CHAP. II.

The morning sun shone cheeringly over the city, and the long line of varied coast which runs southward towards the straits of Babelmandel: from the groves of citron and the surrounding coffee-grounds, ascended a rich odour which the sea-breezes softened and refreshed. Sebastian paused a moment ere he mounted his horse; he looked back upon the city which contained Kara Aziek and the good Tefza. “Poor old man!” he exclaimed, “you will never see me more.”

A tear started in his eye as he spoke, he thought of all Tefza’s past kindness, and his heart melted: but soon recovering, he laid his hand on the horse’s neck, vaulted into his seat, and galloped off after the Arabian guide.

The new and fertile country through which they travelled, perpetually awakened the most lively emotions in the breast of a man, amiably susceptible to every charm of nature: its hills, covered with that enchanting jessamine which grows there so profusely, and perfumes the air almost insufferably; its vallies, embalmed with the gentler perfume of the sea-daffodil; the noble verdure which shaded these, composed of cedars, sycamores, and palms; that exquisite union of fruits, flowers, and living green, which the dews bathe and the sun embellishes; the song of birds and the hum of bees, all conspired to touch Sebastian’s heart, and to ravish his senses.

His mind, animated by hope, had acquired fresh vigour for the enjoyment of delightful objects: the sentiment of happy love diffused its own sweetness over every sense, and had he not found them beautiful, that sentiment would have made them so.

During his rapid journey, the idea of Gaspar perpetually followed that of Kara Aziek: till this period that dear friend’s image had been almost effaced by intense anxiety for the fate of Aziek, and by ineffectual attempts at regaining her: now, that he had beheld and conversed with his beloved, and was hastening to fields of contest for her sake, he felt proudly secure, and turned with tender solicitude to the remembrance of his distant friend.

The nights in Arabia are bright as noon; yet their tranquillity, their freshness, their crystal clearness, are so celestially unlike the relentless fire of their days, that the traveller stretches himself out on the terrace of the house which lodges him, not to sleep, but to gaze on the resplendent Heavens.

Those enchanting nights elevate man’s nature; they refresh his body, they purify his soul: their serene influence appears to render sleep unnecessary, and a sublime calm, like that repose which imagination attributes to God’s, pervades his whole being, and alone regenerates his powers.

Under such impressions, Sebastian lay thinking of Gaspar: the sacred sentiment of friendship was worthy of the scene.

Departing from the luxuriant neighbourhood of Mecca, Sebastian passed over the mountains of Gabel el Ared, toiled through the Arabian desart, crossed the date-shaded Euphrates, and entered Persia: shortly afterwards he knew himself to be approaching Ispahan, by the far-stretching fields of roses, amongst which that famed city was in those days embosomed.

Soon its high walls and lofty domes were seen along the horizon, forming but a comparatively diminutive line at the feet of the gigantic mountains of Taurus. How little, how atom-like are all the labours of art, when contrasted with the vast and eternal productions of nature!

He approached the town; troops of warriors were pouring from different gates: the trampling of their white steeds, was mixed with the sound of martial music; banners and spears rose above their thick lines, and their leaders clad in magnificent habits, superbly mounted, and completely armed, rode onward with an air of troubled haste.

Every thing announced alarm and precipitation; the fate of Persia was then hanging in the balance; a day longer, and she might cease to exist among nations!

At the sound of the trumpet, the war-horse long dismissed to pasture, starts, flashes his fiery eyes, tosses his proud neck aloft, strains every sinew, and rushes upon the shock of battle: Sebastian’s limbs shook like his, with a powerful emotion excited by the troops of the Sophi: his heart beat high; it swelled with a sentiment of fraternity towards every soldier before him. His eyes long pursued their hurried march, till distance lessened them, and then turning into one of the gates, he sought impatiently some house where he might obtain information of Sir Anthony Shirley.

The expressive countenance of Sebastian, and his own quickness of perception, supplied the place of language between him and the Persians: after some difficulty, he procured a bath, refreshment, and then a conductor to the mansion of the ambassador.

Having thrown off his Moorish habit, and put on a suit of old armour, which he had collected from different shops at Mecca, he prepared to issue forth. Ill-assorted and imperfect as this armour was, it yet clouded not the manly graces of the wearer: his gallant looks ennobled a homely cuirass, and might have made the harness of trimmer knights appear but the trapping of military idleness. Brightened by a variety of animating feelings, his countenance formed a strong contrast to the sombre hue of his iron mail.

The man who acted as guide led him through streets intersected with gardens and canals, to a wide square, in which stood the palace of the Sophi, and the residence of the ambassador: there he left him.

Among the domestics of the Englishman, fortunately there was an Italian, to whom Sebastian addressed himself, “Tell your master,” he said, “that a stranger, a Christian knight, asks to converse with him alone.”

The Italian eyed him with surprize, but the air of the stranger awed curiosity into silence, and he respectfully withdrew.

Sir Anthony Shirley,[A] (to whom is that name unknown?) had lived in the memorable court of Queen Elizabeth, he had breathed the same air with Raleigh, Cecil, and Sidney; he had listened with admiration to the immortal Shakespeare; he was now come to represent his sovereign at the distant court of Persia, giving there a wondrous example of perfect goodness and profound wisdom unalloyed by one visible failing.

The title of stranger was an immediate passport to his courtesy, but when coupled with that of a Christian knight, courtesy changed into kindness.

On the entrance of Sebastian, he rose and embraced him: “in this country,” he said, “Christians should indeed think themselves brethren,—far from our homes and our altars the heart eagerly throws off the restraint of ceremony, and finds relationship in opinions and principles.”

Sir Anthony spoke in his own language, of which Sebastian was ignorant; he shook his head with a thanking smile, that shewed he felt the meaning of those words merely from the tone in which they were uttered, and recollecting himself an instant, replied in Portuguese, and then in Latin: Shirley looked at him with pleased surprize while opening the letter which he presented.

The serene dignity of Sir Anthony now gave way to a variety of emotions: perplexity and concern were painted on his face while he successively read a description of his countrywoman’s widowed state, her sickness, her slavery, and lastly, her hope of reaching Persia only to die under a Christian roof. Tears gathered in his eyes, which he turned aside to conceal.

After some moments’ silence he addressed the King. “By what name am I to address the noble gentleman of whom this unfortunate lady writes so impressively?”

“By what name!” repeated the young monarch, regarding him with the estranged air of a man whom that question had swiftly hurried to other thoughts:—an interval of abstraction was followed by one of extreme agitation.

Sebastian evidently felt an impulse to confide in the Englishman; he saw in him the representative of a sovereign, and his imperious spirit revolted from the supposition of inferiority: stepping back with an air of dignity, he was about to pronounce the words “Sebastian of Portugal,” when recollecting himself, and remembering the prudent resolution he had formerly taken, as well as the difficulties into which Sir Anthony’s political views might plunge him, he smiled, shook his head, and replied only by a bright flush of emotion.

The courteous ambassador did not repeat his question; he remained thoughtfully silent: Sebastian spoke at length.

“Let my name be forgotten in that of Knight of the Cross; I have suffered much for that title, have forsaken much to deserve it: let me then be known only as a Christian soldier.—You behold in me, Sir Anthony, a Portuguese nobly born, not destined to the profession of arms, but embracing it from inclination. I was one in the fatally-memorable expedition of Don Sebastian!—After many hardships, and more sorrows, I am come hither to offer my services to the Sophi; a Christian knight may war by the side of infidels when their cause is just, for then, he sees in them only men and brethren.—Have you confidence enough in this countenance to believe me what I profess myself? dare you pledge your faith for my integrity while presenting me to the Persian?”

The young monarch advanced as he spoke, and putting aside the hair which darkened his forehead, fixed his eyes on Sir Anthony with a look that courted scrutiny.

Shirley regarded him attentively; for Shirley was past that age in which men’s hearts wait not for the sanction of their judgments: he still looked steadily at him; at last stretching out his hand with an aspect changed from consideration to confidence, he exclaimed, “I will pledge myself for your worthiness.”

It was not the aim of Sebastian to conceal more than was necessary; though evidently delighted in making mystery indispensible to him, it was abhorrent to a soul that loved to walk unveiled before men and angels.

He now candidly confessed to his courteous entertainer, that gratitude and love united, formed the strongest motives to the action he meditated: he sought to be entrusted with some command, chiefly that it might bring him into contact with the Basha, and afford him an opportunity of winning rather than stealing Kara Aziek.

Shirley’s character was too grave and philosophic for perfect sympathy with the feelings of an impassioned lover: he smiled at the importance which a sentiment he had never felt, could bestow upon women; but he forbore uttering his thoughts: he tasked himself to consider how it would be best to procure from the Sophi that trust the stranger sought.

A review of the Persian levies was to take place on the morrow; Sir Anthony settled that they should repair thither together, when the knight would be enabled to demonstrate his military knowledge in a scene calculated to call it forth, and the Sophi might investigate his observations through the medium of an interpreter:—meanwhile Sebastian was requested to consider the Englishman’s house as that of an ancient friend; to reside in it, and to command there.

Shirley now made many anxious inquiries about the precise state of his countrywoman, which Sebastian could only answer by assuring him that she was in the hands of the tenderest and most generous of women:—he then besought some particulars of the battle of Alcazar.

Eager to seize this opportunity of dissipating the error into which he perceived all the European courts had fallen (an error which attributed the failure of Portugal to unskilfulness, and not treachery,) Sebastian willingly called back the sufferings of that painful period: he gave a distinct account of the Portuguese operations from the moment in which the army touched African ground, till that period in which Muley Hamet caused its overthrow.

His animated descriptions—alternately prosperous and pathetic, rivetted the attention of Shirley; he followed the speaker’s glowing language with answering enthusiasm, yet did he retain sufficient coolness to note as he went along, every expression which might develope the great commander or disclose the mere novice.

With surprize and gratification he witnessed the emotion with which Sebastian made the eulogium of his countryman: the gallant deeds of Stukeley lived again in the hurried eloquence of a brother in arms: his fall was but mentioned, not dwelt on, for at that part, the lips of the orator quivered, and his voice was choaked in its passage.

Pleased with this sensibility, and satisfied with the observations which had grown out of their interesting discourse, Shirley assumed a more confidential tone, and hazarded a conjecture about the fate of the King and his surviving adherents: Sebastian rose in disorder.

“We will speak on this subject no more;” he said abruptly, “it is painful to me.—the destiny of Don Sebastian is in the hands of God;—who may venture to determine it?—If he live, Providence assuredly will restore him a sceptre which he wished to wield worthily: his misfortunes will have been his instructors; and Europe may perhaps find with astonishment an example for Kings, in him who has tasted the bitterness of every situation, and thus learned—but enough of this—I divine not his fate.”

The broken voice, flushed and averted cheek, together with the severely-noble air of Sebastian, startled Sir Anthony; a vague suspicion crossed his mind: it was the suspicion of a moment: for to a man of quiet feelings, untinctured with romance, no sufficient motive for Sebastian’s concealment and errantry presented itself to his fancy. He regarded him curiously once more, then said,—

“I mistake much, Sir Knight, if you were not a confidential companion of Don Sebastian’s; but I ask not whom: suffice it to me, that you are a Christian, a soldier, and a gentleman.”

Sebastian bowed without speaking, and retired abruptly.

Early on the morrow, the ambassador and his unknown guest appeared at the review of the Persian troops; soon after the Sophi’s son arrived, surrounded by nobles sumptuously attired, on milk-white horses, whose chanfraines sparkled with precious stones. When Shirley approached with one whose plain armour (ill-suited and unbrightened) formed a contrast to the gold and polish of theirs, all the young Persians regarded him with surprize; they exchanged glances of contempt together: but how quickly was that contempt changed into a sentiment of awe, when the stranger, uncovering himself with an air of command and submission mingled, displayed a countenance on which were stamped majesty, intrepidity, self-respect, and the sweetest benignity.

Deeply read in courts, Sir Anthony Shirley noted the address of his companion: he beheld him meet the gaze of the Persian Prince and his suite, not only without embarrassment, but with looks of growing nobleness. Who was he then? and what high station had he held near the throne of Portugal? Shirley’s thoughts could not determine these questions, but they answered one more important; they assured him he might rely on the ability and the faith of the man he scrutinized.

Having previously explained to Prince Abbas, that the stranger sought permission to take the field in his cause, he had now only occasion to present his gallant friend, and to interpret for him during the day.

The Prince reviewed his army, visited some works of defence that were constructing round Ispahan, examined his magazines, in short, devoted the whole day to an inspection of his military resources: while doing so, he developed the genius of his new officer.

The questions, remarks, and details of Sebastian, were faithfully translated to him by Shirley, and these convinced the young Persian that in this stranger he was acquiring an able knight, one to whom war was familiar.

The plans of their meditated operations were then displayed and discussed in the royal tent; it was here that the pre-eminence of European skill was peculiarly visible; it was here that Sebastian’s fire blazed out again. He examined every map, and weighed every calculation with the profoundest attention; he balanced their advantages and disadvantages; he detected their defects; he explained the justness of some, and the error of others; he then frankly proposed such alterations as his sounder experience dictated, and in elucidating these, gave loose to all the impetuous energy of his character.

Sebastian was now on the theme which long habit had too much endeared; and as the track of glory opened and brightened before his mental eye, the prospect it held forth kindled new ardour and awoke new powers. His rusted cuirass and ill-fashioned greaves were forgotten by the young courtiers, as they circled round the foreign knight and listened to his interpreted discourse: Sebastian himself forgot that he was not dictating to his own war-council; on his brow sat the authority of a King, on his lips the convincing eloquence of a great commander.

“What manner of man is this?” exclaimed the Sophi’s son, with astonishment—“Has he not headed armies in his own country?”

Shirley replied in a low voice, unwilling to be heard by others, “I have signified to your highness’s sublime father, that he wishes his name and rank to be forgotten; he would be known only as Knight of the Cross. His illustrious master Don Sebastian King of Portugal perished in an unsuccessful expedition against the Moors, and since then I understand this faithful subject has devoted himself to serve religion and humanity, by combating only in their separate or united causes. I pledge myself for this stranger; and I predict that Persia will find no reason to repent of the confidence with which she reposes on my pledge.”

Prince Abbas bowing graciously to Sir Anthony turned towards Sebastian; “Christian! he said, I accept your services; this day enrolls you in my royal father’s list of warriors: see that you do not dishonour our trust. Ask what you wish; the armory, the treasury, the magazine of horses, all are open to you; I feel assured that you will not make an indiscreet use of this generosity.”

As the interpreter repeated this speech, the Christian King lifted up his eyes, and fixed them proudly for an instant on the haughtier face of the young Prince; his nice honour was somewhat shocked by the oblique repetition of an exhortation to act worthily: recollecting however, that perfect amenity of heart is not to be expected where the religion of the Lamb is not practised, he smoothed his feelings, and replied gravely; “Success is in the hand of Heaven, but truth and action are dependent on our own wills: I may fail and fall, but I cannot live and be unworthy. Prince! you must pardon my refusing to accept any other mark of your goodness than that of being permitted to share in the warfare of your troops; as however, the knowledge of your language is important in such a situation, I beg you will order one of your ablest teachers to instruct me in it.”

This request was immediately granted, after which Prince Abbas invited the two Christians to return with him to Ispahan.

A sumptuous banquet awaited them in the palace of the Sophi, but the aged Xatama himself, did not appear: during the repast music and perfumes flowed around, and at its conclusion the guests were alternately delighted by the recitation of Persian poetry, and the graces of dancing girls.

The severe taste of Sebastian received no gratification from the studied and voluptuous attitudes of the latter, but he listened eagerly to the chaster compositions of their poets, whose tender lays were chiefly devoted to eulogise the nightingales, the roses, and the moonlight by which they were surrounded.

Having been seated next to the Sophi’s son, he perceived that the noble Persian, though at that age when man’s senses are most awake, did not vouchsafe a glance to the dancers, nor appear to heed the seducing music which custom led him to command: he sat coldly abstracted, evidently revolving matters of great importance.

Pleased with the character this dignified seriousness announced, Sebastian won him into conversation; they conversed much together, and although their interpreter did not preserve all the shades of their discourse, it was yet sufficiently charming to delight each other. Prince Abbas gallantly challenged his new friend to a trial of skill the ensuing day, when he meant to draw forth in a sprightly joust the military address of his associates.

On the morrow, three hours after sunrise, an equerry entered the court of Sir Anthony Shirley’s habitation, leading a beautiful horse caparisoned with gold and gems: it came from the Abbas, with these words wrought in pearls on a roll of Indian silk.

“Accomplished stranger! accept this present from the son of the Sophi:—it is not the Prince but the friend who offers it.”

So courteous an act completely effaced from Sebastian’s mind all memory of Abbas’s first reception: he replied with grace, and adjusting his plain armour, proceeded to the field of combat.

The lists were crouded with Persian nobles, the stand filled with female beauty: in every manly exercise, the superior skill and natural grace of Sebastian was pre-eminent; in the contest of the sword, in the management of their steeds, in vaulting, hurling the quoit, darting the spear, elancing the arrow, his happier star destined him to excel. One by one, the effeminate Persians yielded to his ascendancy, and even Prince Abbas himself willingly ceded to a Christian knight the magnificent prize of the day, a suit of gold armour.

This prize was awarded by the Sophi, who from a window of his palace had witnessed the amicable contest: he received his new officer with much graciousness, but feeble from age and sickness, shunned further discourse, and broke up a short levée by referring all things to Prince Abbas.

That discerning Prince, thoroughly satisfied with the display of Sebastian’s personal accomplishments, now appointed him to a distinguished situation on the frontier, where a large force was immediately going in order to check the bold movements of Ibrahim. Should he continue advancing, this force was to take and occupy all the forts in his rear lying along the line of Armenia; this step would enable them to oppose a formidable barrier to his retreat, while Prince Abbas marched to meet him between Ispahan and the Tigris.

As the Basha Ibrahim had recently received a check from a Persian general, he had fallen back, and lay inactive for the present in a strong position, waiting for reinforcements.

This inaction afforded Sebastian time to acquire a tolerable knowledge of the language now so necessary to him; he devoted himself to it with ardour and application: his natural facility thus assisted by an intense desire, soon enabled him to vanquish its difficulties, and in less than three weeks he knew sufficient to require only occasionally the aid of Shirley’s interpreter.

During this period, military details, the study of Persian tactics, (which it was requisite for him to understand, in order to guard against their errors) the study of the Persian soldiery, occupied all his days: his evenings were devoted to the gallant court of Prince Abbas, where the young nobles were accustomed to entertain their ladies by martial shews and feats of dexterity. In these oriental tournaments Sebastian wore the costly gift of the Sophi, but no sooner did the war-cry call him into serious action, than he threw aside his glittering attire, and resumed that of knight of the cross.

With what impatience had he waited for this moment! the destiny of Aziek, so long unknown, would now be unfolded to him; but a little while, and he hoped to march at the head of victorious troops to set her free: yet sometimes his blood chilled, when apprehension suddenly seized him, and he dwelt for an instant upon the possibility of Aziek’s having been forced to yield to the despotic will of Ibrahim.

So much doubt, so much fear, was mixed up with his present success, that he tasted only a troubled joy when he saw himself thus miraculously placed in a post of honour and trust, by a Prince whom policy would have justified in very different conduct.

The implicit confidence of Sir Anthony Shirley excited in him emotions of another kind; and hoping one day to give him gratifying proofs of gratitude from the throne of Portugal, he consoled himself for present inability by this remote prospect.

Prince Abbas, without betraying the slightest suspicion, acted like a man of sound judgment: he surrounded the stranger by such officers as he himself relied on the most; he took every precaution against treachery, while at the same time he left open to him the path of honourable action.

This conduct did not escape the sensitive feelings of Sebastian: at first he was stung with indignation; (for it was not always that Sebastian could recollect man is not omniscient, and that unless he can read the hearts of others, he is justified in ceding to the force of suspicious appearance; and mystery is invariably suspicious) he gave way for a while to a perfect transport of anger: but by degrees the propriety of Abbas’s precautions became visible to him, and remembering that the Prince, being entrusted by his father with the protection of their empire, owed the duty of prudence not only to the Sophi but to the people, his unjust resentment changed into respect.

It was only to Sir Anthony Shirley that Sebastian had disclosed the prime motive of his appearance at Ispahan; the name of her he loved was too sacred for lighter ears: and besides, the impression made even by a description of beauty on these sons of sensual pleasure, was sufficient to deter him from mentioning her charms to others; Abbas’s apparent insensibility to beauty, and the prejudices of his religion, were motives too strong for Sebastian uselessly to break through.

In the luxury of solitude alone, or when caressing Barémel, he permitted his whole soul to diffuse itself over her dear idea: then, past hours of virtuous endearment, of tenderness and heart-felt happiness unallayed by one jealous pang, rose to remembrance; then arms, and fame, and proud distinction lost their pre-eminence; then, the re-attainment of his throne and his country ceased to excite turbulent emotion: nothing was prized for its own sake, all things moved him only as they had reference to her without whom no situation could bestow felicity.

When he recollected their last interview, and the sudden conjecture to which it had given birth, a mixture of joy and alarm quickened the pulses of his heart: Kara Aziek had surely indicated a change in her religious sentiments; her female companion was then affecting that conversion which her lover had vainly attempted. But what was the creed of this Christian? if she were of the Reformed Church (the new religion of England,) she was instilling “a damnable heresy,” instead of planting the true faith.

In the ear of Sebastian the names of Luther and Calvin, sounded like the voice of Satan: with the tremulous pertinacity of a son of Rome, he had constantly refused even to hear their doctrines discussed, and now that he apprehended Kara Aziek might be bewitched by their sophistry, he gave himself up to temporary despair.

This transport of zeal aggravated his impatience for the hour which should restore her to him, and made him quicken the preparations of that part of the Persian army which he was destined to command in conjunction with a native officer.

On the night preceding the march of these new levies, Sebastian was surprised by an extraordinary visit. His courteous host had given up to him a Kiosk in the gardens, which he occupied solely, and slept in, without guard or attendants.

The tranquil beauty of a fine night detained him long from rest; he leaned over an open trellis (through which the most luxuriant honeysuckles and jessamine had interlaced themselves,) alternately admiring the universal blush caused by the thickets of roses, and the splendor of the Kiosk, whose alabaster sides reflected the brighter moonlight.

Nightingales answering each other from different distances, some near, some remote, blending their liquid notes together in sweet confusion, now pausing, now proceeding, diffused enchantment over the scene. Those melodious sobbings which seem the overflowings of love too exquisite, too happy,—those melodious sobbings were echoed by the sighs of Sebastian: his country, his friend Caspar, his beloved Aziek, seemed speaking in every note; he felt them present to his heart, though absent from his sight, and the most passionate melancholy, an emotion at once painful and delicious, penetrated his whole being.

In this state of abstraction, the steps of two persons advancing to the Kiosk were long unheard; at length the rustling of some shrubs through which they pressed, made the King look towards the spot, and he beheld with some surprize a female figure, and one in male attire, whose dress bespoke him a servant. The lady motioned for the slave to remain without, and entered the saloon.

Of what “fantastic stuff,” are the thoughts of a lover formed! Sebastian lived only for Aziek, and without conceiving how she could have come thither, he believed that it was her whom he now saw: he rose, rushed towards her, and extending his arms to snatch her to him, found himself modestly repulsed.

“I am mistaken in you, Christian!” said an unknown voice, “or you mistake me for another: doubtless there are many in the court of Persia who forget your religion and your country in your accomplishments; but learn that I am not one of those.”

Sebastian drew respectfully back: reassured by this submission, the lady sat down on one of the divans, and still concealing herself in her veil, addressed him again.

“I come not here, Sir Knight! with either the hope or the wish of charming you; my errand is of another kind. I come to ask a boon.—Attracted by your seeming nobleness and gentleness, (for I have seen you at the court festivities) convinced of your worthiness from your friendship with Prince Abbas,” (here the lady faltered and sighed, then added faintly,) “I venture to believe you will not deny me what I would solicit.”

“Say not solicit, Madam!” replied Sebastian courteously, “a virtuous woman commands everywhere. Speak your will and see me eager to obey it.”

The Persian lady moved her veil a little that she might read his looks; in doing so she discovered a milk-white forehead, finely pencilled with jet-black eyebrows; the eyes beneath them were brilliant, noble, and pleasing, but they wanted the melting softness of Kara Aziek’s: she fixed them an instant on Sebastian with a complacent smile, tears gathered in them, and then she closed her veil abruptly.

“I must first inform you,” she said in a low trembling voice, “that in me you see Maimuna, the daughter of one of the Sophi’s bravest generals: six moons since my father fell on the field of battle. I alone remain to keep his name in remembrance,—what do I say? his renown is his monument.—Amongst my household there is an orphan youth, (the child of a favorite relation) whose heart is smit with a passion for arms; he wishes to serve against the Turks:—his years are so tender, my regard for him is so great,—yet his desire is so ardent, that,”——again Maimuna faltered, hesitated, and stopped.—

Sebastian eyed her doubtfully: it was evident that some strong emotion agitated her; yet even now nothing that she had said appeared to justify it. He approached respectfully, and regarding her with one of those kindly smiles, which ever opened to him the hearts of others, he said.

“Dismiss apprehension, fair lady! behold in me one whose breast Love has already sanctified and set apart: I am therefore incapable of yielding to any impulse which might alarm your delicacy, or teach you to conclude yourself vainly interpreted.—My faith is another’s, but my friendship and my services are at the command of every virtuous or suffering woman. This youth you speak of, is it to my care you would entrust him? or would you that I try to obtain for him some honorable station near the person of Prince Abbas?”

“O no!” exclaimed Maimuna hastily, “it is to you I would confide him for safety and instruction. To cure his fatal passion for war, I consent to let him witness one campaign; only to witness it: for this I have sought you Christian. I entreat you to become his guardian; trusting to your power of keeping him as far from personal danger as is possible in a scene of warfare.”

Maimuna’s voice was so broken and varied while she uttered these sentences, that Sebastian could not forbear suspecting her of too warm an interest in the youth she recommended; but delicacy imposed silence, and he replied solely by promising the protection she required.

His strange visitor then rose to depart: under the portico of the Kiosk she paused again. “I need not ask you to be secret,” she said, “your own thoughts, (perhaps somewhat injurious to me, and I call Heaven to witness, unjustly!) will teach you what hard constructions may be put upon my conduct.”

“I hazard no conjecture that is not honorable to your tenderness and generosity;” returned Sebastian, gallantly kissing the hem of her veil, “if this youth deserve so much rare solicitude, (and can I doubt that he does?) what heart may censure you?”

Maimuna looked back at him with the air of one struck by an unexpected remark; she repeated his last words in a livelier tone, then breaking off with a sigh, asked at what hour, Zaphna, her protegée, should join him on the morrow. Sebastian named the hour after sun-rise, and the lady departed.

The reflections occasioned by this singular adventure, were interrupted by the appearance of Prince Abbas: he came to inform the Portuguese knight of some unexpected movement of the enemy, which rendered a change in the Persian dispositions absolutely indispensible: after settling the new plan, and having dispatched his page with orders to the different officers, Prince Abbas said carelessly.

“I disturbed you in an evil hour: if I may judge from the charming figure of the lady who had just quitted you, your mind was not in the mood for severe considerations.”

Abbas paused, but Sebastian remained silent; the former fixed his eyes somewhat austerely upon him, and added coldly, “suffer me to tell you Christian! that in Persia we are careful not to give any scandal to morals: if we cede sometimes to the force of beauty and of temperament, we believe ourselves bound not to make a boast of our frailty, and we avoid, if possible, dishonouring a noble house. I would have you take care how you trifle with the protection afforded by the roof of an ambassador.”

Sebastian regarded him with quick-raised indignation. “How Prince!” he exclaimed, “do you believe me capable of abusing this protection?—beware how you lightly wound the honour of a man, to whom fortune has left no other possession.”

As Sebastian spoke he smote the hilt of his sword, while starting from his seat Prince Abbas drew back with an air of self-recollection.

“Let us not break our bond of friendship for a woman!” he said, “for one who may not deserve such a triumph: rather let us deal frankly with each other. I will confess that the tone in which I first spoke of your gallantry, had the harshness of a censor, not the kindness of a friend: austerity is the fault of my nature; as such forgive me. Now tell me in return, whether the lady I met in the gardens, and who fled away at seeing me, has not passed the night here.—I would warn you for your own safety not to encourage an amour which may end disastrously: the lady’s mien bespoke her of high birth, and in Persia the irregularities of women of quality are punished with death. Make me your confidant; if your love is honorable, my sympathy at least,—dare you trust me with her name?”—

Sebastian interrupted him, “You are not serious Prince in expecting me to make a confidence of this kind!—do you think it possible for a man of honour to betray the weakness even of a woman he contemned?—however, be satisfied; I have no confidence of the sort to repose in you: it is true the lady was here; I may not deny it; but on the faith of a Portuguese, a soldier, and”——Sebastian hastily stopt, and confused by the word which in his fervour he was about to use, he turned away, glowing and disordered.

Prince Abbas, who saw in this embarrassment only the sign of insincerity, exclaimed with an air of angry chagrin, “what a contemptible passion is this love! or rather, what a degrading passion when illicit, since it palsies the tongue of truth, and makes ingenuous souls tread the path of falsehood! Say no more Sir Knight! I esteem you still too much not to regret that in future I must not esteem you so highly.”

By a violent effort which respect for Abbas’s principles alone produced, the impetuous Sebastian reined in his vehement feelings, and said, in the breathless tone of restrained wrath, “on the faith of a Portuguese, a soldier, and a Christian, that lady visited me to night, for the first, and I firmly believe, for the last time: she was with me only a short period; her veil was but partly put aside for a single moment during her discourse; and love had no share in it.”

“Love had no share in it!” repeated Prince Abbas, stopping hastily, as he walked to and fro, “in the name of Heaven, then, what errand could bring a Persian woman at the dead of night to the solitary lodging of a stranger?”

“That is precisely the question I may not answer;” replied Sebastian, “my honour is pledged to secrecy; and having assured you that your suspicions are unjust, I exact this proof of your reliance: Prince, you must not speak of my adventure.—The reputation of the lady is a sacred deposit in my hands, and that wantonly attacked, will draw down my vengeance.—Since appearances demanded them, I owed explanation and asseverations to your friendship, and I have done violence to my nature in order to give them; but in the former case my vengeance will be as prompt as it will be justifiable.”

The stern air of the young monarch heightened the effect of his commanding voice: Abbas looked at him with some admiration. “Be it so!” he cried, offering his hand, “I pledge myself for discretion; nay more, I must believe your strange assertion: but allow me, my friend, to suspect the lady of less singular ideas; she will seek you again, depend on it.—Whatever motive she may have feigned for so hazardous a step, be certain that love alone could tempt a Persian woman to trust herself and her character with a young warrior in this Kiosk at this hour.—I have but one caution to give you: beware how you sully the purity of royal blood! I have a virgin sister who has seen you at our tournaments; should she, forsaken by modesty, forget what is due to her birth—should she be this vieled unknown—I need not talk to you of the implacable hatred of a dishonoured brother, and a betrayed friend.”

“As the lady told me her name and rank, I may at least assure you,” returned Sebastian, “that she is not your sister.”

Prince Abbas turned hastily round, and eyed Sebastian again with an earnest and anxious look: some new idea evidently shot through his mind, for he changed colour repeatedly, and several times beginning to speak, hesitated, and broke off. “It is no matter!” he said at last, “others may resemble her also—Sir Knight I thank you for your moderation: forget not what I have told you, that in Persia the dishonour of one noble house, is the dishonour of all.—Farewel! when we meet again, two hours hence, at the head of our troops, we meet only to think, and to talk of war.”

The friendly smile which for an instant dispersed the unusual gloom of Abbas’s countenance, could not deceive Sebastian: when he had left him, he reflected on the events of the night with some uneasiness; it was possible that Maimuna might have misled him by a false account of herself and of her motive, and that in reality she might be the sister of Abbas. It was possible, that pleased with his person, and curious to know his character, she had either feigned this excuse to visit him, or in fact purposed to send him her page, that such a trust might form some bond between them.

The fear of either wounding the honour of Abbas, or of staining his own by an appearance of baseness, made Sebastian for the first time in his life easily accessible to the suspicion of a woman’s attachment, but how was he to act?—it was impossible for him to recede from the promises already given, which bound him to secrecy, and to receive the orphan boy.

He waited the day-break with extreme solicitude.—At the appointed time his protegée arrived; he came attended by the old slave of Maimuna, who presenting him with a costly gift from his mistress, hastily disappeared.