"Don't you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to

repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and

to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary

Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my

convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for

my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the

inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged

to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my

jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be

guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch

from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience."

Luis had not forgotten poor Goncalo's request; but he was considering in

his mind whether the priest in question was a person qualified to

administer the consolations of religion to a dying man; but there was a

sincerity in the eccentric Friar's manner, which at last determined him,

for want of a better, to confide in him. At all events, he felt that it

might afford satisfaction to the dying youth. He, therefore, told the

Friar of his interview with his fellow-prisoner, the young Goncalo

Christovao, whom he had been accused of killing, recalling to his mind

their fruitless search, and finished, by begging him to administer, with

the utmost decorum he could assume, the rites of the Church appointed

for the sick or dying.

"You seem by your words, to suppose that I am not as capable as the most

rigid and sanctimonious confessor, who ever shrived a fair penitent, to

put on a serious air when necessary," said the Friar, laughing. "There

you are wrong again; and I will show you that I can equal the best of

them. By the way, now you mention the name of Goncalo Christovao, it

reminds me that, in a most wonderful way, I came into possession of the

very letter I gave you with the jewels in the cave, and which you lost

before you could deliver it to the person to whom it was directed,--the

father of this same hapless youth. You will not press me to explain

exactly how I got it--suffice it to say, I found it in the pocket of a

coat which, doubtless, had been yours, and which I strongly suspect had

been stolen."

"Have you the letter still?" inquired Luis, eagerly. "I have ever since

had cause to regret its loss; for, though I know its contents, I have

had a feeling that it might have saved much wretchedness to one I love

dearer than life itself."

"It struck me, also, at the time I found it, that it might be of some

consequence, so I preserved it carefully for several months in my

breviary, intending to restore it to you or Senhor Christovao, should I

meet either of you, though I had long forgot all about it; whether or no

it is still there, I cannot say," said the Friar. "I fortunately

brought the book to Lisbon with me, so if the letter is in it, I will

bring it to you on my next visit. I shall take care, by my account to

the Governor of your confession, to be sent to you again."

"Thanks, my kind friend," answered Luis. "You may thus render me a

great service, though, could you send it to Goncalo Christovao yourself,

it would sooner reach him. I know not when my term of captivity may

end."

"I will endeavour to do as you wish," answered the Friar. "Now, my dear

Count, I am speaking more seriously to you than I ever did to any one in

my life. I have a true regard for you, and sincerely wish to rise in

your opinion. Do not think me a scoundrel, for I am better than I have

too often appeared. Will you promise me this?" The Friar spoke with

energy, and a tear stood in his eye, as he took Luis's hand, and pressed

it to his heart.

"I firmly trust in you," answered Luis, "and know you to be my kind and

generous friend,--one of the few I now possess on earth."

"Thanks, Count, thanks! your words have made me a happier and better

man," said the Friar, much moved. "The knowledge that I am esteemed by

one honest person, who knows me as I am, will prevent me from ever again

acting the part of a knave." He drew a deep sigh. "Ha! ha! we must not

let care oppress us, so we will finish our bottle before the turnkey

comes to summon me away. I will then visit your sick friend, and do

what I can to comfort him. Remember, whatever happens, confide in me.

If I find that your life is in the slightest danger, it shall not be my

fault that you do not escape from hence."

Luis warmly expressed his thanks to Fre Diogo, for he now felt convinced

that he had gained an invaluable friend, and the dull leaden sensation

he had experienced at the thoughts of his speedy execution, gave way to

a renewed hope of life.

"Ah! here comes the gaoler," exclaimed the Friar, as steps were heard in

the passage; "he is a worthy fellow, and the only honest man employed in

the prison. I now and then crack a bottle with him for society's

sake;--thinking of that, I must hide my friend and the glasses under my

robe; so fare you well, Count, till to-morrow." As he spoke the turnkey

opened the door, when Luis, entreating him to introduce the Friar to the

sick man in the next cell, he promised to comply, and the Count was left

alone to meditate on his own fortunes.

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

Words are insufficient to describe the sufferings of the high-born

captives who lay in those wretched cells, formed to contain wild beasts

instead of human beings, whither the stern policy of the Minister had

condemned them to be conveyed. Kept apart from each other, in darkness

and solitude, though near enough to hear each other's groans and cries,

they were allowed no change of garments from those in which they were

first apprehended; straw heaped in a corner on the floor, unswept since

the removal of its former savage inhabitants, formed their places of

rest; the coarsest food, sufficient to sustain nature, was alone

supplied them, and no one but the officers of justice was allowed to

visit them.

Day after day they remained thus, in anticipation of their dreadful

fate; then came ferocious looking men, callous to the sufferings of

their fellow-beings, whose appearance bespoke them to be the detested

executioners of the law; even the guards and gaolers shuddered as they

beheld them entering the prison, bearing their implements of torture.

Two Desembargadors, a notary, and a surgeon followed, repairing to a

large hall, round which the cells occupied by the prisoners were ranged,

their fronts being now blocked up with masonry. The executioners had

here erected their instruments of torture, chairs being prepared for the

judges and notary, with a table for the latter to take minutes of the

examination.

The first prisoner led forward was the Duke of Aveiro, but he refused to

answer any of the questions put to him.

"Since you refuse to speak in any other way, we must try what effect the

rack will cause," said one of the judges. "Let the question be

administered to him."

The Duke turned pale, but answered not a word till the dislocation of

his limbs commenced, when he gave way to shrieks and cries for mercy,

which rang through the hall, piercing to the cells of his

fellow-prisoners, and giving dreadful warning of the fate awaiting them.

"I will confess! I will confess!" at last he cried, unable longer to

endure the agony; but when, on being cast loose, he again denied any

knowledge of the occurrences the Desembargadors mentioned, he was once

more placed upon the engine of torture, nor would they listen to his

entreaties to be released till he had further felt its power.

"Mercy, mercy, mercy!" he cried, when the surgeon approached him, and

his cries ceased. He had fainted. He was lifted off the machine, and

carried back to his cell, where restoratives were administered, and he

was left till sufficiently recovered to bear further questioning.

The Marquis of Tavora was then brought forward, and subjected to the

same system of examination; but not a word, to criminate either himself

or others, could be elicited from him. His sons, the Conde d'Atouquia,

and the servants of both houses, followed in succession; the agony of

their sufferings drawing statements from some of them which the others

denied. Young Joze de Tavora was the only one, who, like his father,

boldly and firmly persisted in the declaration of his innocence of the

crime laid to his charge.

"Were I guilty of the deed of which you accuse me, I would acknowledge

it," he exclaimed; "but no tortures the cruelty of Sebastiao Joze can

invent have power to make me speak a falsehood."

"Take him to his cell," thundered the Magistrate; "he is obdurate.

Bring back the Duke."

The same scene of horror was again enacted, when the wretched noble,

overcome by terror, made a long statement, which was eagerly committed

to paper by the Notary, accusing himself, his fellow-prisoners, and

numerous others of the highest nobility in the land, of conspiring

against the life of the King. Whether his account was true, or whether

it was the invention of his brain wrought into madness by agony, has

never yet been satisfactorily determined. We leave our readers to form

their own conclusions.

We do not venture to describe more minutely the dreadful scene of

tyranny, injustice, and human suffering; for we have yet in store

horrors sufficient to make the heart of the strongest sicken at the

recital; and we would advise those who would avoid having their feelings

harrowed with the tale which truth compels us to narrate, to pass over

the chapter succeeding this.

At last, all the evidence which could be wrung by torture from the

prisoners, or obtained from other witnesses, being collected, their

trial formally took place. On the first day, the judges appointed by

the Minister to preside could not come to an agreement; two of them

firmly refusing to sign the process. Carvalho, probably, firmly

believed most, if not all, of the prisoners guilty; and, after the

violent steps he had taken, his own existence depended on their

condemnation; but, owing to the absence of clear and satisfactory

evidence, this was difficult to be obtained. He therefore instituted

another court, taking care that the presidents should be creatures

entirely devoted to his service, and the result of the trial may be

anticipated.

The weak and timid Monarch yet remained a close prisoner in his palace,

suspecting a traitor in each noble of his court, and starting at every

sound, fancying it a signal of rebellion. His physician had just

quitted him, Teixeira was absent, and the Minister had himself gone to

watch the proceedings at the trial of the conspirators. He was alone--

his feelings were oppressed, his thoughts gloomy; for his disposition

was naturally mild, and indisposed to bloodshed; and he now knew that

the blood of his first nobles was about to flow like water for his

safety. Yet what injustice will not fear make a man commit! He wept.

"Alas!" he cried, "they must die. The trial must, ere this, have been

concluded, and I shall then know the punishment awarded them. It must

be so; I cannot feel security till they are no more."

The King heard a suppressed sob near him, and looking round, he beheld a

young page kneeling at a short distance from where he sat. He started,

and rising, retired a few paces, for in every human being he had been

taught to suspect an agent of treason.

"What brings you here, boy? How could you have entered unperceived?" he

exclaimed rapidly, as a strange thrill shot across his bosom. "Speak!

who are you?"

"A wretched suppliant for your Majesty's clemency," answered the Page,

in a low and broken voice.

"What mean you, boy? There are too many such in our dominions,"

exclaimed the Monarch, bitterly. "But rise, boy, and retire: this

intrusion ought to have been prevented. Whatever petition you have to

make, present it to our Minister, Sebastiao Joze, two or three days

hence, when he will have time to attend to you. We would be alone."

"Alas! two days hence will be too late," responded the Page, in the same

low tone as before. "It is not to that cruel unbending man I would make

my prayer. It is to your Majesty's compassionate heart alone, a

miserable guilty creature would appeal. Hear me, my liege; hear me. By

my guilty conduct, many of those I was bound to love and honour--my

kindred and connexions--have been, like the vilest felons, imprisoned

and tortured, and some have, within this hour, been condemned to an

agonising death and everlasting disgrace. For them I come to plead--

their lives, their honour, are in your power. Spare them, my liege, and

let me be the victim; for I, and I alone, have been the cause of all

their sufferings."

"Great Heavens! Whose voice is that?" exclaimed the King, more agitated

than his suppliant, towards whom he hurriedly advanced, and whom

he raised from the ground. "Donna Theresa!"

"Would to God you had never known that name, my liege. I am that

wretched woman," ejaculated the seeming page, still keeping her hands in

a suppliant attitude before her, while the King gazed fondly at her

care-worn, though yet lovely, countenance. "I have braved all dangers

and difficulties,--I have deceived your guards,--I have penetrated to

your Majesty's retirement, to throw myself at your feet, and plead for

my kindred's lives. They cannot be guilty of the foul deed for which

they are condemned;--they never could have sought to injure your

Majesty, though even I have been accused by some (to heap greater

wretchedness on my head) of having falsely accused them of the crime.

Your Majesty knows I am thus far guiltless; and, if my injured husband,

incited by jealousy and indignation of his wrongs, should have harboured

a thought of malice, oh! show your magnanimity, by pardoning him and his

family. Disarmed by your clemency, they could not then further injure

you; or let them retire to some other land, where they may repent of

ever having given cause of suspicion to so good and kind a master. This

act of mercy alone would put down sedition, and bind more firmly all the

nobles of the land to your service, and, revered while you live, your

name would descend to posterity as a magnanimous and generous prince,

who feared not to pardon those who had offended him. But, if your cruel

Minister requires some one on whom to vent his hatred, of the

aristocracy of the land, the legitimate and noble guardians of your

person, whose jealousy he well knows has been aroused at his persevering

interference, let me be delivered up as the victim of his vengeance. My

fatal love for my sovereign first kindled the spark which has never yet

burnt into a flame, and I alone ought to be sacrificed for my crime, if

so your Majesty deems it."

The King was deeply moved at the energy of her passion, her tears, and

prayers. He led her gently to a chair, and insisted on her being

seated, while he stood before her with his arms folded on his bosom;

but, as soon as she perceived it, she rose, and threw herself kneeling

on the ground.

"This must not be, Donna Theresa," said the agitated Monarch, again

attempting to raise her, but she would not quit her suppliant posture.

"Rise, madam, rise. I have no enmity against your relations. It is not

I who accuse them. They have been tried by the laws of the country,

and, if guilty, I have resigned all power over them. My crown, my life,

the happiness of my people, and the tranquillity of the land, require

their punishment. It is by my Minister's advice I act thus, and to him

you must plead their cause."

"Oh, say not so, your Majesty. Do not thus yield to the grasping

ambition of that enemy of our race, who seeks to rise by their

destruction," exclaimed Donna Theresa. "Exert your own royal authority,

and act according to the generous dictates of your heart. You have the

power--exert it, and be merciful; if not, before two suns have set, such

deeds of cruelty will have been perpetrated as will cause the nations of

Europe to execrate the very name of a Portuguese."

The King's firmness was fast yielding to the entreaties of his lovely

petitioner. "I will endeavour to mitigate the rigour of their sentence

for your sake, fair lady," he answered. "If clearly proved, for the

sake of my successors, I have no right to overlook their crime."

"Rather let it be supposed by posterity that such a crime was impossible

in Portugal," interrupted Donna Theresa; "or teach your successors the

virtue of clemency."

"You plead most powerfully to my heart, Donna Theresa, nor can I longer

withstand the energy of your prayers," said the King. "Rise, then, and

let me rather ask pardon for the anguish I have caused you. I it was

who ought to have knelt to you."

"I cannot rise till I hear their pardon pronounced by your gracious

lips," returned Donna Theresa. "Let me, to prove my innocence of

betraying them, be the bearer of your forgiveness."

"I do forgive them," answered the King; "yet, in so important a matter,

I may not act further without consulting my Minister."

"Then their doom is sealed!" cried the unhappy lady. "Sebastiao Joze

has moved heaven and earth to destroy them; and unless your Majesty

rescues them by a determined act, they can in no way escape death."

The King still looked as if he was about to deny her.

"Oh! hear me, your Majesty,--by the devoted love you so lately professed

to bear me, by all your tender endearments, by your vows of constancy,

by the sacrifice of my name and reputation to your passion, pardon those

innocent ones--at all events, comparatively innocent--and let the

punishment fall upon my guilty head!"

Where is the man who can withstand a lovely woman's prayers, when,

weeping, she pleads, and pleads for justice? The King could no longer

resist her entreaties; he gently raised her, and, pressing his lips to

her hands, he was about to pledge his kingly promise that none should

suffer--the words faltered on his tongue--the door opened, he looked up,

and beheld the commanding figure of the Prime Minister! The latter

stopped, gazing with amazement. Donna Theresa saw not, heard not aught

but her sovereign, as she waited eagerly for the words he was about to

pronounce.

"You promise, then--you promise they shall be pardoned?" she ejaculated.

The King's eye sank before the searching glance of his potent Minister.

"Pardon me, your Majesty, for my intrusion, and will you graciously

deign to explain the meaning of this lady's presence?" exclaimed the

latter, advancing rapidly, for he had heard Donna Theresa's last words,

and in a moment clearly comprehended the cause of her visit. He felt

that his own power hung upon a thread, and he foresaw that, if she

gained her cause, he must inevitably be the sacrifice.

In an instant he had arranged his plan. "I need no explanation,--Donna

Theresa de Tavora has ventured hither against your Majesty's commands,

to impose, with a false tale of her relatives' innocence, on your

gracious clemency, and, for the sake of saving the guilty, would

sacrifice your life and crown to their implacable hatred. Be not

deceived, Sire, by the treacherous tongue of an artful woman. I come

now from the trial of the once so-called Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of

Tavora, and their associates: the judges have found them guilty of the

most atrocious of conspiracies, and have condemned them accordingly.

Your Majesty's sacred life had nearly fallen a sacrifice to some unknown

traitors. For months have I incessantly toiled, day and night, to

discover the miscreants, and at length I have been successful, and they

are about to receive the punishment of their deeds. Let not, then, all

my exertions prove vain; and, above all, Sire, do not jeopard your own

precious life by mistaken leniency."

The Minister watched the King's countenance, and saw that he had won his

cause. He advanced to Donna Theresa, and grasped her arm: "Come, madam,

you must no longer intrude upon his Majesty!" he exclaimed.

She started at his touch, and turned an entreating look towards the

King. The Monarch's eye was averted. "All, all is lost!" she cried,

and, uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless upon the ground.

"Pardon this seeming harshness, Sire," said Carvalho, deprecatingly, as

he raised Donna Theresa in his arms. "It is necessary for your safety."

"You are always right, my friend," said the King. "Let every care and

attention be paid her; and let some one be with her to console her for

her disappointment;" and he turned away to hide his own emotion: he

longed to hide his feelings from himself.

"'Tis another step gained towards supreme power," thought the Minister,

as he bore his unconscious burden from the apartment, and committed her

to the charge of his guards, with strict orders not to allow her to

depart. He then returned to the King, with the fatal document in his

hand,--the condemnation of the noble prisoners. His Majesty's signature

was required; nor had he now much difficulty in obtaining it.

When nearly all of the most influential in the country were interested

in the preservation of the accused, and all feeling that Donna Theresa

was the most calculated to persuade the Monarch to pardon them, she had

experienced but little difficulty, aided by high bribes, in penetrating

to the apartments of the King; though, on Carvalho's endeavouring to

discover the delinquents, every one solemnly averred that they had never

seen her enter,--though, in her page's suit, she might have passed them

unobserved.

Let her fate be a warning to others. Let those consider, whom passion

would lead from the strict path of duty, that not themselves alone, but

many others also, whom they once loved, and by whom they were beloved,

they may drag down to perdition.

When Donna Theresa returned to consciousness, she found herself

surrounded by her own attendants, and when she was pronounced in a fit

state to be removed, she was conveyed to the Convent of Santos, where a

large income was settled on her, and a retinue appointed to attend her.

Though nominally a prisoner, she had perfect liberty. She did not

die:--such was too happy a lot for her. For many, many years she lived

on, a prey to remorse, hated and scorned by her few surviving relatives,

till age had wrinkled her brow, and no trace of her former enchanting

loveliness remained. Guilty of one crime she was, but not that of which

she was accused; yet none would believe her assertions, when she had

failed to procure the pardon of her husband. Such was her punishment!

For eighteen years did her father, the Marquis d'Alorna, his wife, and

children, languish in separate dungeons, and scarcely one of his kindred

escaped the like fate.

She became deaf and blind, and at length she died. On her tomb was

found inscribed, "The Murderess of her Family."

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

We would gladly avoid detailing the following narrative, but no one who

is writing the life of the great Prime Minister of Portugal can pass it

over in silence; and while his name is mentioned in history, so will be

the dreadful tragedy in which he was the principal actor, with the

execrations of all who have a sentiment of pity for human suffering in

their bosoms; even had the sufferers been proved guilty, which we, as

Britons, and lovers of our own just laws affirm they were not. Guilty

in the sight of Heaven, some of the accused too probably were, but by no

law founded on common equity or humanity were they proved so.

The morning of the 13th of January broke dark and gloomy on the heads of

a vast concourse of people, already assembled in a large open space on

the borders of the Tagus, near the Castle of Belem.

In the background was the Quinta of Bichos, the entrance-door of which

opened towards the river, and round it was now stationed a strong body

of troops under arms. Here the noble prisoners since their condemnation

had been confined, and thither also, during the dark hours of night, the

Marchioness of Tavora had been removed from the Convent of Grillos. In

front of the gateway, and close to the water, appeared a scaffold,

which, since the setting of the sun, workmen had been incessantly

employed in erecting, and on which the sound of their hammers was still

heard. It was fourteen feet high by thirty long, and twenty broad,

covered with black, without ornament of any sort; a wide flight of steps

with balustrades leading up to it, on the side towards the Quinta. On

the scaffold were seen two posts painted black, a chair, and a bench, on

which were placed heavy iron mallets, and an instrument with a long

handle, and an immense iron weight shaped like a quoit at the end of it;

there were, besides, several large St. Andrew's crosses of wood, and the

same number of wheels, and many other instruments of torture. Two

regiments of infantry and two of cavalry were drawn up from the gate of

the Quinta to the steps of the scaffold, extending their lines also on

each side of the square; the embouchure of every street leading to the

spot was also occupied by troops, companies of cavalry moving up and

down them continually, and allowing no one to pass who wore a cloak, or

could in any way have concealed arms about his person, without examining

him. Notwithstanding, however, every impediment, thousands of persons

pressed eagerly forward to the scene of execution, of every rank, age,

and sex, mostly excited by that vulgar curiosity which has, among all

nations, and in all times, drawn people together, however revolting the

spectacle might be, one would suppose, to human nature.

Here were collected, mothers with children in their arms, whom they held

up to behold the black scaffold, and the glittering arms, and gaudy

uniforms of the soldiers, the little wretches cooing with delight,

unconscious of the meaning of the scene: here were old men leaning on

their staves, and discussing the late events with stoical indifference;

sturdy ruffians, who longed eagerly for the commencement of the horrid

drama; boys, youths with the down still on their lips,--ay, and young

maidens too, listening to their tones of courtship, and smiling as they

listened; many sat in groups discussing their morning meal, regardless

of which they had hurried from their homes;--yes, there was love-making,

laughter, and feasting; but dark Death, with his most terrific horrors,

was the great actor they came to behold--all else, like a dull

interlude, was insipid and tame.

The water also was covered with boats crowded with people, many too, of

the higher ranks, anxious to behold the scene, yet unwilling to be

observed by the common people, as they sat shrouded in their cloaks,

waiting in silence for the commencement.

There was one boat which attracted great attention; it was a barge,

moored to the quay, and loaded with faggots, wood, torches, and barrels

of pitch.

"What, is all that firewood for?" asked a nursing mother of her husband;

"there is enough there to supply us to the end of our lives."

"What, in that boat? Oh! that is doubtless the wood to burn the

criminals."

"Jesu Maria!" exclaimed the woman, "they are not going to burn them

alive?"

"Why not?" answered the man, "the holy office does so, and what they do

must be right."

"Ay, yes, I forgot; of course, they are right," muttered the woman.

"Burn them, to be sure they will," chimed in a neighbour; "and will

serve the regicides right. Do you know what they did? They tried to

kill the King, the Queen, the Minister, and all the royal family, the

wretches!"

"What! did they? Then they deserve to be burnt, doubtless," cried the

woman.

"Ay, that did they, the haughty fidalgos!" exclaimed the neighbour; "we

shall, now we have got rid of them, have some chance of becoming

fidalgos ourselves."

"Oh! it will be a glorious sight!" cried another of the crowd, "full

fifty fidalgos all burning and shrieking together; far better than any

Auto-da-fe--the holy office never burns more than eight or ten at a

time."

"Full fifty! gracious Virgin!" cried a girl. "Who are they?"

"Ay, and more than fifty. Let me see; there are the Duke and Duchess of

Aveiro, and all their household and children, the Marquis and

Marchioness of Tavora, the younger Marquis, his brother and their

sisters, the Marquis of Alorna, and his family; the Conde de Atouquia,

and Captain Romeiro. Let me see, there are many more--oh! there are

Goncalo Christovao, who excited the rebellion at Oporto, and the young

Count of Almeida, the Count of--"

"Who did you say?" exclaimed a young man, a stranger to the party, who

was standing near. "Who was the last person you mentioned to be

executed?"

"The Count of Almeida," answered the oracle of the party, coolly. "He

came to Lisbon the very morning of the outrage, and has, it is said, the

very look of an assassin."

"It is a vile falsehood, and anybody who says he is guilty, is a

villain," exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "My master would never

hurt a lamb, much more fire at a king."

"Your master? then you ought to be in his company, my fine fellow,"

answered the man, who was in a most loyal mood. "The masters and

servants are all to be burnt together."

"Burnt! my dear master burnt alive!" ejaculated Pedro, almost

unconsciously; for it was he, having wandered about the city, daily,

unable to gain any tidings of the Count, till he, at last, heard his

name mentioned among the captives, and had now, with sorrow and fear,

come to the place of execution, expecting to see his beloved master

among the sufferers. Not knowing the precautions taken to prevent a

chance of escape, he watched, with feverish anxiety, the appearance of

the prisoners, in the hopes of finding some means of rescuing him. Not

liking the proposal of the people, near whom he was standing, and being

unable to gain any further information from them, he moved away to

another group, one of whom appeared to know a great deal about the

matter.

"Can you tell me, Senhor, the names of the conspirators who are to

suffer?" asked Pedro, with tears in his eyes, and a faltering voice.

"Of course, my friend, I shall be happy to enlighten you to the utmost

of my power," answered the person he addressed, enumerating the same

names as the former one, with a few additions.

Poor Pedro wrung his hands with agony.

"Alas, alas! are they to be burnt alive?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not all of them," said his informant. "Some of them are, for

which purpose you see those black posts erected, to fasten them to. The

ladies are to lose their heads, the leaders are to be beaten to death,

and the others are to be strangled. A few only are to be burnt alive,

to please the people; and then the scaffold, and all the bodies, will be

consumed together and thrown into the river."

Pedro could listen to no more of the dreadful details, but, hurrying

away to a distance, he sat himself down on a stone, and hiding his face

in his hands, he gave way to the anguish of his feelings, in tears.

Suddenly, however, recovering his presence of mind, he considered how he

might yet afford some aid to the hapless young Count.

While the scene we have described was proceeding, one of violence and

destruction was enacting in another part of the city. A vast mob were

collected in and around the palaces of the Marquis of Tavora and the

Duke of Aveiro; some employed in dragging forth the rich and valuable

furniture, breaking it in pieces, and piling it in heaps to burn; some

endeavouring to conceal the smaller articles about their persons; and

others fighting and wrangling about the booty. A few minutes sufficed

to accomplish the act of destruction, when workmen instantly commenced

demolishing the entire edifices, and ere their once proud owners had

ceased to breathe, already were they in ruins. When the palaces were

completely razed to the ground, salt was sprinkled over their sites; and

on that of the Duke of Aveiro a column was erected, on which was

inscribed his crime and punishment.

To return to the former scene. At length, at seven o'clock, the gates

of the Quinta were thrown open. "They come! they come!" murmured the

crowd, as a body of horsemen were seen to issue forth, some in uniforms,

being the chief military commanders of the kingdom, others in dark

cloaks, who were the principal officers of the crown, the ministers of

justice, the criminal judges, and others. The Prime Minister was not

among them. He, it was said, contemplated at a distance the work he had

ordered.

Forming in two lines, between them appeared a sedan-chair, painted

black, the bearers dressed in the same hue, and on each side walked a

friar of the Capuchin order. As they advanced towards the scaffold, the

dragoons formed round them, and, at the same time, the chief

executioner, with three assistants, mounted the fatal platform to

receive the wretched occupant.

When the party arrived at the foot of the flight of steps, every voice

was hushed, and every eye was strained to see the first victim. The

door of the sedan-chair was opened, and a female form was led forward.

"The Marchioness of Tavora!" ejaculated the crowd.

It was, indeed, that unhappy lady. Firm and composed, she advanced to

the first step of the scaffold, where, kneeling down between her ghostly

comforters, she performed the last duties of religion, employing thus

upwards of half an hour, during which time some further arrangements on

the dreadful theatre were being made. At the end of that time, the

executioners gave a signal that all was in readiness for the first scene

of the tragedy, and, rising from her knees, she mounted, without

faltering, the fatal steps, appearing in the same robes of dark blue

satin, her hair dressed with white ribands, and a circlet of diamonds,

as when she had been apprehended. On the summit, the friars delivered

her into the hands of the executioners, who first led her round to each

side of the platform, to show her to the people, and then, with a

refinement of cruelty worthy of the brain of an Eastern barbarian to

conceive, they, according to their orders, exhibited to her the knife by

which she was herself to suffer, at which she merely smiled. But when

she beheld the rack, the crosses, the mallets, and other instruments of

torture prepared for her husband, children, and the other partners of

her fate, while the chief executioner explained their object, the

intrepid spirit which had hitherto sustained her in that hour of bitter

anguish, at length gave way in a gush of tears.

"As you hope for Heaven's mercy, oh! hasten with your work," she

exclaimed.

Even the executioner was moved. "I perform but my orders, lady, and

pray your forgiveness," he answered, as he hurriedly performed the

hell-invented task, and led her to the chair in the centre of the

platform.

Throwing off his cloak, he appeared in a close-fitting black vest. As

he stooped down to fasten her feet, he raised her clothes slightly.

"Remember who I am, and respect me even in death!" she exclaimed,

proudly; but the moment after, seeing the man had done so

unintentionally, as he released her hand, she took the circlet of

diamonds from her head, and presenting them to him, "Take this as a

token of my forgiveness," she said, clearly. "Now Heaven receive my

soul, and forgive my murderers!" These were her last words. The

executioner, now securing her arms to the chair, took the handkerchief

from her neck, and bound her eyes, the friars repeating the prayers of a

parting sinner; he then, seizing a large knife, shaped like an eastern

scimitar, took her long hair in his left hand, and lifting high the

blade, gave one stroke on the back of the neck, for the sake of greater

ignominy, the head falling on the bosom, a second being required to

sever it from the body. The butchery being finished, he exhibited the

head to the people, while his assistants untied the body, both being

thrown on one side, and covered with a black cloth, from beneath which

the blood flowed, trickling down the outside stage.

Thus died Donna Leonora de Tavora, once Vice-Queen of India, one of the

most lovely, high-spirited, and most noble ladies of Portugal; the

favourite of the former Queen, and the most admired dame of the Court!

Either her own fatal ambition, or the envy and revenge of another, was

the cause of her untimely end, which, no one can now determine.

During this time, the day still remained obscure, some thought, as a

signal of Heaven's disapprobation at the bloody scene which was

enacting. Alas! if the sun shone but when the land was free from crime,

when should we enjoy a clear day? It was at last discovered that an

eclipse was taking place.

This execution being concluded at half-past eight, the ministers of

justice still remaining in their places, the sedan-chair, escorted by

the dragoons, proceeded to the Quinta; from whence it again returned, a

friar, as before, walking on each side. From it was led forth,

trembling with agitation, the young Joze de Tavora, dressed in a suit of

black; and supported by the friars, he mounted the scaffold. As he was

led round to be exhibited to the people, wearing his long, light hair in

curls, his youth, his graceful figure, and the sweet engaging expression

of his countenance, gained him universal commiseration. He regained his

courage, and spoke a few inaudible words; then petitioning pardon for

his own sins, and for those of his enemies, he resigned himself into the

hands of the executioners. His eyes being bound, he was fastened by the

wrists and ankles to a cross, brought forward to the centre, and

elevated nearly upright, the whole weight of the body hanging by the

arms, increasing the agony of the sufferer, while the chief executioner

passed the cord, to strangle him, round his neck, and the assistants

with their iron clubs broke the eight bones of his arms and legs. His

shrieks resounded through the assembly, drawing tears of pity from the

eyes, and cries of sympathy from the breasts of many, even of the most

hardened. The mangled corpse, being exhibited to the people, was placed

on one of the wheels, and covered with a black cloth.

Poor Pedro watched this execution with the most dreadful anxiety; for in

the young Don Joze he had recognised the companion of his master during

the excursion on the fatal night of the attempt against the King's life.

He turned his straining eye-balls towards the gate of the Quinta, as

the third sad _cortege_ issued forth in the same manner as the first

towards the scaffold; but instead of the Count the young Marquis of

Tavora appeared.

With an impatient step he mounted the stage, dressed in full court

costume though bare-headed; and, walking round, he attempted, in a loud

voice, to address the populace with a declaration of his innocence.

"Hear me, Portuguese!" he cried. "My kindred and I have been sacrificed

to the lust of a weak King, and the ambition and hatred of a tyrant

Minister; but our blood will not cry in vain for vengeance; and for

centuries, war, disorder, and wretchedness are in store for our hapless

country. A dying man speaks."

"Silence, base traitor!" thundered forth the chief criminal magistrate.

"Commend your soul to God, or you shall be stopped by a gag!" at the

same time giving the signal to the executioner.

To spare him the agony his brother had suffered, he was seated on a

chair, made fast to the cross, with his hands fastened above him, and

being then strangled, and his legs and arms broken, the body was shown

to the people, and placed on another wheel, likewise covered with a

black cloth.

"Ah! my poor master will be the next," cried Pedro. "I will die with

him; for I shall never be able to rescue him from their clutches, the

barbarians!"

The next sufferer who appeared from the sedan-chair was the Count of

Atouquia. He mounted the steps with a furious and indignant air, and

when he attempted to speak, he was compelled to hold silence. He was

executed with the same ceremonies as his brother-in-law.

Manoel Ferreira, the Duke's servant, Captain Braz Romeiro, of the

Marquis of Tavora's late regiment, and Joao Miguel, the Duke's page,

then followed in the order named, dressed in ragged and scanty garments,

and were executed like the previous victims.

Carpenters were now employed to make several alterations in the

scaffold, and two large crosses, without a centre-post, were brought to

the front.

The body of Donna Leonora, with the head, were placed on a bench in the

centre, so as to meet the view of her husband, who was destined to be

the next victim.

As the unhappy Marquis appeared, the muffled drums of the military bands

gave forth irregular sounds, the troops whom he had once commanded with

distinction and honour, and through whose lines he was now led, turning

their left shoulders as he passed. He mounted the steps with a quick

and firm pace; but started with horror, a death-like pallor

overspreading his countenance, as he beheld the mangled, body of his

wife, whom he had last seen in all her pride and beauty before their

apprehension. The lacerated bodies of his sons and servants were then

exhibited to him, as well as the instruments of torture with which he

was to suffer death. He was next led round to be shown to the populace,

whom he did not attempt to address, and returning, as soon as he was

permitted, he knelt down by the side of the cross. He then humbly

confessed himself to his ghostly attendants, and, when they retired,

boldly extended himself upon the cross laid flat on the ground, to which

he was then bound; the executioner next lifting a vast iron mallet, with

a long handle, struck him three blows on the chest, the stomach, and the

face, besides breaking his arms and legs,--his sobs and pitiable groans

of agony being heard for some minutes ere he expired.

It was past two o'clock when the Duke of Aveiro mounted the scaffold,

dressed in the morning-gown in which he had been taken, bare-headed, and

holding a crucifix in his manacled hand. The anticipation of an

agonising death had somewhat humbled his once presumptuous pride,

though, perhaps, even at that moment, indignation at the ignominy with

which he was treated was his predominant feeling, as he gazed around

with looks of rage and despair. He underwent precisely the same

ceremony as the Marquis; but the executioner, through nervousness,

struck the first blow on his stomach, causing him the most excruciating

tortures, as was known by his heart-piercing shrieks, and it was some

minutes ere, by this most barbarous method, life became extinct.

Next was brought forward Manoel Ferreira, and with him an effigy of

Joseph Policarpio, who had escaped,--the former habited merely in a

shirt and drawers. The unfortunate wretch was bound to one of the

posts, seated on an iron chair, with the effigy opposite to him, two

friars administering to him the consolations of religion. The boat was

then unloaded of its cargo of wood and barrels of tar, which were placed

under and upon the scaffold, he being surrounded by faggots, and a pan

of sulphur placed beneath him. The executioners and workmen now

descended from the scaffold; a friar, prompted by zeal for the welfare

of the criminal's soul, and feeling he might afford him comfort in his

moments of agony, with noble intrepidity remained to the last moment,

while the former, lighting their torches, set fire to the fabric in

every direction. The wind having blown till now across the scaffold, it

was expected that the flames would soon put an end to the wretch's

sufferings; but, suddenly changing, it blew them directly away from him;

his shrieks and groans, while he thus slowly roasted, being dreadful to

hear, the good friar remaining near him till he was himself scorched,

and compelled to fly for his life, hitherto regardless of the shouts of

the people to call him away.

The greater proportion of the populace were horrified at this dreadful

event; but some were not yet satiated with blood. "What!" cried one

ruffian, "are these all? I thought we were to have many more."

"Stay patiently, my friend, till to-morrow," answered another; "we shall

have a fresh batch then. This is far better worth seeing than a

bull-fight, or an Auto-da-fe. Our Prime Minister is a fine fellow; he

does not do things by halves."

"Thank Heaven, my dear master is still alive!" exclaimed Pedro, with a

deep-drawn breath, as he hastened, sick with horror, to make further

inquiries for the Count.

The flames burnt brightly up, and, after twenty minutes, the shrieks of

the burning wretch ceased,--death had put an end to his sufferings.

At length, by four o'clock, the bodies of the ten human beings, who had

that morning breathed with life, the scaffold, and all the instruments

of torture, were reduced to one small heap of black ashes. One ceremony

remained to be performed. The ashes were swept together by the

executioners, and scattered upon the bosom of the Tagus, so that not a

vestige remained on the face of the earth of those who had once been.

People gazed upon the spot of the tragedy: one blackened circle alone

marked it. All that had passed seemed like some dreadful dream of a

disordered brain. People rubbed their eyes, and looked again and again,

to persuade themselves of the reality.

When the account was brought to the Minister--"Tremble, haughty

Puritanos!" he exclaimed. "Now I have ye in my power."

The military band now struck up a martial air, the troops moving off the

ground to their quarters, and the officers of justice to their homes.

That very evening, the King, for the first time since the attack,

appeared in public, holding a Court for all his nobility. None dared

absent themselves; but all wore an air of gloom and fear; for, feeling

as they did, it was impossible to say who might be the next victims to

the Minister's policy.

The account of the above-mentioned dreadful execution we have translated

from a very valuable manuscript work in our possession, written by one

who was, we conceive, an eye-witness of the scene he describes, though

we have rather softened and curtailed, than enlarged upon, its horrors.

He was certainly no friend of the Prime Minister's; but there is a

minute exactness in his descriptions, and an upright honesty in his

observations, which gives us no reason to doubt their correctness.

The fidalgos of Portugal have never forgotten the lesson they that day

learned. Alarm and mistrust entered into every social circle; no one

dared write, or scarce speak, to another, for fear of treachery; and day

after day the prisons were filled with fresh victims of the Minister's

despotism. The most trivial expressions were remarked and punished with

rigour. One day, a nobleman, a licensed favourite at Court, was

conversing with the Queen and a party of ladies, when the subject of the

lost King Sebastian was introduced, one asserting that the common people

firmly expected his return. "Oh, they are perfectly right," exclaimed

the Count: "King Sebastian reigns at present in Portugal."

A few days after this speech he found himself an inhabitant of a prison,

in which he lived for many years.

The King now bestowed on his Minister the title of the Count of Oyeras,

nor was he made Marquis of Pombal for many years afterwards.

Though the King still drove about as usual unattended, Carvalho never

appeared abroad without a body-guard to attend him, so fearful had he

become of the revenge of the friends of those he had slaughtered or

imprisoned. The most beneficial act of his life to Portugal was the

expulsion of the Jesuits, nearly all of whom he transported to Italy,

the rest he imprisoned; among the latter was the Father Jacinto da

Costa, who never more appeared in the world. He was too subtle a foe to

be allowed to wander loose. He is supposed to have died in one of the

solitary dungeons built by Carvalho's command.

Malagrida was also imprisoned; but three years passed before he was

brought to trial. He was delivered up into the hands of the spiritual

court of the Inquisition of Portugal, who found him guilty of heresy,

hypocrisy, false prophecies, impostures, and various other heinous

crimes, for which they condemned him to be burnt alive, having first

undergone the effectual public and legal degradation from his orders.

He obtained, by way of mitigation, that he should be strangled before

the faggots were kindled around him. The whole ceremonial was adjusted

according to the fashion of the most barbarous times. A lofty scaffold,

in the square of the Rocio, was erected in the form of an amphitheatre,

and richly decorated, convenient seats being provided for the most

distinguished nobility, and the members of the administration, who were

formally invited as to a spectacle of festivity. Fifty-two persons were

condemned to appear in the procession of this Auto-da-fe, clothed in red

garments and high conical caps, with representations of devils, in all

attitudes and occupations, worked on them; but Malagrida, who walked at

their head, was alone to furnish the horrible amusement of the day.

Crowds assembled from all parts to witness the spectacle, and shouted

with savage glee as the flames consumed the remains of the insane old

man. Hypocrite and knave though he had been, he was then more fit for

commiseration than punishment.

As his ashes were scattered to the wind--"Now!" exclaimed the Prime

Minister, "I have no other foes to fear!"

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

Ours is a tale of human woe and human suffering; of blighted hopes, of

disappointed ambition, of noble promise, and of bright aspirations

doomed never to be realised; of crime, of repentance, of despair a

description of a dark and gloomy picture, with but a few green spots to

enliven it--a picture of the world!

We have long lost sight of the beloved of the Count d'Almeida, the fair

Donna Clara Christovao, and we now return to her with delight, for we

love to gaze upon a being young, innocent, and lovely as she was. On

her return from Lisbon, her father had allowed her to remain at home for

some months, to recruit her strength and spirits among the scenes of her

childhood, after all the terror and danger she had undergone; nor did

he, during that time, once refer to the monastic life to which he had

dedicated her; indeed, he tried to forget it himself; and would,

perhaps, though not addicted to changing his purpose, have deferred the

fatal time from year to year till death had removed him from the world,

had he not his father confessor by his side, who at length thought fit

to remind him of his vow. It is needless to say, he had repented of it,

though he would not acknowledge it to himself, and he strenuously

endeavoured to persuade the father that he could in no way compromise

his soul by deferring the commencement of the year of probation to a

future period; but the latter was firm, painting the enormity of such

conduct in colours so glowing, so that the unhappy father was obliged to

yield, and promised to make no further delay.

For reasons known only to herself, Donna Clara had firmly refused to

perform her confession before Father Alfonzo, and taking advantage of

the privilege allowed to every member of a family, she had selected a

venerable and worthy priest as her confessor, whose best qualification

was his kind and simple heart, and his innocent and credulous belief in

all the miracles, the relics, and the infallibility of his Church.

Father Alfonzo, who well knew his character, lost no opportunity of

winning his regard, and thus making a tool of him in his plans on Clara,

which, though delayed, he had not abandoned. No; the devil, in whatever

shape he appear is ever treacherous, watchful, and persevering, and

naught but the armour of innocence can turn aside his deadly shafts.

Clara had learnt to confide in the good priest, and flew to him on all

occasions for consolation and advice; and now, when the fidalgo, urged

on by his confessor, again proposed to her to fulfil her mother's vow by

entering a convent, she requested permission, before determining, to

consult her ghostly adviser on the subject.

She hastened to the aged priest, telling him her unwillingness to give

up the world, and her feeling of unfitness for a life devoted wholly to

the services of the Church.

"Alas! my daughter, it is hard for an old man, broken by infirmities,

with one foot in the grave, to advise a young and joyous being to

abandon all her hopes of domestic felicity, and the pleasures which the

world affords, for a life of ascetic seclusion," he answered; and Clara

felt her heart lighter at his words. "But," he continued, "as a

minister of religion, it behoves me to advise you to obey your father's

wishes, and to fulfil your mother's vow. There is but one course, my

daughter, marked out for you to follow--the stern one of duty; and your

duty demands the sacrifice of yourself; yet weep not, my child, a few

years will quickly pass away, and you will no longer regret the world

you have left, with all its vanities, while an immortal crown of glory

will assuredly await you, the blessed reward of your virtue and

resignation. Think of this world as it truly is, a vale of tears, and

place your hopes of happiness in a heavenly future.--My fair daughter,

you must become a nun."

Pale and trembling, Clara listened, and bent her head in meek

resignation, while the tears stole down her fair cheeks. The advice,

though good and pious, doubtless, was not such as to afford consolation

to a lovely girl of nineteen, who might naturally and innocently hope to

find some enjoyment in the world her aged confessor likened to a vale of

tears; yet she had determined to abide by his counsel, and her fate was

sealed.

She made no further resistance to the fidalgo's commands, consenting to

recommence her noviciate whenever he should think fit. A day at a short

distance was fixed, and Father Alfonzo saw with malignant satisfaction

the commencement of his long sought for triumph.

The Convent of Santa Clara, at Oporto, is situated on the brow of a

steep hill to the east of the city, overlooking the rapid Douro. It is

a lofty and handsome building of carved stone, the windows looking

towards the outer side being strongly barred; the church stands on one

side of the entrance, which is through a court-yard with wide oaken

gates. A long and steep flight of steps leads up to it from the river,

but on the other side it is approachable by a broad though winding road,

with the backs chiefly of some large houses and dead walls on each side,

making it altogether a most secluded situation. The garden is

surrounded by a high dark wall, with pointed battlements, exactly

similar to the walls of the city; indeed, one side of it is enclosed by

them, and at the end furthest removed from the convent is a

summer-house, likewise, alas! securely grated, from whence a beautiful

view is obtained both up and down the river. On the opposite side, on

the summit of a precipitous cliff, at whose foot the river rushes with

impetuous force, stands the Serra Convent, with its high cupola-roofed

church, then surrounded by groves of fine trees and lovely gardens, and

inhabited by the most wealthy and high-born monks of Oporto, that of

Santa Clara receiving none but the daughters of fidalgos. On the right

is a view of the city, and the town of Villa Nova, with the heights

beyond, between which the river winds its way towards the sea; while on

the left, a soft and smiling scene, with rich green banks rising from

the water, is beheld, beyond a narrow gorge of dark rocks.

To this convent Clara was now conveyed, and, torn from the embrace of

the good Senhora Gertrudes, notwithstanding all the old nurse's

entreaties that her darling might be allowed to remain at home with her.

It must be confessed that Clara had but little to complain of during her

noviciate in this lovely spot, and she had much to make her contented.

She had many companions of her own age; merry, light-hearted girls, who

laughed and talked all day long, hurrying over the daily ceremonials of

their religion to laugh and talk again. Then their confessors would

come, who never troubled them with too severe penances, entertaining

them instead with many laughable stories. They would no more have

thought of imposing any disagreeable task on the fair young fidalgas,

than would a fashionable preacher in London of annoying the consciences

of his hearers. Then the doctor would come and feel their pulses, while

he detailed all the anecdotes he had collected during his professional

visits, and indeed everything that was going forward in the world.

All, however, were not thus happy; the young love of some had been

blighted in the bud, and they had retired thither in the expectation of

finding peace and a solace for their woe in the duties of religion;

others had been compelled by cajolery or threats to embrace a life they

detested and despised, these invariably recompensing themselves by

indulging in every license within their power, for they soon discovered

"that where there's a will there's a way." We well recollect the

Convent of Santa Clara, the most fashionable of our day, so we must not

be scandalous.

The fair flower of his garden, as her father used to delight to call

Clara, found naught congenial to her feelings and thoughts in this new

life, and with fear and sad forebodings she looked forward to the time

when it must irrevocably become hers for ever. She pined for freedom,

and she thought of the love and devotion of her poor, though high-born,

lover, Don Luis. In vain she tried, for she thought it her duty to

banish his image from her mind, but she had engraven it too deeply to

eradicate it. Each time it returned with greater beauty than before,

till at last she gave up the attempt as hopeless; so she cherished it

with greater fondness than ever.

About two months of her noviciate had passed, when one evening, as she

was seated in the summer-house, inhaling the fresh breeze, and gazing on

the lovely view, her companions having all quitted her, she heard a low

strain of music, sounding as if it came from far down the cliff below

her. She listened attentively for some minutes--it ceased--when it

again sounded as if from directly beneath the wall. At one of the

windows a bar had been loosened, so that it could be easily removed, as

the fair birds were, it must be confessed, rather frequently in the

habit of doing. She soon discovered the necessary way to do it, and,

looking out, she beheld a graceful figure, with a cloak over his arm and

a guitar in his hand. As he gazed up towards the window of the high

tower, he struck a few low notes on his guitar, as if to draw the

attention of any fair captive within. The eye of love was not slow in

piercing the thickening shades of evening, and her heart beat with

tender emotion as she distinguished Don Luis d'Almeida. He stood

evidently uncertain whether he was known, or whether it was Donna Clara

herself towards whom he was looking; he feared, she thought, to

pronounce her name, lest it might in any way betray her, and she equally

trembled to speak his. She held in her hand a handkerchief marked with

her name, "Would it be wrong?" she let it drop, and had just time to see

him spring forward, seize it, and press it rapturously to his lips, when

the bell for vespers rang, and she was obliged to hasten into the

convent.

The following evening she anxiously watched, from the window of the

tower, the return of Luis. He at length appeared, having climbed, with

great difficulty and danger, the steep heights from the river; but this

time he had not encumbered himself with a guitar. Clara looked hastily

into the garden below her--no one was within hearing.

"Oh, Luis," she cried, "your presence gives me both joy and pain; joy to

know that you are near me, and pain that I feel it will soon be sin even

to think of you."

"Say not so, my beloved Clara; I come to tell you to hope," answered

Luis. "Resist to the utmost taking the fatal vows. Defer it in every

possible way, and something may yet occur to favour our wishes."

"Heaven grant there may!" exclaimed Clara; "but, much as I delight in

seeing you, for my sake, do not venture here. Ten months must elapse

before the dreaded time arrives; ere that time, return again here, and

believe me, I will trust in your constancy. I have seen and heard such

things within these walls as make me almost doubt whether I am bound to

obey my father's commands by remaining in them till released by death.

It is treason to speak this; but thus much I must tell you, Luis. Hark!

some one approaches. Farewell!"

"I will rescue you or die," whispered Luis, yet loud enough to reach her

ears; and while she watched him, as he disappeared over the brow of the

cliff, a young novice entered the tower.

"What! sister Clara, ever meditating in our bower?" exclaimed the girl,

laughing, "I shall begin to suspect you have some lover among the

gallant friars opposite, or perhaps some one has managed to fly to the

foot of the tower; for Love, we are told, has wings, though he generally

uses them rather to fly away; but in no other way could a human being

contrive to get there, I am sure. I quite forgot--I came to bring you a

message from the Lady Abbess, to say that your father and a certain

Padre Alfonzo are waiting to see you."

"I will accompany you," answered Clara, taking the arm of Sister Amalia;

and the two young ladies entered the convent together.

More trials awaited Clara. Her father received her with an angry brow,

unusual to him, and chiding her, gravely informed her that he had

received intimation that Don Luis had been seen at Oporto, whither he

had doubtless been attracted for her sake, insisting on her promising

never, without his leave, to see him. He little suspected that she had,

within the last few minutes, both seen and heard him.

"Remember, too," concluded the Fidalgo, "that although he has not been

convicted as the murderer of your brother, he has not proved his

innocence, and he is without either fortune or influence; were it not so

also, you are dedicated to the Church, and can never be his. Pass your

word to me, therefore, that you will not see him; if not, you must, by

the advice of the Lady Abbess and the good Father Alfonzo, be subjected

to such a confinement as will preclude the possibility of seeing him, or

receiving any account of him."

"I trust, my father, that the love and respect I hear you, and my own

honour, are a sufficient guarantee of my not disobeying your commands

when they are just and right; but no further promise will I make,"

answered Clara, firmly. "Pardon me, my beloved father, that I should

ever have spoken thus to you; but I will not be unjust to myself, or to

one whom I know truly as innocent of any crime except that of loving

me."

Clara continued firm in her determination, notwithstanding all the Lady

Abbess, her father, or the priest, could say to her; and at last,

wearied out, they were obliged to desist from all further attempts to

make her alter it. Their system of tactics then changed. She was from

henceforth never allowed to leave her chamber, or to walk in the garden

without an attendant; and though at first she bore up with spirit

against this irksome species of petty tyranny, at last her health gave

way, and it was not till she was allowed, as before, to wander alone in

the garden that she at all recovered. It certainly did not increase her

taste for a monastic life. Her father at length departed for Lisbon.

Three months of her noviciate only remained to be accomplished, and she

had not heard from Luis. Week after week passed by, yet he came not.

With all a woman's trusting love, she felt confident he would come to

see her, and bid her farewell, if not to bring proofs that her brother

fell by another's hand, and to rescue her.

At last the alarming accounts reached her of the apprehension of the

conspirators, among whom the name of the Count d'Almeida was mentioned.

She believed him innocent; but he was in prison, and escape was

hopeless. Then arrived the dreadful description of the cruel execution.

She trembled as she listened, but his name was not among the sufferers.

She thanked Heaven that he was preserved, though for herself she had

ceased to hope.

At last came the stunning intelligence that her father also was a

prisoner on the charge of high treason. It was the very day before she

was to pronounce the final vows. She longed to fly to him, to comfort

him in prison, but she was told such was impossible. With tears and

entreaties she petitioned the Lady Abbess to allow her to depart, yet in

vain. The fidalgo had committed his daughter to her charge, and by his

permission alone could she allow her to quit the convent under any

pretext. His confessor, in whom he placed implicit confidence, assured

her such was his wish, and by him was she guided.

Despairing, therefore, of all human aid, Clara yielded to her fate,

trusting, as she did so, that Heaven would afford her peace of mind, and

reward her for obeying her father's commands and her mother's wish.

It was a bright and lovely morning, although in winter, when she rose

from her couch, whereon she had spent a sleepless night; several

attendants being in readiness to robe her for the last time in the

garments of the vain world. Bright flowers were braided in her fair

hair, glittering jewels decked her neck, and a robe of white satin,

richly ornamented with lace, clothed her graceful form. She appeared as

a bride about to be led to the altar--a lovely sacrifice to Heaven; say

rather to bigoted superstition and priestcraft, the worst remnant of

heathen idolatry and imposture: and let us bless the era, and the true

patriot, who, with one daring stroke, banished for ever those vile

institutions from his country. [Note.]

Before Clara left her chamber for the last time, her future abode being

a narrow cell without ornament, and with but scanty furniture, old

Gertrudes was permitted to visit her. Tears and sobs almost choked the

poor nurse's utterance, as she embraced and kissed, over and over again,

her young charge.

"Oh! and you look so lovely in that beautiful dress!" she exclaimed;

"and they are going to cut off all that fair hair, and put you on a

dull, ugly habit, which you must wear all the rest of your days--Oh

dear! oh dear!" and she burst into a fresh shower of tears.

"Do not thus mourn for me, my good nurse; I care not for my change of

habit," answered Clara, smiling mournfully; "and I trust I shall be

happy in the consciousness of performing my duty."

A sister now entered to inform Clara that the procession was nearly

ready to enter the church, so Senhora Gertrudes was obliged to tear

herself away to witness the sad ceremony, while Clara accompanied the

sister to the hall, where the whole community were assembled previous to

entering the church by their private door.

Two other novices were that day to be professed, and a large assemblage

of their friends, kindred, and acquaintances, besides many strangers,

had collected in the church to witness the ceremony.

Preceded by the cross-bearer, with slow and measured steps, and singing

the hymn, "O Gloriosa Virginum," the procession of nuns entered the

sacred edifice, and took their allotted places. The holy Father

Alfonzo, also the professor extraordinary to the convent, first preached

a sermon from the altar, with the postulants seated before him, giving

the most glowing picture of the religious life they were about to enter,

so that not one of the audience could doubt they were peculiarly blest

in their choice.

The Bishop of Oporto, in his full canonicals, standing before the altar,

with his chaplains on either side, the postulants were next led up the

steps to him, when he severally interrogated them, first addressing

Clara.

"My child, what do you demand?" he said.

"The mercy of God, and the holy habit of religion," answered Clara.

"Is it with your own free-will that you demand the holy habit of

religion?"

"Yes, my lord," faltered forth Clara.

"Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, turning to the Lady Abbess, "have

you made the necessary inquiries, and are you satisfied?"

The Lady Abbess signified her assent.

Several other questions were asked, to which the young postulants

responded satisfactorily, and they were then led forth to put off the

garments of the world, and assume that of religion.

During their absence, the assembled monks and nuns broke forth in a

solemn harmonious chant: "Who is she who cometh up from the desert,

flowing with delights, leaning on her beloved?"

They soon returned, clothed in the habit of the order, yet wearing their

long hair covered by their white veils, and again knelt before the

altar, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

On one side was a bier, as if prepared for the dead, on the other a

table, with the act of profession and implements for writing placed on

it, while the black veil, which, once assumed, would separate them for

ever from the world, lay upon the altar.

Clara trembled violently--a faintness came over her--she saw not the

assembled crowd;--she heard not the rich melody, and scarcely the voice

of the officiating minister. A dull, stunning feeling oppressed her--

she was scarcely aware of the answers she made; but the Bishop appeared

satisfied. He then, with a solemn prayer, blessed the black veils, and

sprinkled them with holy water. A rich melody pealed through the

church, while sweet scented incense ascended to heaven.

The eldest postulant then, led forward by the Lady Abbess, after further

questions from the Bishop, pronounced her vows, while he held upraised

the holy sacrament, and the organ sent forth its most solemn tones.

With a trembling hand the young girl signed her renunciation of the

world, and a tear-drop blotted out the mark of the cross she made.

The Bishop then severing a lock from her hair, the professed sisters

advanced, and placed her on the bier, and while the black veil was

thrown over her, the organ now sent forth a mournful dirge for the dead.

For three minutes did she thus remain, all standing round as if

mourning her dead, and when the veil was again raised, the sisters,

lifting her hand to aid her to rise, it fell powerless by her side. A

thrill of horror crept over them--for they thought her dead indeed; yet

it was not so; the solemn mummery had overcome her--she had fainted; but

the organ ceasing, and then changing to a triumphant air, she gave signs

of returning animation. She was lifted from the bier, and borne from

the church.

It was now Clara's turn. The Lady Abbess, taking the lighted taper from

her hand, led her forward, giving her the act of confession. Almost

fainting, she then knelt, the richest tones of human voices floating

round the building, while the Bishop bore towards her the adorable

sacrament. A dimness came over her sight--her voice faltered as the

moment to pronounce her final vow had arrived. Scarce had she uttered

the first word, when a voice--it sounded like that of human agony--rung

through the church. "Stay, in mercy stay!" it cried; and at those tones

Clara sunk senseless to the ground.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note. Dom Pedro, the father of her present Majesty of Portugal.

Volume 3, Chapter XX.

We left the Count d'Almeida an inmate of the Jungueira prison, from

whence the stern policy of the Prime Minister allowed few captives to

depart, except to the scaffold and to death. Many an unfortunate victim

of this iron despotism remained there year after year, demanding to be

brought to trial,--to be told of his crime,--to have the witness of his

guilt produced, but his petitions were unheard or disregarded; he might,

if free, become dangerous, so he was allowed to pine on in chains, till

death, more kind than man, released him.

Luis sat disconsolate and sad in his narrow cell, with few happy

remembrances of his past life to dwell on, and without a book to

withdraw his mind from the melancholy present. For his own fate, come

what might, he was prepared; but he thought of Clara, and there was

bitter anguish. He could now prove himself innocent of her brother's

death, but he was a prisoner, without a hope of escape, and within a

week, at furthest, perhaps at that very time she might be pronouncing

the fatal vow which would tear her from him for ever! The thought

almost drove him to madness--his feelings may be more easily pictured

than described. He felt that he was shrieking, but his voice gave forth

no sound,--that he could dash himself against the door, but yet he sat,

his hands clasped before him, without moving,--a statue of manly grief.

His meditations were interrupted by the opening of his prison door, and

his worthy friend, Fre Diogo Lopez, stood before him.

"Ah! my dear Count, you see I have not delayed long in fulfilling my

promise," began the Friar.

"I saw your young friend, and offered him such consolation as was in my

power, and now I have brought you a fresh bottle of wine, to keep up

your spirits. I offered him a little, but he could scarcely drink a

drop. I fear he is going, poor youth."

"I much fear so too," answered Luis. "But tell me, have you found the

letter to his father, you spoke of? It has been so wonderfully

preserved, that I fain would think it of importance."

"I have it here. Is not this it?" answered the Friar, producing a much

soiled packet. "Read the superscription, for my eyes are dim, and

cannot well decipher it."

"The same. Now will you undertake to forward this to Senhor Goncalo

Christovao," said the Count.

"It will not have far to go, then, for he is a prisoner within these

walls," answered the Friar.

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Luis. "Then I may prove to him that I am

not the murderer of his son. Does he know that the poor youth is here?"

"I have not myself spoken to him, though it is almost impossible he

should discover it," replied the Friar.

"Then, in pity to all, contrive to let him see his dying son, and I,

too, long to converse with him. It is the greatest favour you can

afford me, next to one which I scarce dare hope for, to aid me in my

escape."

The Friar shook his head--"Your last wish is impossible; the first I

will endeavour to accomplish. You know not all the precautions taken to

prevent escape. Were your life in danger, it might, perhaps, be done at

the risk of both our lives, or of perpetual imprisonment in some

loathsome dungeon, to which, in comparison, this is a palace."

"For the purpose I have in view, I would risk death, torments, and

imprisonment!" exclaimed Luis, vehemently. "Unless I succeed, all I

value in life is worthless. Within a few days from hence, Donna Clara

de Christovao will be compelled to assume the veil, if I do not contrive

to rescue her from the convent at Oporto, where she is confined. I

vowed to her to attempt it, and if she hears not of me, she will deem me

faithless, and yield without a struggle to her fate."

Fre Diogo smiled, as he shook his head. "You might as well attempt to

rescue the lamb from the talons of the eagle, as to carry off a fair

girl from the clutches of those who have her in their power," he

answered. "In any possible plan I would, if in my power, aid you

gladly. But consider a moment. If you could escape from hence, which

is next to impossible, you manage to reach Oporto, though the chances

are, that you are recaptured before you arrive there;--you demand the

young lady;--you are refused even an interview. You then contrive to

let her know you are in the neighbourhood;--she sends you word she is

shut up, and cannot get out. Or suppose you have surmounted all

difficulties, and you have managed to carry her off; whither would you

fly? In each direction the Minister has his spies, who would soon

restore you to your present abode, if not to a worse, and the lady to

her convent. No, my dear Count, be advised by me, do not attempt an

impossibility. You have but one course to pursue; practise your

patience: when a man is at the bottom of a well, he cannot go lower."

"No, but he may be drowned, though, when the water flows in," said Luis,

despondingly.

"Not if he knows how to swim," answered the Friar; "and then the water,

which would destroy another, will be his preservation. Let that be your

consolation."

"Alas! I fear your observations are too correct, and I must submit to

my fate," said Luis. "Can you, however, contrive to let me see Goncalo

Christovao?"

"There will be no great difficulty, for since the execution, in some

parts of the prison, the captives are allowed to communicate with each

other."

"Of what do you speak?" inquired Luis; and the Friar recounted to him

the dreadful tragedy which had taken place. "Alas!" he exclaimed, "and

has that gay and bold youth been a victim?" and while he shuddered, as

he recollected the risk he had run of sharing their fate, he thought how

nobly young Joze de Tavora had behaved in not betraying him; for, as he

heard, torture had been administered to extract confession.

"Come now with me," said the Friar, interrupting his thoughts. "The

turnkey waits without, and will, under my responsibility, allow you to

visit this old fidalgo, for his cell is close to this, I heard as I came

hither."

"Then no delay!" exclaimed Luis, starting up; "I will this instant

accompany you."

The turnkey, on the representations of the Friar, was easily persuaded

to allow them to pass, and enter the fidalgo's cell.

The old man started with terror, as he beheld them, fancying that they

were officers come to lead him to trial, or to death.

"Lead on, ye myrmidons of tyranny! I am prepared!" he exclaimed,

rising.

"You are mistaken, senhor," said Luis. "I come as an old friend, a

fellow-prisoner, to offer such consolation as is in my power."

"Thanks, senhor, for your courtesy, but your name has escaped my

memory," said the Fidalgo, scanning him closely.

"Luis d'Almeida."

"What! the murderer of my son?--the destroyer of my daughter's peace?"

"Certainly not the murderer of your son, for he yet lives; and rather

would I die a hundred deaths than cause one pang of grief to your fair

daughter."

"My son lives, say you?" exclaimed the Fidalgo. "Bring him hither,

then, that I may embrace him before I am led forth to death."

"He lies himself upon a bed of sickness; but I trust, Senhor, to be able

to conduct you to him," answered Luis.

"In mercy then, without delay, let me hasten to my long-lost boy,"

exclaimed the Fidalgo. "Is he within these cruel walls--a prisoner like

ourselves?"--"He is, senhor, alas! and this good Friar will arrange an

interview, which will require some precaution," answered Luis; and

turning to Fre Diogo, he requested him to learn from the gaoler, when

they might visit the cell of the unfortunate youth.

"Pardon me, for the want of courtesy with which I received you, Senhor

Conde," said the Fidalgo, as soon as they were left alone. "I owe you

much for the news you bring me; and my poor boy, does he know I am near

him? and what crime has he committed to be confined within these walls?"

Luis described, in as few words as possible, the dreadful treatment his

son had suffered, and the fatal results he apprehended. We need not

describe the father's grief, or his regrets for the manner in which he

had treated his guest; but his emotion was far greater, when, on Luis

presenting the long-lost packet, he tore it open, and his eye hurried

over the contents.

"Great God! how have I been deceived in that man!" he cried, in a tone

of agony. "My child, my sweet child! and thou hast been the sacrifice!

Oh, for freedom, that I might hasten to rescue her from the bondage she

detests! A week hence, and her fate will have been sealed, when I,

alas! shall have no power to release her. And I--oh, how cruelly have I

treated her! Curses on the stern tyrant who thus detains me. He is a

father, and did he know the cause, he would release me. No, the base

upstart would but smile the more to see the high-born fidalgo's agony.

May Heaven's anger blast all the works in which he prides himself!

May--ah! I am raving--oh! God, support me!"

Luis stood amazed at this sudden outbreak of the usually sedate and

dignified fidalgo, though scarcely himself less agitated in his

eagerness to learn the contents of the letter, the purport of which the

fidalgo's words appeared to intimate. The old man saw his inquiring

gaze. "See," he continued, extending his hand with the paper. "Read

that, and see how I have been deceived; and alas! my poor child has been

sacrificed;" and he sunk into his chair, covering his eyes with his

hands, while Luis read the letter. It was to the following effect:--

"Heaven has thought fit to summon me from this world, during your

absence, my beloved husband, and already do I feel the near approach of

death. Alas! I have no one to whom I can confide my dying wishes, and

a secret which I would entrust but to your ears alone. I therefore

write with faltering hand this paper, which I trust may be seen by our

sweet Clara, and given to you. It is for her sake I am anxious; for I

see perils surrounding her course through life, which will require all a

mother's care to guard against.

"Do not, as you value her happiness or your own, confide in the Father

Alfonzo. He is a wretched hypocrite; yet till lately I discovered it

not. For many days past has he been endeavouring to persuade me to

devote our Clara to the service of the Church; but I know too well the

misery and wretchedness it will entail on her, and firmly have I refused

to sanction his plan. While I spoke, he smiled scornfully in return,

nor do I doubt his purpose. He has long hated me, for he knew I was not

deceived in him. As you love me, as you prize our child's happiness,

let her select her own lot in life; but warn her against the dangers of

a convent. She will never insist on wedding one beneath her in family;

but never insist on her marrying one she cannot learn to love. My eyes

grow dim, my hand weak, yet do I exert myself, during the absence of Fre

Alfonzo, to finish this, lest he should return before I have concealed

it. Adieu! my beloved husband! ere you can reach your home, I shall

have ceased to breathe; and, as you have loved me in life, forget not my

dying prayer."

The last lines were faint and almost illegible. Luis returned the paper

with a look of despair, and, for a minute, the father and the lover

stood gazing at each other, without uttering a word.

"What hope is there?" at last exclaimed the Fidalgo.

"Alas, none!" was the dejected reply of Luis; then, suddenly rousing

himself, he exclaimed, "Yes, there is hope! I will escape from hence,

and save her, or die in the attempt! Give me but your written order to

the Lady Abbess, to prevent your daughter's taking the veil, and I will

bear it to her, and also a note to Donna Clara, to assure her of her

mother's real prayer, and of your consent to her following her own

inclinations."

"Alas, I fear such is but a hopeless chance," said the Fidalgo. "We

must confide the order to some one who is at freedom."

"No one can be found who would hasten as I will; for no one has the same

excitement," answered Luis.

"Remember you are still a captive," said the Fidalgo, mournfully.

"Alas! too true," ejaculated Luis.

Just as he spoke the door opened, and the gaoler, whispering to them to

walk carefully, beckoned them to follow him, while he led the way to the

cell of the young Goncalo. The son uttered a cry of joy, as he rose to

embrace his father, and then sunk down languidly on his couch. For many

minutes they remained in earnest conversation; the fidalgo seeming to

forget his daughter in the joy of recovering his son, while Luis, in the

mean time, explained to Fre Diogo the importance of the paper he had

preserved, beseeching him to lend his assistance, either in aiding his

escape, or in forwarding the fidalgo's despatch to Oporto.

"I am happy to do all I can to mitigate the irksomeness of your

imprisonment, my friend; but it is more than I can do to risk my neck in

aiding your escape, or carrying any communication beyond the walls of

the prison, which would, most certainly, be discovered, and punished

with almost equal severity. Think better of it, Count; there is no use

running so much risk for the sake of any girl under the sun. Let her

take the veil, she will be happy enough; and, when you get out of this

place, you can easily find another to make amends for her loss."

"You have never been in love, to speak thus," exclaimed Luis.

"No, thank Heaven, I never have," answered the Friar. "I never saw any

good come of such folly."

"Then, have I no hopes of your assistance?" asked Luis.

The Friar shook his head.

Meantime the fidalgo rose from his son's couch, over which he had been

leaning, and took the Count's hand--"Pardon me, for all the wrong I have

done you!" he exclaimed; "but you see how severely I have been punished.

My poor boy!" and he pointed to young Goncalo, and his voice

faltered--"and my fair daughter. Have you persuaded the good Friar to

forward the letter I will write to the Lady Abbess?"

"He refuses to aid me," answered Luis, again appealing, in vain, to the

Friar.

"Then I have no hope!" exclaimed the unhappy father, sinking into a

chair.

The bolts, as he spoke, were heard to be withdrawn, and a stranger

entered the cell.

Volume 3, Chapter XXI.

The day following the execution of the Duke of Aveiro and his unhappy

companions, a fine merchant ship was seen to glide slowly up the broad

Tagus, dropping her anchor within a short distance of a frigate, which

lay off Lisbon. A person of some consequence seemed to be on board the

former, for a boat quickly pushed off from the sides of the frigate,

bearing her Captain; and approached the merchantman. He eagerly stepped

on board, and hastened towards a venerable and dignified-looking man,

who was pacing the deck, with short and hurried steps, casting anxious

glances towards the city, while several attendants stood round, and

various chests and packages lay about, as if ready for speedy

disembarkation.

No sooner did the stranger see the Captain of the frigate, than he

advanced to embrace him, with an expression of satisfaction, "Ah! my

kind friend, Captain Pinto," he exclaimed, "this is kind indeed! The

last to see me off, and the first to welcome my return to Portugal, no

longer a wanderer and an outcast, but at length with my toils at an end,

and my property secured."

"I rejoice to hear it," answered our old friend, Captain Pinto, "though

I have some sad news to give in return, which I will communicate as we

pull on shore, if you are now prepared to accompany me."

"Gladly! I long once more to tread my native land," returned the

stranger, as he descended with the Captain into the boat. The distance

to the landing-place was not great; but, during the short time occupied

in reaching it, many important matters were discussed; and, for the

first time, the stranger learned of the conspiracy, and the dreadful

punishment of those supposed to be the chief leaders, and the

imprisonment of many hundreds of others implicated in it.

"Poor boy! it wrings my heart with grief to hear it!" exclaimed the

stranger, as they neared the shore: "I cannot believe him guilty."

"Nor I neither," said the Captain. "I have in vain endeavoured to

discover the place of his imprisonment, and would risk all to save him.

It is reported that the Minister has determined to punish many more,

either by banishment to the coast of Africa, or by death; but, without

interest, as I am, I could do nothing till your arrival, for which I

have anxiously waited. Our only chance of success is by an appeal to

the Minister himself."

"To the Minister we will appeal, then," said the stranger; "I have some

hope through him. He will scarcely refuse the first petition of an old

and long-lost friend."

"We have not a moment to lose; for Sebastiao Joze is a man both quick to

think and to execute, and even now my young friend may be embarking for

Angola," said the Captain, as the boat touched the shore.

A smile of satisfaction passed over the stranger's features, as he once

more landed in his native country, but it quickly vanished as he thought

of all the miseries that country was suffering; and, accompanied by

Captain Pinto, whose well-known person enabled him to pass without the

interference of the police, he hurried towards the residence of the

Minister. As they arrived in sight of the house, they observed a strong

body of cavalry dashing down the street at full speed, who halted in

front of it, and, from among them, the commanding figure of Carvalho was

seen to dismount from his horse, and enter the building.

"What means this?" asked the stranger. "Does the preserver of his

country require a body-guard?"

"The corrector of abuses, we should say, or the despotic tyrant, as his

enemies call him, does," observed the Captain, cautiously. "Alas! by

such means only can our countrymen be governed."

When they arrived, they found a guard drawn up in the entrance-hall; and

after Captain Pinto had sent up his name, requesting an audience, they

were compelled to wait a considerable time in an ante-room, before they

were admitted.

The stranger smiled,--"Times have changed since we parted," he said.

The great Minister rose to receive them, with his usual courtesy, as

they entered, desiring them to be seated, while his piercing eye glanced

sternly at the stranger with an inquiring look, as he demanded of the

Captain the cause of his visit.

"I came, your Excellency, to introduce one, whom, with your permission,

I will now leave to plead his cause with you," and, bowing profoundly,

he withdrew.

The Minister rose, as did the stranger.

"I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed

and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your

youth," said the latter.

"My recollection is not liable to be deceived," said the Minister,

scanning the stranger still more earnestly. "They recall the likeness

of one long since dead, and truly mourned--one to whom I owed a debt of

gratitude never to be repaid--the preserver of my life!"

A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger's features. "I am not

forgotten, then!" he exclaimed. "You see before you one long supposed

dead--him, I trust, of whom you speak."

"What!" cried the Minister, grasping the stranger's hand. "Speak! are

you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty,--does the Luis

d'Almeida I loved so well still live?"

"The same, my friend," cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; "and

great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten."

"'Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my

friend," said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as

he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men.

He had chosen his station--it was one of power and grandeur, but of

danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager

to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he

place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of

every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a

rod of iron.

The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the

flight of time.

"I have one petition to make to you," said Senhor d'Almeida, for so we

may call the stranger; "it is my first, and it shall be my last."

"What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?"

interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. "Yet let me hear

it, for I would not willingly refuse you."

"I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are

centred--the young Count d'Almeida, my nephew."

"Ah! I have been deceived in that youth! He is accused of the darkest

treason," exclaimed the Minister.

"I will answer for his innocence--he is incapable of a dishonourable

deed," answered the uncle, warmly.

"He is in prison with others equally culpable, and I have vowed to show

no mercy to any," returned the Minister. "If I waver, they deem mercy

arises from weakness, and my power is at an end."

"Then have I lived and toiled in vain," said the stranger. "Pardon me,

I ask but this grace, and I find that I have presumed too far on the

love you bore me."

"Stay, my friend!" exclaimed the Minister. "You wrong me and yourself:

I will not refuse your request, but on one condition: your nephew must

forthwith quit the country, and till he embarks, appear to no one. He

is not proved innocent, and the guilty must not escape punishment. I

will send some one who will, this night, set him at liberty, and conduct

him to the house where you reside: from thenceforward he is under your

charge; and remember, he must run no risk of being retaken."

The stranger expressed his sincere thanks to his powerful friend; and at

length rose to depart. Carvalho accompanied him to the ante-room, and

as he saw the worthy Captain Pinto still waiting--"Senhor Pinto," he

said, "prepare to sail, to-morrow morning, for England; I have

despatches to send by you."

The Captain intimated the readiness of his ship for sea; and,

accompanied by the stranger, whom the Minister again affectionately

embraced, he withdrew.

Volume 3, Chapter XXII.

We must once more return to the cell of the younger Goncalo Christovao,

in the Jungueira prison. The person who entered, narrowly scrutinised

the features of all the occupants; the only one of whom that seemed

rather uneasy under his glance being the good Fre Diogo.

"What! you here, and in this disguise, my old friend," he said,

laughing. "Are you caught at last, then?"

"I am in no disguise, but in the habit of the order to which I belong,

Senhor Antonio," said the Friar.

"It matters not--my business is not with you, but with the Senhor Conde

d'Almeida, if he will favour me with his company," said the stranger.

Luis started as he spoke, for he recognised the officer of police who

had assisted him in his search for Clara; and he fully believed that he

had now come to conduct him to some other prison.

"I shall be ready to follow you when I have taken farewell of my

friends," he answered.

Antonio approached him, and whispered in his ear, "Fear not, I come to

set you at liberty."

Delightful words to a prisoner! A thrill of joy shot through the

Count's heart--he might yet be able to rescue Clara! "Stay," he

answered; "a few minutes are precious. Senhor Goncalo, I have the means

of conveying the order to the Lady Abbess to set your fair daughter at

freedom."

Writing materials were soon procured by the kind-hearted gaoler, and the

important document being written, and signed by the fidalgo, he

committed it to the care of Luis, saying, as he did so, "Should better

times come round, and should you regain your liberty, and your fortune,

to no one would I more gladly consign my child's happiness."

"My liberty I trust to regain, but my fortune, alas! is irretrievably

gone," answered the Count, despondingly.

Taking leave of Clara's father and brother, the latter of whom appeared

revived by the sight of his parent, Luis signified to Antonio that he

was in readiness to accompany him. Fre Diogo followed them from the

cell, the door of which the gaoler locked behind them, and then bringing

the Count's cloak, and throwing it over his head, carefully led them

along the low, dark passages which Luis had traversed on his entrance,

and now sincerely hoped never to see again.

"Farewell, my dear Count," whispered the Friar, as they were about to

enter into a more public part of the prison; "I may as well not be seen

with you, for I must take care of my character, you know. May Heaven

bless you!" and he gave Luis a hug which almost took the breath out of

his body; then, putting his mouth to Antonio's ear, he whispered, "Have

more regard to a holy friar's cowl and gown, than to allude to days when

I was sowing my wild oats: I am a reformed character, now. Adeos!" and,

with a low laugh, he glided away.

At a signal from Antonio, the guards at each post allowed him and his

charge to pass without question; and soon, to Luis's delight, he once

more found himself breathing the free air. A carriage was in waiting,

which quickly conveyed them to the other side of Lisbon, where, stopping

at the door of a house, Antonio begged Luis to descend. "Adeos, senhor,

we may not perhaps, meet again," he said; "'tis my last day of service,

and an agreeable duty I have performed. You will find friends awaiting

your arrival."

Luis sprung eagerly up stairs, and, entering a room, found himself in

the warm-hearted embrace of his kind friend, Captain Pinto. "Ah!" he

exclaimed, as soon as he was released, "I am rejoiced to see Senhor

Mendez also."

"No longer Senhor Mendez, but your lost uncle, Luis d'Almeida,"

exclaimed the Captain.

Luis threw himself at the feet of his uncle, who, raising him, pressed

him affectionately to his heart. "This is, indeed, a happy moment to

me, my nephew, after all my sufferings, to find one of my family who

learned to love me as an outcast and a beggar!" he exclaimed.

The young Count was soon informed of the means taken to procure his

liberation, and of the banishment to which he was doomed; his uncle,

however, assuring him, that it should not be passed in poverty.

"Alas!" he answered, after expressing his gratitude, "liberty and

fortune are of no value, except I can share them with one to whom my

heart has long been engaged;" and he hurriedly described his love for

Donna Clara, the position in which she was placed, and her father's

authority delegated to him to rescue her.

His uncle and the Captain looked at each other disappointed. "It cannot

be helped, Luis," said the latter; "you must be on board my ship

to-morrow morning, when I sail for England; and all I can promise is, to

land you for an hour or so at Oporto, if the sea is smooth; when you can

deliver her father's despatches to the young lady, and pay a farewell

visit."

"That plan will never do," exclaimed Luis: "contrary winds might delay

us, or a rough sea might prevent my landing, and Clara would be lost to

me for ever. I will trust only in my own exertions; and I purpose this

very hour to start on my journey, for I cannot rest till I know that she

is free."

"I see how it is," said the Captain; "there is but one way for it. What

hour is it? Not ten: then the Minister will yet see me. He is a stern

ruler when political necessity demands it, but he has yet a kind heart.

Let me see, I know all the story." Without waiting to hear what anybody

might say, the Captain hurried away.

Scarcely had he gone, when Pedro rushed into the room, embracing his

master's knees, in his joy at seeing him alive, and at liberty; but Luis

was obliged to hurry him away, to bring a change of raiment from his

lodgings, and to procure horses, and make other preparations for his

journey.

We need not give the interesting conversation which ensued between the

uncle and nephew; one important part of it was, that the former informed

the latter that he would find five hundred pounds at his immediate

disposal on his arrival in England; and that he had already settled the

bulk of a far larger fortune than his family had ever possessed upon

him, nor did he doubt, if he was in time to prevent Donna Clara from

taking the veil, that her father would longer hesitate to bestow her

upon him.

The Captain now returned in high spirits. "I told him the whole story,

how the fidalgo had shut up his daughter in a convent, and how you

wished to release her: so, as he hates the system of convents, and, I

verily believe, would like to thwart what he imagines the fidalgo's

wishes, he has given you a passport, and an order for horses wherever

you may require them, besides an order to the Lady Abbess to deliver

Donna Clara de Christovao into the charge of Don Luis d'Almeida: so now,

the sooner you are off, after taking a little rest, the better. I sail

to-morrow by day-break; and shall land at Oporto, while my ship cruises

outside. I will wait for you, and take you on board after you have seen

the lady, and restored her to her home."

This plan being arranged, and Pedro having returned, and reported that

he had selected a couple of strong horses for the journey, the Captain

repaired on board his ship; and Luis endeavoured to snatch an hour's

sleep before the horses were in readiness. Long before daylight he was

in the saddle, after taking an affectionate farewell of his newly-found

uncle. He had a journey of full one hundred and fifty miles before him,

over rough roads, with dangers of all sorts; but he thought not of them,

his only consideration being how he could most quickly perform the

distance. The time of year was in his favour, but three days was the

very least he could hope to do it in, and all depended on finding fresh

horses on the road.

"Pedro!" he exclaimed; "we ride for life and death! You will not desert

me? We must place Leiria to the south of us before we rest."

"Fear me not, my dear master, I will follow wherever you lead," answered

Pedro, with enthusiasm; and away the two horsemen galloped; and before

the sun rose, Lisbon was many leagues behind them. So well did the

horses perform their work, that it was still daylight when they reached

the gates of Leiria. The Count, with the magic order from the Minister,

instantly went in search of fresh steeds. Of course, no one had them,

till he fortunately encountered an old acquaintance, who indicated to

him where they were to be found; and, with delight, he soon discovered

two, fresh and strong for the road. The surprise of the inhabitants was

great indeed to see the travellers again in their saddles, and galloping

out of the town. Night overtook them just as they reached the little

inn, where, two years before, their adventure with the banditti had

occurred; but they thought not of danger, as they threw themselves from

their saddles, and, seeing their horses carefully attended to, were, it

must be confessed, after a hasty supper, soon fast asleep. The buxom

maiden of former years had now become the landlady, nor did Pedro forget

to whisper Fre Diogo's name in her ear, for which he got a good box on

his own. Again they were on the road, and "Onward, onward!" was Luis's

cry. Coimbra was reached safely, and once more they were fortunate in

finding even better steeds than before. Pedro was already almost

knocked up with the fatigue, but the lover felt it not, as he galloped

onward. He thought but of one thing the whole time, the quickest way to

reach the end of his journey.

Alas! the end was not to be so prosperous. Within five leagues of

Oporto both the horses began to stumble through fatigue, and at last

that of Luis came to the ground. He was himself, fortunately,

uninjured, but for some minutes the horse refused to move, and at last

they found it utterly impossible to proceed further. A small inn was at

hand, where they took shelter, and from whence, the next morning, they

again set out.

The sun was already high in the heavens when they came in sight of

Oporto, rising on its cluster of hills directly opposite to them. The

sight of a goal, where his hopes were to be blest or blasted for ever,

inspired Luis with renewed ardour. He dashed down the steep hill,

through the town of Villa Nova, and reached a pontoon bridge which

connects it with Oporto. He crossed without an accident, and the first

person he encountered on the opposite side was Captain Pinto.

"Not a moment is to be lost, Luis," he exclaimed, pointing to his boat,

a fast pulling, six-oared gig. "Up that way, and then up a flight of

steep steps, you will reach the church--the ceremony has begun, but

cannot have concluded."

Luis waited not to answer him, but, throwing his horse's bridle to a

bystander, as did Pedro, he sprung up the steps near him. He flew like

lightning: breathless he rushed into the church. He gazed wildly

around--Clara was at the altar. Had she pronounced the fatal oath? He

stopped not to inquire; but, thrusting the spectators aside, he uttered

the cry which caused her to faint. He sprung forward, he lifted her in

his arms, and exhibiting to the astonished eyes of the assembled monks

and nuns the orders both of her father and the Minister, he bore her to

the open air.

"She is mine!" he exclaimed, "and I confide her to no one else."

"They are base forgeries," he heard the voice of Fre Alfonzo exclaim, as

he stood in advance of the rest. "Seize the sacrilegious wretch! The

holy Inquisition must be his judge."

Luis waited not to hear more; but, pressing the yet unconscious girl to

his heart, he leaped down the steep steps, while Pedro closely followed,

keeping any one from attempting to seize him. Captain Pinto caught a

glimpse of him as he neared the place of embarkation, and, shouting to

his crew to be prepared, he hastened to assist him in lifting the lady

into the boat. Pedro jumped in after them, and the boat had just gained

the centre of the stream as a group of monks and priests, with Fre

Alfonzo, had collected on the quay, uttering their anathemas against the

daring marauder, who had robbed the Church of their prey. The young

Count, his heart throbbing with joy and fear, heard them not, as he bent

over the yet senseless form of the lovely Clara. There was but one

course now to pursue. He well knew the dreadful deeds which had been

done by the ministers of religion and he could never venture to entrust

the rescued girl within the powers of the infuriated monks. He must

bear her on board the frigate.

"The only safe plan," said the Captain. "You have the Minister's

authority, her's you will soon get, and her father can give his when you

return; if not, you must do without it. Give way, my men!"

The boat shot rapidly down the stream, and ere long was breasting the

rolling billows of the Atlantic. The frigate stood towards her, the

lady was carefully lifted on deck, the boat was hoisted in, and when

Clara came to herself she found herself in the cabin, her head supported

by the young Count, who was kneeling by her side. She pronounced his

name. "Where am I?" she exclaimed, gazing wildly around.

"In safety, and borne onward, I trust, to happiness," answered her

lover; and a very few sentences sufficed to explain all that had

occurred.

"Thank Heaven," she whispered, "I am not shrouded, as I fancied, in that

dreadful black veil."

Favourable breezes carried them to the free and happy shores of England,

where, a few days after their landing, they were married, with due pomp,

at the Portuguese Embassy, a measure Goncalo Christovao highly approved

of, when he discovered that the Senhor d'Almeida had settled a handsome

fortune on his nephew.

For many years they resided in England, where their generous relative

joined them; for his principles but ill agreed with the bigotry and

ignorant superstition which he encountered on every side. Clara had the

happiness of hearing of her brother's recovery and escape from prison;

but the Conde San Vincente, by high bribes, avoided punishment.

The only person of whose fate we are not quite certain was Fre Diogo,

though we have our fears that he figured in an Auto-da-fe in 1765; his

crimes being, speaking ill of the holy office, not paying due reverence

to the holy sacrament, and entertaining scandalous and heretical

opinions.

The fate of the Prime Minister is well known. On the death of Joseph,

he was deprived, by Donna Maria the First, of his offices, and banished

to his native town, where, at an advanced age, he died, his sons

inheriting his titles and property, of which his enemies could not

deprive him.

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