A laugh was the answer; and, the door being unbolted, the dark figure of
the bravo we described at the inn on the road to Coimbra presented
itself.
"You are welcome, Senhor Conde," said the ruffian, as the count entered,
and he bolted the door behind him. "'Tis long since I have had the
honour of seeing your Excellency. Have you any work for me?"
This was said in a low, miserable room, into which the count descended,
by two or three steps, directly from the street. The floor was of clay,
beaten hard; the walls unplastered, and the roof seeming as if inclined
to fall in from above. There was a recess, with a wretched pallet-bed
in it, and another of the same sort was outside. In one corner, an old
woman was seated on a low stool, cooking some mess, odoriferous of
garlic, over a small clay stove, lighted with charcoal; but she rose
not, nor gave any sign of intelligence at the appearance of a stranger.
The count looked towards her, without answering the question.
"Do not fear her," said the man, observing his doubt; "she is only my
mother, and she is so deaf that she cannot hear a word, and so foolish
that she could not understand it if she did. Do you require anything of
me, senhor?" he again asked.
"I should not seek you without a cause," said the Count. "Do you know
Don Luis d'Almeida?--though why do I ask?--you ought to know every
gentleman, in case your services are required against them, or by them."
The man looked at him, as much as to say, "My services may be required
against you some day; and I would as willingly plunge my dagger into
your bosom, but that I should lose an employer. Know him?" he
exclaimed. "Curses on him! I know him well, and would--"
Then, recollecting that by showing any personal interest, he might lower
the value of the service he well knew he was expected to perform, he
added, "Yes, senhor, I know his person, I believe. What do you wish to
have done respecting him? Remember, the times are bad; for the Minister
has apprehended and hung some of my friends lately; so the price of any
such work as you fidalgos require of us poor men is rising."
"This is work which will give you little trouble, but it must be done
quickly," said the Count. "Go, take two or three of your companions;
select whom you please; but my name must not be known. Watch the palace
of the Conde d'Almeida, and you will meet Don Luis, either entering or
coming out; for I just now parted from him. Strike him the moment you
see him; and take care your dagger does not fail in its work. Inform me
when your work is done, and I promise you thirty crowns for yourself,
and ten for each of your companions. Will that satisfy you?"
"It is but little, your Excellency, considering the danger I run; for
all the work falls upon my shoulders."
"Well, I will add ten more, provided it is done to-night," said the
Count. "I can no longer delay. Beware you fail me not!"
With these words the count took his departure, perfectly satisfied with
the arrangement he had made, and joined his companions at their revels,
though, during the feast, he waited, with an anxious look, to hear
tidings of the deed having been performed. The young Goncalo,
unsuspicious of the dark vengeance his friend meditated against Luis,
and which he would have been the first to prevent, was the gayest of the
party, rallying the master of the feast on his gloom and taciturnity,
ascribing it entirely to the ill-success with which his advances had
been received by his sister.
After leaving the abode of Senhor Mendez, Luis and his friend, who had
promised to remain with him, accompanied by Pedro, as their body-guard,
made the best of their way towards home, running the gauntlet of the
many dangers to be encountered, without suffering from any of them. As
they were within sight of the palace, Luis again observed several
figures in the same position as before; and this time he pointed them
out to Captain Pinto.
"We will keep out of their way," said his friend, "and we can then give
them no cause to insult us; for, depend upon it, they are there for no
good purpose, probably on the watch to rob or murder some unfortunate
wretch. I am very happy to fight at times, but have no fancy for these
night brawls."
As he spoke, the group moved towards them, and a figure, emerging from
among them, advanced close to them, evidently endeavouring to
distinguish their features.
"Don Luis d'Almeida, a friend wishes to speak with you," said the
person.
"You must seek him elsewhere, my friend," answered the Captain,
preventing Luis from speaking. "Pardon us, we are in a hurry, and would
pass on."
The man appeared satisfied, and rejoined his companions, who were about
to move away, when they observed our friends stop at the door of the
palace, where the captain gave a loud summons. The strangers held a
moment's consultation together, and were about again to advance towards
them, when the captain, drawing his sword, ordered them to keep their
distance; and while they hesitated, old Lucas, more agile than usual,
had opened the door, allowing his master and his companions to enter,
when the robbers, for such they appeared, retired.
The incident gave a subject of conversation to the friends before they
retired to their beds, and the captain was the first to discover the
real clue to the proceedings of the strangers. "You say the Conde San
Vincente is a suitor of Donna Clara's, and that he observed you speaking
to her at the palace of the Marchioness de Corcunda this evening; then,
depend upon it, he was either among those gentlemen, or had deputed them
to attack you, which they would most undoubtedly have done, had you been
alone. I have heard of some of his deeds, and his character is better
known than he is aware of."
"Now you give me the idea," said Luis, "I feel confident that I have
before heard the voice of that man who spoke to us;--yes, he is one of
the brigands who robbed Goncalo Christovao in the forest, and afterwards
attacked me at the inn, when he swore to avenge the loss of a brother,
of whose just death I was the instrument."
"Then I must most earnestly entreat you not to venture out alone, or you
are certain to fall a victim either to his revenge, or to that of the
count, who has, very probably, employed him to murder you. Do not think
that it will exhibit want of courage to take every precaution, for so
daring have these ruffians become, that scarcely a night passes without
some dreadful murder, and I should deeply grieve to find you among the
number of sufferers; therefore, as an old friend, I must make you
promise to run no greater risk than you can possibly avoid."
Luis promised faithfully to follow the gallant sailor's advice; and it
was fortunate for him that he did so, for in vain did the assassin,
Rodrigo, watch night after night to find him alone. The following
morning, he repaired, at an early hour, to call on Goncalo Christovao,
his heart beating with doubts and fears as to the success of his
petition. He carried the casket of jewels to restore to Donna Clara,
but, on searching for the letter to her father, he could nowhere
discover it. After turning over every article of his baggage, aided by
Pedro, he was at last obliged to set forward without it, trusting,
however, to have frequent opportunities of delivering it. The fidalgo
received him with stately politeness, pouring forth torrents of
expressions of gratitude for the service he had afforded him; but when
Luis mentioned the chief object of his visit, he at first looked
confounded with astonishment, assuring him that he had never before
heard of a young noble venturing to win a young lady's affections
without having first applied to the father for leave to do so; such
conduct was excusable only in low-born plebeians, whose marriages were
of no importance; that he had, however, no objections to him, except
from his want of fortune, which was an insurmountable one; that his
daughter could never wed without his leave, and that she was engaged to
another gentleman.
This answer, though very polite, was a most discouraging one, as most of
our readers will agree; but, at the same time, there was that buoyant
nature in the composition of Luis, which made him hope where others
would have despaired, though he certainly could not see very clearly on
what grounds to found those hopes; indeed, he was obliged to acknowledge
to himself that they arose far more from the feelings, than from the
judgment.
The fidalgo made a great many more very polite speeches, assuring him
that his house, and everything he possessed, was at his service, except
his daughter; that he would forgive his falling in love with her,
provided he made no further attempts to see her, and that the trouble he
had taken to recover the casket, raised him, if possible, even higher in
his opinion than before; indeed, there was nobody he more admired in the
world; but that he must banish all thoughts of Clara from his mind. We
only quote a part of the substance of the harangue, which was very long,
and filled with the most courteous and elegant flourishes; indeed, it is
extraordinary how very polite people are when they feel confident that
they are saying the most disagreeable things in the world.
Luis listened in silence, and answered only by bows, evading carefully
every promise the fidalgo endeavoured to draw from him, not to see Clara
again, determining to win her, if he possibly could; for the feelings of
what is now, in ridicule, called romantic chivalry, which animated him,
rebelled against the thoughts of her being compelled to marry a man she
hated; and he was persuaded that every principle of honour and duty
called on him to prevent the sacrifice, at every risk to himself, and
even in direct opposition to the unjust commands of her proud father.
The fidalgo positively refused the earnest request of Luis, to be
permitted to see Clara, even to take a last farewell; nor would he
undertake to bear any message to her: indeed, as our readers already
know, she was led to suppose that he had not called, nor did even
Senhora Gertrudes discover the truth.
At length he was obliged to rise to take his departure, when the fidalgo
redoubled his politeness, again thanking him for the casket of jewels,
bowing him _out_, not only out of the room, but down stairs, through the
hall, and into the very street, so that he had no opportunity of sending
to inform Senhora Gertrudes that he was there, which he had some
thoughts of doing.
Don Luis made many endeavours to see Donna Clara, or to communicate with
her, but they were all alike fruitless, the fidalgo, the marchioness,
and the priest, keeping so very strict a watch; though, had it not been
for the latter, he would probably have been successful. At length he
wrote a letter, which he had every hope would reach her, couched in the
most respectful terms, but every line breathing the tenderest and most
devoted affection. Day after day he waited for an answer, but it came
not; the priest had been too vigilant: his was the only eye which saw
the letter, and it served him as a copy for the next he had occasion to
write.
Volume 2, Chapter VIII.
More than a week passed away; it was now within three days of the end of
October, when Luis had repaired to a neighbouring church, to hear
morning mass, and was kneeling on one side of the aisle, attending to
the ceremonies going forward; he heard his name pronounced close to him,
by a female, in the attitude of devotion, shrouded in the black
mantelha, or hooded cloak, then worn by even the very highest classes,
at mass. The female turned her head as he looked round, when he
recognised the features of Senhora Gertrudes, which gave him more
satisfaction than if they had been those of the fairest lady in the
land, her young mistress excepted. The old lady sidled up to him, when
she whispered, looking, we cannot help acknowledging, as if she was
deeply engaged in her devotions all the time--
"Oh, Senhor Don Luis, I am so glad to see you! for I have been trying
everywhere to meet you, without success; for that horrid Padre Alfonzo
kept so strict a watch on me, that I could not venture to your house.
Oh, senhor! they have stolen away my dear child, and they have carried
her to a convent, where they have shut her up, and will never let her
out again; the cruel, wicked wretches! All the world has conspired
against us; and even my old master, whom, till now, I always looked upon
as an angel, has grown as bad as the rest, and now I have only got you
to depend on. There is my young lady breaking her heart about you, and
no one whom she cares about to comfort her."
This news electrified Don Luis. "To what convent has Donna Clara been
conveyed?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "'Twill be a consolation to know
where she is."
"To that of Santa Clara, senhor," answered Senhora Gertrudes; "and if
you will write a short little note to her, I know it will be a
consolation to her. There can be no harm in a little note, I'm sure;
and I will take care that she receives it."
Luis agreed with her that there could be no possible impropriety in his
writing, and promised to do so.
"There is to be mass again here to-morrow, when I will meet you, senhor,
and I will carry your note, for I shall be able to gain permission, I
hope, to visit my dear young mistress. She will not be obliged to take
her first vows for some time to come, and after that there will be a
whole year before she can profess; so that, in the mean time, something
may happen to release her; so do not be cast down, senhor, as I told
her, sweet child, to comfort her, though Heaven alone knows what chance
she has of happiness."
The service being concluded, Luis and the old nurse parted, he hastening
home to employ himself in composing an epistle to Clara, which, instead
of being the very little note the good Gertrudes recommended, swelled by
degrees into several sheets, as the thoughts crowded on his mind,
though, after all, they resolved themselves into two or three points,--
his devotion, his wretchedness, and his hopes; for it was not his nature
to despair; besides, he felt assured that his love was returned, and,
with that proud consciousness, how could he cease to cherish hope?
We deem that man unworthy of a woman's affection whom the consciousness
of possessing it does not raise above all fears, and give hopes of
ultimately conquering all difficulties in his path. Such was the effect
on the mind of Luis, and he determined that nothing should dispirit him
till the fatal veil had, like the dark tomb, separated her from him for
ever; then he felt that to him death would indeed be welcome.
He had just concluded his letter, forgetful of how the hours had flown
by; his dinner had remained almost untasted; the grateful siesta was not
thought of, and the shades of evening had already closed in the day,
when Captain Pinto entered his room to remind him that they had on that
night agreed to visit Senhor Mendez.
It must be recollected that those were not the days (at all events, in
Portugal) of double hot-pressed glossy Bath paper, over which the pen
glides with the rapidity of the skate on the virgin ice, which will
account for the time he occupied in the employment; besides, he felt a
pleasure in prolonging it to the utmost; yet, he was as delighted on
completing it as we shall be when we write finis to this compilation,
though he was not perfectly satisfied with it, and thought he could have
written a better, as will probably be our feeling also.
As before, they were accompanied by Pedro with a torch, and were happy
at finding their friend slightly recovered, though still unable to quit
his couch. Senhor Mendez turned the conversation on points in which he
considered that he could offer advice to Luis. He warned him
particularly to beware of the Jesuits, whom he designated as crafty and
deceitful men, ambitious alone of increasing the power of their order at
the expense of their fellow-creatures, whom, in furtherance of this aim,
they kept bound in the chains of ignorance and superstition; and that
they were, so far, more dangerous than the other monastic orders, from
their very superiority of education and intellect, and from their
freedom from those gross vices which stained the character of the rest.
The advice, perhaps, might have been of service to Luis, for he had
purposed, on the following day, to pay a visit to his cousin Father
Jacinto, whom he had not seen since his return to Lisbon. Senhor Mendez
then drew him to speak of himself, and of his love for Donna Clara, his
eye flashing with indignation, when he heard of the chief reasons her
father had deigned to advance for rejecting his offer.
"O pride and ambition!" he cried, "what banes are they to social
intercourse! So this haughty patrician would rather consign his child
to splendid misery in the arms of a man she abhors, leading her too
probably to vice and disgrace, or would immure her within the profane
walls of a convent, than see her wedded to one she loves, because his
fortune does not equal what he, in his vanity, considers necessary to
support her in grandeur equal to her rank. Mark me," he continued, "do
not for a moment suppose that I would advocate unequal alliances, where
the family on one side would despise the other, such can seldom fail of
bringing misery to both; but I do say, where Heaven has joined two
hearts in one, parents draw an awful responsibility on their own heads
in venturing to separate them."
We must not longer delay, by giving the further observations Senhor
Mendez made, as we have subjects to relate which will afford far more
interest to our readers; and we might also run the risk of having our
book banished from the library as a work full of pestiferous and
dangerous tenets, which would cause us infinite pain, conscious, as we
feel ourselves, of the rectitude of our intentions in transcribing what
we find before us.
The course Luis and his friend took homeward led them near the residence
of the Conde San Vincente, in which neighbourhood they were, Pedro being
in advance with the torch, when they encountered a party who woke the
night air with their bacchanalian songs, and seemed little inclined
either to move out of their way, or to allow them to pass. The torch
was immediately knocked out of the grasp of Pedro, who forthwith dealt
the perpetrator of the act a severe blow with a cudgel he carried.
"Wretched villain!" exclaimed a young man, by the tone of his voice
evidently suffering from the effects of wine, "how dare you to lift your
hand against a fidalgo? you shall die the death for your audacity," and,
drawing his sword, he was about to run Pedro through the body, had not
the captain and Luis, unsheathing their weapons, also sprung forward to
rescue him.
"A skirmish, a skirmish!" cried several voices, and the whole of the
opposite party rushed forward to attack them.
"Nought but the blood of my foe can wash out the insult I have
received," exclaimed the young man, who had been the cause of the fray,
setting furiously on Luis, in the blindness of intoxication, not
observing to whom he was opposed.
"Ah, you have a sword, too, as well as a stick; then, I conclude you are
a gentleman, and fit to engage with--no matter--here's at you!" He,
however, was a good swordsman, nor could Luis disarm him, as he wished
to do, seeing his state, pressed closely, as he was also by his
companions, the Captain and Pedro being abundantly occupied in keeping
the rest at bay.
The young man, as we have said, rushed upon Luis, utterly regardless of
his own person, becoming, every pass in which he was foiled, more and
more daring; and still firmly retaining his sword. At length, Luis grew
weary of his attacks, and, perhaps, less cautious not to injure him,
when the young man, endeavouring to rush in on him, the former could not
draw back in time, his sword passing through his side, and, with a sharp
cry, he fell to the ground. The rage of his companions seemed increased
by the accident, when Captain Pinto, seeing what had occurred, shouted
out--"Beware, cavaliers, this may afford amusement to you, but I am a
peaceable man, and do not like fighting, so take warning from the fate
of your companion, and draw off, or by heavens, I will run two or three
of you through the body, to heighten your pleasure."
This warning, uttered in a determined voice, seemed to have some effect
on the obfuscated intellects of the party of debauchees, particularly as
the speaker had disarmed two of them, who fell back for support among
their companions, by whom, in mistake, they were very nearly run through
the body. A few slight scratches had been received by the assailants,
which appeared to satisfy them with fighting, and they were retreating,
forgetful of their wounded friend, when Luis sprung forward to aid him.
What was his horror, when, on Pedro recovering his torch, which had
remained burning on the ground, and bringing it to the spot, he beheld
in the features of his fallen antagonist those of the young Goncalo, the
brother of Clara.
He was senseless, Luis trusted, more from the fall, or from
intoxication, than from the effects of his wound; for he still breathed
heavily, although blood flowed freely from his side. As he was about to
raise him, some of his companions appeared to have recollected his
disaster; and returning, without apparently noticing Luis and his
friends, they lifted him amongst them from the ground, and, with
staggering steps, bore him along, not uttering a word during the time,
till they were nearly out of sight.
Luis was in doubts whether he ought not to follow, to see that more
attention was paid to the wounded man, than his friends were likely to
be able, in their present state, to afford; but the captain recommended
him not to interfere, observing, that as they had sense enough left to
carry him out of the road, they would send for the nearest barber to
bind up his side, which was all that a clean sword wound required.
"Oh, but he is the brother of my Clara, and may die from the wound he
has received," exclaimed Luis.
"That alters the case," said the Captain, and they set forward to
overtake the bearers of the wounded man; but though they walked quickly
along, by the time they came up with the party whom they fancied were
carrying him, he was not to be seen among them. To their inquiries, the
people assured them that they must be mistaken, as they had themselves
but just turned down from another street, and had heard no sounds of the
fray. They then followed another group, whose voices they heard a
little in advance; but with like want of success, the people holding
silence directly they approached.
"He has, perhaps, been conveyed to the palace of the Conde San
Vincente," exclaimed Luis; so they hurried down the street towards it;
for it was, as we have said, close at hand; but no one appeared in the
neighbourhood, and when, at length, they knocked at the door, after a
long time it was opened, and a surly porter declared that no one had
been there all that evening, nor had his master left his home since the
morning, and had now been in bed for some hours. This might, or might
not, have been true; but Luis had no other resource than to return with
his friend homeward, dispirited, and full of regret at the accident,
wishing that he rather had been the victim; for, should Goncalo die, he
would be looked upon as his murderer, and another barrier, far more
insuperable than the former, would be placed against any prospect of his
union with Clara. The best consolation the kind-hearted sailor could
offer, was, in endeavouring to persuade him, that the wound the young
fidalgo had received was probably slight, and that he would recover in a
few days; that Luis was in no way to blame, the encounter on his side
being perfectly unsought, and that the sufferer and his friends must
view it in the same light; indeed, he used every argument that most
people would have done in a like case, to soothe the mind of his young
friend, though they were of little avail; and it was almost daylight
when Luis fell asleep, with his hopes at a lower ebb than he had ever
before found them.
With increased anxiety, he repaired, on the following morning, to the
church where he was to meet Senhora Gertrudes; and, true to her
appointment, he found her kneeling at the same spot, where he had
encountered her on the previous day. Notwithstanding the recent
unfortunate occurrence, he had resolved to send the letter he had
written to Clara; for when his hand had penned it, that was yet
unstained with her brother's blood, as his heart was still guiltless of
any intention of shedding it.
The old nurse, however, was unconscious of anything that had occurred.
"Oh, senhor," she said, "I am so glad that you have not been prevented
from coming; for I have got leave to visit my young mistress this very
morning, and though she loves me dearly, I am sure that I shall be a
more welcome visitor if I carry your little note. Where is it, senhor?
Stay,--that nobody may see you deliver it, have the kindness to return
me my pocket-handkerchief, which I will drop." Upon which, she adroitly
drew the article she mentioned from her pocket, and let it fall by the
side of Don Luis, who, stooping down, restored it to her with the
letter, which he had conveyed under it.
As she felt the size of the packet, she whispered, "I am afraid, senhor,
this is much larger than the little note I promised to carry; but, never
mind, I dare say that you have a great deal to say to my young lady,
which she will like to hear; and I don't think a long note can do more
harm than a short one, so be assured she shall have it. Poor dear, I
would do anything to please her."
Luis was longing, all the time the old lady was speaking, to put in a
word to inquire for the young Goncalo. To his question, she answered,
that the young master's habits were so very irregular, that no one
remarked upon his remaining away for a night; that she had not seen him
that morning, nor did she think that he had returned home on the
previous evening; but that, just as she was leaving the palace, she was
surprised to meet, at that unusually early hour, his friend the Conde
San Vincente, (whom she took the opportunity to abuse,) just entering
the hall; that she thought he might have come to speak to the younger
Goncalo, or, perhaps, to his father.
Luis then told her, under the promise of the strictest secrecy, that he
had unintentionally, and, indeed, against his utmost endeavours, wounded
the young fidalgo on the previous evening; that he had been carried off
by his party, and he knew not where he had been conveyed. Luis then
assured her that his heart was wrung with anguish at what he had done,
and besought her, if her mistress heard of the accident, to place his
conduct in its proper light, as he had no doubt that occasion would be
taken to vilify him, if possible, in her opinion; particularly if, as he
suspected, the Conde San Vincente was engaged in the affair.
"Ah, senhor, I am sure it was entirely Goncalo's fault, who is led into
all sorts of mischief by that horrid count," said Gertrudes. "I knew he
would some day or other suffer for his folly; and I will take care my
young lady does not believe anything to your disparagement."
"In mercy do, my good senhora, or she will be taught to look upon me
with horror instead of love," said Luis. "You know not the pangs, the
wretchedness, I have suffered, at the thoughts of this fresh
misfortune."
"Oh yes, senhor, I can feel for you, I assure you," whispered the old
Nurse. "You forget I too was once young and pretty, and had my admirers
also, particularly one who was handsome, and constant, and loving; so I
married him at last, and some happy years I spent, till he went to sea,
and I never heard of him more; but I have ever since felt a kindred
feeling for young lovers, and doubly so when my sweet mistress is one of
the parties."
Luis felt his heart much relieved by her promises, and just then
bethought him of a present he had prepared for her, so requesting her
again to drop her handkerchief, he begged her to accept what he offered
her, which, considering it was a pair of handsome filigree gold
earrings, he had not much hesitation in doing, and seemed mightily
pleased at the attention.
While the greater part of the above conversation was going forward, they
had risen from their knees, and were standing hid from general view
behind one of the pillars of the church, the loud chanting of the
service preventing the tones of their voices being heard by any but
themselves. The same scene we have described is constantly practised
for far more doubtful purposes.
Senhora Gertrudes promising to bring Luis either a verbal or written
answer to his letter within a few days, they separated, little dreaming
of the accumulated horrors those days were to bring forth. Though his
conversation with the old nurse had somewhat restored peace to his mind,
by affording him yet a gleam of hope, Luis felt his spirits, like the
air, heavy and gloomy. As he walked slowly homeward, the unaccountable
and unusual gloom, which, like a funereal pall, had for many preceding
days hung over the city, seemed increased in density.
Volume 2, Chapter IX.
On the morning of the 1st of November, 1755, the murky gloom, which had
for so long hung over the city, appeared to have settled down in a dense
fog, a phenomenon so unusual, that many turned to their neighbours, and
asked if something dreadful was not about to occur, until the sun broke
forth, bright and beautiful, dispelling the darkness, and banishing
their fears: not a breath of wind disturbed the soft atmosphere, which
had more the genial warmth of summer than that late period of the year
usually afforded; not a cloud dimmed the pure serenity of the sky; and
everybody rejoiced that, at length, the ill-omened clouds had vanished.
It was the day of a festival, dedicated in the Romish Calendar to all
the Saints; and numerous parties of citizens and mechanics, released
from their usual occupations, might be seen hastening through all parts
of the city, dressed in their holiday suits, twanging their light
guitars, to enjoy themselves in the free air of the country. Happy were
they who thus early quitted that doomed city.
It was the day Donna Theresa d'Alorna had fixed on for her marriage,
why, none could tell; but so she willed it; and the ceremony was to take
place at an unusually early hour, in the chapel belonging to her
father's palace, the high dignitary of the Church who officiated on the
important occasion being required to perform some other indispensable
duty at a later hour. Captain Pinto had been spending some days with
Luis, and, early in the morning, parted from him to visit Senhor Mendez,
whom, on the previous evening, he had left with an increase in his
indisposition. Soon afterwards, Luis, ordering Pedro to attend him,
rode forward to the palace of the Count d'Alorna, to be in readiness to
attend the ceremony about to be performed. It was one he would
willingly have avoided; for, though he retained no love for his
beautiful cousin, he could not help feeling many regrets that one on
whom he had once set his affections, should be given away to a person
for whom he knew she could feel scarce the slightest regard. The count
received him with cordiality, introducing him to the numerous members of
the Tavora family, who were there assembled to do honour to the marriage
of the heir to the rank and dignities of the head of their haughty
house.
The marchioness, Donna Leonora, we have already mentioned, a lady yet
retaining many marks of her past beauty. She was of a proud and
imperious temper, dividing her thoughts between aims for the yet further
aggrandisement of her family, and what she considered her religious
duties; indeed, by her active and intriguing disposition, she was
calculated to succeed in undertakings which others of her sex would have
considered impracticable; obstacles only serving with her to increase
the ardour of her pursuit.
The marquis, her husband, was a man of dignified and noble carriage, but
very different from her in disposition, being of an amiable and gentle
temper, yielding his opinion, alas! too much to her guidance. Their
second son, Don Joze, a youth yet scarcely nineteen, was celebrated as
much for the beauty of his person, as for the elegance of his manner,
and for his honourable and noble disposition; and he at once gained the
good opinion of Luis, which afterwards ripened into sincere friendship.
We do not intend to describe the ceremony, which, in the Romish Church,
is of short duration. Not a tear was shed by the bride as her father
gave her away, but there was a tremulous motion on her lips, and her eye
bore a distracted and pained impression, which it wrung Luis's heart to
see; and no sooner had he performed the duties required of him, than,
without waiting for the feast prepared for the guests, he hastened from
the palace, and mounting his horse, desired Pedro to return home, while
he endeavoured to dissipate his melancholy feelings by exercise.
He was, at first, doubtful which way to turn his horse's head; but there
was an attraction he could not resist, to wander beneath the walls which
confined her on whom all his affections had centred; though she might be
concealed from his view, yet he remembered a long line of grated
windows, through which he had, at times, seen many a young and lovely
face gazing on the bright world without, like a bird from its cage, as
if longing for liberty; and some latent hope there was in his breast
that Clara, too, might be tempted by the beauty of the morning to
endeavour to inhale the free air of heaven from her prison windows, the
nearest approach to liberty she was doomed to enjoy.
The moment this idea occurred to him, he urged on his steed as fast as
he could venture to proceed over the ill-paved and rugged streets, till
he arrived near the Convent of Santa Clara; he then, slackening his
pace, rode under its lofty walls, gazing up anxiously at each window as
he passed, but she whom he sought appeared not. Twice had he passed,
and he began to despair of seeing her, fearful also that his remaining
there might attract observation and suspicion on himself, when, like a
bright light in the black obscurity of the midnight sky, at one of the
hitherto dark windows, towards which his eyes were turned, appeared a
female form.
A lover's sight was not to be deceived: his heart beat with rapture, as
he beheld his beloved Clara; nor was she slow, as her glance fell on the
street beneath, in recognising him who had not been absent from her
thoughts since they parted. She dared not speak, even could her voice
have been heard; but her gaze convinced him that his presence caused her
no displeasure. Neither could tear themselves away from the spot they
occupied; yet, alas! it was the nearest interview they could hope to
enjoy. For some minutes they remained regarding each other with looks
of fond affection, when, on a sudden, the docile animal Luis rode
snorted and neighed loudly, and then trembled violently. A deep low
noise was heard, like carriage wheels passing at a distance; it
increased, as if a thousand chariots were rushing by, shaking the earth
by their impetuous course. Clara uttered a shriek of terror; for she
beheld her lover's steed dash furiously onward, to escape from the
dreaded approach of impending ruin. The ill-omened sounds increased.
His rider in vain checked him with the rein--the animal uttered a cry of
agony, and rearing high in the air, as if struck by a shot in the chest,
fell backward with him to the ground. Luis, now in front of the
principal entrance to the convent, was uninjured; and, disengaging
himself, from his fallen steed, which, rising, galloped madly away, he
turned towards the gateway of the building. Again that dread-inspiring
convulsion wrenched the solid ground. Shrieks and cries of terror rose
on every side. The great gates were thrown open, and crowds of nuns
were seen issuing forth, in the wildest confusion and despair, flying
they knew not whither, the hopes of self-preservation urging them
onward, thoughtless of all they left behind; and from the door of the
adjacent church, a like panic-struck mass were rushing forward--men,
women, and children--the wealthy and the poor--the noble and the
beggar--ladies in their silken robes, and priests in their sacerdotal
vestments, in one confused concourse, all trying to pass each other; the
aged and the feeble overthrown and trampled on by the young and
vigorous. But the implacable spirit of destruction made no distinction
between age or sex, strength or weakness; none could withstand the vast
masses of masonry which came hurtling on their heads; some few escaped
unscathed amid the tremendous shower, but every moment fresh hundreds
lay crushed beneath the superincumbent ruins. But Luis, where was he
amid the wild uproar and confusion? One only object, one thought filled
his imagination. Clara, his own beloved, was within those tottering
walls! Could he save her? Not an instant's idea of self-preservation
crossed his mind. He flew, as he rose from the ground, towards the
gate. His eye ranged over the affrighted countenances of the recluses,
but she was not among them. It was impossible she could have reached
the entrance in time. He endeavoured to urge his way among them, to
enter the house of destruction, but none stayed him to ask whither he
went. He cried forth Clara's name, but no one could understand or
answer him. A fair girl came flying past him, shrieking with fear: a
vast stone fell from the gateway, and, in an instant, that lovely form
lay, crushed beneath it, a shapeless mass. He stayed not in his course;
but, as he rushed on, "Oh God!" he cried, "such might be Clara's fate!"
His bosom seemed bursting with his dreadful feelings: he shrieked, but
his voice appeared choked, and without strength. The Father Confessor
passed, followed by the Lady Abbess, for whom he stayed not, though,
with cries, she implored him to aid her; yet both escaped, and thanked
Heaven their righteousness had saved them, while two innocent girls
shared the destiny of the former. Luis looked not behind him at their
fate; far more terrible dangers were before him, and she whom he sought
was in the midst of them! Words cannot paint the horrors which
surrounded him; and with far greater rapidity did he rush onward than
the time we must take to describe his progress. He, at length, broke
his way past the affrighted females, and terror-stricken monks, who
impeded his course; but the strength with which his eagerness to proceed
inspired him, was even greater than that which their fear gave to the
latter; and, triumphing over all obstacles, he reached a large
quadrangle, on the right of which appeared a broad staircase, which he
knew must lead in the direction where Clara had been. Was she there
now? He stayed not to reckon chances. Love gave him the instinct of
the Indian to traverse the trackless desert: he hesitated not a moment
to consider the path he was to take; for all his thoughts and energies
were concentrated on one point, to discover the spot where Clara was to
be found. He flew up the stone steps, which yet stood firm, though
broad fissures appeared in the walls on each side; he traversed, with
the speed of the frighted deer, a long corridor, leaping over many a
chasm already formed in the floor, the ceiling, at every step, falling
in on him from above; the ends of the stout beams bending down,
threatening instant destruction, as their supports, giving way, were
leaning towards the street. His breathing was nearly stopped by the
exertion, and by the clouds of dust which surrounded him, and which also
obscured his sight; yet on he rushed, when, in an instant, his energies
were paralysed; the blood forsook his heart; a female form lay before
him--oh, Heavens! was it Clara? He stooped down. No, no, that mangled
shape could not be hers. A deep wound was in the temple, the fair hair
was clotted with blood--he dared not give another glance. No, no, it
could not have been her--those, surely, were the robes of a nun. He
fled onward; he felt confident that he must have reached the
neighbourhood of the window beneath which he had remained gazing at her.
Another corridor led him to the right; a door stood open--he rushed
in--the roof had given way, but he leaped over the intervening rubbish.
Within a deep recess of solid masonry was a window, but he saw no one
there. It could not be his judgment which guided him; for, at that
awful time, 'twere vain to suppose human judgment could be exercised, or
could avail aught. Yet some power drew him on--that inscrutable, that
magnetic influence which attracts two souls together--that all-pervading
instinct of love!
He paused not till he reached the window. His hopes had not deceived
him. Sunk on the ground, her fair head resting against the stone
window-seat, he beheld the beloved object of his search. He raised her
up--he clasped her in his arms. "Oh, Luis! is he safe?" she whispered,
as her head sunk on his shoulder, unconscious of all that had occurred--
of the fearful destruction which was going forward. Her last thought
had been of him, as she saw him borne away by his maddened steed;--she
heard not the wild cries which rose from below, or the shrieks which
echoed through the building, or the voice of a friend, calling on her to
fly. Her love had preserved her; and they were together, as yet
unharmed; and Luis felt (if thought or feeling could be possible at such
a moment) that no power could divide them. The same fate awaited them
both, but instant destruction seemed to threaten them. If the walls
stood, within the recess they might be safe; but already were those
shaken to their foundations--another shock, and they must inevitably
fall. Such was his rapid idea, as he was raising Clara. Again he
turned to fly with her to seek for safety; but where was safety to be
found, when the earth itself was lifted, like the ocean's billows, from
its level? Still there was happiness and confidence at his heart.
Though so many examples were before his eyes, he imagined not the fate
which might be theirs. Onward he bore her, by the way he had come,
along the broad corridor. For some time his course was unimpeded, till,
at length, a vast chasm yawned before him: the whole wall had fallen
down, crushing all beneath it. Once more he turned, with his precious
burden, still unconscious, in his arms: more than human strength and
energy seemed afforded him. Another corridor presented itself, the
floor yet affording a passage, though crowded with fragments of the
roof. As he flew along it, he observed a stair on one side: that might
lead to some egress. He descended rapidly, though scarce a gleam of
light was there to guide his steps. When he reached the bottom, he
found a passage, narrow and vaulted, leading off on each side. He took
that to the left, where the light appeared; but, as he approached it, a
strongly-barred window was seen. Near him, a door was left open, at the
top of a second narrow and winding stair. Whither that would lead there
was no time to consider; but retreat was hopeless by the way he had
come, and his only hope of saving the life of the dear being he bore was
in onward progress. He descended the steps: to what secret chambers had
they conducted him? Another door was before him--it gave way to his
touch, and he found that they had reached a low, narrow, and vaulted
passage. That it led to the open air he felt assured, from the greater
degree of light before him; but the dust prevented his seeing many feet
beyond where they were. He hastened on, when again a terrific sound was
heard, like the loud echoes of cannon in a mountain gorge--the earth
shook beneath his feet--a stunning crash was more felt than heard, as if
the globe had been hurled in contact with another body--the strong walls
on each side seemed giving way--huge masses of the building, falling on
all sides, blocked up all egress in front,--behind, all was darkness!
Nature could endure no more: his legs refused to support him, and he
sank with his precious burden to the ground; yet consciousness did not
forsake him, and he preserved her from injury, bending over her yet
inanimate form, that he might shield her to the last, and that his head
should be the first to receive the blow which he felt assured must fall.
The second violent shock was over, yet crash after crash continued to
be heard, as each massive wall and lofty tower, which man in his pride
had fancied would last for ever, were overturned like pasteboard fabrics
raised by childhood's hands. A third time was the loud thunder beneath
the earth heard--the ground shook, and the few remaining walls of the
convent were cast down, and that vast fabric, which, a few minutes
before, had stood firm and entire, was now one shapeless mass of ruins,
with hundreds of human beings buried beneath it. The anguish of death
came over Luis: Clara--his own Clara, lay, without breathing, in his
arms. Her pulse had ceased to beat, animation had fled, and he welcomed
destruction as a boon from Heaven. Each instant the end of all things
seemed about to arrive; the shrieks of despair, which had before wrung
on his ears, were hushed; the thundering crashes of the falling
buildings were no longer heard; and the more terror-inspiring muttered
roar beneath the earth had ceased; but foul exhalations arose, and
poisoned the air, already filled with suffocating dust; and darkness,
impenetrable and oppressive, surrounded the lovers.
Volume 2, Chapter X.
Were we to indulge, while describing scenes like the present, in the
light jest, or stroke of satire, we should deem ourselves equally
capable of laughing at the anguish and wretchedness to which, in our
course through life, we have too frequently been witness; our readers
must, therefore, pardon us, if, on this occasion, contrary to their
wish, we lay aside that inclination we have hitherto experienced, to
satirise the follies and wickedness of our fellow-men. It will be our
duty to revert to the events which occurred to the principal personages
mentioned in this history.
We left the bridal party at the palace of the Marquis d'Alorna. They
were assembled in a handsome saloon, which looked towards the street,
while all were paying their compliments to the lovely Donna Theresa, and
their congratulations to the young marquis, on his happiness at
possessing so fair a bride, when a train of carriages was heard passing.
"It is the King and the royal family, on their road to Belem," said the
Conde d'Atouquia. "They were to go there this morning."
"I would they were never to return!" muttered the Duke of Aveiro. "It
would be no great loss to us."
"Hush! duke," said the Count, who had just sufficient sense to know that
silence will often stand in the place of wisdom. "All here know not
their own interests. 'Twill be better not to speak on that subject
awhile."
When the lovely bride heard the King mentioned, a pallor overspread her
countenance.
"Are you ill, my Theresa," inquired her young husband, affectionately.
"Oh no, 'twas a sudden pain, but I am well again," she answered,
recovering, and endeavouring to smile. She could not say it was the
dreadful struggle between conscience and inclination which agitated her.
The guests had just taken their seats at a sumptuous breakfast, prepared
for the occasion, the bridegroom being placed at the head of the table,
when that strange sound of chariot-wheels was heard.
"'Tis the King, for some cause, returning home again," exclaimed one.
("'Tis the King of Terrors, riding on the whirlwind of destruction," he
might, more properly, have said.)
"No, 'tis a sudden blast, or the roaring of the breakers against the
rocks of St. Julian," answered another.
"Mother of Heaven! see, the glasses tremble!" cried several.
At that moment the noise increased. "An earthquake! an earthquake!"
shrieked the guests, rushing from their seats towards the window.
The building shook, but scarce a stone fell. "'Twill be over soon,"
exclaimed the Marquis of Tavora, preserving his presence of mind.
"There is more danger in the street than here."
The wildest dismay was visible in the countenances of all, yet none
sought to fly, but rushed together towards the recesses of the windows,
fancying that numbers might cause security.
"Fear not, my friends," said the Marquis d'Alorna, "this palace is
strong, and has resisted many an earthquake. It will alone affect the
fragile houses of the plebeians. See! numbers are already in ruins;
what clouds of dust rise from them! The shock has passed, and we are
safe!"
Scarcely had he uttered the words, when again that sullen roaring
beneath the earth was heard. There was no time for flight, they stood
paralysed with horror. Donna Theresa showed the fewest signs of fear,
as she gazed forth on the city, great part of which lay spread at their
feet: she sought not for support, while the other ladies present clung
to the arms of those nearest them, except the elder Marchioness of
Tavora, who, drawing forth a crucifix from her bosom, called on all
around her to pray to the holy Virgin for safety; but, during those
moments, the only words any could utter were, "Misericordia!
misericordia!"
The wildest cries of agony and fear arose from below, where row beyond
row of the thickly crowded streets swayed backwards and forwards, like
the agitated waves of the ocean, when the first blast of the hurricane
is felt; while the thick clouds of dust which ascended from the falling
masses seemed like the foam flying before the tempest.
A strong wind now blew with terrific violence, and, as here and there a
view could be obtained of the city, one scene of havoc and destruction
presented itself: not a church, or convent, scarce a house, was standing
below them, except in the immediate neighbourhood, on the side of the
hill; and many of the houses even there were tottering to their base,
the people hurrying through the streets, they knew not whither, seeking
for safety, and often hurrying to destruction. Numbers had fled to a
broad quay, newly built of solid marble, where they deemed themselves in
perfect safety; when, as if by magic, it suddenly sank, the water
rushing into the vast chasm it had formed, drawing within its vortex,
like a whirlpool, numbers of boats and small vessels, crowded with
unfortunate wretches, who fancied that it was from the earth alone they
had cause to fear. Directly after this dreadful catastrophe had
occurred, a vast wave was seen rising on the river, hitherto so calm and
shining, and rushing with impetuous force towards the devoted city. The
vessels were torn from their moorings, and hurled one against the other.
On came the mountain-billow, breaking over the lower part of the city,
and sweeping off thousands who had fled to the remaining quays for
safety, returning once more to throw back its prey of mangled corpses,
amid broken planks and rafters of the ruined houses.
In silent dismay, the festal party stood yet free themselves from harm,
though they beheld some of the domestics, who, being on the
ground-floor, had rushed from the palace down the street in front,
crushed beneath the houses, which fell as they attempted to proceed.
The Marquis d'Alorna urged his friends to remain, for several had
determined to attempt to escape from the city, the whole of which they
expected every instant to behold overwhelmed, when, seeing the fate of
their servants, they yielded to his persuasions. Scarcely had they
returned to the window, when, with the same dreadful omens, a third
shock was felt, though by them but slightly; and, as if struck by a
magician's wand, every remaining wall and tower in the vast arena below,
which had before escaped, was thrown prostrate, the waves again
returning, and rushing high over the ruins, quickly flowing back to
their proper boundaries; but not a minute intervened before another
mighty billow followed, and another, and another, until every one felt
persuaded the city must be submerged.
The mighty throes of nature appeared at length calmed--the roaring noise
had ceased; but the wailing of the bereaved inhabitants, and the shrieks
and groans of the dying, filled the air. Two elements had already
conspired to the destruction of that once opulent and crowded city; but
even yet the spirit of destruction was not satisfied, and scarcely had
the survivors begun to recover from their first unnerving panic, when a
new foe appeared, and flames rose from every fallen shrine and
monastery, and from many of the houses yet standing. So paralysed had
become the energies of all, that no one attempted to stop the rapid
progress of the devouring element. It at first commenced in different
spots, like so many watch-fires lighted by an army encamped on the
plain, but, by degrees, it extended on every side, till the greater part
of the city was enveloped in one vast conflagration.
"Whither can we fly for safety?" cried several of the party, gazing at
each other with horror on their countenances. "At all events, let us
quit this devoted city," all exclaimed. "But is there a road yet left
free?" asked some.
"We must not remain here to be burned alive, having escaped the other
dangers," said the young Marquis of Tavora. "My Theresa, I swear to
bear you safe, or die with you." The bride hesitated, but her husband
insisted on supporting her. "Now, senhores, I will set the example, if
you will follow; and we may find some of our country-houses uninjured."
His opinion was considered the best to follow by the majority.
"I will order my horses and carriage from my palace," said the Duke of
Aveiro; but, when he looked towards his palace, he beheld it one heap of
ruins: the proud residence of the Tavoras had shared the same fate, as
had those of many other persons present.
The palace of the King, which he and all the royal family had, a few
minutes before, so providentially quitted, was overwhelmed in the common
destruction; and the Opera-house, a solid and magnificent building, a
short time before only finished, had shared the same fate, the side
walls remaining alone standing. But this was no time for vain regrets:
self-preservation was the first thought of all. The advice of the young
marquis was followed, and each of the gentlemen aiding in supporting the
ladies, they issued forth from the palace, already deserted by the
greater number of the servants, the remainder following them, without
leaving one to protect the rich and costly furniture, or even thinking
of closing the doors behind them.
The party proceeded onward, keeping as much as possible the higher
ground, which had escaped the convulsions which shook the valleys,
expecting every moment some fresh outbreak. They had not gone far, when
they encountered a fierce-looking band of the vilest rabble of the city,
who eyed the rich dresses and the glittering jewels of the ladies, as if
longing to possess themselves of them, and stopping, attempted to
surround the party, with threatening gestures; but the fidalgos, drawing
their swords, cleared a passage through them, receiving only loud jeers
and curses as they passed onward. In one place they were obliged to
descend the hill for some short distance, where the road was blocked up
by the fallen houses, which, as the only course left to them, they must
surmount. The scenes which met the eye, it were scarcely possible for
ordinary language to describe; men, women, and children, lay, dead or
dying, crushed and mangled in every way it were possible to conceive;
some of the latter yet crying out, but in vain, for assistance:--their
lot might be that of all the party, if they stayed. The only one of the
proud fidalgos who really felt for their sufferings, was the young Joze
da Tavora, and he vowed to return and aid them, if possible, when he had
conducted his sisters and the rest of his family to a place of safety.
After great labour, they escaped clear of the ruins, and reached some of
the highest ground, from whence they could look back on the hapless
city. Far as the eye could reach on each side, extending along the
banks of the river, was one universal scene of destruction. The greater
number of the superb and beautiful churches, the richly endowed
monasteries, the public buildings, the palaces, and the dwelling-houses,
had, in the course of a few minutes, been either levelled with the
ground, or their skeleton walls alone left standing, burying beneath
their ruins, as was afterwards ascertained, twenty thousand of the
inhabitants. In every direction, also, bright flames arose, wreathing
themselves round many buildings which had withstood the shocks; thick
clouds of smoke, like twisting pillars, ascending to support the dark
canopy which overhung the fatal spot. The river itself presented an
almost equally forlorn spectacle; ships were driven wildly in all
directions, some dashing against each other, and their crews unable to
separate them; others had been dashed to pieces on the opposite shore;
some had sunk, some had been carried far up the banks, and were now left
dry among the ruined buildings, while the water was covered with wrecks
of vessels, beams of timber, and floating bodies. Boats, too, of all
shapes and sizes, were floating about, many having been turned keel
uppermost by the vast waves. A large concourse of the houseless
wretches, whom the catastrophe had driven forth, were now collected on
the brow of the hill, bewailing, with groans and tears, their wretched
fate: their whole property destroyed, many half clothed, and without a
farthing left to purchase the necessaries of life, even if they were to
be found; but where was food to be procured for that multitude?
Thousands must perish of starvation before it could be distributed.
As the bridal party, after resting from their fatigues on the brow of
the hill, were about to proceed to the Quinta belonging to one of their
number, where they purposed erecting tents in the open ground, several
horsemen were seen approaching. The crowd made way for them; for among
the foremost rode the King, and by his side was the towering form of his
Minister, Carvalho. No sooner did the former behold Donna Theresa, than
his eye lighted up with satisfaction, and, for the moment, forgetful of
his city destroyed, and the wretchedness of his people, he threw himself
from his horse, which an attendant held, and advanced towards her.
While he congratulated her, and those around, on having escaped from
destruction, and her husband on his happiness, the Minister, who had
also dismounted, stood impatiently by. At last the King recollected
himself, and advanced to the brow of the hill. He started back at the
view he beheld: he wrung his hands with despair.
"Alas, alas!" he cried, "my beautiful Lisbon! where art thou? It is
hopeless to attempt restoring it. Alas! what shall I do?"
"Bury the dead, and take care of the living," answered the Minister,
promptly. "'Tis all that can be done."
"Carvalho, you are truly fit to govern my people," exclaimed the King,
embracing him.
"Will your Majesty give me full powers to act as I judge fit, without
let or hindrance of any sort, and I will undertake to restore order, to
supply food, and to rebuild the city."
"Do all that you will; I place implicit confidence in your judgment, and
promise to sanction all the measures you pursue."
"It is all I ask," said Carvalho. "I beg your Majesty will return to
Belem, to rest after the fatigues you have undergone, and be assured I
will not fail in my duty."
The King, taking his Minister's advice, rode back to Belem, while
Carvalho, throwing himself into his carriage, which had driven up,
immediately commenced issuing orders for the regulation of the
inhabitants who had been driven from their homes, and, sending
messengers in all directions, to desire the farmers at a distance to
bring food to the neighbourhood of the city for their use. Every one
obeyed him with alacrity; for, on a great emergency, the mob are ever
ready to be ruled by any one who can exhibit confidence in himself. But
we are forestalling events, and must return to follow the adventures on
that dreadful day of several friends in whom we are deeply interested.
Volume 2, Chapter XI.
We left our good friend Captain Pinto, having just parted from Luis,
hurrying off on a visit of charity to the stranger Senhor Mendez. He
found him, contrary to his expectations, considerably recovered; the
slight attack he had suffered on the previous night, which had alarmed
his attendant, having passed off, though he was still unable to leave
his couch. Seating himself by his side, the gallant sailor detailed to
him various circumstances which had happened in the world since he had
last seen him, when their conversation turned upon matters of yet
greater interest, and so engrossed were they in their subject, that they
did not attend to the first dread signals of approaching confusion.
Soon again, the noise grew louder, the house shook, and the upper story,
with a loud crash, fell in, destroying several unfortunate beings who
were residing there.
"'Tis an earthquake!" exclaimed Captain Pinto. "I thought something was
about to happen, though it passed my power of calculation to tell what."
"Then fly, my friend, and save yourself," cried Senhor Mendez; "for the
whole house must inevitably fall, and will crush you in the ruins."
"I will see what chance there is first of carrying you on my back,"
answered the sailor, coolly walking to the window, and looking into the
street, from whence the most piercing shrieks proceeded. "'Twill be
wiser to stay where we are; for 'tis raining rather large stones from
the house-tops, and numbers of poor wretches, who have fled thither, he
crushed beneath them."
"'Tis a great hazard, but much greater is incurred by remaining here;
so, I beseech you, fly, and leave me," reiterated Senhor Mendez.
"This is no time for jesting," said the Captain, "or I might suppose you
were inclined to be merry. What! do you ask me to leave a brother in
danger, when I might save him? No, my friend, I will perish with you,
if such is to be our lot,--we are neither of us children to fear
death,--or I will preserve your life."
Saying which, the captain returned to the side of his friend's couch,
and drew the head of it within an alcove formed in the wall. "We shall
here be far safer than in the street; for the greater part of the house
may fall around without injuring us."
In vain Senhor Mendez urged his friend to fly: he persisted in remaining
by his side, till he found that words were of no avail. "I will go with
you, then," he said. "I have yet strength sufficient to walk to some
open space, where the danger will be less." But the captain was
resolute; for he well knew that the sick man could not hurry along at
the speed which was requisite, nor climb over the impediments they were
certain to encounter.
Three or four minutes passed away in a state of dreadful uncertainty,
the gallant sailor sitting calmly down, firmly resolved to await the
result. Then came the second and most violent shock: the back part of
the house was heard to fall, the shrieks and cries were redoubled, crash
after crash succeeded; but still the friends were safe, and the captain
firmly kept his post. The third shock, which followed some minutes
afterwards, was less violent, though a greater number of buildings,
shaken by the former ones, were overturned by it.
The front wall of the house was seen to bulge outward. "Farewell, my
friend," ejaculated Senhor Mendez, seeing what was about to occur. Down
fell the wall into the street, while clouds of dust obscured their
sight; but the upper rafters of the ceiling still bound the sides of the
building together. Both the friends expected instant destruction;
minute after minute passed away, but the wall beneath which they were
stood firm; till at length, the air becoming more clear, and the shocks
scarcely perceptible, they had the satisfaction of wringing each other's
hands as a mark of joy at their mutual preservation, and returning
thanks to the great Being who had saved them.
It was in the same way the elegant and beautiful wife of the Minister,
the Countess Daun, was preserved. She had not yet risen from her bed
when the first shock was felt; but, springing up, she rushed to where
her youngest child was sleeping, and with admirable presence of mind and
resolution, stood the whole time that the work of destruction was
proceeding, within a broad doorway, the front wall of the house being
precipitated outward, and the roof falling in and crushing the bed on
which she had been sleeping. The rest of the building stood, and she
had the happiness, when the convulsions had subsided, of finding her
other children unharmed, though she knew not the fate of their father,
who had, at an early hour, left his home.
But to return to Captain Pinto. After remaining for a considerable time
with his friend in their perilous situation, and perceiving no further
shocks, he determined to endeavour to carry him to a place of greater
safety. Wrapping him up, therefore, in some clothes which had
fortunately escaped, he bore him to the door, standing open, and from
thence down the broken steps, and over heaps of ruins, by the back of
the house, (for the front was completely blocked up,) and across a small
courtyard, where he was obliged to set him down to rest. The wall had
been thrown down, exhibiting a street, in a less ruinous state, leading
up a steep hill, at the top of which was an open space, surrounded by
buildings, which, being only of one story, had resisted the shocks.
Thither the captain now led his friend, who insisted on walking, which,
with some difficulty, he was able to do, although he sunk down exhausted
when he reached the place, where were now assembled a vast concourse of
affrighted wretches, with tears and cries mourning the loss of relations
and friends,--mothers in tones of misery inquiring for their children,
husbands for their wives, sons for their parents and sisters. Here all
ranks and conditions were indiscriminately mingled; the proud noble and
the loathsome beggar; high dignitaries of the Church in their purple
robes; priests who had fled from the altars in their sacerdotal
vestments, while celebrating mass; officers and soldiers with their arms
thrown aside; nuns and friars in their monastic habits; ladies
half-dressed, many without even shoes to protect their feet. Some were
rushing to the square, others were flying away, in hopes of finding
greater security elsewhere. The greater number were on their knees,
offering up broken prayers and cries to Heaven, beating their breasts,
with terror in their countenances, and ejaculating, "Mercy! mercy!"
Some held clasped in their hands before them crucifixes and images of
the saints, which they ever and anon kissed with the most fervent
devotion. Some had crawled thither with their limbs broken and their
bodies bruised, and were lying, writhing with pain, on the ground,
crying out in vain for a drop of water to quench their thirst, many only
half clothed, their only consolation, when some of the pious would bring
them a cross or an image to kiss, which, with their last gasp, they
would press to their lips.
An aged priest was moving among the crowd, with crucifix in hand,
exhorting the people to repentance, and endeavouring to offer them every
consolation in his power. "Repent, my children; for the wrath of Heaven
has descended on you for your sins!" he cried, with tears in his eyes.
"You have given yourselves up to every description of wickedness and
folly, when you thought none from heaven could see you, and now behold
the consequence! Repent, ere it is too late; repent, ere complete
destruction comes on you, and your name is erased from the face of the
earth! Call loudly on the blessed Virgin; beseech her to intercede for
you, and she will hear you; for she loves you as her own children; her
heart is tender and compassionate, and she, with sighs and tears, will
petition her Son to spare you."
The people flocked around the venerable man, earnestly entreating his
benediction; and happy did those deem themselves who could touch even
the hem of his garment.
While Captain Pinto was kneeling by the side of his friend, and
supporting his head, a person dripping with water rushed by, gazing
anxiously into the faces of all he passed. He turned again, and seeing
the captain, came up to him. "Oh, senhor, I am wretched and miserable;
for I can nowhere find my young master, and know not what has become of
him," exclaimed Pedro, for he was the speaker. "I have been hurrying
all over the city in search of him, and fear much he must have been
destroyed. Alas, alas! I am the only one saved out of the house, which
has fallen to the ground. Poor Anna and Lucas are both gone. When we
rushed out together, I was a little before them, when the front wall
fell and crushed them both--alas, alas!"
"Stay for me," said the Captain. "Assist me to support Senhor Mendez to
some place of security, and I will then accompany you to search for your
master."
"Care not for me, my friend; but go at once, and search for the youth,"
said Senhor Mendez. "Perhaps even now he is yet alive, beneath some
stone, and you may be in time to save him."
"I will not quit you till you are placed in safety," answered Captain
Pinto; and with the aid of Pedro supporting his friend, they conveyed
him through the less ruinous parts of the city towards the house of an
acquaintance who possessed a large garden in the outskirts. Their road
was beset with danger, from the blocks of stone which continued falling
every instant from the tottering walls of the buildings; sometimes they
were obliged to climb over the ruins, from whence they could hear the
groans of the dying and mangled beings who lay buried beneath, but whom
it was impossible to attempt to rescue; here, among the masses of stone,
limbs were seen protruding,--there the lower part of the body crushed,
while the person was yet alive, hopelessly striving to extricate
himself; others, more happy, already lay dead, with huge stones on their
breasts: but wherever they passed, cries, and shrieks, and groans
assailed their ears.
As they proceeded, Pedro gave an account of his adventures. "Oh,
senhor, I thought the end of the world was come," he said, "and I never
expected to see anybody I knew again when first this dreadful earthquake
came on. I scarcely know what happened till I found myself in the
Square of Saint Paul's, and the church, and all the buildings round,
tumbling about in all directions, and many of the stones almost touching
me as they fell; so, not liking that situation, I clambered over the
ruins of the church, which had just fallen, crushing hundreds of people
beneath it, and reached the broad quay by the river's side, where I
thought I should be safer that anywhere else; but I had not been there
more than two minutes when a second shock came on, and I was thrown with
my face flat on the ground, and had just risen again, when I heard a
general cry that the sea was coming in on us. I looked towards the
river, and though there was no wind blowing, I beheld an immense wave,
rising like a mountain, of its own accord, come foaming and roaring
towards the shore. I cast not another look at it, but ran for my life,
regardless of the falling stones in the streets; but the water came
faster than I could fly, and had I not caught hold of a beam of timber
projecting from some ruins, I should have been swept away, as many other
unfortunate people were; for the river immediately returned again to its
proper level. Thinking there was as much danger from the sea as from
the land, I returned back, by the way I came, to the Square of Saint
Paul's; but, when I had remained there a minute or so, another shock
cast down a great number of buildings which had escaped, and the water
rushed even there, so I gave up all hopes of being saved. The water,
however, again retired, when I bethought me of my master; for, I
confess, before that, my only idea was of taking care of myself. I had
been running about in every direction, but could meet nobody even who
knew him, till I found you on the top of the hill, where I hoped he too
might have gone."
By the time Pedro had concluded his narration, they reached the house of
the friend of whom the captain had spoken; and though that had not
fallen, the family had deserted it, and were assembled in an open space
in the garden, with numerous friends, who had hastened there for safety.
They charitably received Senhor Mendez among them, promising to do
their best to assist him, when Captain Pinto, without even waiting to
take any refreshment, hurried back, followed by Pedro, in search of
Luis.
On their way, through the captain's forethought, they procured two iron
bars, to aid them in digging among the ruins, should they, by any
chance, discover a clue to where he was last seen, though they
entertained but slight hopes of discovering him, either dead or alive,
had he not escaped uninjured. The horrors and destruction which they
witnessed on their way have never been surpassed, if even equalled,
during the annals of the world. In many places, also, the buildings had
caught fire, and were blazing up furiously on all sides, so that they
were obliged to make wide circuits to avoid them. The only clue which
Pedro could afford, was that, when his master had parted from him, he
had taken a direction by which he must pass by the Convent of Santa
Clara, and the captain being in the secret of his friend's feelings,
concluded that he might very possibly have remained in the
neighbourhood, in the faint hopes of seeing his mistress. Though the
chance of discovering him was truly desperate, they determined to
persevere; and, not being aware of the entire destruction of that
convent, they thought that they might possibly hear something of him
from some persons in the neighbourhood, as he would be remarked from
being on horseback. After great labour they approached the place; but
they looked in vain for the convent--not a wall was standing. As they
were crossing a street which led to the square in which it had stood,
Pedro's eye was attracted by a dark object beneath the fallen wall of a
house; he hastened towards it, and, to his horror, recognised the horse
his master had ridden. He wrung his hands in despair, as Captain Pinto
came up, pointing to the dead steed, whose head lay crushed by a stone.
The captain understood the sign, and joined Pedro in endeavouring to
turn over the masses of masonry which thickly covered the ground; the
latter, narrowly examining the saddle, to assure himself that he not
been mistaken regarding the horse, shook his head mournfully when he
found that his fears were too correct. For a long time they plied their
task in silence, except when the captain gave some necessary order,
expecting every moment to discover the crushed remains of him they
sought; for they could scarce indulge a hope that he could by any
miracle have escaped. With great labour, and at imminent risk, they
cleared away the stones in every direction round the dead horse, the yet
standing walls threatening every instant to destroy them, large blocks
continually falling with loud crashes near them; but their toil was in
vain; and at length, overcome with fatigue, they were compelled, in
despair, to desist. Selecting a safe spot, at a distance from the
tottering walls, they seated themselves on a mound of ruins, to consult
on the next measure to be taken, while they recovered strength to
proceed.
They had scarcely been seated there a minute, watching the groups who
stood gazing in mute despair, or rushed about with frantic gestures
deploring their loss, among the former being a few of the late inmates
of the convent, when a person rushed by, his head, sprinkled with white
hairs, being uncovered, his dress disordered, with hands outstretched,
and eyes wildly gazing on every side. "My child, my child!" he cried,
in piercing accents; "has any one beheld my child? I have been deprived
of my son, and if now my daughter is torn from me, I am childless!" No
one heeded him, for hundreds were uttering the same cries. At a short
distance, a woman followed him, with loud shrieks. "My mistress, my
young mistress! has any one seen her? Where have they hid her? where,
where?" she was exclaiming, and then gave way again to screams and
tears.
Pedro regarded them earnestly. "That is the fidalgo Goncalo Christovao.
I know him, the father of Donna Clara; and that old woman is her nurse.
Depend upon it, senhor, they are in search of the young lady. Alas,
alas! I fear that it will be as hopeless as that for my master; but,
with your leave, senhor, we will follow them; for I know that if Don
Luis was alive, he would be searching for her also."
The captain agreed to the proposal, and hastened after the fidalgo, who
no sooner perceived the group of nuns, than he rushed up to them, wildly
inquiring among them for his beloved daughter. The captain and Pedro
came up with him at the same time: not one of the nuns would venture to
speak. With tears he besought them to answer him; explaining, with
broken exclamations, that he was the father of a lady belonging to their
convent. At length one of the sisterhood, pointing to the ruins,
exclaimed, "Alas, senhor, we are the only survivors of the two hundred
inhabitants of the convent; the rest lie buried beneath yon shattered
walls!"
The hapless father heard no more. Had he not forced his daughter to
enter that retreat, she might have been safe; and with a loud cry he
fell backwards, and would have sunk to the ground, had not Captain Pinto
and Pedro been at hand to support him.
Poor Senhora Gertrudes redoubled her cries, and wrung her hands in
despair, as she seated herself on the ground near her master.
Regardless of whatever else might happen, and calling on all the saints
to restore her young mistress, she would, every now and then, seeing
that the fidalgo was unable to comprehend her, reproach him for being
the cause of her unhappiness; then she would abuse the convent for
falling, and the nuns for leaving her lady behind. Captain Pinto was in
a dilemma how to act; he was anxious to search for his friend, at the
same time that he was unwilling to leave the fidalgo in his present
state, and not a drop of water was to be found to assist in recovering
him.
The unhappy father giving no signs of returning animation, the captain
grew weary of watching one with whom he was not even acquainted, when
his aid was so much more required by others: placing him, therefore, in
a situation as far removed as possible from danger, he at length brought
the old nurse sufficiently to reason, to induce her to watch by the side
of her master, while he, and Pedro, continued their search for Luis.
His purpose was first to visit, if possible, the palace of the Conde
d'Almeida, in case Luis should have thought of returning homeward, and
not hearing of him in that neighbourhood, to work his way to the
outskirts of the city, and to make inquiries for him at every place
where he found people collected, among whom he could discover any of his
acquaintance, intending either to return himself, or to despatch some
one with assistance to Goncalo Christovao.
Volume 2, Chapter XII.
It would be impossible to describe, and difficult even to conceive, a
scene in which a greater assemblage of crime, wretchedness, and filth
was to be found, than that which, at the time we write of, was offered
by the prison of Lisbon.
In a courtyard, where the prisoners were allowed to take whatever fresh
air descended within the precincts of that abode of wretchedness, were
now collected a number of unfortunate beings, on the countenance of
every one of whom might be traced the marks of fierce ungovernable
passions, sullen and vindictive humours, a low cunning which had
overreached itself, and was longing again for freedom to indemnify
itself for its fault. Some were endeavouring to warm themselves in the
narrow strip of sunshine which found its way into the courtyard; others
were staking all they possessed, a few coppers, perhaps, at games of
dice, their eagerness as great as that of the man who is hazarding his
thousands; some were carrying on a silent game at cards, the loser, by
the motion of his hand towards the place where his dagger used to be,
proving the use he would have made of it had he been armed. There were
also various other games going forward; but by far the greater number of
the inmates of the prison were sitting down, staring with apathetic
looks on the ground, and thinking of past, or planning fresh, deeds of
wickedness; and though there was every variety of cast of features, and,
apparently, many different nations--blacks, mulattos, and Europeans, the
same expression and squalor universally prevailed.
On one side of the yard, next the street, was a large hall, with vaulted
roof, and strongly-barred windows, at which were posted as many as could
clamber up, of men, women, and even children, imploring compassion of
the passers by, and fishing up whatever, in their charity, they
bestowed, in small baskets, or old hats, at the end of a string fastened
to a stick. Here no distinction of age or sex was preserved; men
hardened in crime, and young children cast in with their wretched
mothers; beardless youths, and girls scarce verging on womanhood;
murderers who boasted of their deeds of blood, and miserable beings whom
poverty and hunger had tempted to steal a loaf, were thrown together,
and scarcely supplied with food sufficient to sustain life: execrations,
laughter, screams, and wild songs of desperation, mingling in horrid
discord throughout this den of abomination.
In one corner of the yard were seated two men, whose dress had once been
superior to that of their surrounding companions, but was now torn,
disordered, and dirty in the extreme; their looks betokening them, at a
glance, to be villains hardened in crime, exhibiting every mark of the
common ruffian.
"I am growing weary of this cursed confinement, and am determined to
submit to it no longer," said one.
"Very likely, so am I," returned his companion; "for though we have
plenty of good company, and meet many old friends, I like to be master
of my own conduct. But how do you purpose escaping, Miguel? Count on
me as a staunch supporter; for I shall be happy to get out also, if I
knew but the way."
"I have means which will not fail, though I have waited lingering in
prison till now, in hopes that others would exert themselves in my
favour to procure my liberation; but I see there's no use trusting
further to them," returned the other. "I shall send to the count, and
let him know, if he does not get me set free before many days are over,
I shall give a history of some of our transactions, which will go a good
way to blast his character, proud as he is, and secure as he deems
himself."
"It's very well talking about it, but do not suppose that any of the
haughty nobles would care what such poor wretches as we said against one
of their number, even though they might guess we told the truth,"
responded the other.
"I would soon take means to make him care; and if not, I would give him
a lesson with that dagger he has so often paid me to use against
others," exclaimed Miguel, grinding his teeth with rage at the thought
of having been treacherously treated. "If we can once get out, we will
join some of our old friends, and we shall soon be able to lift up our
heads in the world again."
"Since this Minister, Carvalho, has taken it into his head to interfere
in the affairs of the city, it is easier to get into a prison than to
get out of it again," observed the other.
"Fear not, we will manage to escape in spite of him," said Miguel.
Scarcely had he uttered those words, when the dogs beneath the prison
walls set up a piteous howl, which was followed by a low, rumbling
noise--the walls of the prison shook. All started on their feet,
consternation and dismay depicted on every countenance;--a thundering
crash was heard, as the side of the vaulted chamber was seen to fall
outward, carrying with it the unfortunate wretches who were assembled in
the windows.
Regardless of their cries, the remainder of the prisoners made a rush
over the fallen ruins; "Hurra for the earthquake! liberty, liberty!"
they shouted, some, with wanton barbarity, seizing the muskets of the
guards stationed in front of the prison, and dashing out their brains,
before they had time to defend themselves.
With wild cries and imprecations, the savage band hurried on, regardless
of the dreadful convulsions of nature, attacking, in their blind fury,
the affrighted inhabitants, who were flying from their falling houses.
They halted not in their mad career till they reached an open space,
from whence they could look back on their late abode; and as the second
shock came on, when they beheld the prison hurled prostrate to the
ground, they uttered wild yells of delight, pointing with gestures of
derision towards the spot; in the intoxication of liberty, dancing and
singing like a troop of demons.