END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

Being very anxious to proceed with our history, we would rather avoid

any retrospection; but, that our readers may understand more clearly the

occurrences of the times we are now describing, it will be necessary to

give a slight sketch of a few events that had already passed. The most

important was the revolt of the inhabitants of Oporto, and of the

neighbouring provinces, against the authority of the Minister, in

consequence of the establishment of a Company, with almost unbounded

privileges, to superintend the sale of the wines produced on the banks

of the river Douro. The proprietors of the vineyards, who had been

accustomed to a free trade, by which they had grown wealthy, were highly

exasperated at a monopoly which would so completely curtail their

profits, and of course the people whom they employed espoused their

cause. They in tumultuous bodies flocked to the city, compelling the

chief magistrate, known by the name of the Judge of the People, to

espouse their cause, and pillaging the houses of all those they

suspected to be favourers of the measure.

No sooner did the Minister receive intelligence of these disturbances,

than he despatched three regiments against the city. The inhabitants

yielded without striking a blow; but their submission availed them not;

their city was given up to the unbounded license of the savage soldiery;

and had it been taken by storm, scarcely could more frightful excesses

have been committed. The soldiers were then distributed at free

quarters on the inhabitants; the unfortunate Judge of the People was

dragged through the streets by the common hangman, with a halter round

his neck, and then executed with every mark of ignominy. Eighteen of

the principal citizens shared his fate, and three hundred persons, who

were accused of being concerned in the sedition, were imprisoned, or

condemned for life to the galleys.

The obnoxious and tyrannical Company, their charter sealed with blood,

was established; for, after the dreadful examples of the Minister's

unswerving vengeance, fear prevented the people from making any further

attempts to overthrow it. It has since been, if we may be allowed to

judge, one of the greatest banes to the country.

Though one of the most determined opponents to Carvalho, our friend

Goncalo Christovao had, on this occasion, taken no open part in the

movement, so that he escaped the punishment which fell on so many

others; but he was not the less indignant at the atrocities committed in

his native city, and he was, at the time we speak of, on his way to

Lisbon, to complain in person to his sovereign, hoping to gain some

redress, or, at all events, a mitigation of the grievances under which

the people suffered.

We scarcely dare mention the fate of the lovely Donna Clara. For a long

period her father had resisted all the persuasions of his confessor to

compel her to assume the veil, though she was now almost indifferent on

the subject; but he had at length yielded, and she was now performing

her year of noviciate at the convent of her patron saint at Oporto,

which was considered nearly equal in point of the rank of its inmates to

that of Santa Clara at Lisbon. Indeed, since the destruction of the

latter, many of the nuns, who were all of noble family, had been

conveyed thither. It was a sad _cortege_ which had arrived from the

ruined city, carefully concealed from the prying eye of curiosity, in

closely covered litters, surrounded with a guard of soldiers, who were

ordered strictly to keep their eyes turned away from the holy

sisterhood. Whether they obeyed the order is a matter of doubt, and

whether a delicate hand might not now and then have drawn aside the

curtains to admit a breath of fresh air, we cannot aver. This only we

know, that the Minister himself had issued an order for their safe

conduct; and, as the religious houses on the road were not sufficiently

near to admit of their reaching one each day, he commanded that the inns

should be prepared for their reception, and that no other travellers

should be admitted, which latter order, we suspect, was no slight

disappointment to the younger ladies;--but we are growing profane.

To return to the revolt at Oporto. The Jesuits were accused of being

the instigators even of this transaction; but we, although no friends of

theirs, as may have been guessed, acquit them completely of having had

any share in the affair. By an unsuccessful rebellion they could have

gained nothing, and must have been aware that such would only strengthen

the power of the Minister. We feel assured, therefore, that they were

innocent of this charge; nor was it at all in accordance with their

usual mode of proceeding: they would have acted far more cautiously and

sensibly, so that nothing might be attempted without an almost certain

confidence of success. However, the old proverb, "Give a dog a bad

name," was fully exemplified in their case, and every disturbance in the

country was imputed to them. We think that, in many respects, they were

very hardly used; and we might as well suppose that the followers of the

new Bible (which a foreigner told us we English heretics had lately

published, called the Oxford Tracts,) were guilty of the riots in Wales,

as that they would have excited people to open rebellion. The past had,

and the present have, a very different aim in view: they seek not to

overthrow dynasties, but to establish their power on the weakness and

folly of their fellow-men; they wish to hide the gold, that their own

base alloy may be taken as genuine ore. While pretending to point out

the narrow path to heaven, they, like the cunning fowler, lead their

fascinated admirers into their own well-constructed decoys;--more narrow

and narrow grows the way, with many a twist and turn, till at length

they cast their nets, from whose meshes there is no escape.

Now, it is very far from our wish to speak disrespectfully of the Church

of Rome, or in any way to decry it. On the contrary, we cannot conceive

an establishment more admirably adapted for every purpose of

untrammelled government. It at once puts a stop to all doubts or

discussions, pointing out so exactly what people ought to believe, that

they have no further trouble on the subject. As when men have learnt to

submit in one way, they generally do so in another, were we a sovereign

desirous of absolute power, we should prefer it as the religion of the

state, and then, keeping its ministers our friends, we should, if we

pleased, be able to govern with the most despotic rule.

We esteem many of the ministers of that Church, and if they attempt to

convert us to their opinions, we feel that they are but performing their

duty: we do not blame them, because they exercise the power which has

been confided to them by their superiors; nor do we blame its followers

that they practise what they have been taught; but we are called on to

exhibit in their true colours those who, urged on by the lust of power,

strive to revive a long-disused engine of authority; disused not through

forgetfulness of its existence, but from a general conviction of its

pernicious effects, from all men being persuaded that it defeated the

purposes of true religion.

We, while residing in Portugal, where the Order of Jesus is no longer

tolerated, often hear the opinion of those who see clearly what is going

forward in our own country. "Ah!" they exclaim, "you will soon become

as good Romanists as we are. You have some clever Jesuits among you

already,--both open and concealed ones too."

These observations may, perhaps, make some men look into their own

hearts, and examine their motives; for the thought of power is very

captivating. We would fain save a few birds from the fowlers, and we

may trust that some who read this work will be warned in time to avoid

those snares, the very first consequence of which is the abject slavery

of the mind,--an imprisonment (so cunningly devised, and so strong are

the meshes formed) which few are able to break through,--whose captives

are ever debarred from the enjoyment of thought, and the light of truth.

From what we have said, we doubt not we shall be accused by one class to

which we allude, of being sneerers and revilers at religion; such always

is the fate of those who would exhibit existing abuses in their true

colours, and who would endeavour to draw out and expose the falsehood

from among the truth, in which it may have been shrouded. Let them hurl

their anathemas on our heads; they will fall innoxious on our helmet of

rectitude. We revere religion, but we detest tyranny and superstition,

nor shall we ever cease to strive against both one and the other. But

we must not allow ourselves to be carried away by a subject, in which we

are so deeply interested, though one scarcely suited to a work of the

nature of a romance; we may, however, trust, that while the eye wanders

over these pages, in search of amusement, a warning lesson may be

received, to beware of concealed Jesuits, who, filling our ears with

their sophistries, would persuade us to submit to their power.

We must now return to the current of our story, from which we have so

widely wandered. For some time previous to the anniversary of the

dreadful catastrophe we have described, various people appeared in and

about the neighbourhood of Lisbon, assuming the characters of prophets,

and foretelling the final destruction of the city on that day. One of

the first who uttered these predictions was the holy Father Malagrida.

He probably placed full confidence in them himself; they either being

the work of his own distempered brain, or having been put into his head

by others for their own purposes.

Whoever was the originator of the deceit, he was the chief promulgator

of it, while many others, perfectly aware of its want of foundation,

repeated it, in the hopes of driving the frightened citizens from their

habitations, while they would be enabled to plunder, without

apprehension of any interruption to their proceedings. Such we find the

case in the present day: a madman leads fools, and knaves follow, to

prey on their folly.

Malagrida had chosen for the scene of his oratory the ruins of a church

outside Lisbon, where he had collected a large assemblage of people,

women and children predominating, and idle ragamuffins, who were glad of

any excuse to escape from toil: there were others also, of all classes

of citizens, who were listening to the insane ravings of blasphemy

proceeding from his lips.

"Fly from the city of destruction, all ye who would be saved!" he

exclaimed. "Escape, ere the crimes of your impious rulers be visited on

your heads. Once have ye been warned, and ye would not listen to the

warning;--this is the last time that I will speak to ye,--this is the

last time that ye shall hear my voice; for the wicked have risen up

against the prophets of heaven, their hearts have been hardened, and

they have sworn deadly enmity to the true ministers of the Church. Fly,

then, from among the despisers of the faith, leave them to the vengeance

which shall overtake those whom the Lord has marked for destruction. He

who, in self-confidence, vaunts so proudly of his power, shall be

brought low; for fire shall rain down on the haughty head of the

persecutor of the faithful."

The prophet had for some time run on in this strain, when suddenly a

body of guards appeared among the crowd. Two of them advanced, and,

placing themselves on each side of him, informed him that his presence

was required elsewhere.

"Begone! ye myrmidons of the man of sin, and answer that I come not at

his call," he exclaimed in a loud voice. "Begone! I fear ye not."

The men, however, paid no attention to his orders; but, seizing his

arms, attempted to drag him forward. Their efforts, however, were vain;

for, shaking them off with a powerful exertion, he continued his

discourse regardless of their presence. Again they seized him, when a

cry arose among the people, who seemed inclined to hasten to his rescue;

but the customary obedience to which the Minister had subjected them,

checked them, and the remainder of the soldiers advancing, completely

surrounded him.

"Down with the tyrant, who would overthrow our religion!" exclaimed a

voice from among the crowd at a distance; but no one responded to the

cry; and Malagrida, making no further resistance, was conducted before

the judge of the district. He protested vehemently against the

treatment he was receiving, but to no purpose; he was ordered forthwith

to retire to his college, and the next day, he received a command from

the government, to proceed to the town of Setubal, and there to remain

till desired to quit it. We are not informed why that place was chosen

as his abode in banishment; whether it was that the people were so wise,

that they would not listen to his mad ravings, or, that they were so

foolish, that he could not increase their folly. Thither, however, some

of his warmest admirers followed him, to put themselves under his

spiritual guidance, and among them, was the devout and intriguing

Marchioness of Tavora. For some weeks she resided there, performing

what were called exercises, under his directions, during which time, he

took the opportunity of instilling into her mind both the necessity of

ridding the country of their tyrant, and the lawfulness of doing so, by

any means which might offer. Notwithstanding the many disciples he

collected round him, his unsettled disposition caused him to pine for

more active excitement, and, as we shall see, in despite of the threats

of the Minister, he determined to quit the spot assigned to him for his

abode.

Though Malagrida was silenced, there were yet a number of prophets,

perfectly in their senses, who continued to give utterance to

predictions, threatening the utter destruction of Lisbon. The Minister,

in consequence, issued a decree, ordering that all such persons should

be seized and committed to prison, as rogues and vagabonds. Lest also,

the easily beguiled citizens should, trusting to their prophecies,

desert their homes on the fatal day, he commanded that no one should

quit the city on that or the two previous days; and, to enforce this

decree, troops were collected round the barriers, who would allow no

one, on any pretext whatever, to pass.

The affrighted people were in despair; but they dared not venture to

force the barriers, and the measure proved that a little coercion is, at

times, for the benefit of the multitude, notwithstanding what demagogues

may say to the contrary; for the day passed, and no convulsion took

place. We do not hear if the people accused their prophets of

prophesying falsely, though we suspect they probably found some means of

excusing them, at least, if we may judge from the credence given to

their brethren of the present day, who, let them utter, time after time,

the most absurd predictions, always unfulfilled, are not the less

believed by their enlightened and educated disciples, they ever

discovering some plausible interpretation for their teachers' words.

Volume 3, Chapter II.

The usual time for paying visits in Portugal is in the evening, when

ladies are borne about to the houses of their acquaintances in their

carriages or chairs, full dressed, as if for a ball; most families of

any pretension to fashion having certain nights fixed for the reception

of their guests.

The Marchioness of Tavora, although famed for her devoutness, had become

even more particular than before in conforming to all the observances of

etiquette, in the hopes thereby of gaining over more partisans in the

plots she was forming; and she was on her way to pay several of these

politic visits of ceremony, when she alighted at the palace of her

daughter-in-law, Donna Theresa. She had gained a considerable influence

over the younger Marchioness, more, perhaps, by having inspired awe than

love; nor did the latter ever feel perfectly at her ease in her society.

Her purpose, at present, was, following the advice given by the Father

Jacinto, to persuade Donna Theresa to endeavour to win the confidence of

the King at every cost; a task she found no very great difficulty in

accomplishing.

"I will assure my son, on the earliest opportunity," she said, "that you

have my sanction to receive the visits of the King, which will prevent

any jealous doubts arising in his mind, should he discover a

circumstance of which he is not now aware. His hot temper, were he to

hear of it, before being warned by me, might otherwise take fire, and

cause him to commit some mad outrage, which might bring destruction on

us all. But be not alarmed; I will arrange affairs so that he shall

have no cause to complain of your infidelity; for he will, as I do, put

full confidence in your honour; and that your family pride alone will

prevent you committing aught derogatory to the dignity of your birth."

Theresa had no words to answer, but she bowed her head in acquiescence

of the arrangement; and the elder Marchioness having accomplished her

purpose, proceeded on her round of visits.

The young Marchioness, thus urged on by her confessor and her

mother-in-law, had no further reason to fly the advances of her royal

admirer; yet she trembled for the consequences;--she saw the yawning

gulf below her, yet she felt like a person on the summit of a lofty

cliff, with an involuntary inclination to leap from the edge, though

fully aware that destruction awaited her. How bitterly did she repent

that she had sacrificed her love, and stifled all the tender sentiments

of her nature, to follow the rugged and dangerous paths of ambition; but

there was now no power of receding left: her peace of mind, her

consciousness of rectitude, had deserted her; the past was full of

useless regrets; and though she felt that they were deceitful and

treacherous, the dazzling temptations of the future lured her on.

It was the custom of the King, when driving out at night, to make use of

the private carriage of a confidential attendant, who generally

accompanied him. This man, of the name of Texeira, was of low birth;

but, by various acts of a doubtful nature, had ingratiated himself into

his sovereign's favour; presuming on which, he frequently behaved in an

impertinent manner towards the nobles of the Court, who, ill-brooking

such behaviour, bore a determined hatred towards him. Texeira was

waiting in his carriage at the private entrance to the palace for the

coming of his sovereign, who proposed paying an earlier visit than usual

to the young Marchioness of Tavora. As the King appeared at the door,

the attendant stepped out to offer his assistance, and when both were

seated, the postillion was ordered to proceed forthwith in the direction

Texeira had already indicated to him.

The carriage stopped at the gateway of a palace situated in the western

part of the city, when the King, wrapping his cloak closely round his

features, descended and entered the building, while his attendant

retained his seat. The latter had remained there some time, when he

heard a voice, in a tone of authority, ordering his postillion to move

onward, and another carriage drew up at the gate of the palace. Senhor

Texeira, at first, forgetting himself, felt very much inclined to desire

his postillion not to stir from his position, but remembering instantly

that it was his duty rather to prevent the King from being discovered,

he checked the expressions rising to his tongue, and allowed his

carriage to proceed out of the way.

The occupant of the other carriage was the young Marquis of Tavora, who

had suddenly returned from some military duty on which he had been

despatched from Lisbon. As he alighted and entered his palace, none of

his principal servants were in waiting; the porter alone, who, wrapped

up in his cloak, had been dozing in a corner, after opening the doors

with an amazed and sleepy stare, uttered some incoherent words, to which

his master paying no attention, passed onward. A small lamp, suspended

at the head of the first flight of steps, afforded the young lord but

just sufficient light to see his way as he mounted, summoning his

attendants, in an angry tone, to his presence. The porter gazed after

him with a doubtful expression of countenance. "Shall I tell him he had

better not go upstairs?" he thought; "but if I do, it will only make him

go the faster. It is no affair of mine, and I suppose the King has a

right to go where he likes; if not, what is the use of being a King?

only I am afraid mischief will come of it."

By the time the porter had got thus far in his soliloquy, his master had

gained the summit of the flight of steps which led to the first floor.

The young noble was advancing towards the drawing-room, wondering at the

unusual silence which reigned through the palace, when suddenly a door

opened, and he encountered a figure with a large cloak wrapped closely

round him.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a voice of suddenly aroused anger, "who does me

the honour of paying my palace a visit at this time of the night? Stay,

Senhor Cavalhero: I allow no one to pass unquestioned." But the

stranger, not heeding his words, endeavoured to pass on his way without

answering. "What! you are dumb too! Then this shall compel you to

speak." On these words, drawing his sword, he made a pass at the

cloaked stranger; the latter, however, stepping back, avoided the

thrust; the weapon merely grazing his cloak, and, unsheathing his rapier

also, he turned aside, with considerable skill, another lunge made at

him.

"Stay, senhor! you know not whom you attack," he exclaimed. "Allow me

to pass without further hindrance."

But the passion of the Marquis was aroused to the highest pitch from the

very opposition he received, it preventing him from distinguishing the

voice of the stranger.

"Daring villain, no!" he answered, "speak your business in this mansion,

and let your own words condemn you."

"I allow no one to question me, so stand aside, senhor," said the

stranger, endeavouring to put aside his antagonist's sword; but the

Marquis, parrying the thrust, attacked him furiously, without deigning a

further reply.

The stranger was now obliged to defend himself in earnest, for after

several passes given and taken, he discovered that the young noble was

the better swordsman.

"Hold!" he cried. "Beware what you do; I am the King!"

"I believe it not!" responded the Marquis, in a loud tone; "and I

acknowledge no King who would thus treacherously intrude into the

habitation of a subject."

As he uttered these words, he whirled the King's sword from his grasp,

and the point of his own weapon was at his sovereign's throat; for, as

may be supposed, the stranger was no other than the King.

In a moment the life of Joseph would have been terminated, when the

young Marchioness, attracted by the sound of angry voices, and the clash

of swords, hastened from her apartment. She uttered a cry of horror,

when, at a glance, she discovered by the light which Donna Florinda, who

followed, carried, all that had occurred.

"Hold, Luis, hold! 'tis the King, indeed," she exclaimed, throwing

herself, without hesitating, before her husband; but, putting her

aside--though the action saved him from being guilty of regicide--he

exclaimed, "'Tis false! You would, by such a subterfuge, guilty woman,

attempt to save the worthless life of your seducer; but it shall not

avail you or him: he shall die."

"I am guiltless of any crime towards you," responded Donna Theresa, with

energy, again throwing herself before her husband. "It is, it is our

sovereign you have so guiltily attacked. Hear me swear to the truth of

my assertion."

While this colloquy was going forward the King had recovered his sword,

and now stood holding it with the point to the ground, the light falling

more strongly on his features than before, as he said, "Hear me, Don

Luis de Tavora. Your wife utters naught but the truth. She has in no

way betrayed your honour. Had not your first fierce attack prevented

me, I would at once have informed you that I was your sovereign; but

your anger is excusable, and you are forgiven."

As the King spoke, he held out his hand for the young Marquis to kiss;

but the latter, with a glance of proud disdain, pretended not to observe

the action.

"Your Majesty must suppose me, forsooth, a most complaisant husband,

that I should discover a stranger in my palace at this hour, and not

seek to question his purpose; but your Majesty has, doubtless, full

power to command all us, your humble servants, and I have now no further

right to complain. I retain but the privilege of settling the affair

with my lady, and in that point I shall exert a husband's power as I

think fit. By your Majesty's leave, I will order your carriage, which

waits at a short distance, to the door, and humbly conduct you thither."

"This language sounds somewhat like the insolence of treason, young

sir," said Joseph; "though, as you might have cause to be exasperated, I

will, for this time, overlook it; but let me hear no more such words."

"Your Majesty shall be humbly obeyed," returned the young husband, in an

ironical tone; "and Donna Theresa will, doubtless, explain all matters

entirely to my satisfaction. Has your Majesty any further commands?"

"No, sir! no!" said the King, turning to the Marchioness. "Lovely lady,

adieu! We trust you will be able fully to pacify your lord's irritated

feelings. Now, my lord Marquis, we will beg you to lead the way to the

hall; some of your servants can light us thither."

By this time all the household had collected round the spot, eager to

see the termination of the affair; the circumstance of the King's visits

being known among them all; but, supposing the Marquis was privy to it,

they did not venture to speak to him on the subject.

Again bowing to the Marchioness, Joseph was conducted to the door of the

palace with every outward ceremony, the Marquis leading the way, and the

servants on each side holding waxen flambeaux; but could he have looked

deeper into the young noble's heart, he might have learned to tremble

for the consequences of his own conduct. As it was, he had been taught

to look upon his subjects as his slaves, and was astounded at the idea

of their having a will of their own. He felt, however, that he had

played but a poor figure in the drama, and had lowered himself

materially in the opinion of the spectators, so that he was well

contented to find himself once more safe in his carriage with Texeira,

to whom he detailed all his adventures.

The young Marchioness stood gazing with looks of despair on her husband

and the King, as they descended the stair; but, alas! she trembled more

for the safety of the latter than for that of the man she ought to have

loved. She knew her husband's fierce and vindictive disposition, and

she felt assured that he would hesitate at no means to accomplish his

purposes of revenge.

Having escorted the King to his carriage, the Marquis returned; a dark

frown on his brow marking his inward feelings. "I have humbly to thank

you, madam, for procuring me the honour of a royal visit; though,

another time, I beg you will give me due notice, that I may be prepared

to receive so exalted a guest as becomes his rank," he began, in a

taunting tone, mingled with anger; "yet I ought to be grateful that,

since you have thought fit to select a lover, you have not debased

yourself with one of low degree. But know, lady, his station shall not

shield him against my vengeance."

"Oh! believe me, I am innocent!" exclaimed the Marchioness, in a voice

trembling with agitation. "Your own mother is aware of the visits of

the King, and she will explain all to you; but do not suspect me

wrongfully."

"Oh! doubtless, your conduct has been perfectly irreproachable,"

responded her lord, in the same strain as before. "All ladies will

swear the same, and hope to make their credulous husbands believe them;

but, although some choose to be willingly deceived, I do not. I doubt

not, Donna Florinda, whom I have the honour of saluting, will confirm

all you aver. Pray, madam, is she your guest, or have you added her

also to my establishment?"

"She was presented to me by their Majesties," said Donna Theresa, glad

of an opportunity of stopping the current of her lord's passionate

sarcasm.

"I shall take the liberty, then, of returning her to her royal donors,"

said the Marquis. "You will take it as no disparagement to your

matchless charms, Donna Florinda, that I am anxious so soon to part from

one whom all admire; but I prefer that my wife should have no female

counsellor who will teach her to consider her husband a tyrant and

endowed with qualities inferior to all other men."

"You forget your gallantry, Senhor Marquis, when you talk of sending me

out of your house, like a roll of silks returned to the mercer as not

required," cried the sable lady, delighted to have an opportunity both

of loosing her tongue, and of relieving her young mistress from the

wrath of her husband. "Truly, I am surprised to hear _you_ speak thus,

whom all the Court acknowledge to be the most gallant of knights. What

would Senhora Amelia, or the fair Condeca de Campo Bello say, if they

heard you give utterance to such expressions? You would never speak

thus to them, I feel confident; but then they are not cruel to you, it

is whispered. Come, come, senhor, you have no right to complain if your

lady thinks fit to receive the visits of our sovereign."

"Silence, wretch!" thundered the Marquis. "Begone to your chamber, and

let me not see your hideous countenance while you remain beneath my

roof. That you claim to belong to the female sex, alone prevents me

from ordering you forthwith to be put outside my doors."

"The man is to a certainty mad, to call me such horrid names," cried the

Dwarf, judging it, however, more prudent to obey. "I trust the cool

reflection of the morning will make you think better of your present

determination, as I should grieve to leave my lovely mistress so soon."

"You need enjoy no such expectations," answered the Marquis, as the

little being retired. "And now, madam," he added, turning to his wife,

"retire to your apartment, and quit it not without my permission. As it

appears that the King has chosen to become the master of my palace, I

shall no longer reside here. Farewell, madam, for the present; I have

affairs of importance to transact. In the morning I shall return."

"Stay, Luis, stay!" exclaimed the Marchioness; "do not leave me thus in

anger. Say you do not believe me really guilty;" and she endeavoured to

clasp his arm to detain him, but he tore himself angrily away.

"Oaths and prayers will avail you naught, madam," he answered. "Obey my

commands for the present; how I may think fit to act for the future you

shall hear:" saying which, he turned aside from his young wife, and

descended the stairs, muttering, as he went, between his closed teeth,

"I might have better borne a rival with some gallant qualities to boast

of; but this wretched King, who gives himself up to the power of a base

plebeian,--'tis a double disgrace. My lady mother aware of it! I must

see to that! Impossible! It was but a flimsy excuse to avert my

anger."

Entering his carriage, he ordered the postillion to proceed to his

father's Quinta at Belem. How dreary and long seemed the way as he

passed the shapeless masses of ruins which everywhere presented

themselves on the road, appearing yet larger and wilder amid the gloom

of night; his mind, too, like them, torn and agitated by a thousand

conflicting emotions!

When he arrived, he found that his father was from home, and that his

mother had retired to her chamber; nor could he venture to disturb her.

The only member of his family not yet retired to rest being his younger

brother Joze, to him he poured out his indignant griefs and vows of

vengeance against the sovereign, whom he imagined had cast so great a

dishonour on their name. Don Joze, being of a far milder temperament

than his brother, endeavoured to calm his anger, by pointing out to him

the possibility of his wife's having spoken the truth; that if their

mother was aware of the King's visit, at all events there was some

excuse for her; but, at the same time, he pledged himself to aid him by

every means in his power, if his worst suspicions were confirmed. The

greater part of the night had passed in these discussions, before the

young Marquis, throwing himself on a couch in his brother's room,

endeavoured to find some rest to his troubled thoughts.

Little did the Sovereign of Portugal dream of the plots against his

crown and life hatching within the boundaries of his capital; nor was

even his sagacious Minister aware they had advanced so far.

Early in the morning, the young Marquis sought Donna Leonora, his

mother, eager to learn if she had sanctioned the intimacy between the

King and his wife. She confessed that she had done so, and her motives

for the act; which, although it satisfied him that his wife was not so

much to blame as he had suspected, did not lessen his anger against his

sovereign, or cause him to alter any of the plans of revenge he had

harboured in his bosom. His conduct towards the King, when told to his

mother, caused that ambitious lady to hurry on events which might

otherwise have been longer delayed; for feeling that the Monarch would

take the earliest opportunity to punish the insolence of his subject,

she determined to use her best endeavours to prevent his having the

power to do so.

The young Marquis now returned home with rather a lighter heart; for

though he had neglected her, he yet loved his beautiful wife, and was

unwilling to part with her. He loved her, but his love was not deep; he

had soon discovered that the ardent passion he had once felt was not

returned; and though a _woman_ may yet love on through coldness,

neglect, and scorn, a man never can; his love depends on its being

returned, and it is the perfect confidence that it is so which will

alone cause his to endure beyond the first few months of possession.

When he entered his wife's chamber, he found her seated at the toilet,

pale and wan, for sleep had not that night visited her eyes. Too

clearly had her fate been revealed to her. The dread future had spoken

words of awful warning to her ears, but she, alas! had determined to

close her senses to both.

"Theresa!" said her husband, kindly approaching her, "I wronged you; but

let this be a warning to you. Whatever others may counsel, remember

first to obey your husband's wishes; and I do not choose to be sneered

at, even for the sovereign's sake, or to win the worthless state secrets

which alone Carvalho is likely to confide to his puppet. From

henceforth, therefore, when the King thinks fit to come to my palace,

refuse to see him. Say such is your husband's wish; if you obey me not,

the consequence be on both your heads. Speak, Theresa, do you hear me?"

At these words of her husband's, the countenance of Donna Theresa grew

yet more pallid. Her voice trembled as she answered, "I cannot promise

to obey a command which I may not have power to perform; but, my lord,

do not give utterance to those dreadful threats, which you cannot--you

dare not execute, for destruction would inevitably overwhelm you, and

all engaged with you in them."

"Let that care be mine," exclaimed her husband. "The cause is in your

hands. Should the King again visit this abode, and you send him not

forthwith away, he dies! and his blood be on your head! If I fail, you

will have mine to answer for."

These threats increased yet more the agitation of the young Marchioness.

She full well knew her husband was not a man to utter empty vows of

vengeance; but could she consent to see no more the man she loved?

Could she give up all her long-cherished hopes of power? Yet, if she

disobeyed, what a dreadful alternative was presented to her--either she

must warn the King of his danger, and thus be an accessory to her

husband's death, perhaps to the destruction of his family, or she must

allow the former to run every risk of destruction! Such thoughts rushed

tumultuously through her mind; but, alas! pride, ambition, and a fatal

contempt of the warnings of her conscience, prevented her following the

only secure, because the only right, course. When her husband quitted

her, he had yet failed to draw a satisfactory promise from her that she

would obey his orders; but he comforted himself with the idea that his

threats would have their due effect. How vain were his hopes! What

would have made a weak woman tremble, caused Donna Theresa only to

persevere more daringly in her course.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

In the neighbourhood of Lisbon, the Crown possessed one or two parks, of

great extent, which were called Coitadas, stocked with every description

of game, both to follow on horseback, or for the exercise of the

fowling-piece; that of Alfitte, on the banks of the Tagus, being by far

the largest, covering many thousand acres of ground. The King, who was

passionately fond of the chase, was in the constant habit of resorting

to a country-house he possessed on the borders of the forest,

accompanied by some of his favourite courtiers, when, flinging aside all

thoughts or cares of government, he gave himself up entirely to his

favourite amusement. The kingdom, on these very frequent occasions,

would have been allowed to take the best care it could of itself, under

a less energetic minister than Carvalho; but that sagacious statesman,

encouraging his sovereign in his pursuits, seized with avidity the

opportunity of exercising the uncontrolled power thus delegated to him,

to the yet further disgust of the haughty nobles of the land.

Sometimes, however, he himself, who was a proficient in all manly and

athletic exercises, would steal away from the city to join in the sport,

though the same evening he might be again found at his post, deeply

engaged in the many momentous and difficult affairs which occupied his

attention.

It was a bright and glorious morning; the sun had just risen, tinging

the topmost boughs of the forest trees, glittering with the clear drops

of a gentle shower, which had fallen during the night, giving an

additional freshness and lustre to the smiling face of nature. The

birds sang their sweetest notes to welcome the morn, as they flew from

spray to spray, rejoicing in their unrestrained liberty. The air was

soft and balmy, laden with the delicious odours springing from the

flowering shrubs and plants which filled the forest glades. Not a human

sound was heard to disturb the harmony of nature. It was such a scene

as our great poet of rural beauty loves best to describe. Through an

opening in the wood, at the end of a long vista, might be seen the

shining waters of the broad Tagus, flowing onward in tranquil majesty;

and, in every direction, other glades led far away, now lost to view by

some gentle elevation, or sinking into some narrow valley.

Suddenly a tall dark figure emerged from the thickest part of the

forest, and advancing into the open ground, looked cautiously on every

side. Though his step was firm, it possessed none of the elasticity of

youth, as he stalked forward, unconsciously lifting his long thin arms

aloft, in the energy of his thoughts. His dress, of the coarsest

materials, was that of a common labourer; a broad-brimmed hat, from

beneath which escaped a few hoary locks, partly concealed his emaciated

and parchment-like countenance; yet, though age had there set its

furrowing marks, it had not dimmed the wild lustre of his large and

rolling eyes. In his right hand he bore a long staff, with an iron

point; but he made little use of it to aid his steps, seeming to carry

it more as a weapon of defence, than for any other purpose: at his side

hung a wallet, such as is used by beggars to contain their food. What

was his usual occupation it was impossible to say; for, though his

costume betokened the countryman, his manner and words seemed to

contradict that idea; and, indeed, from his behaviour, it appeared that

he was there for some secret, perhaps no good, purpose.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, as he strode rapidly onward, casting his searching

glances around, "the time has arrived when the wicked shall be brought

low, and the proud abased; when vengeance is about to fall on the heads

of the persecutors of the prophets of Heaven! yet must the task which I

am called on to fulfil be accomplished; the words of warning must be

spoken ere the blow is struck. Even as the seers of old were sent to

those evil kings of Israel who worshipped strange gods, and hearkened to

the counsels of their idolatrous followers, so must I utter the messages

of Heaven to this hard-hearted Monarch; yet will he not hear, but will

continue on still in his wickedness."

Muttering such words as these, the person continued his course, where we

must leave him, to turn to a far more exciting scene, which was enacting

at no great distance.

The hunting villa attached to the royal chase was a low straggling

building, without the slightest attempt at architectural beauty, the

lower story being devoted entirely to the use of the horses requisite

for the sport, and their attendant grooms; the upper, possessing a row

of windows at equal distances from each other on every side, was

divided, with the exception of a few large rooms appropriated to the

royal owner, into a number of small ones for the numerous guests who

attended him. In front was a broad court-yard, now filled with a large

assemblage of horses and their grooms, while several men held in leashes

a number of dogs, who were barking loudly, in their endeavours to free

themselves from thraldom; some of them, indeed, from being more

tractable, probably, than their brethren, were allowed to wander loose

among the steeds: the latter, too, were neighing, and pawing the ground,

eager to rush forward in the exciting course, which they seemed aware

was in store for them. The grooms and huntsmen, while waiting for the

appearance of their masters, were laughing and hallooing to each other,

cracking their jokes with unreserved freedom, none of that strict

decorum usually observed in the neighbourhood of royalty being there

perceptible. On a sudden, however, the noisy mirth was checked, and all

eyes were directed towards the open gateway, through which the majestic

person of the Prime Minister was perceived advancing, mounted on a

coal-black steed, which he sat with perfect ease and command. The

animal's moistened neck and panting breath showed that he had not

tarried on the road. As he drew in his rein, twenty servants sprang

eagerly forward to aid him in dismounting; but, dispensing with their

services, he threw himself off, and, without deigning to turn a glance

towards them, entered the building.

A few minutes only elapsed, when the King, who had apparently been

awaiting his arrival, issued forth in a hunting costume of green and

silver, closely followed by several of his nobles, the one nearest to

him being his chief favourite, the Marquis of Marialva, [Note] to whom

he was addressing his observations; but there was one among the party

who seemed neither to consider it an honour nor a pleasure to be in

attendance,--this was the Duke of Aveiro, who had, by the Minister's

advice, received a command to accompany his master in the proposed

sports of the day. He took but little pains to conceal his

dissatisfaction, as he walked on with a haughty air and frowning brow,

yet, at the same time, he would not yield the position in the _cortege_

which his rank entitled him to hold, though he neither regarded nor

addressed any near him.

"A fine morning we are favoured with, Senhor Marquis," cried the King,

in a joyous tone, speaking to Marialva. "We shall have some good sport,

if I mistake not, and many a long-tusked boar will die to-day. Who will

be the happy man to kill the first, I wonder?--'twill be your chance, my

friend, I trust."

"Your Majesty is generally the most fortunate hunter," returned the

Marquis; "for few can successfully compete with you in the chase."

"That is because others are apt to hold back at times, I suspect," said

Joseph, laughing; for the anticipation of his favourite amusement had

raised his usually grave spirit. "But to-day, remember, cavaliers, all

must endeavour to do their best. We will allow no one to draw rein till

they come up with the chase. Listen to my commands, Senhor Duque

d'Aveiro. You are but a sluggard sportsman, I fear; but we must imbue

you with some of our own fondness for the exciting pastime, and then you

will vie with the best."

"When your Majesty commands, your subjects must obey," returned the

Duke, in a tone which was far from agreeing with the obedient tenor of

his words; for he neither had any predilection for the chase, nor was he

famed for his proficiency in equestrian accomplishments.

"We will tarry no longer," exclaimed the King. "To horse, to horse,

cavaliers! 'Tis a sin to lose a moment of this tempting weather." As

he spoke, he laid his hand on the bridle of a steed which some grooms

had been leading backwards and forwards in readiness, but which they had

now resigned to several of the nobles, the Marquis of Marialva

performing the office of holding the stirrup while he mounted.

No sooner was he in the saddle than the rest of the party followed his

example, a fresh horse being brought out for the Minister, who seemed to

enjoy the thoughts of the sport as much as the youngest or idlest among

them.

The King led the cavalcade, a little in advance, with Carvalho by his

side, who seemed to be communicating some matters of importance, at all

events not intended for the ears of the rest. Then came the Duke of

Aveiro, the Marquis of Marialva, and other of the first nobles, followed

by a crowd of attendants and huntsmen, among whom appeared that faithful

counsellor of the Duke's, Senhor Policarpio; for without him his master

never now went abroad. That discreet personage did not seem to partake

at all either in his ill-humour or dislike to the amusement, chatting

and laughing familiarly with his fellows, who could not fail to regard

him as a most amiable character.

Hunting parties have been before so often and ably described by far

greater artists than we can ever hope to be, that it were useless and

tiresome to our readers to mention the costumes of the sportsmen, and

the trappings of their steeds, the numbers of attendants, with their

leashes of hounds, the men with long sticks and clappers to rouse the

game from their lairs, the cheering sound of the horns, the neighing of

the horses, the barking of the dogs, and the shouts and cries of the

human beings joining in one wild and exhilarating chorus. We defy any,

except the most apathetic or heart-broken, (including some, perhaps, who

experience a considerable share of fear in being obliged to sit on

horseback at all,) not to feel their spirits rise, and their hearts

throb with eagerness to come up with the chase, when they find

themselves in such scenes as we have seen depicted.

We do not, for another reason, mention this more minutely; for we

suspect that, were we to paint it exactly as it was, it would be found

to fall very far short, in interest and even in magnificence, of an

English meet, just as the fox breaks from cover. Boar hunting is a very

fine thing, we doubt not; but it cannot _beat that_. The boars in

question being detained within the precincts of the park, by sundry

tempting baits from time to time held out to them, on condition that

they would make no objection to be hunted on occasions, and killed when

required, were not quite so fierce as their brethren in the forest of

Ardennes, or those which the German barons hunt, as narrated in every

romance the scene of which is laid in that picturesque country of rocks,

woods, and castles; nevertheless they were formidable adversaries to

encounter when their bristles were up, without a long spear and a sharp

couteau de chasse in the hand; then an expert butcher could easily cut

their throats. They were worth killing, too; for we can vouch for the

very excellent hams which their descendants of the present day make,

when dried and salted. But we are descending too much into common-day

life, so must again mount our Pegasus, and follow the hounds.

The party rode on for some distance into the wood, at that easy pace

which enabled the footmen to keep up with them without difficulty, being

joined every now and then by some of the nobles who had been more

sluggard in their movement.

There was, indeed, a gallant assemblage of cavaliers collected by the

time they reached a broad, sylvan glade, in the neighbourhood of which

it was expected that a boar, or perhaps a wolf, would be found; for both

animals were equally objects of their search. Of the latter there were

great numbers in the country, who, descending from their mountain

fastnesses during the frosts of winter, took refuge in the forests on

the lower lands, where, finding an abundance of provision, they remained

till hunted and destroyed, every one waging deadly war against them.

The beaters, with the huntsmen and dogs, now went in front, the first

forming a long line; and, with loud shouts and cries, striking every

clump of brushwood in their way, advanced slowly forward, the royal

party following them closely.

At length, a magnificent boar, of larger size than usual, started from

among a mass of tangled shrubs. For a moment, he gazed at his enemies,

as if he would have rushed on them, when the footmen retiring behind the

cavaliers, the latter galloped their horses towards him. Instinct

pointing out to him the hopelessness of contending with so large a

force, he turned, and endeavoured to escape by flight. Vain were his

efforts: his speed did not equal that of his pursuers; the King, by the

tacit consent of his courtiers, being allowed to be the first to come up

with him; for, although pretending to urge on their active steeds to the

utmost, by swerving more than necessary, as if to avoid the brushwood in

their way, they easily effected their purpose. The dogs rushed on him

from all sides, compelling him to stand at bay; two he laid, covered

with gore, upon the turf; but the others he could not shake off, when

the King, plunging his spear into the brawny neck of the now infuriated

animal, brought him to the ground. He uttered a loud cry of pain and

impotent rage, and the Marquis of Marialva, leaping from his steed,

finished the beast's life, with a stroke of his short hunting sword.

The footmen then hastened forward to take possession of the carcass,

which was to be conveyed to the royal residence.

While this scene was enacting, Captain Policarpio rode up to his master,

the Duke of Aveiro, who had loitered at some little distance apart from

the other sportsmen.

"It would save much trouble, if one of the brethren of yonder fierce

beast, were to plunge his long tusks into the side of this

hunting-loving King of ours," observed the former, in a low tone.

"You speak truly, my good Policarpio," replied the Duke; "but such a

chance, I fear, is not to be ours. He is too closely surrounded by

those sycophantish nobles, who, I verily believe, would risk their own

lives to save his, and these brutes have seldom the fortune to kill

their hunters. We must wait our time, and trust to our own good arms,

and steady aim."

"An opportunity may offer we thought not of before, though one, we

should do well not to lose, if I may so advise your Excellency. The

forest we shall traverse is thick, and the probability is great that the

King will be separated from the rest of the party. Let him be our game,

and let our whole care be to closely follow his movements, never, for an

instant, allowing him to escape our sight; then should we find him for a

moment alone, and no person at hand, one well-aimed stroke would place

the crown on your Excellency's head."

"The idea is not bad; but it is utterly hopeless. Even if the King were

separated from the others, we should not be able to slay him, without a

certainty of discovery," said the Duke.

"Have no fear on that score, your Excellency; such deeds have often

before been done. The bough of a tree may have thrown him from his

horse; some concealed assassin may have shot him, or the very animal he

was in search of may have overpowered him. We ride on, as if nothing

had occurred; the hunters will have gained a long distance from the

spot, before they perceive that the King is not of the party; then some

time will elapse before any go in search of him, and still more before

his corpse is discovered. This will fully account for the escape of the

assassins: your Excellency, in the mean time, can easily overtake and

ride among the foremost of the hunters, so that no one will suspect you,

while I will keep among my equals, and shout, and laugh the blithest of

any."

"You are truly a valuable counsellor, my friend, and with your aid,

Heaven favouring me, I may yet succeed. I will follow your advice; but

keep not too much in my company, the so doing may draw suspicion on us."

The weak Duke had just made up his mind to act according to his cunning

servant's suggestion, when a she-wolf started from a cover some way

beyond where the boar had been finally brought to bay. Fresh dogs were,

as soon as possible, let loose on her; but she had, in the mean time,

gained a considerable start of them, making the utmost of her advantage;

and giving one fierce glare at her pursuers, she directed her course

towards the centre of the forest. Every one was in eager pursuit; but

the trees, in some places, grew so densely, that it was impossible for

the huntsmen to keep together, or in sight of the quarry. The King, the

most excited of any, encouraged them with shouts and gestures to the

chase, many, indeed, unintentionally having actually passed him; but the

Duke and his wily attendant, holding back their steeds, kept a hawk-eyed

glance on his every movement. Suddenly, to their great satisfaction,

they observed their intended victim take a narrow path to the right,

from supposing, probably, that it would afford a shorter road, while the

rest of the party followed a broader way straight forward. The King

galloped on, when he found that he had made a mistake, the path leading

him at each step further from the cries of the dogs, and the shouts of

the men: he perceived also, that he was followed by none of his own

attendants; two horsemen only being distinguished approaching him at

some little distance. He listened attentively for the sounds of the

chase, and could yet clearly distinguish them on the left, in which

direction he searched eagerly for an opening in the wood, through which

he might proceed at a fast pace, without running the risk of being

bruised among the trees. At last he arrived at a part of the wood where

the trees grew further from each other; and just as the Duke and Senhor

Policarpio were about to gallop towards him, the latter, with the

intention of plunging his long hunting spear into his back, he

disappeared among them. The King, little thinking of the treachery

meditated against him, passed through what he found to be merely a

narrow belt of trees, closely pursued by his intended murderers, till he

found himself in a small amphitheatre; the soil soft and damp, from a

bubbling stream, which issued forth from some rugged, dark rocks, which

rose on every side, while the most lofty trees of the forest grew

around. He had before been led to the spot, in the course of a day's

sport, and he knew it to be near the centre of the domain. There was

but one path which led from it, in the direction he wished to pursue,

between two overhanging rocks, and this he was about to take, when the

traitors again overtook him. It was a spot fit for their fell purposes;

no prying eye might observe them, nor was any huntsmen likely to be led

thither. Another moment, and his life would have been ended; when a

tall dark figure rose directly in his path. The woodland apparition,

for so seemed the stranger to the guilty consciences of the assassins,

caused them to pause in their intention. The King's steed snorted and

reared at the sudden interruption to his career, nor was his rider less

amazed at beholding the strange figure, who, with wild and frantic

gestures, presented itself before him. As our readers may possibly have

guessed, he was the same mysterious personage whom we described as

wandering about the wood in the early part of the morning.

The Monarch was the first to speak, for he conjectured that some insane

peasant, probably, having wandered into the woods, had been startled

from his sleep, and was not aware of the impropriety of his actions.

"Who art thou, friend, who thus venturest to intrude into our royal

domain? Say, what wantest thou? but, be quick in thy speech, and impede

not our progress; for we yet hear the sounds of the chase at a

distance."

"I am one whose hands thou hast kissed, and whose feet thou hast washed,

proud King, in the days of thy innocence and happiness; but one whom

thou hast since despised, and driven from thy presence with ignominy.

Will that suffice thee? My message I give not in the presence of the

vile panders to thy follies and vices I see approaching."

And he pointed towards the Duke of Aveiro and Senhor Policarpio, when

the King, now for the first time, perceived that he was not alone.

While the stranger was speaking, they came up, bowing profoundly; but

the Monarch had been seized with a strong desire to know what the aged

man before him could possibly have to say; and, being well armed, he

thought not of personal danger. He therefore desired the Duke and his

attendant to ride on, and endeavour to discover the rest of the party,

saying he would follow in their track, as soon as he had listened to

what the peasant had to communicate. The Duke was obliged to obey,

although he regarded the stranger suspiciously; for, at the first

glance, he recognised in him the holy Father Malagrida, and it instantly

occurred to him, that he was about to betray his own treacherous

designs. At first, it flashed across his mind, that his only chance of

safety would be to destroy both Joseph and the Priest at once; but his

superstitious awe of the Father, prevented him from committing the deed.

He rode on, therefore, followed by Policarpio, their former intention

yet unaltered.

"Let us draw rein here, if it please your Excellency," said the latter,

as soon as they had lost sight of the King; "we shall have now a fairer

opportunity than ever. As he passes by, we will rush at him, and strike

him dead. Yonder peasant will be accused of the deed, and we shall

escape suspicion."

"Know you not who yonder seeming peasant is?" exclaimed the Duke. "He

is no peasant, but the holy Jesuit Malagrida, for what purpose come

hither, I know not; but I fear me much it cannot be for any good, except

he seeks to take the trouble off our hands by despatching the King

himself."

"It would be a useful deed, forsooth," said Policarpio. "Yet, no

matter, if he slays him not; his very appearance will aid our purpose;

for many must have seen a stranger wandering about, who will be the

first suspected; and, as he will probably make his escape, he will

inform no one that he saw us. Does not your Excellency think so?"

"Your sagacity is above all praise," answered the Duke. "You deserve to

be a prime minister, my good Policarpio; and you shall be if my plans

are successful. They must be so, or--"

He dared not to utter the alternative.

"Fear not, my noble master; success must attend us," interrupted

Policarpio.

Such was the conversation the pair, worthy of each other, held, while

concealed among some thick-growing shrubs, in anxious expectation of

their victim's arrival.

As soon as the King found himself alone with the aged peasant, he

repeated his former question--"Say, what wantest thou, my friend?"

"For myself, I require naught; but I come for thy benefit, O

hard-hearted and impious King; for our Lord, in his mercy, remembering

the bright promise of thy youth, in the days of thy tainted father, has

taken compassion on thee, and will not suffer thee to be destroyed

without a given warning. Hear me, O King! while I speak the words of

Heaven! If thou turn not from thy evil course; if thou ceasest not to

cherish the persecutor of our holy religion, in the persons of her most

faithful servants; if thou still wilt refuse to receive the fathers of

the Order of Jesus into thy palace, and trustest to the vain words and

counsels of the pampered and false sons of our Church, then will a

speedy vengeance fall on thy head. Even now is thy name registered

among those doomed to die, who will not repent of their sins: even now

has the fiat of thy fate gone forth, which naught but the prayers of the

faithful can turn aside. Be warned, then, O King! in time. Repent! and

be saved from destruction. If not, before many suns have set, thy

haughty head shall be brought low, and thou shalt mingle with the dust

from whence thou sprangest. Ah! thy dying groans now ring upon mine

ear. I see thy blood-stained corpse upon the ground, while the demons

of hell rejoice that they have gained another victim. Thy proud race

shall cease, and thy name shall be held in abhorrence by all the

faithful followers of our holy religion."

"Cease, cease, whoever thou art, mysterious man," exclaimed the King,

interrupting him, and trembling with agitation. "We tarried not to hear

words like these. We fancied that thou earnest to inform us of some

plot against our throne and life. Speak, who art thou? that we may know

how much credence to give to thy words."

"I am one whom thou hast persecuted--I am the Father Malagrida!"

"Ah! why, then, this strange garb? and how darest thou to approach our

royal person?" cried the King.

"I dare do all that is commanded me; and for this peasant garb, it

enabled me, unperceived, to enter this domain, where, living on the

berries of the trees, and roots from the earth, have I long waited to

meet thee thus. Wilt thou then promise to amend and turn from thy

wickedness?"

"Silence! daring Priest!" cried the King. "Begone to the town appointed

for thy residence, or I will command my attendants to seize thee, and

commit thee to the lowest dungeon in our prisons."

"I fear thee not, and dare thy vengeance! Thou hast set the seal upon

thine own fate. From henceforth no warning voice shall meet thine ear;

and rapidly shalt thou run thy course unto destruction. I would have

saved thee, but thou wouldest not be saved. Wretched Monarch, we meet

no more!"

Joseph, who wanted not personal courage, (indeed cowardice has never

been a failing of his race,) and was above the vulgar superstitions of

his country, enraged more than terrified by these daring threats, made

an attempt to seize the mad Jesuit; but Malagrida, perceiving his

intention, eluded his grasp, and uttering a loud laugh of derision,

plunged among the rocks and brushwood, whither it was impossible for the

King to follow on horseback.

In vain the Monarch attempted to cut off his retreat. After searching

for him for a considerable time, he was obliged to desist; and then set

off at full speed, in the hopes of quickly finding the Minister and his

nobles, and despatching people to apprehend the daring Jesuit.

The Duke and his attendant watched eagerly for his approach; every

instant they expected to triumph in his destruction; at last they beheld

him galloping towards them through the wood, when the loud shouts of

men, the sound of horses, and the barking of the hounds, broke on their

ears, nearer approaching the spot where they were concealed. Onward

came the King, when, as he was within a few yards of them, a wolf,

closely pursued by the most active dogs, dashed by, his eyes straining,

and his mouth covered with foam from rage and terror. The King,

forgetful of the scene in which he had just engaged, and of everything

except the excitement of the sport, turned his horse's head, and gave

chase after the wolf. The savage animal, already almost spent with

fatigue, was quickly overtaken, and ere he could stand at bay, the spear

of the King had pinned him to the ground, when the dogs setting on him,

had almost torn him to pieces, before a party of the noble hunters, with

Carvalho at their head, could come up. What was their surprise on

finding their sovereign in at the death, when it was supposed that he

had followed another quarry in a different direction. All, of course,

were loud in praise of his skill and address; none more so than the Duke

of Aveiro, who soon rode up as if he had never harboured a thought of

treachery.

At last Joseph recollected Malagrida, and calling the Minister to him,

he recounted all that he had said. Carvalho, inwardly cursing his

master's supineness, in not having at once informed him of the

circumstance, advised him to summon all the party to aid in apprehending

him. Leaving, therefore, all thoughts of further sport for wild beasts,

they eagerly joined in what was, after all, far more exciting, and

suited to their natures--the hunting down a fellow-creature, though none

were told who was the person. They searched everywhere; not a bush in

the neighbourhood was left unbeaten; but Malagrida had escaped, and, at

last, in despair, they were obliged to desist, when fatigue warned the

King that it was time to return home, and Carvalho immediately set off

on his return to the city.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note. This is the same worthy noble Mr Beckford so frequently

mentions, and with whom he was residing while at Lisbon.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

We have just discovered that we have written five chapters of our

history without once mentioning the name of one who played so

conspicuous a part in the commencement: we mean our most particular

friend, Don Luis d'Almeida; and, lest any of our readers should begin to

suspect that we have laid him on the shelf altogether, and should, in

consequence, throw down our book as of no further interest, we will

again return to the narration of his fortunes.

He was seated by the bedside of his father, the old Count d'Almeida, in

the country-house we have before described, near Coimbra. His eyes were

directed towards the invalid, with a glance of filial affection and deep

sorrow; for on his countenance too clearly had the stern hand of death

set his seal to claim his victim. A great change had come over Luis;

disappointment, grief, and illness, had done their cruel work on him; he

was no longer the sanguine and gay youth who laughed at misfortunes as

things which might strike, but could not injure him; he was now the

grave and thoughtful man: he had learned the great lesson--that sorrows

must visit all but the few, and those few not to be the most envied,

perhaps; but he had also learned to face disappointment with fortitude

and resignation. The many months which he had spent in retirement, by

the side of his dying parent, he had devoted, when not in actual

attendance on him, to severe study. He had discarded all frivolous or

light reading, drawing his ideas alone from the pure springs of

knowledge and of truth, among the authors of antiquity; and truly did he

find his mind strengthened by the invigorating draughts he had imbibed.

For several weeks his father had not risen from his sick couch, and both

were aware that they must soon part, though the son imagined not how

soon.

The old Count had been sorely afflicted at the thoughts of leaving the

son in whom all his affections centred, his pride and boast, so

ill-provided with a worldly inheritance. He left him his honoured name,

and his title; but beyond that, except the small Quinta on which he

resided, all the residue of his fortune had been lost by the earthquake.

The merchant who managed his affairs, and held possession of all his

monied property, had failed, owing to that dreadful event, when several

houses, from which he drew a considerable portion of his revenue, were

also entirely destroyed; so that Luis would, with the greatest economy,

be but barely able to support the character even of a private gentleman.

For this he cared but little. Of what use now to him was wealth and

rank, since she for whom alone he valued either was lost to him for

ever? His ambition lay buried in that living tomb which now enclosed

his Clara--now doubly lost; for, had he not been supposed to be the

destroyer of her brother, and should he ever find means to clear himself

from that imputation, yet would her father never consent to give her to

one destitute of fortune. He had long banished from his mind all

thoughts of happiness through the tender sympathies of our nature. A

wife's sweet smile, issuing from her heart of hearts, he should never

know; the name of father, uttered by the lips of his first-born, he

should never hear: cold and solitary must be his course--yet both loving

and beloved--but apart from his soul's idol--he knew her love would

endure, and that consciousness would prevent his from ever changing.

Since his return from Lisbon, he had once only quitted his father's

house: it was to pay a short visit to Oporto, in the faint hopes of

gaining an interview with Donna Clara. He saw her, as we shall

hereafter describe; but, alas! little was gained to either, except a

confirmation of their mutual constancy.

The old Count had been sleeping. As his eyes languidly opened, they met

the earnest gaze of his son. "Luis," he said, in a feeble voice, "I

must deceive you no longer. I know that I have not many hours to live.

Before the sun again rises, I shall be taken from you; but yet, my boy,

I die contented; for, though small is the share you will possess of this

world's wealth, I leave you rich in all the endowments which conduce to

true happiness. I dreamed, too, just now, that all your wishes were

fulfilled--that she on whom you have set your heart was restored to you,

and that wealth from an unexpected source flowed in upon you. Such, I

know, are vain thoughts for one whose heart ought to be set alone upon

the world towards which I am hastening; but Heaven will pardon a father

for thinking of his only child."

"My dear father, speak not thus of quitting me!" exclaimed Luis, his

voice choking with grief, and with willing blindness deceiving himself;

"Heaven will yet spare you to me."

"Do not flatter yourself with false hopes, Luis, which will unfit you

for the moment which must so soon come," answered the Count. "Yet,

before I go, I would speak to you on a subject which has long oppressed

me. Do not judge harshly of any man till you know the motives of his

actions, nor bear hostile feelings towards him because he differs from

you in his opinions, unless they advocate immorality or irreligion.

Alas! I wish that I had always acted as I now counsel you to do. I had

a brother, some few years younger than myself, a gay and gallant youth,

with impetuous feelings and headstrong passions, but possessed of a

noble and generous soul, which despised danger, and could but ill bear

restraint. At an early age he became imbued with the heretical

doctrines of religion, then first introduced in this country. He was

also strongly opposed to the system of government which has for so many

years existed, and took no pains to conceal either one or the other.

The expression of his religious opinions might have passed unnoticed, as

he never attempted to make converts to them; but when he ventured to

lift his voice against what he called the vices of the priests, the

bigotry of the people, the sycophancy of the nobles, and the tyranny of

the sovereign, all joined in condemning him; even I, as his brother,

deemed that his presumption ought to be punished. He was persecuted on

every side; his life, even, was demanded as the only recompense for his

crime, and the Inquisition endeavoured to lay hold of him. He came to

me for aid to escape, but I looked upon him as an infidel and a traitor,

and refused my assistance, telling him as my reason, that I could not

answer to my conscience for my doing so. I remember his last words:

`Brother,' he said, `I shall not cease to love you; for you act as you

think right--I speak according to my judgment; though I should have been

_wiser_ to have held silence. I will not now ask you to do what you

consider wrong. Farewell!' Without uttering another word, he left me,

and I saw him no more. My heart smote me for my cruelty and want of

brotherly affection; but my confessor, the Father Jacinto, who had urged

me so to act, assured me I had done rightly; for that it would have been

participating in the sin to have aided so impious an heretic: yet I

could not forget his last words, nor have I ever forgiven myself. My

brother could not effect his escape: he was seized, imprisoned, tried,

and condemned to expiate his crimes on the burning shores of Africa,

where death would soon have finished his career, but he never reached

his destination. The ship which bore him was never more heard of, and

was supposed to have foundered in a violent storm, which was known to

have raged in the latitudes where she was. I have never received

further tidings of my unfortunate brother. Alas! my conduct towards him

is the bitterest draught of death; but we shall yet meet in another

world, where he will forgive me my trespass towards him."

Exhausted by the exertion he had made to speak, the Count fell back into

his son's arms.

Luis now gazed with alarm at his father's countenance, which had assumed

the ghastly hue of death; but, in a few minutes, the Count again

revived, and gave his hand a gentle pressure, to assure him of his

consciousness, yet some time elapsed ere he again spoke. We need not

detail more of the conversation between the father and son, nor are we

fond of describing death-bed scenes, where no object is to be gained by

the contemplation. We delight not to harrow up the feelings of our

readers by descriptions of those mournful and inevitable occurrences

with which we must all be more or less familiar, and which cannot fail

of bringing back melancholy recollections to our minds, while we have a

long catalogue before us of strange and terrible events, their very

strangeness interesting, though persuading us that we can never be

doomed to witness the like.

The conversation of the Count and his son was interrupted by the arrival

of the priest to administer extreme unction to the dying man, the voice

of the choristers, chanting the hymn of the dying, being heard without.

How mournfully did the notes strike upon the ear of Luis! Often had he

heard them before, but then they were sung to the departing soul of some

person indifferent to him--now, to the being he revered most on earth.

The Count having confessed his sins, and the last sacrament being

administered to him, the priest, in his gilded canonicals, took his

departure, bearing in his hands the sacred emblems; his head being

protected from the sun's rays by a silken awning, supported on poles by

four attendants, when the sick man was left to die in peace.

Ere another sun arose, the old Count's forebodings were fulfilled--he

had ceased to breathe, and Luis found himself alone in the world. On

the following day, the body of the Count, dressed in full costume, and

decorated with the orders he possessed, was laid out in an open coffin,

placed on high trestles in the centre of the chapel belonging to the

house. Here all the surrounding population attended, with marks of real

sorrow, to take a last farewell of one who had ever been an indulgent

landlord to his tenants and a friend to all.

In the evening it was carried to the neighbouring church, where was the

tomb of his family. The interior of the church was hung with black, and

a canopy of black cloth and silver was erected over the spot where the

body was deposited during the performance of the service, the tenants,

and those friends who had been enabled to arrive in time, lining each

side of the building, with thick wax tapers in their hands, upwards of

seven feet in length. The service being over, the lid of the coffin was

closed, and the key delivered to the care of the person of highest rank

present, whose duty it was to present it to the heir of the deceased,

the young Count d'Almeida.

The day after the funeral, as Luis was seated in solitude, his mind

dwelling with sad satisfaction on the affection and the many virtues of

the parent he had lost, Pedro entered the room, and placed a letter in

his hands. He examined the seal, which appeared to have been broken and

again closed without much care; but he thought not more of the

circumstance after he had torn open the envelope. It was from his young

friend, Don Joze de Tavora. His colour went and came, and his eye

flashed, as he read on. The words were to this effect:--

"Much esteemed and dear Friend,--Knowing you to be a man of that high

honour and integrity, surpassed by none, to you I write freely and

openly. I have been very wretched lately, not on my own account, but on

that of my brother; he has been insulted, grossly insulted, by one from

whom he can gain no satisfaction, who would be above all laws, human and

divine, and who would, to gratify his own evil inclinations, trample on

our dearest rights and privileges--he hopes with impunity. In that he

is mistaken. He forgets that his nobles, at least those who are worthy

of the name, cherish their honour before their lives, and that they wear

swords to protect both one and the other. His name I will not mention--

you know it. You have not forgot, I know, your promise to defend, to

the last drop of your blood, the fame of your cousin Theresa, my lovely

sister-in-law. The time has now arrived to do so. She has been daily

persecuted by the attentions of that high personage during my brother's

absence. I believe her innocent of all crime; for surely one so lovely

cannot be guilty; but my brother, mad with jealousy, is not so

persuaded, and has sworn to be avenged on the disturber of his

happiness. No plan is yet arranged, but whatever is done will require

the aid of all the high-born and pure nobles of the land to carry into

effect. To you, therefore, Luis, I write, to summon you, without delay,

both to counsel and to act. More I may not say, but I rely upon your

not failing to fulfil your promise. Adeos, dear friend, and fortunate

am I to be able so to call you."--The letter was signed, "Joze Maria de

Tavora."

"Theresa in danger!" he exclaimed, "the greatest danger which can befall

a woman;--she I once loved so fondly! I must fly to rescue her. But

how? Alas, we cannot tear her from the hands of our sovereign without

being accused of treason! Even that risk would I brave to secure her

innocence. No, Theresa would not, cannot be guilty!"

With a troubled mind, forgetting entirely his own cause for grief, Luis

arose, and summoning Pedro, ordered him to prepare for a quick departure

for Lisbon. He then set to work to perform the many duties his father's

demise had rendered necessary before he could leave his home. Pedro was

in high glee at the thoughts of another visit to Lisbon. He had grown

heartily weary of the monotonous quiet of his master's home, after the

bustle and activity to which he had become accustomed during his

travels; and he had managed to quarrel with his country love, so that he

had become very anxious to renew his acquaintance with the fair one he

admired in the city, should she still remain faithful to him.

Two days necessarily passed before the young Count, for so we may in

future call Luis, was prepared to quit his home. The journey was a sad

and silent one; for he was far too deeply occupied to listen to the idle

prating of Senhor Pedro, who considered it part of his duty to endeavour

to amuse his master. Luis, though fully alive to the danger he ran by

engaging in any conspiracy against the sovereign, his principles,

indeed, determining him not to do so, unless driven to it by the most

direful necessity, yet forgot, for the time, all the warnings he had

received from his friends Captain Pinto and Senhor Mendez, also from the

Minister himself, not to allow any intimacy to spring up between himself

and the family of the Tavoras. This advice he had disregarded when he

gained the friendship of young Joze de Tavora, but he could not resist

the amiability, candour, and high feelings of the youth, though with no

other member of that once proud race had he become intimate. What

further befell him we will reserve for a future chapter.

Volume 3, Chapter V.

When the Father Jacinto da Costa quitted the Quinta of the Marchioness

of Tavora, he paid several visits, in different parts of the city, to

forward the various plots in which he was engaged, and towards the close

of the evening he approached the ruins of the church and convent of San

Caetano, where, as we have described, Malagrida had, some time

previously, been seized, while preaching against the authority of the

King and his Minister. No attempts had yet been made to restore the

buildings, so that the spot presented a wild scene of havoc and

destruction, increased by the thickening gloom which pervaded the city:

here a few blackened and tottering walls, there vast masses of masonry

piled one on the other, among which dank plants and shrubs had begun to

spring up, already eager to claim the ground so long the abode of man.

The Priest walked round to the back of the ruins, where a wall, in some

places thrown down, served to enclose the garden of the convent. He

here easily climbed over the fragments, and found himself on

comparatively unencumbered ground. He wound his way among the

moss-grown paths, impeded by the luxuriant vegetation of the geraniums

and rose trees, which, long unpruned, sent their straggling branches in

every direction, filling the cool night air with the sweet scents of

their flowers. The once trimly-cut box trees had lost all signs of

their former shapes; the fountains had ceased to play; the tanks were

dry, once stocked with the luscious lamprey, and other rich fish, to

feed the holy friars on their days of fasting and penance; indeed,

desolation reigned throughout the domain.

The Priest heeded not these things, his eye was familiarised with them;

nor did he cast a pitying thought upon the worthy friars who had been

driven forth to seek another home;--they were his foes--his rivals on

the field he sought to claim as his own. His mind, too, was occupied by

matters of vast import to the safety of his order; yet he doubted not

that he should ultimately come off victorious.

With some little difficulty he reached the centre of the garden, and,

looking carefully around, he seated himself on one of the stone benches

by the side of a large circular tank, now empty. He waited for some

time till he heard a step approaching, when, starting up, he beheld the

figure of a man closely shrouded in a cloak, emerging from among the

thick-growing shrubs. He advanced towards him with an eager step, which

betrayed his deep anxiety, so unlike his usually cold and calm

demeanour.

The stranger threw back his cloak as he approached the Jesuit, so as to

exhibit by the uncertain light the features apparently of a young and

handsome man. "Father, I have come at your command," he said, "though

with great risk of discovery, if I hasten not back to my post."

"It is well, Alfonzo. What news do you bring me?" demanded the Jesuit.

"I have naught but the worst to reveal," answered the young man.

"Speak it without fear: no one can here listen to your words," exclaimed

the Father. "Stay, we will examine well the neighbouring bushes, to see

that no lurking spy is there concealed."

The Jesuit and his young companion, having concluded their search,

seated themselves on the stone from which the first had risen. "Now,

speak," said the Father.

"I have long watched for an opportunity to ascertain what you desired,"

began the stranger. "Yesterday, while the Minister was absent, I opened

his bureau with the key you gave me. With trembling hands I searched

each paper, and from all of importance I have made notes. At last I

came to one roughly drawn out in Carvalho's writing: it was a plan to be

submitted to the King for abolishing your whole order throughout the

kingdom. He proposes to implicate you in some act of rebellion, or some

illegal practice; then to surround your colleges, and to embark all who

are professed, on board vessels for the coast of Italy, banishing you

for ever from Portugal. He advises the King to allow no delay in

executing his plan; for that every day you are increasing in power and

malevolence, and that you will in time sap the very foundation of his

throne."

"Ah! thinks he so?--he shall find that he is not mistaken!" exclaimed

the Jesuit, with greater vehemence than he had ever before given way to.

"No time must then be lost in putting our plot into execution, and we

will try the success of both. Alfonzo, you have acted well, and will

meet with the approbation of our general. You will, when you profess,

rise rapidly to the highest rank in our order, and will become one of

its brightest ornaments."

"I merit no praise," returned the young neophyte, for such the Father

declared him to be. "I have but done my duty."

"You might yet win far greater praise," said the Father, scarce noticing

his answer. "It would be a noble thing to destroy the great enemy of

our order. It would at once free us from all further fear of danger."

The young aspirant started. "I understand not your words, Father," he

said.

"I speak of Carvalho's death," answered the Jesuit, calmly. "It is said

that the dagger of the assassin cannot reach him,--that often has his

life been attempted, but each attempt has failed. What steel cannot

accomplish, the poisoned chalice may."

"What mean you, Father?" gasped forth Alfonzo.

"It is simple to understand, my son: now listen calmly," returned the

Jesuit, in a voice calculated to soothe his listener's fears. "It is a

law, founded on nature and on justice, that we have a right to defend

our lives and properties, at every cost, against those who would deprive

us of either. No one would scruple to strike the assassin dead who

would take our life, or the robber who would steal our purse: then can

it be a sin to destroy the man who would blast our name, who would

deprive us of our lawful power, and drive us forth to beggary and to

death? Can Heaven blame us that we seek to deprive him of life who

would thus treat us? No, my son; be assured that the death of that man

of crime would be an acceptable sacrifice to the Ruler of the Universe."

The pupil answered not.

"Listen, Alfonzo," continued the Master. "You have determined to become

the follower of the great Loyola: you seek by that means to gain power

and influence among the men you have learned to despise. The way is

open to you to follow if you will; but while Carvalho lives, our order

in Portugal can never flourish. In him we have the most inveterate and

deceitful foe we have ever known. He must die, or we shall meet a

certain destruction. Hear me, Alfonzo: I speak not to a weak and

trembling child, but to a man who has boldly dared, and successfully

performed, and who will yet do more!"

The Jesuit took from beneath his robes a small box, and extracted from

it a paper closely folded, which he placed in the hands of his

companion. "Take this parcel," he continued. "It contains a powder,

which, when mixed with a glass of water, will not dim its crystal

purity. Its effects are deadly, but slow, and no antidote has power to

act against it; nor will the most clever physician be able to detect its

workings on the human frame. Watch your opportunity, and mix it with

the first beverage you see prepared for him; but beware no one else

tastes of it, nor do you lose sight of it till he has drunk it to the

dregs. Now then will our mighty tyrant have become a thing to loathe!"

"Father!" exclaimed the young man, in a scarcely articulate voice, "I

have ever obeyed your commands to the utmost; I have acted a part from

which my heart revolts; I have betrayed the man who has confided in

me,--but I cannot become a murderer. I could not live, and see the man

who has taught me to admire and love him writhing in agony, and know

that it was the effect of my foul act. In mercy take back the deadly

powder."

"Alfonzo, I expected not a like answer from you," replied the Priest,

quietly taking back the paper. "I trusted that you had been taught to

rise above the common and false prejudices of the world,--that you had

bravely conquered the weak feelings of human nature, and were each day

advancing in qualifying yourself to become a professed member of our

order; but I see, alas! that I was mistaken, and that you are still held

back by weak bonds, which a bold man would long ere this have broken

through."

"Spare me, Father, spare me a task I cannot perform!" cried the young

man, clasping his hands convulsively together; but the other gazed on

him sternly.

"Alfonzo," he answered, "you have another motive than dread of the deed

for your refusal to obey the commands of your superior. I have watched

you closely, when you little thought it. I know your inmost feelings.

You love! Ah, you start, conscious of your guilt. The fair daughter of

the Minister has drawn you from the path of duty. While you betrayed

the father, you allowed your heart to be led captive by the daughter's

charms. She loves you in return, perchance; but, think you, even were

you to desert the colours you have determined to follow, the powerful

and haughty Minister would listen to the suit of one without wealth or

family? Naught but the infatuation of madness can lead you on; yet, try

your fortune, and hear his answer: he will scorn and drive you from him

with derision, even if he consign you not rather to one of the lowest

dungeons of his prisons; then, in darkness and solitude, except when the

executioner is sent to torture you, will you spend your days, till death

puts an end to your sufferings. Such will be your fate if you destroy

him not."

"Such, then, be my fate; I cannot murder," answered the youth, in a deep

tone.

"Have I not told you that self-defence is not murder?" returned the

Jesuit. "On my head be the sin, if sin there be. Take your choice. If

you still determine to follow our banner, obey my orders; if you seek to

continue as a layman, and would gratify your passion by wedding the

daughter of Carvalho, take this paper--'tis not you that give its

contents, 'tis I--and no crime can be laid to your charge. 'Tis the

shedding of blood alone against which the Scripture speaks. While

Carvalho lives the fair girl can never be yours; if he dies, you may

find means to win her; but if you pertinaciously refuse to follow my

counsels, no power can avert your destruction."

"Give me the fatal powder," exclaimed the youth, in a faltering voice.

"I will not pledge myself to administer it, but I will act as

circumstances demand. You, Father, shall not have cause to taunt me

with my faltering purpose."

"Spoken like one worthy to belong to our holy order," said the Jesuit.

"Take the paper, and preserve it carefully. Meet me here to-morrow, if

possible, at the same hour, and bring me all further information you can

collect. Falter not in your purpose, my son, and let the high destiny

which awaits you be an encouragement to perseverance in the holy course

you have chosen."

The unhappy youth took the packet containing the poison, and the Jesuit,

as he delivered it, felt his hand tremble.

"Alfonzo," he continued, "I know full well what is yet passing in your

mind. You hope to escape the performance of your promise. Remember, I

speak in kindness, but I warn you. An ever watchful eye notes your

every action, ay, and reads your inmost heart; and should you harbour,

even for a moment, a thought of treachery, an awful doom will be yours,

far more terrible than any the Minister, in his most savage mood, can

devise."

"I know it, I know it," exclaimed the aspirant, "but my task is a hard

one."

"The more glory in the performance, my son," returned the Father. "Now

go, I have detained you too long already. Farewell, and the blessing of

Heaven attend your enterprise."

The young man, without answering, bowed low before the Superior, and

again shrouding his features in his cloak, took his way towards a fallen

part of the garden-wall, and walking rapidly onward, found himself on

the road towards the residence of Carvalho, before he allowed a definite

thought to take possession of his mind. He gained the house, entering

by a private door, and, mounting the stairs, eagerly examined the office

he had quitted. The Minister had not returned since his departure, and

his breathing became more regular--the fear of immediate detection was

passed. He endeavoured to apply himself to a task he had left

uncompleted, but his hand refused to obey his powerless wishes. One

burning thought filled his mind; a weight like molten lead pressed down

his soul; he endeavoured to exert his faculties, but the effort was

vain. Again and again the one dreadful idea rushed with tenfold

vividness before him; he writhed in agony, as the iron entered his

soul--he cursed, bitterly cursed, the adamantine fetters with which he

lay bound--break loose from them he knew too well he could not. He

thought of all he had sacrificed,--youth, talents, happiness, for what?

To grasp a shapeless phantom--to serve a lord unseen, unknown, more

inexorable than death. Death can but command once, and must be obeyed;

the stern dictates of his chief must be followed through a long life,

while he must look for death as the only harbinger of freedom. He

almost shrieked as he thought of the effects of the act he had

undertaken to perform. He beheld the man who had trusted in him, the

father of her he had dared to love to desperation, sinking in anguish by

the consuming fire he must administer; that manly and majestic form

reduced to a mass of inanimate clay; that mighty spirit, which held a

whole people in awe, driven forth by his fell deed. He thought, too,

that she who had awakened the better spirit within him would recoil with

horror as she felt the impious touch of her father's murderer; instead

of love, her bosom would become filled with hatred, with loathing and

disgust towards him. Remorse, bitter and eternal, must be his lot. As

he mechanically bent over his paper, his pen not moving from the spot on

which he had first placed it, the ink dry, a noise startled him--he

looked up, and beheld the Minister sternly regarding him. In a moment

his faculties were restored to wakefulness.

"You have been somewhat dilatory, Senhor Alfonzo," said the Minister.

"Are the papers I left you prepared?"

The secretary, with some confusion, acknowledged they were not.

"You have been worked hard lately, my good youth, so I will not blame

you," said Carvalho. "This is, however, no time for idleness, and you

must persevere, for there are so few I can trust, that I can procure no

one to aid you."

Those few kind words saved the life of the Minister, and sealed the doom

of many. In the mean time, the Father Jacinto paced the star-lit garden

with slow steps. More than an hour passed away as he was thus left to

his solitary meditations; what they were we cannot pretend to say, nor

whether his calculating reason, or his cold philosophy, whichever it

might be called, had managed to stifle all compunction for his acts--all

the whisperings of conscience. Could he have been able calmly to

contemplate the moment when his deeds must be tried before the awful

judgment-seat of Heaven? for, if he could, he had persuaded himself that

he was acting a just part. The sounds of life, which had arisen from

the city, had long ceased; it was now close upon the hour of midnight,

when he heard a slow and firm foot-fall approaching, and, emerging from

the gloom, the tall gaunt figure of the Father Malagrida stood before

him.

"I have, at your desire, ventured hither, my brother, in spite of all

the dangers with which the wicked threaten me," said the latter. "What

would you of me?"

"The time has arrived for action, and I would consult with you about the

means," returned Father Jacinto. "The Minister has already formed a

plan to banish every member of our order from the shores of Portugal.

In a few weeks, or perhaps even in a few days, we shall be deprived of

our liberty. The King has but to sanction the plan, and it will

forthwith be executed."

"Then the impious Monarch must die," exclaimed Malagrida. "His death be

upon his own head. I have warned him, and he would not listen. I will

warn him no more."

"He deserves no warning voice, holy brother," said the Father Jacinto,

not believing that Malagrida had really appeared before the King. "But

haste, inform all those who are willing to become the instruments of

Heaven's vengeance that they must delay the work no longer. Let them

take what means they think fit; it matters little, so that the deed be

performed. Urge them to it by that mighty eloquence with which Heaven

has endowed you for great purposes. Assure them that they are

performing a righteous act, which cannot fail to prosper; and thus many

whose fears have restrained them, will gladly join in the enterprise.

One steady hand might perform the deed; but, alas! no man can be found

alone to do it; they all suppose that security exists in numbers."

"'Tis enough for me to know that it must be done," answered Malagrida.

"Fear not, my brother, I will take measures that it shall be done. By

to-morrow night, I will assemble all those who are inimical to Joseph,

and will so persuade them, that they shall no longer hesitate to execute

my commands."

"You will perform good service to our holy order, and to our sacred

religion," returned Father Jacinto.

"To that have I ever devoted my life and energies," said Father

Malagrida.

"Truly have you ever been the great upholder of the faith, and have

gained the esteem of our community, and the admiration of the world,"

answered Father Jacinto.

"A little flattery will incite this madman to the work," he thought.

"If it fails, it will be easy to persuade the world that the idea arose

but from the wild workings of his disordered brain. No one will venture

to suppose that we could have been the instigators."

"Brother, I must depart to the wilderness, where the wickedness of this

second Pharaoh, and his evil counsellor, have compelled me to dwell,"

said Malagrida. "In three days we shall meet again, I trust triumphant;

till then, farewell."

"Farewell, my brother," returned Father Jacinto, and they separated; the

latter, after leaving the deserted garden, returning to his convent,

while Malagrida sought the river's side. He there found a boat awaiting

him, with a single rower. He silently took his seat in the stern, and

the man plying his oars with vigour, the small skiff shot rapidly from

the shore. The Jesuit, keeping a watchful eye on every side, directed

her course so as to avoid any of the boats rowing guard on the river,

which might have impeded his progress.

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

On the following morning, the King, accompanied by his Ministers, and

the chief officers of his household, held a grand review of all the

troops quartered in and about Lisbon, in an open space in the

neighbourhood of Belem.

After performing various evolutions, in no very perfect manner, it must

be confessed, the troops marched past him in close order. At the head

of a regiment of horse, called the Chaves Cavalry, rode the Marquis of

Tavora, he being their colonel. He bowed respectfully to his sovereign,

and passed on to form his men in line with the other troops, before

firing the parting salute.

"That man can be no traitor," said the King, in a low voice, to

Carvalho, who was close to him.

"I wish he was the only one in the kingdom," answered the Minister; "but

I fear me there are many more."

"I trust you are mistaken, my good friend," replied Joseph. "If there

are no worse than the Marquis of Tavora in my kingdom, I shall have

little to fear."

"Some day I shall be able to convince your Majesty by clear proofs,"

said the Minister; "otherwise I would not thus alarm you with reports

which may seem idle."

The Portuguese army was at this time the very worst in Europe. Through

the supine negligence of former sovereigns, it had been allowed to

become completely disorganised. The troops were ill paid, ill clothed,

and ill fed. The officers, chiefly of the inferior grades of society,

were ignorant of their duty, and illiterate, without a particle of the

_esprit de corps_ among them; nor did Carvalho, among his other designs

at this period, take any measures to improve them.

The review being over, the King returned to his palace at Belem, where

he received all those who had the _entree_ at Court. On these

occasions, it was the custom for the nobles to assemble first, when the

sovereign, entering the rooms, passed among them, addressing each in

their turn in a familiar way.

It was the duty of Teixeira, the chief domestic of the King, and the

confidant of his amours, to stand at the door of the ante-room, to see

that none but the privileged entered. He had, some time before, from

some insolent behaviour, seriously offended the Marquis of Tavora, who

threatened him with punishment. When the Marquis now approached,

Teixeira, who was standing directly in the way, pretended not to observe

him. The Marquis, enraged at the premeditated insult, exclaimed, "Stand

out of my way, base pander, or I will run my sword through your body."

"If I am a pander, as your Excellency thinks fit to call me," answered

Teixeira, turning round, and eyeing him malignantly, "I am one to your

wife and daughter, haughty noble."

"Wretched slave, dare you speak thus to me?" returned the Marquis,

forgetting, at the moment, that he was within the precincts of the

palace; "you shall rue those insolent words;" and half drawing his

sword, he made as if he would put his threat into execution.

"Your Excellency forgets where you are," exclaimed the servant,

trembling for his life.

"I do not, nor do you, when you venture to speak thus," answered the

Marquis; "but remember, insolent wretch, you will not escape punishment

as easily as you expect;" and passing on, without speaking another word,

he entered the principal apartment.

When the King appeared, he made his complaint of Teixeira's insolence;

but the former, assuring him that the insult was not intended, took no

further notice of the circumstance.

The Levee, for so it might properly be called, being quickly over, the

King retiring to his private apartments, the Marquis returned to his

home. As he sat down to dinner with the Marchioness and his family,

while the domestics were standing round, he complained bitterly of the

manner in which Teixeira had insulted him, and of the King's

indifference to his complaints.

"The servant has but learnt to copy his master," said the Marchioness.

"Yet he deserves a severe chastisement, though it would disgrace your

rank to bestow it. There are, however, many of your followers who will

gladly avenge their master's honour."

Several of the attendants, who hated Teixeira for his good fortune, not

more than for the insolence with which he had treated them, looked

eagerly towards their master, as if they would willingly undertake the

office; but he, either not observing them, or pretending not to do so,

made no answer, and soon turned the conversation.

When left alone with her lord, the Marchioness used her utmost eloquence

to persuade him to take instant vengeance for the insult he had

received; for the circumstance alarmed her, lest her own plots might, by

some extraordinary means, have been discovered.

"Depend on it," she said, "if the servant dares thus to act, he knows

full well that his master will not be displeased."

"I think not thus of the King," answered the Marquis. "He has some

faults, but he has too much respect for himself to ill-treat his nobles.

On another occasion, I will complain of this villain Teixeira's

conduct, and I doubt not he will be dismissed."

"I think far differently from you, my lord," returned the Marchioness.

"The King, by the instigation of his upstart Minister, has become

jealous of the power and wealth of our Puritano families. In every one

of us he has been taught to suspect a foe, and he waits but the first

opportunity to crush us."

"Your feelings of indignation have exaggerated the danger, Donna

Leonora. The only foe we have to fear is the Minister; and we must

endeavour, by exhibiting our love and devotion to our sovereign, to

counteract his evil influence."

"It will be the very way to increase the suspicions of the King,"

returned the Marchioness. "Half measures are of no avail. If we are to

retain our wealth and influence, if we are to remain grandees of

Portugal, we must either compel the King to dismiss his counsellor, or

he himself must suffer the punishment of his obstinacy."

"What mean you?" exclaimed the Marquis, with an alarmed expression of

countenance.

"I mean, my lord," returned Donna Leonora, with a firm voice, "that the

King who dares insult his nobles, who interferes with our privileges,

who is a despiser of religion, and heaps contumely on its ministers,

must die."

"Great heavens! utter not such dreadful treason!" cried the Marquis.

"The very walls might hear you; and such thoughts alone might bring ruin

on yourself and your whole family. From henceforth banish such an idea

from your mind."

"Never!" exclaimed the Marchioness. "I have far too great a respect for

our family honour, and for our holy religion, to submit tamely to such

indignities. If you forget that you are a Tavora and a Catholic, I do

not forget that I am your wife."

"I prize the honour of my family as I do my life, but it shall never be

said that a Tavora became a traitor to his sovereign," said the Marquis.

"None shall have cause to say it, my lord," answered his wife; "it is

unsuccessful treason which is alone so stigmatised, and the noble

enterprise in which I would have you engage will, I have been assured by

a voice from heaven, succeed."

"Say rather, by the instigations of the evil one," said the Marquis,

with agitation.

"It was through the voice of that living saint, the holy Father

Malagrida," responded Donna Leonora. "He has ever led me in the right

path to holiness, and why should I now doubt his words? Oh, harden not

your heart, my lord, but put faith in that holy man, for be assured

whatever he utters proceeds alone from the fountain of truth. Of what

object would have been all his fastings, his penances, and his prayers,

if Heaven had not more particularly selected him among men to utter the

words of truth to mankind? I feel assured that those who follow his

advice cannot err; then wherefore hesitate in this ease?"

"I doubt not the sanctity of the Father Malagrida, Donna Leonora, but I

have reason to doubt his sanity. His enthusiastic mind has been

overthrown, and what he now conceives to be the inspirations of Heaven,

are but the workings of a disordered imagination."

"Cease, cease, my lord, from giving utterance to such dreadful impiety,"

exclaimed the Marchioness, interrupting him; "do not peril your immortal

soul by speaking blasphemy. The holy Father Malagrida insane? The

greatest prophet of modern days, the speaker of unknown tongues, a mere

mad enthusiast! Oh, my beloved lord, say not thus, as you value my

happiness."

"I will not discuss the character of the Father Malagrida," answered the

Marquis. "But tell me how you would wish me to act, for against the

sacred life of his Majesty will I not lift up my hand."

"I would wish you to act like a high noble of Portugal, worthy of your

Puritano descent," returned Donna Leonora. "I would wish you to protect

the high order to which you belong from the encroachments of the King

and his Minister, and I would wish you to take fitting vengeance for

every insult offered you."

"In overthrowing the Minister, am I ready to hazard all; and never will

I act otherwise than as becomes a high noble of the realm; nor will my

sword be slow to avenge any insult offered to me or mine; but of the

King have I ever been a faithful servant, and faithful will I die. Urge

me then no more to engage in conspiracies which can but end in the

destruction of all concerned." The Marquis rose as he spoke, and

quitted the apartment, as the most easy way of finishing the discussion.

His lady gazed at his retiring form, but attempted not to stop him.

"Oh! that I were a man, to lead the faint-hearted beings with whom I am

associated!" she exclaimed. "The slightest shadow of danger frightens

them from the most noble undertakings; the prophets of Heaven counsel

them, but they will not listen to their words; even if the dead were to

arise to assure them of it, they would not believe that the deed is a

righteous one, and must be successful. Yet have I still some hopes that

my lord will not close his ears to the divine words of the holy

Malagrida, and that he may be brought round to follow his counsels. I

will pray to the Blessed Virgin that she will turn his heart to the

right path."

The Marchioness then retired to her own chamber, and, throwing herself

on her knees before her private altar, she poured forth her prayers to

her patron saint for the success of an enterprise, which was for the

destruction of a King, the placing an usurper on his throne, the

restoration of a tyrannical order of the priesthood, and the enslaving a

whole people with the grossest of superstitions; yet not for a moment

did it occur to her that she was performing an act otherwise than

grateful to Heaven. No; she fully believed that her motives were pure

and holy; and she felt assured that pride, ambition, and hatred formed

no part of her incentives to action. Yet were they the chief motives,

veiled from her own eyes by a fancied zeal for religion.

In the mean time, Antonio and Manoel Ferreira, two of the principal

servants of the Marquis, as soon as they were released from attendance

on their master, hurried off to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro, which

was at no great distance from that of the Tavoras.

"What think you that villain Teixeira deserves for thus daring to insult

our lord?" said Manoel to his brother, as they walked along.

"Nothing less than his death would satisfy me, if I were in our master's

place," answered Antonio.

"My very thought," said the other.

"But then, you know that it would be beneath the dignity of so great a

lord as our master to slay with his own hand a man of such low birth as

this upstart Teixeira," observed Antonio.

"The very thing I was going to say; but should we not be doing a service

to our lord, think you, and be well paid for it too, if we were to put a

piece of lead into this impudent servant of the King's," said Manoel.

"For my part, I should have no scruples on the subject, and we should

have plenty of opportunities as he drives about at night in his

carriage, for no good purpose either--the base villain--I warrant. How

proud he has become, too, with his fine clothes and his carriage! Why,

I recollect him no better than either of us were at that time, when he

was glad enough to call us his friends, and now he would not speak to us

if he met us."

"True enough, brother," observed Antonio. "Yet, where is the

difference? We are honest men, and serve a Marquis, he is a rogue, and

serves a King;--so he rides inside a carriage of his own, while we ride

outside our master's."

"The vain upstart! He does serve a King, in more ways than one; but he

shall pay dearly for it," exclaimed Manoel. "You heard what our lady

said at dinner to-day, and I think it is our duty to take the hint."

"What mean you?" asked Antonio.

"Mean I? it is clear enough--that we are bound to shoot him, of course,"

returned the other. "You have grown dull, Antonio. You see we shall

thus serve ourselves and our master into the bargain."

"I understand you clearly enough now; but should we not to a certainty

be discovered?" asked the less daring Antonio.

"It would matter little if we were, after the deed was done. Our master

could protect us," returned Manoel.

"We will think about it to-morrow," said Antonio. "I wonder what Senhor

Policarpio wanted with us this evening, that he insisted we must visit

him."

"We shall soon learn, for here we are at the gate. Now, he is a man I

like; though he is chief servant of a duke, there is no pride or vanity

about him. He is just as friendly with us as ever."

Manoel having pronounced this eulogium on Senhor Policarpio, they

entered the gates of the Quinta, and went in search of their friend. He

received them with all imaginable courtesy, and conducted them to his

own apartment, where a repast was spread in readiness for them by his

own servant.