future life was

concerned; and the young ladies, having few opportunities allowed them

of choosing for themselves, generally yielded to their fate without a

murmur; too often afterwards indemnifying themselves at the expense of

their husband's honour.

In the meantime poor Clara remained in happy ignorance of the fate

awaiting her; though the hints carelessly thrown out by her brother had

for the time alarmed her; but she persuaded herself that he had but

spoken in joke, and thought no more on the subject; her only remaining

doubts being occasioned by her not having been informed of the reason

for her visit to Lisbon. She was occasionally visited by the old

marchioness, whose conversation was very far from contributing to

enliven her, being chiefly long homilies for the regulation of her

religious and moral conduct, and warnings against the sins which the

pomps and vanities of the world would lead her to commit. Then she

would launch out into praise of the advantages to be derived from a life

of seclusion from the temptations of the world, ending with deep regrets

that she herself in her youth had not rather assumed the veil, than

subjected herself to the unhappiness she had endured; though it may be

observed that she had never thought so till she had lost all taste for

the pleasures she reprobated, and had contrived for a long course of

years to yield very freely to the temptations she spoke of, without very

seriously damaging her reputation; the marquis, her husband, having been

of a very kind and indulgent disposition, and she having discovered

certain peccadillos of his, which enabled her to keep a constant check

over him, and prevented him from inquiring too minutely into what she

chose to do.

The chief cause of her present style of conversation was, that the Padre

Alfonzo, who had determined, for reasons of his own, that his fair young

penitent should assume the veil, and was now employing every means he

thought likely to aid his purpose, had for that reason assiduously paid

his court to the marchioness from the moment of his arrival, and easily

gained her over to his views, pointing out the advantages which Clara

would find, both in a spiritual and moral point of view, in a monastic

life, and the misery she would endure if united to a man of so bad a

character as he hinted that of the count to be. He also assured the old

lady that it would much contribute to gain pardon from heaven for her

own trespasses, if she were the means of offering so acceptable a

sacrifice to the Church; and the last argument completely gained his

point.

Goncalo Christovao was at first very much alarmed at his daughter's

illness, but being assured by the physicians that there was no danger to

be apprehended, he with resignation awaited her recovery. It must be

observed, that though, in this instance, the doctors were perfectly

right, they knew very little of the subject, their chief specific being

that of Doctor Sangrado, and a judicious administering of mummy powder,

and various drugs long since banished from every pharmacopeia in

civilised Europe. Fortunately they came to the determination that Clara

did not require bleeding, and thus, under the care of kind nature, she

was allowed to recover without their interference, and all praised the

physicians who had wrought so speedy a cure. Her father, having made up

his mind that she should become the bride of his estimable young friend,

the Conde San Vincente, determined, as soon as he considered she was

sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, to open the subject to her.

Now, he was, as we have said, a very amiable man, and an affectionate

father; but he was one of those people who, according to circumstances,

may be either praised for their firmness or blamed for their obstinacy;

if he had once taken an idea into his head, he was very fond of

retaining it, from the difficulty he had in getting it there. Of his

own accord, and by the advice of his son, he had determined that his

daughter should espouse the Conde San Vincente, while his confessor, in

whose judgment he put implicit confidence, had persuaded him, by dint of

much argument, that if she would not marry according to his will, she

must inevitably assume the veil. Besides the quality which his enemies

would have called obstinacy, he possessed another, which the same

persons would have designated as a passionate temper, though his

admirers might look upon it as a just indignation: it had rarely been

aroused, principally from his having always enjoyed his own way, no one

attempting to oppose his will, so that he was not even aware of it

himself, imagining that he was of the mildest disposition possible.

When he entered his daughter's apartment, he found her risen from her

bed, and seated on a sofa near the open window, enjoying the fresh air,

the only remedy which she required to restore her to perfect health. He

took her hand as he seated himself by her side. He began much in the

way fathers always must begin when they have the same sort of subject to

communicate, particularly when they have some floating suspicions that

it may not afford entire satisfaction to their hearers, and that they

must be prepared for a slight opposition to their will, as his confessor

had warned him might now be the case. He talked a great deal about his

love and affection, and his care for her interests and happiness, in

answer to which his daughter looked into his face, and thanked him with

a sweet beaming smile, and an assurance of her confidence in his love.

Then he talked of the necessity of leaving as large a fortune as

possible to his son, whose expenses were, he confessed, considerable,

that he might maintain the family honour and dignity, in which she most

readily acquiesced. He next approached the main point. He observed

that young ladies must form matrimonial connexions suitable to their

family and station, and that nothing was more disgraceful or wrong than

for a person of pure and noble blood to wed with one who could not boast

an equal number of quarterings on their escutcheons. Clara said she had

always heard such was the case, and believed it fully; then she looked

down on the ground, wondering what was next to come. The Fidalgo went

on to observe, that there were very few unmarried men of his

acquaintance whom he should consider as a suitable match for his

daughter, that many of pure blood were poor, and that he would, on no

account, expose her to the miseries of poverty; and that there were

several aged bachelors and widowers who were most unexceptionable, but

that there were objections to her marrying an old man, especially if not

very wealthy. She again thanked him, and agreed in some part of the

observations. It did occur to her for an instant, and she longed to say

so, that she thought she had met with one who might perhaps please him,

but her modesty restrained her, so she blushed at her own thoughts, and

fixed her eyes more intently on the ground. He had now arrived at the

delicate point, and he began to speak quicker, as if to get over it; for

he saw his daughter turning paler every instant, and he could not bear

to watch her, so he averted his eyes while he spoke. He said that he

had looked round among all his acquaintance, in which search her brother

had materially aided him, to find a suitable husband for her, as he

considered that she ought now to marry; that, after infinite trouble, he

had succeeded in selecting one in every way her equal in blood, being of

the highest Fidalguia, and of title and large property, so that she must

consider herself as a very fortunate girl. Poor Clara now trembled

violently, but her father did not, or would not, observe her agitation.

He continued, that her intended husband was a particular friend of her

brothel, who much wished the match to take place; that he was the young

Conde San Vincente; and that he had engaged his word as a fidalgo that

she should marry him and no one else: therefore, that she must be

prepared to receive him on the following day as her future husband. At

this communication Clara turned deadly pale, and trembled so violently,

that she almost fell from her seat. Her worst suspicions were realised:

that dreaded man must be her husband! She shuddered at the thought; for

her confessor had taken care to instil into her mind his opinion of the

count, more by dark insinuations than by any direct accusation; for the

former he knew would have far greater effect, while the latter might be

refuted, and might injure himself. There was a spirit in the bosom of

that young girl which she knew not of, both firm and enduring, enabling

her to resist tyranny with determination; but she first made use of the

feminine weapons most natural to her age and habits.

"Oh, my father, I love you, and have always sought to obey your wishes;

but do not now require of me what I cannot do,--cause me not now to act

in disobedience to your commands. Oh! alter that decision, which it

would break my heart to obey. It is impossible that I should love the

count, and you would not make me wed one for whom I can never feel

affection?"

The fidalgo looked at her with amazement. He had never supposed it

possible that she should offer any resistance to his wishes, though they

might not at first please her. It is just probable that, had she not

mentally daguerreo-typed that likeness of Don Luis at Leiria, she might

not have thought of opposing the commands of her father, who, however,

never made any such calculation; nor had the said Don Luis even occurred

to his recollection, as he knew him to be the son of a poor noble, whose

property was much involved.

"What is this nonsense I hear about love and affection? What objections

can you have to the count? He is young, handsome, and rich, as you

know; and as you have scarcely seen him, it is not possible that you can

dislike him; so that you will soon learn to love him as much as is

necessary; and what further would you wish? Come, come, Clara, I have

always been an indulgent father to you,--do not let me now find you a

disobedient child, in the most important affair of your life. Am not I

the fittest person to choose a husband for you? and tell me, how could

you, who can know nothing of the world, select one for yourself? Such

an idea would be unmaidenly and highly incorrect, and one in which no

young lady would dream of indulging; and I have pledged my word to the

count, therefore you must marry him."

Clara did not see the clearness of her father's reasoning. "I would do

all to please you," she again answered; "I would die, and, oh!

willingly, for your sake; but this I cannot do."

"Clara, beware you do not make me utter such words as I thought never to

speak to you. My honour is dearer to me than my life: it is dearer even

than my child's life or happiness; and my honour is pledged to the

count. It must be so."

"Oh, my father, I must die, then, if I obey you!" returned the fair

girl, faintly.

The fidalgo's heart was softened, and, for the moment, he repented of

his pledge; but it must be redeemed, if the count demanded it.

"Clara, there is an alternative, but one that I wish you not to choose.

Your mother, on her death-bed, made it her dying request that you should

rather take the veil than marry against your will. I have vowed to

fulfil her wish. I give you, therefore, your choice. Within a month

you must wed the Count San Vincente, or give up the world and all its

pleasures, and dwell for the remainder of your life in the gloomy

precincts of a convent. But I know my pretty Clara will recover from

her fit of bashful fears, and long before that time the count will have

won the love you speak of."

"Oh no, no!" exclaimed Clara, with energy. "Let me far rather enter a

convent. I will at once so decide; and let me not be exposed to the

dark glances of the count, which alone fill me with terror."

"Clara, you will excite my just anger," returned the Fidalgo, in a tone

which very plainly showed his anger was excited already. "I will not

now hear your decision. At the end of the month we will again speak on

the subject; till then I will not allude to it. I insist on your

receiving the count, in the meantime, and shall inform him that he must

not expect your answer till that period has elapsed."

Clara burst into tears; but her father was angry, and they did not

influence him. He was, as we have said, not accustomed to be opposed.

Seeing that she continued weeping (it was at her father's unkindness, so

unusual in him, towards her), his feelings were moved, which made him

only still more angry; so he rose to quit her, in order to avoid the

sight. "Clara, this is but increasing your folly. I must now quit you,

and remember to-morrow to wear at least a serene countenance to receive

the count." He stooped down, as was his wont, to kiss her brow, when

she threw herself on his neck, and wept hysterically; but he placed her

again on the seat, and left the room, muttering, "It must be thus," and

ordered Senhora Gertrudes to attend her mistress.

The proud fidalgo was not the most happy man in Lisbon that night. As

he met Senhora Gertrudes, he told her to advise her young mistress to

think of marrying, instead of entering a convent, which general

directions the old lady was very well able to obey.

"What is it the fidalgo has been telling me, that my child wishes to go

into a convent? Why, she never before uttered such an idea to me!

Would she have all that beautiful fair hair cut off, and hide that

lovely face within the gloomy walls of a nunnery? I should die to see

my child so lost to the world."

"Oh no, no, I do not wish to go into a nunnery, my good ama," returned

Clara, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently to speak; "but I do not

wish to marry."

"Not wish to marry! Ha, ha! that's what many young ladies say, but

don't mean, minha alma! You would be very happy to marry, if the right

person offered. Now, suppose that handsome young Don Luis d'Almeida

proposed to you. Would not he please you, my child?"

"Oh, but he is not the person selected for me, my good nurse," answered

Clara, blushing as she spoke.

"Who is it, then, my love?--speak, pray," cried the nurse anxiously.

"It is that dark Count San Vincente, my brother's friend," answered the

young lady.

"Oh, he is not half so handsome as Don Luis; so I am not surprised at

your not liking him; and he did not even deign to speak to me, when he

came out to meet us on our coming here. Don Luis will suit you much

better, and I will tell the fidalgo so. Come, now, dry your eyes, and

you shall be happy."

We fear, Senhora Gertrudes, you were not fulfilling your master's

intentions by your last impolitic observations.

"But, alas! my kind nurse, my father has pledged his word to the count,

and cannot retract," answered Clara.

"I don't understand anything about pledging words; but I will not have

my child made unhappy, to please that rude count. So do not fear, my

soul. I will persuade your father, or I will frighten the count. I

will do something or other; but you shall neither marry him nor go into

a convent. Now, go to bed again, my love, and to-morrow you will be

quite well and happy."

As soon as it was reported that Donna Clara was sufficiently recovered

to receive visitors, numbers crowded to the door of the marchioness's

palace, eager to ascertain, in person, whether the beauty was over

praised, which, it was generally supposed, would adorn the Court. Among

the first who came to make her acquaintance, whom she received in her

own apartment, was Donna Theresa d'Alorna, the betrothed of the young

Marquis of Tavora; for, although their families were in no way related,

that intimacy had been kept up between them which existed generally

amongst the Fidalguia, and was so necessary for their own preservation

as an order, against all other classes. As Donna Theresa was announced,

a slight blush tinged the fair cheek of Donna Clara; for she could not

avoid coupling her name with that of Don Luis, till she recollected that

he had himself contradicted the report her nurse had heard; and she rose

to receive her visitor with that elegant courtesy so natural to her.

The young ladies saluted each other on the cheek before they spoke, when

Clara led her guest to a seat.

"I have been longing to come and see you, since I heard of your

arrival," Donna Theresa began. "And no sooner was I told that you could

receive me, than I flew hither."

Clara thanked her for her politeness.

"They told me you were very beautiful," she continued; "and, for a

wonder, report has not exaggerated your perfections. Oh! you will

commit immense havoc in the Court. You have but to appear, to conquer!"

Clara smiled, and assured her she was too complimentary.

"Oh, not half enough so!" she answered; "but it is said you are already

given away; that the bargain is struck, the arrangements made; and that

the Conde San Vincente is the happy man. However, I now see you are a

great deal too good for him. You cannot have seen him very often, I

suppose?"

"I have seen him but twice," answered Clara.

"Oh, how fortunate you were!" answered Donna Theresa, laughing. "Few

have so many opportunities of judging of their future lords and masters.

Then, for a second wonder, the report is correct, and you are betrothed

to the count?"

"Oh, I trust in Heaven not," said Clara, sorrowfully: "I could never

love the count."

"Very likely not," returned her visitor, laughing. "It is a question

seldom asked of us poor girls till we arrive at the altar, with a lie on

our tongues. But your father wishes for the match?"

Clara bowed assent.

"Oh, then, I fear, poor bird, you are entrapped; but you need not be

unhappy alone, for you have plenty of sisters in affliction;" and a

shade passed over the lovely countenance of Donna Theresa.

"But is it possible to marry a man one cannot love?" asked Clara, with

emphasis on her words.

"Possible! why yes, such is but a trifle, which thousands do every day,"

answered her guest, laughing at her simplicity. "It is a trifle not

worth thinking about. We poor women are doomed to have husbands of some

sort; such is our unavoidable lot, and we must submit to it; but for my

part, I prefer having one I do not love; for he will give me much less

trouble in managing, and I shall be able to enjoy as much liberty as I

can desire. Now I should advise you to follow my example."

Clara shook her head; she was shocked at what she heard.

"Ah, I see you have a great deal of rustic simplicity to cure yourself

of, before you can properly appreciate the pleasures of a city life; but

after you have married the count, I shall find you wonderfully

improved."

"I can never marry the count: I shall enter a convent rather," said

Clara.

"Oh, horror of horrors! I know not why such places were invented,

except as a punishment for our sins, or by some sour, crusty old

fathers, to frighten their daughters into obedience to their tyrannical

commands. I have heard some extraordinary stories about two or three

convents in the old king's time, which I will tell you; for they may

amuse you, though I do not think they would encourage a modest young

lady to enter one, as they are not much improved since then."

We do not give the stories; for we must observe, that the minds of young

ladies in those days were less refined than at the present time; and

that they assumed far more freedom in their language, particularly those

who had been educated like Donna Theresa; though the recital, to which

Clara's pure ears were unaccustomed, made the blushes rise on her

cheeks. It is only necessary to say, that several convents were

entirely suppressed by Pombal, on account of their scandalous excesses

and immoralities, which had become a disgrace to civilisation and

Christianity.

Donna Theresa's conversation had, however, the effect of making Clara

feel that she ought rather to undergo any misery than assume the veil;

and, that her only course was to obey her father's commands; an opinion,

her new friend did her utmost to foster. She became also accustomed to

the count's expression of features, which had, at first, alarmed her;

for he exerted himself to please her, and her brother lost no

opportunity of praising his generous qualities. The count had also

contrived to gain over the old marchioness, by a variety of artifices,

which he well knew how to practise, and the confessor, for some

unexplained reason, had not again spoken to Clara on the subject of her

taking the veil; so that she was left, poor girl! with the old nurse, as

the only friend in whom she could confide, or who seemed to take a real

interest in her welfare. Yet, simple virtue, and purity of thought,

will often strengthen the weak to counteract all the wiles and plots of

the subtle intriguer, though confident in his strength and talent. Thus

affairs continued; her month of probation was nearly drawing to a close,

and, in a few days, she must consent to receive the count as her

husband, or assume the veil; all she had heard increased her dislike to

the latter alternative, and everybody around her endeavoured to persuade

her, that the other was a very happy lot.

The count had, by some means or other, discovered the cause of the

delay; and that she was hesitating about accepting him, not from his

having any rival in her affections, whom he might chastise, as he vowed

he would, if he discovered one; but, because she felt so great an

antipathy to him, that she fancied she should prefer a life of seclusion

in a convent, to wedding him with rank, wealth, and liberty. This was

not very complimentary to him, nor was he pleased by it; but he was not

a man who foolishly gave vent to his feelings in outward show, though he

vowed an oath, deep and bitter, that, once master of that bright jewel,

he would wring her young heart for its present obduracy, till she should

repent ever having dared, for an instant, to oppose his lordly will.

He persuaded the marchioness that gaiety was most likely to restore her

young friend to her usual state of spirits and health; and, perhaps, the

old lady was not sorry to discover a plausible excuse for opening her

palace once more to the gay world. Her father and brother wisely judged

that if they could give her a taste for the amusements of society, she

was less likely to wish to quit it. There was also to be a Beja Mao,

literally a kissing hands, or drawing-room, at the Court, when she was

to be introduced to the royal family, so that there was little time

afforded her for thought or meditation; indeed, very little would have

turned the scale, and made her accept the count at once; but she sought

to put off the day, which she knew must seal her misery, till the end of

the period allowed her.

The only person who appeared to be an indifferent spectator of what was

taking place, was the father confessor, Padre Alfonzo: he merely kept

his gaze fixed on her, with an ominous frown on his brow, whenever the

count was engaged in conversation with her; and his was, perhaps, the

only eye beneath which the glance of the young noble cowered.

A few days before the end of the month, the confessor encountered the

fidalgo alone: it was towards the close of the evening, as he was pacing

a long gallery of the palace, hung with the grim portraits of some of

his ancestors, who were those likewise of the marchioness.

"Your daughter appears inclined to obey your wishes," said the Priest.

"But if not, you remember your vow to our holy Church; and let your

heart be steeled, and your honour unsullied, as was that of your noble

predecessors. Let me feel confident that your wife's dying request may

be fulfilled, and again swear, that as long as the count urges his suit

to your daughter, she shall accept him, or become the bride of Heaven."

"Father, I have already said so, and I again swear, that she shall marry

the man I choose, or assume the veil," exclaimed the Fidalgo.

"I am satisfied," said the Priest.