CHAP. IV.

Prosperous as were the views before them, Sebastian and Kara Aziek did not leave their Blanche a second time without a trying conflict; but they left her in the hands of another mother, and a short voyage wafted them into scenes of most momentous interest.

Signor Morosini received them at his mansion in Venice, with a vivacity of joy: and the Doge evinced his respect, by paying the homage of a first visit to his illustrious supplicant.

In this interview the terms of their future alliance were specified and fixed, and the mode of their proceedings settled. Morosini was appointed to repair immediately to Madrid, with a formal notification to Philip III. of his royal relation’s existence, he was to assert the identity of Don Sebastian, and to demand the restitution of Portugal; should Philip hesitate, he was then empowered to announce the Republic’s intention to maintain the rights of their ancient ally. Armed with the assurance of aid from England, France, and the Low Countries, the Venetians feared not to embark in a cause so ably supported; a sense of recent injuries from the proud house of Austria, contributed to inflame their zeal.

On the day of Morosini’s departure from Venice, messengers were sent off for all the different courts in Europe, calling on them to assist in replacing a brother-monarch. Sebastian wrote with his own hand to Queen Elizabeth and to Essex, requiring the former to abate her hard conditions, and to accept any other guarantee for his fidelity to the engagements she exacted, than his only child.

While these agents were rapidly passing to and fro, the King of Portugal remained in the house of Morosini, not yet formally declared before the senate, (because Morosini’s presence would be necessary for his acknowledgment,) but in private implicitly trusted, and honorably attended by every senator.

The protestant powers had already replied favorably to the letters of Sebastian, and dispatched their representative to the court of Madrid, testifying their conviction of his identity, and making his restoration the basis of a general peace: no decisive answer was yet come from that court.

Morosini wrote, that Philip, and his ministers of course, rested their delay on the question of identity; and willing to consider Sebastian as an impostor, were then endeavouring to find him so: he advised an instant appeal to the Pontiff of Rome, whose investigation of the truth or falsehood of this wonderful event would be guided by pious motives alone, therefore to his decision the King of Spain must submit.

At this suggestion, Sebastian felt called upon to reveal his bosom principles; after explicitly detailing them, and pledging his solemn oath never to let them interfere with his conduct in public affairs, he declared his resolution to live and to die a Protestant, whether as a King or as a fugitive. He abjured the authority of Rome, protesting his willingness to meet the scrutiny of the Pope in common with other temporal Princes, but never to consider him as his superior in spiritual things.

Here was a stay to the forward zeal of Venice! the Doge receded with terrified precipitancy at this unforeseen avowal, and the reply of Morosini was full of dismay and persuasion!

Clouds began once more to gather over the fortunes of Sebastian; his warmest Italian friends avoided his society, or employed their zeal only in vain arguments to induce him to recant those doctrines which they deemed abominable, and which they dared not pollute themselves by hearing!

The Pope’s legate finding exhortations and promises totally useless, at length pronounced the sentence of reprobation in his master’s name; and threatened the inhabitants of Venice with excommunication if they continued to uphold him, whom he proclaimed to be a devil, or a magician, assuming the form of the really deceased Sebastian.

Morosini returned from Madrid: his manner was changed, his zeal extinct. Of a character eagerly open to new impressions, which by their vivacity deceived the observer into a belief of their durability, he had been fascinated by the insinuating graces of Philip III. and suddenly chilled by the discovery of Don Sebastian’s altered sentiments on the most important of subjects.

Philip had address enough to perceive the unsubstantial character he had to deal with; he affected to lament the affronts offered to Venice, he promised ample reparation, and by the most studied attentions to Morosini, flattered his vanity, and lighted up a transient flame of enthusiasm in his inflammable breast.

Morosini yet wavered between the romantic interest which a fugitive King excited, and the vain exultation inspired by a young and prosperous monarch’s caresses, when the Pope’s bull fell like a thunderbolt between him and the fortunes of the former, and severed him from them for ever.

He now met Sebastian with confusion and restraint: his discourse was full of abstruse dogmas and church threatenings; he eulogized the unshakable, yet unpersecuting spirit with which Philip III. possessed the faith of Rome; and he reluctantly confessed, that unless the King of Portugal would consent to acknowledge the supremacy of the Papal See, and to accept his crown on her conditions, the Senate of Venice could not openly proclaim, or secretly support him.

“What then!” exclaimed Sebastian, with some of his former impetuosity, “do you maintain the impious doctrine that man is more powerful than God? what human hand dare bar my hand to that throne on which the divine hand had placed me at the hour of my birth? Your birth-right is your patrimonial house, your noble name, your rank in the republic—mine is the throne of Portugal and the Indies; and now, by the blessing of God, I will perish ere I renounce it. When Kings are prosperous, then do you make them Gods; when they are in adversity, you reduce them below humanity: what manner of justice is this? Who shall say that aught but crimes can deprive a common individual of his lawful inheritance? and are Princes to be more hardly dealt with than their subjects?—shame on such base conclusions.”

“It is a crime, Sir, to abandon the only true faith, and adopt the creed of heretics.” Morosini spoke with a ruffled though hesitating voice. “I dare not league my soul with any Prince who professes enmity to the church of Peter. If this were a mere political matter, we should not scrutinize the opinions of an ally, but it is a question of conscience. Can the Catholic republic of Venice consistently with its character, assist in taking the crown of Portugal from the head of a pious King, to place it on that of an apostate?”

Sebastian gave him a lightning glance of proud indignation, but quelling the sudden emotion as it arose, he said deliberately,

“The republic of Venice knows that my sentiments are in direct opposition to all persecution: that liberty of conscience which I claim for myself, I am ready to grant to others. Man cannot answer for man, at the last dread day; beware then, how you yield up your soul to the authority of a mortal like yourself!—I disclaim all power over the spiritual part of my subjects: they are responsible to God, not to their King, for those religious tenets from which their good or evil actions proceed. When I return to Portugal I return to obey and to execute the laws; to provide for the political prosperity of my people; to endeavour at forwarding their moral improvement by my example; and to live in amity with all nations who acknowledge one obligation to worship one creator, and to obey the one law of virtue that he has placed in every heart: further, than this, I exact of no man; different portions of reason and different habits, will produce, to the end of time, different degrees in the scale of religious advancement.

“Morosini, you now know my sentiments; which I solemnly take Heaven to witness are faithfully delivered to you. If your republic will continue to support a man of such sentiments in his just claim, I pledge myself for eternal gratitude: if not, I condemn her not; I lament her slavery to that anti-christian authority which once fettered myself, and I will depart in peace.”

“Not so, Sir!” said Morosini, changing colour, and in a hurried voice, for shame was at his heart. “The republic is under the painful necessity of detaining you until our most holy father the Pope has signified his pleasure respecting her conduct.”

Sebastian was transfixed by this reply; the blood recoiled upon his heart, and he stood some moments incapable of speech; then advancing and fixing a stern look on Signor Giuseppe, he said,

“On the faith of the whole republic, not merely on the word of him who proffered friendship unasked, did I come hither: eternal infamy will lighten that republic if they suffer a hair of this head to fall. Beware how you damn yourselves to posterity by this unheard of treachery.”

“What treachery, does Don Sebastian injuriously apprehend?” asked Giuseppe, endeavouring to look tranquil.

“That which lays upon the surface of your own words,” was the reply—“you return from the court of him who has fallen heir to my usurped dominions, with a determination to make the fulfilment of your hasty promises depend upon my renunciation of those principles, which still believing, I dare not abjure. You cannot dispute the identity which your own eyes and lips have acknowledged, therefore, (seduced into Philip’s interest,) you take refuge under papal authority, and will deliver me up to imprisonment or to death, at the ordination of Rome.”

Morosini appeared indignant at the supposition: indeed his mind was not yet made up to any decision; and though fanaticism had taken alarm at the obstinate heresy of his former idol, he was far from lending a willing assent to an act of violence.

“I am cruelly situated:” he exclaimed, at length, and the facile tears stood in his eyes—“remember, Don Sebastian, that at the period I swore to serve you unto death, I knew not that you were otherwise than a son of the church: since then you have undeceived me; and that difference of opinion on matters of conscience which you have yourself established, obliges me to stifle the pleadings of my ardent prejudice in your favor, and to place my future conduct at the disposal of my spiritual director. In this instance I am only the organ of the republic; it is she, who waits the result of her message to Rome: till that arrives, your majesty must condescend still to consider this house as your own. You command here, as the guest of Giuseppe Morosini.”

Sebastian turned towards the Italian with a strong expression of disgust at his now-offensive courteousness: his blood boiled: but quickly subsiding, he repeated with a smile of contempt a short quotation from the Poet of England.

“Morosini!” he added, (and he spoke sternly, and with an air of majesty) “I must be spared in future this mockery of respect.

“You cannot feel it, if you sincerely believe me reprobate of Heaven; and if you do not believe me so, this abandonment of my cause either from interest or from fear, renders you despicable in the eyes of an honest and a brave man. Leave me, Sir! I remain then, your prisoner—but I have friends without these walls who may with God’s blessing shake them to their centre; yea, the foundations of your city itself.”

Sebastian turned away as he concluded, and Morosini abruptly retired.

Sebastian was still too ingenuous for the world he lived in: the moment that roused his feelings or inflamed his passions, laid his whole heart open: that mantle of reserve, in which long efforts had taught him to wrap himself, was instantly discarded, and he shewed himself to his adversary, with all his weaknesses and all his strength.

Fatal was his present sincerity: Morosini left him, mortified, humiliated, and enraged; one hour’s discourse had made him his determined foe.

When Kara Aziek rejoined her husband, she saw in his perturbed looks the herald of disagreeable tidings: her first thought was of Blanche, and she pronounced her name. Sebastian quieted this natural fear, and then, conscious that it is vain to think of concealing evils which we know must endure for a certain period, he proceeded to tell her the nature of his interview with Morosini.

She was prepared for disappointment, but not for an actual misfortune; and at the intimation of their being prisoners in Venice, the blood forsook her cheeks. Her rapid imagination instantly created a thousand frightful images, which were indeed too likely to be realized: she sat cold and speechless as a statue, while Sebastian, tenderly enumerating the motives to courage under this evil, exhorted her not only to confidence in the exertions of their friends, but to confidence in heaven.

Kara Aziek, with streaming eyes, did indeed look only to that heaven for succour: but dark and intricate are the ways of Providence, and who dare assure themselves that what they dread most, is not destined to form part of those trials by which their souls are to be disciplined for a purer being? She despaired not, but she ventured not to expect; scarcely did she hope.

Sebastian’s courage rose in proportion to the peril with which he was threatened, and in seeking to tranquillize her he loved, he re-assured himself.

Resolute to assert his freedom, and not tamely to bend his neck to the yoke imposed, he addressed a short note to the Doge and Senate, requiring their immediate answer to his question, of whether they sanctioned the words of Signor Morosini, and demanding permission to leave their territory, in case they declined fulfilling their former engagements.

This letter was answered by a request that he would attend the council of senators at midnight.

At the hour appointed, Sebastian got into the gondola of the Doge, which was sent for his conveyance: it conveyed him not to the senate-house, but to the state-prison.

Morosini’s private resentment had cooperated with his ambition, his interest, and his dread of excommunication: he alone of the Venetians knew the person of Don Sebastian, and upon his professing to believe that he had been imposed upon by the extreme likeness and great address of an impostor, the senate took alarm, readily seized this opportunity of abandoning a man whom the Pope anathematized, and for whose detention Philip had recently offered them the most tempting advantages, and precipitately determined on committing him to prison.

When Sebastian found himself thus betrayed, his fortitude transiently forsook him, and his limbs shook under him; it seemed as if he had seen the last of all he loved: but quickly recovering, he turned to the governor of the place, and said calmly—

“I demand the consolation of my wife’s society. Tell your senate, that I charge them, as they are men sensible to human affection, that they separate us not! as they deal with me now, so will I requite them hereafter: for let them not believe that they may corrupt the justice of Heaven.”

Signor Valdorno bowed and obeyed, and after a long absence, re-appeared with Kara Aziek.

Left alone with her husband in an apartment, which though commodious, was still part of a prison, Kara Aziek looked round her with an air of distraction: her eyes were wild and tearless, her hands burning as she clasped those of Sebastian. “Here then, we are to die!” she exclaimed, “or here we are to live, buried from our child!”

She fell senseless on his breast as she spoke, and lost for awhile all consciousness of their misfortune. Her recovery was followed by tears and incessant sighs, that pierced the heart of Sebastian: he sought to comfort her, but every delusive expression faltered on his tongue, and at length he remained silent, hopeless of success.

The silent and deep sadness of him who was still the dearest object of her love, made Kara Aziek sensible to the cruelty of indulging her own sorrow: she checked her sobs, she wiped away her tears, and firmly striving to resign herself to her fate, she rose from his supporting arms.

“We have not yet lost all!” she cried, “since we retain each other! for that greatest of mercies, O may I be properly thankful! pardon your Aziek my Sebastian, she is herself again.”

Sebastian embraced her without speaking, for now tenderness subdued him, and his words were suffocated. The remainder of their night was spent in mutual attempts at animating the courage of each other, and in secret aspirations to the only source of real fortitude.

When the governor appeared on the morrow, to make a courteous offer of any service he might venture to bestow, Sebastian charged him with a second message to the senate, demanding the reason of this outrageous treatment, and calling on them to remember the respect due to the Lord’s anointed. He had to learn that the senate of Venice no longer acknowledged his claim to such a title.

Morosini’s moral apostacy had given them all a plausible pretext for violating the law of hospitality in the person of their dubious guest. If he were indeed an impostor, no crowned head would resent their treatment of him, no individual blame it: without having recourse to the plea of religion, (which might embroil them with potentates professing the same faith with their victim) they might surely detain and punish him as a deceiver.

Most of the lords believed Morosini’s assertion, (who had nearly persuaded himself to believe it also) that an extreme likeness had misled him, together with some circumstances which accident might have brought to the knowledge of the pretended King, but that in their last interview, these were rendered of no importance, since the incredible difference between the religion of the true and the false Sebastian, was a decisive proof of his imposture.

Many Venetians doubted this explanation; but they were spell-bound by spiritual terrors, and were willing to let events take their course.

Both parties united in outwardly discrediting his identity, and to that effect they answered his message.

“Since they have taken their stand on this vain ground,” cried Sebastian to the governor, “my hour of triumph is at hand. Your senate dare not have the boldness or injustice to deny bringing me to the proof. I demand to be seen of the Portuguese: I am anxious to court the scrutiny of those who have known me from infancy to manhood. There are personal marks about most men which may certify them to others: my body is remarkable for them: let me be seen by those now living that have served about my person! I challenge your republic to produce me before the world. I invite the amplest investigation: if they find me not what I maintain myself, Sebastian the King of Portugal, let my head be smitten off—carry this message, sir, to the Doge.”

Fluctuating, and fearful, and interested, the Doge and his counsellors were ill-disposed to grant the fair demands of him they were betraying: the threats of Rome, and the persuasions of Spain, could not induce them to deliver up Sebastian to certain destruction; but they temporized and qualified, and by detaining the object of Philip’s alarm till he should gain time to win over Sebastian’s friends to his views, they hoped to obtain the dazzling favors he promised, and to avert the curses denounced by the descendant of Peter.

Morosini already reaped the fruit of his infidelity: he was caressed by the new monarch of Spain, and gratified with the distinction of being admitted into the order of its grandees: he was in short become the secret spy of Philip.

No reply was vouchsafed to the frequent messages of the injured King, and as time wore away, his amazed mind began to admit the horrid thought that Kara Aziek’s prophecy was indeed true, and that they were doomed to finish their days in imprisonment together.

But what were become of his friends, and of those princes who had entered into a compact for his sake? they had not abandoned him.

No sooner did the news of this atrocious act meet the different agents of Sebastian on their arrival at Venice, where they had hastened to see and acknowledge him, than they importuned the senate for permission to visit him in his prison, in order to satisfy themselves whether it was or was not their lawful King.

The senate were deaf to their intreaties, and again De Castro, Texere, and Don Christopher of Crato, hastened back to England, Holland, and France, to procure the interference of these powers with the republic, for a sight of him who proclaimed himself their sovereign.

The Duke of Medina Sidonia vehemently urged at the court of Castille, his abhorrence of the perfidy and injustice of the Venetians, calling on his monarch to assert the honour of Spain, by disavowing such conduct, and proceeding to an open investigation of the stranger’s story.

The Duke of Braganza dispatched his late mother’s confessor, the Father Sampayo, with a written deposition of the person and natural marks of Don Sebastian, taken from the testimony of his foster-brother and his servants, requiring the republic to compare that description with her prisoner.

These various exertions were now making in favour of him, who remote from all intelligence, remained a prey to every species of misery. The fate of these friends themselves, and of his innocent daughter, began to alarm his fears, and the possibility of being torn from his wife and child, filled him with dismay.

He was sitting one wintry night, (listening to the hollow wind that swept in gusts over the Adriatic) now looking towards the chamber where Aziek had sunk into a short slumber, now fixing his eyes in sad abstraction on the ground, when the door opened, and Signor Valdorno the governor appeared, followed by a person in the dress of a monk.

“This holy man’s importunities have made me hazard my office to give you comfort, sir,” said Valdorno, speaking low—“your interview shall be private—I will return in an hour.”

The governor closed the door, which he fastened on the outside again, and then departed.

Sebastian had risen up: he looked earnestly towards the monk, who was standing with his eyes fixed as wistfully upon him. Sebastian looked to find the features of Gaspar beneath this disguise; but he saw only an aged and care-worn visage, over which a few tears began slowly to trickle.

“So changed! so very much changed!” said the old man in a feeble voice after a long silence, “yet noble and princely still! Can twenty years, then, make such havoc in manly beauty! speak to me, Sir! let me be sure it is my lord and master Don Sebastian; on whose head I laid these withered hands in benediction at the house of the Duchess Braganza, on the day of his embarkation for Africa. Speak to me, Sir—let me hear your voice!”

“Sampayo! good father Sampayo!” exclaimed Sebastian, falling on his neck, and melting into weakness, “do you live to seek me? has your old age been spared only to find your master thus?”

Sampayo wrung his hands in transport, “It is, it is my King!” he exclaimed, while essaying to bend his trembling knee, Sebastian stayed him on his arm. “Not so, good father! but our time is short; say whence you come, and from whom! know you aught of my friend Juan De Castro—and of him the most faithful, most dear, whom I sent to my kinsman in Portugal?”

“I am but just come from Lisbon,” replied Sampayo, looking down and lowering his voice; “your kinsman the Duke of Braganza has sent me, on his representations, to ascertain your identity: denied admittance to you by the senate, I have procured admittance through the humanity of your gaoler; I go now, to re-urge the Duke’s request to the republic for your Majesty to be publicly compared with a written testimonial of your person, which I carry. Despair not, Sire! you still live in the hearts of the Portuguese, and you have zealous friends. England, France, Holland, openly demand of Venice, the satisfaction of bringing your truth or falsehood to the proof. I lament the sad change in your religion; but you are my dear lord and master still.”

The old man shed tears as he spoke, and devoutly crossing himself, repeated an inward prayer for the soul of him he believed seduced into error.

Sebastian’s countenance brightened: “All is not lost then!” he exclaimed, “the path is rugged and hard to climb, Sampayo! but I shall gain the summit at last. Yet talk to me of my friend! where is he? why stays he from me at the time of my extremest need?”

Sampayo was silent: his care-worn countenance altered visibly, and appalled Sebastian: the latter fixed a look on him, as if he would have dived into his soul. “Why stays he?” he repeated hastily; still Sampayo replied not, and the frightful silence which followed, was first broken by the King.

“In the name of God, father! answer my question.”

Sampayo looked sorrowfully up, and said in a trembling voice, “Ours is a chequered life, dear master! grief and gladness, gain and loss are so woven together, that—

“No preparations father!” cried the King, grasping his arm with a wild sternness, “what have I to learn?—that some horrible misfortune has befallen my last friend?—that I am bereft of him also?”

“Yours is the misfortune, Sire! his, the blessing:” returned Sampayo, “he is gone to everlasting joy.”

The blow was too sudden to be borne: Sebastian uttered a dismal cry, and fell suddenly to the ground.

At the sound of his voice, Kara Aziek awoke, and starting up, ran into the apartment: She beheld her husband seemingly lifeless, lying at the feet of a very aged man, whose shaking hands were feebly essaying to lift him up. She sprang towards them, she raised Sebastian in her arms, and slackening the collar of his doublet, sprinkled his face with water: her cares were all employed for him, but her mind was full of alarm for her daughter, and she incoherently questioned the stranger about her alone.

Sampayo’s answers convinced her that he knew not of whom she spoke: and now her fears took a new direction, and she believed him a messenger of death to her husband.

At this moment Sebastian opened his eyes; he turned them from her in search of Sampayo, with a look of unutterable grief; then raised and fixed them upon Heaven.

Kara Aziek’s faltering voice could with difficulty intreat an explanation of the scene before her: Sampayo briefly repeated it. For a more vital wound, her imagination had so far prepared her, that she received this without that acuteness of anguish which otherwise must have assaulted her sensibility; she merely sunk down upon a seat, pale, speechless, and awe-struck.

Sebastian leaned against the wall of the chamber, with his head bent down, unconsciously knocking his hand against his heart, with a violent motion that shewed how intolerable was the pain he felt there. “Half my life is gone!” he said, after a long and doleful silence, “he was the dearest of my friends, for we had suffered together; he lived only in me, doubtless he died for!”

At this thought a burst of tenderness forced the passage from his heart, and covered his face with tears: Kara Aziek and father Sampayo wept with him. Several times Sebastian attempted to inquire the particulars of his loss, and as often did a passion of sorrow sweep the words away.

It was now Kara Aziek’s part to interpose herself between him and affliction: she tenderly besought him to retire into the room she had quitted, while she learned from father Sampayo those circumstances which he could not hear without fresh emotion. Sebastian hastened to comply; for he was no longer master of himself, and his grief increased rather than subsided.

While he ran to hide his lamentations in solitude, father Sampayo proceeded to detail the mournful event of which it was his fate to be made the messenger.

“My royal master is already informed of the noble Braganza’s favourable reception of his confidential agent.” Convinced by the hand-writing of Don Sebastian, and by several anecdotes of the Braganza family, which Gaspar Ribeiro repeated, the Duke lent all his authority to the mission of your friend, he permitted him to use his name in every attempt to disseminate a spirit of inquiry on this important subject through our countrymen. Gaspar had succeeded to a marvel: aided by one Lopez Vernara (an old inn-keeper, who testified to the return of Don Sebastian, though he knew not at the time the royal guest he was harbouring,) he drew crowds to follow him, calling aloud for their lawful King.

About this period the Venetian proclamation of Don Sebastian’s existence, and their remonstrance with Spain, followed by those of other powerful states, was known in Portugal: this circumstance substantiating Gaspar’s assertions, caused such tumults of joy amongst the people, that the Marquis Castel Rodrigo, who now governs Portugal as viceroy, took alarm, and commanded the noble Braganza to deliver up the man who had originally excited this commotion.

Braganza refused: he told Castel Rodrigo, that on the truth or falsehood of Gaspar’s report his reward or punishment might depend: he was willing to pledge himself for the accused’s appearance, on the event of the examination at Venice: when if the stranger there, who called himself their royal kinsman, were shewn to be an impostor, this agent of his should be delivered up to the will of Spain: till then, (believing his story) he should maintain his liberty against the whole force of Spanish power.

To this brave answer the Marquis replied, by commanding the Duke to attend him in private, with the person he protected, for the sake of hearing his strange story. Braganza went: and leaving his armed escort in the hall of the palace, ascended with Gaspar to the audience chamber.

“Pardon me dear Lady! let me breathe awhile! I am old and soon overcome, and there are some events one cannot recal without sorrow.”

Father Sampayo paused to rest himself; while Kara Aziek, pale with anxiety, and trembling with anticipated horror, waited all ear to catch his renewed discourse. It was many minutes ere he had strength to resume.

“Time will not permit me to enter minutely into the scene which followed: the two nobles met avowedly to examine Gaspar’s evidence without prejudice. Castel Rodrigo had professed moderation; but in proportion to his conviction of the truth of what he wished to disbelieve, his anger rose: he reviled Gaspar; and finding Braganza resolute to protect his liberty with the lives and liberties of his adherents, he lost all command of himself, called the Duke an ambitious traitor, and aimed a blow at his person.

“The intrepid Gaspar saved my honored master from such disgrace: he sprung forward, and with a sudden grasp, arrested the arm of the viceroy; but his own hour was come: Rodrigo nimbly drew forth a dagger with his other hand, and plunged it into the heart of Gaspar. He fell, exclaiming, “Commend me to my dear lord! I die as I have wished—in his cause.”

At this part of his narrative Sampayo stopt again; and Kara Aziek, drowned in tears covered her face, and faintly motioned him not to continue. Removed from the sight of Sebastian, whose grief would have been heightened by hers, she felt privileged to give a loose to those feelings of regret, admiration, gratitude, and affection, which the conduct and the memory of Gaspar excited.

Her ill-suppressed sobs were not unheard by Sebastian: but he had the resolution to remove further from the door of his apartment, sensible, that at a moment like this, he could not bear any addition to his pains.

After a dreary interval of silence, Kara Aziek said tremulously. “Died he indeed, happy, good father; how would this calamity be sweetened to us, if we dare believe that Gaspar left the world with hope and comfort at his heart.”

“The triumphant smile which sat on his pale lips,” replied Sampayo, “assures me that he did so: that smile was still there, when his lifeless body was conveyed to the Braganza palace, for mourning and honourable interment.

“The brutal Marquis, satisfied with the death of his victim, opposed not this act of my lord’s; and the lowly Gaspar Ribeiro now lies by the side of noble dust: he sleeps in the vault of the Braganzas.”

“Ah what avails it!” exclaimed Kara Aziek, weeping afresh, “empty tribute to the best and noblest of human beings! Honours cannot recal him to us.”

“Yet evincing the esteem of others, they may soothe his nearer friends.” Replied Sampayo. “I have brought with me a relic of remembrance, a lock of his hair: my royal master may one day love to look on it.”

Kara Aziek averted her head as she stretched out her trembling hand to receive the sad memorial: she ventured not to look at it, even while pressing it to her lips and to her closed eyelids. Moistened by increasing tears, she placed the relic in her breast.

A step was now heard approaching: “It is the governor,” cried Sampayo, “farewel, dearest lady, I may not see my dear sovereign again: tell him I go to solicit afresh—bid him be of good cheer—so monstrous an act must arm all Europe against Spain and the Republic.” Sampayo had but just time to salute the hem of her garment, when Signor Valdorno appeared, and led him from the apartment.