CHAP. V.

Sebastian did not suffer Kara Aziek to remain alone: he rejoined her with an air of desolation, which though profound, was composed. “I am now prepared to hear all that relates to my dear friend: tell me Aziek, how is he lost to us?”

Kara Aziek answered, with quivering lips, and the narrative she repeated, once more subdued the fortitude of Sebastian. What love, what grief was in his heart while he listened to the death-scene of him, whose whole life had been devoted to his fortunes!

The visit of father Sampayo, and the event of his mission, could not abstract his thoughts a single moment from the memory of Gaspar. But Kara Aziek, in whom every new event excited a new apprehension, felt a tumultuous trouble of soul, to which no reasoning could give rest.

Her daughter’s situation (of which she was ignorant) tortured her with fear: Alas! what were the feelings of that affectionate child? and how were they to learn whether the unexpected misfortune of her parents, had not driven her to distraction? Since perfidy or inconstancy had shewn itself in the character of Morosini, who should say that the Duke of Medina Sidonia would continue his perilous protection to Blanche, and stand the scrutiny which might follow the present inquiries of Spain?

Should Medina fail them, Blanche must fall a hopeless victim into the hands of their enemy: and should the influence of the confederates produce no effect on Venetian cowardice, her parents might too probably share her wretched fate.

How sad was the prospect! treachery and alarm were succeeding to enthusiasm and boldness: one by one, their firmest and dearest friends were torn from them; and Kara Aziek looked at Sebastian with an expression of piercing pain, as she thought for a moment, that ere a little while, they might possess only each other in the world.

Times of rousing anxiety, times in which our fortunes, our comforts, nay, our very existence, stand on the fate of a moment, are not the periods in which the soul surrenders itself to lamentation: but frequently when solicitude for one object is united with regret for another, we yield to a gloomy sadness, that tinctures every thing with the same hue, and renders the sufferer inaccessible to one cheering emotion.

Aziek and Sebastian indulged not in sorrow, though it might be said to embue their whole being: they tacitly agreed to give their private hours to the memory of him they lamented, and when together, to converse but on such topics as might benefit them by consultation.

Signor Valdorno’s indulgence tempted Aziek to suggest a hope, that by his connivance they might escape from Venice, and she eagerly gave it utterance.

Sebastian returned a glance of surprize and concern: “What, my beloved!” he exclaimed, “would you have me the assassin of my own honour? To fly, would be to avow myself the impostor they would willingly prove me: no—I am resolved to wait the scrutiny I will never cease demanding. If they suffer me to wear out my days in this obscurity, posterity will do me justice, and own that I must have been the true King of Portugal: but if I basely fly, history will rank me with those miserable madmen who usurped my name, and perished in their folly. Trust still in Heaven, my Aziek; my soul is anchored there.”

His eyes raised and filled with virtuous confidence, infused some of their own energy into those of Kara Aziek; she smiled through tears, and the glow which spread over her face, assured him that their feelings were in unison.

Meanwhile the good Sampayo hastened to renew his solicitations to the Doge and senators: the rank and character of his master would not permit the Venetians to hazard refusing him admittance to their council. He was admitted, together with Juan De Castro and Father Texere, who came to present remonstrances from England and France.

Having briefly stated their request, Sampayo concluded thus.

“My lords! I neither assert nor deny the identity of this man, who proclaims himself Don Sebastian of Portugal; I merely come from his noble kinsman, to ascertain his truth or to detect his falsehood. I come provided with a minute description of the person and bodily marks of Don Sebastian; all of which deposed to by his foster-brother and his confidential servant, now dwelling at Lisbon: I come accompanied by divers persons, all well acquainted with various minute circumstances, upon which they are ready to question him publicly, so to establish or to disprove his assertions.

“Believe you not, my lords, that it is important for the Portuguese to discover the truth of this man? think you that we are eager to place ourselves under the dominion of a low-born impostor? think you that the Duke of Braganza would resign his pretension to the succession, (in case of failure in the Spanish line) to any other than to the real Don Sebastian? no, my lords! we are actuated solely by respect for the memory of him whom we have so long lamented. Examine this person, try him before your senate in the face of Europe, or expect to have the whole world filled with outcries against your perfidy and injustice. You can no otherwise efface the shame of your present bold conduct than by proving the guilt of him you detain. You say he is an impostor; in the name of God then, hasten to make it appear; and tell your new friend Philip III. that even his stern predecessor dealt not thus with the pretended Sebastians of his less settled day.”

“Your holy office protects you, father!” observed the Castillian ambassador, as Sampayo concluded, “or this licence of speech would surely draw down on you the resentment of the republic: let that sacred character remind you of your duty. Is it a priest of the Romish church who thus advocates the cause of an heretic? be he, or be he not the true Sebastian, he is an apostate, and an alien from the protection of heaven, and we dare not stir a step in so solemn a crisis, without the directing hand of our august oracle the Pope.

“Beware how you draw the lightning of the consistory upon your heads—I speak to you both, Sampayo and Texere—for both of you tread on the precincts of spiritual rebellion.”

“Our sins be on ourselves!” said Texere, with an undaunted air, “neither of us will shrink from an honest defence, when it is needful to make it: now, it is for your illustrious prisoner that we speak, not for our own principles. First admit his story to a fair hearing and investigation, after that pronounce on his character; punish him as an impostor, or as the King of Portugal, let our sacred superior exhort him to reconciliation with the church.

“While the Portuguese are ready to receive their King, without insisting on his abjuration of certain private opinions, he is King of Portugal still.”

“What abominable doctrine is this!” exclaimed the ambassador, “is it a son of the church, that dares proclaim the Vox Populi, Vox Dei? but I forget myself—the speaker is Francisco Joseph Texere, a fellow hanging between the heaven and hell of truth and error; one that has not yet decided whether he is to adhere to the rock of St. Peter, or to follow the standard of Martin Luther. I have heard of his residence in England, his attention to her new theories, and the heretical books which he has published, I am not surprized therefore, to see him abet the cause of an impostor, or at least an apostate!”

Texere frowned severely, and disregarding the speaker further, resumed his address to the senate: good father Sampayo suffered some tears to trickle down his aged cheeks.

“It is our well-beloved monarch whom we would support,” he said mildly, “justice and loyalty demand such conduct at our hands; and Christian charity should teach us to hope, that when restored to his throne, and placed again within the reach of spiritual instruction, his pious soul will retrace its steps, and return to the bosom of the true faith!”

“We are bound to act solely by the Pope’s direction;” gravely observed the Doge, “if you may obtain his holiness’s permission to hold converse with this mysterious personage, the republic will cheerfully add her consent—till then, he remains unseen by any one. This is our answer; you may withdraw.”

Texere and Sampayo quitted the assembly, and retiring with their Portuguese friends who waited them without, proceeded to consultation upon their future movements.

It was deemed expedient for one of them to repair immediately to Rome; and as father Sampayo’s orthodoxy and ghostly life had never been impeached, the choice fell upon him. Careless of his age and infirmities, he departed on the instant, and the remainder of the Portuguese lingered in Venice to wait the event, to continue their importunities, and to invite all such persons as remembered the figure of Don Sebastian to join in demanding permission to see and to peruse him.

The long interval of time which elapsed between this period and that in which the different travellers met again, was spent in torturing anxiety by Kara Aziek and Sebastian. Bereft of their faithfulest friend, the devoted Gaspar, no one remained to share their hearts with each other, but their far distant Blanche: yet of her, they dared not inquire.

Experience had taught them suspicion of all around them; and since the very existence of Blanche was a secret between England and the late Don Emanuel De Castro’s family, they blest his prudence, and resolved to perish with anxiety, rather than betray their child into danger.

To believe her ignorant of their changed fortune, was to imagine an impossibility: the interruption of their correspondence alone, would arouse her inquiries, and those inquiries must lead to explanation. How then, was she suffering? and how would her tender nature enable her to live through months, perhaps years of constant apprehension?

These thoughts preyed upon each; yet neither of them gave utterance to their sorrow. Sebastian never permitted himself to lament any other misfortune than that of knowing himself the prime cause of so much misery to the woman he loved; and Kara Aziek, afflicted by this self-reproach, became solicitous to prove that her sorrows were not yet so insupportable as he believed.

Mutually endeared by these mutual sacrifices, their prison still enclosed two hearts that felt not a diminution of love; and even their bitterest hours were sweetened by the fond glance of approval, the tender smile of gratitude.

Signor Valdorno witnessed this dignified and true attachment with feelings that did him honour; and though strict in the performance of his duty, his manners were full of respectful pity, and his communications on the events without, as explanatory as he dared hazard. It was from him that Sebastian at length drew an account of the various exertions which were still making by his friends; and at this information his hopes revived.

The fitful day of his fate might yet change! so many vicissitudes had already marked its progress, that he deemed it impious to despair; and the more so, while allowed to retain those precious objects of his soul, without whom, no destiny could bestow happiness.

In the midst of reviving hope, father Sampayo returned from Rome with the Pope’s order to the Senate of Venice for an immediate and private interview with their prisoner.

A bright sunbeam shone through the window of Sebastian’s chamber, on the face of old Sampayo, as he entered where Sebastian and Kara Aziek sat expecting him; a brighter beam, for it emanated from a comforted heart, was there also.

Sebastian run forward to welcome him; Sampayo whispered a benediction, and dropt a joyful tear over the hand of Kara Aziek, as he feebly grasped it within his. “This is a happy or a sad hour to me, as my Liege shall chuse to make it!” said Sampayo, slowly seating his exhausted frame. “I come back charged with an important mission: the fate of this dear lady, your own fate, honored Sire! the lives and comforts of millions are now in your hands, a single word will destroy or save all.”

Kara Aziek looked on him with an anxiety which suspended her breath and her pulsation: Sebastian already guessed the mission of Sampayo. “Say on!” he cried, with a steady voice, “I am prepared to hear you with attention and singleness of heart.—It is of God and our conscience, that we are about to speak.”

There was something so impressive in the tone of his last words, and so much of truth and dignity on his brow, that father Sampayo’s looks took an impression of still deeper interest, and dropping on his knees, the old man raised his hoary head and withered hands towards him, while earnestly repeating.

“Ere I begin my mission, let me, Sire! charge you on my knees, to put from you all obstinate prejudice, all proud presumption—all vain desire of men’s praises for a seeming contempt of temporal things! avow conviction and repentance if they touch your heart, and be content to suffer a short odium from heretics, for the sake of your eternal salvation, and for the worldly prosperity of Portugal. Let the example of the pious Henry of France sustain your courage. I am come to invite you back to the arms of our indulgent father; he empowers me to exhort and to instruct you. If my humble endeavours may avail, he promises to command every catholic Prince to concur in demanding the restitution of Portugal: so must Philip yield up the crown, and your sceptre pass into your royal hand in peace. No sword will be drawn, no blood shed, no families divided by civil dispute, no fortunes ruined. Europe will behold the long-exiled Sebastian calmly retake his seat amongst her monarchs, and universal gladness will follow.”

Sampayo stopt, and Sebastian raised him kindly from the ground; but the lofty smile with which he did so, answered the fearful inquiry of Kara Aziek’s eyes: that smile spoke to her of a heavenly crown, not a temporal one, and half-raised, half-sunk her trembling spirit. She seated herself near her husband, while he placed himself in an attitude of attention, requesting the venerable priest to continue his discourse.

All that zeal, and affection, and ability, can inspire in support of a weak cause, was urged by father Sampayo: sincerely professing the doctrines of Rome, he understood and explained them better than any other man, but his explanations were unsatisfactory, his reasonings barred by mysteries; he talked eloquently, but he talked in vain, for he convinced not his hearers.

After frequent pauses, and as frequent renewals of the important theme, his powers were exhausted, and he awaited the reply of Sebastian. The latter gave him a long look, full of gratitude and esteem, and pressing the hand of Kara Aziek as it rested trembling on his, he thus addressed him.

“It is not my aim to change or to disturb the opinions of one who stands on the brink of time, and whose holy life, and sincerity, though in error, may redeem his creed: I have but to assure you father, on the solemn word of an accountable man, that my heart has not yet been shaken, nor my understanding momentarily enlightened by a single argument adduced in support of papal Christianity. I feel and I believe that the reformed religion of Luther approaches much nearer to the pure doctrines of our blessed Redeemer, and as such I will profess it unto death.

“If the recovery of my rights is to depend upon my abjuration of my principles, I may say at once, “My kingdom is not of this world.” Father! I fear not the censure of men, I court not their applause; but the voice of God and of my conscience resounds from the depths of this heart, warning me not to betray my everlasting soul for a perishable honour.”

He now turned his softened eyes upon his wife, and went on. “I presume not to read the decrees of Providence; whatever be the cup presented me by the divine hand, shall we not drink it my Aziek? aye, drink it together!—Does not thy virtuous spirit make the same covenant with that of him who has known no joy on earth without thee, and almost fears there would be none for him in heaven if he had not thee to share it.”

Aziek replied in whispered sighs upon her bosom, where she threw herself, oppressed to agony: she exulted in the magnanimity of her Sebastian; she shared his ardours, but she foresaw the price that must be paid for the immortal crown he preferred to that of earth, and some human weakness enfeebled without subduing her.

Sebastian knew her thoughts, and prized her heroism the more, from seeing the tenderness with which it had to struggle. Father Sampayo was plunged in sorrow; his arguments were now succeeded by lamentations and entreaties; he wept, he prayed, but his tears only served to make Sebastian regret without altering his resolution.

Day passed unheeded in this painful contest, till at length the confessor was obliged to quit the prison. “This hope then is over,” he said, preparing to withdraw, “your obstinacy, sire, is to be the signal for our great superior’s pronouncing you once more an impostor, and excommunicating all who appear in your defence. He persists in declaring that the true Don Sebastian was the elect of God, and could not fall into such accursed heresy. I have now no further hopes; all rests on the good offices of your protestant allies. May the blessed virgin and the saints intercede for your darkened soul! may a miracle restore you! perhaps these aged eyes will never more behold you till we wake together in—another world.”—The good man’s voice faltered as he uttered the last words, for he dared not say in Paradise, since he addressed a heretic.

Sebastian bent his knee to receive his benediction, and Kara Aziek partook in the affecting farewel. Sampayo embraced and blessed them together, then hastened out of the apartment.

The past scene would have dwelt long on their hearts, had not the father, as he departed, drawn a packet from his vest, and put it into the hand of Aziek; the writing was unknown to her, but opening it, she glanced over these words: “A confidential servant of the Duchess Medina Sidonia has ventured to entrust the enclosed to father Sampayo; he has been long in Venice anxiously seeking some safe method of transmitting it according to his instructions.”

Every shew of composure and self-command vanished at this moment from the countenances of Kara Aziek and Sebastian; they tore open the letter, they ran over it together with swelling hearts and frequent exclamations of joy; its contents were indeed balm to their tortured minds.

The Duchess wrote to assure them of her inviolable fidelity to the secret of their daughter’s birth, and to promise her continued protection to the amiable girl through any change of fortune; she told them that Blanche’s real parents had never yet been guessed at even by Paula, the wife of Gaspar, for whose infant son the Duke of Braganza had sent into Sicily, proclaiming his intention of repaying to the child the timely service of his father.

Renewed vows of friendship, repeated exhortations to hope and patience, and trust in Providence, concluded the letter of the Duchess; that of Blanche, though filled with expressions of filial sorrow and love, happily convinced her parents that she knew not the worst of their destiny, but was encouraged to hope beyond probability or present prospect.

Sweet were the tears that now stole down the cheeks of these illustrious sufferers! they beheld the writing of their child, they believed her out of the reach of their misfortunes, and their misfortunes ceased to afflict or to affright them.

The consolation afforded by this unforeseen blessing, together with the inward satisfaction of having sacrificed interest to principle, spread a cheering light through their hitherto dreary prison, they were comforted and revived; and patient in joy as in sorrow, they cheerfully resigned themselves to await the good time of heaven.

While all within the prison was peace, all without was confusion and indecision; every day messages and noble persons arrived from different states, to know the fate of the extraordinary man whom the Portuguese called their King. The friends of Sebastian zealously disseminated their belief of his identity; the partizans of Philip and of Rome as hotly proclaimed his falsehood. Venice herself knew not how to act; she began to tremble for the consequences of her rash union with Spain, and to listen with troubled attention to the remonstrances of France, England, and the States-General. The city was now crowded with foreigners of various ranks and ages, daily besieging the Senate with alternate reproach and solicitation.

In the midst of this tumult, Don Christopher of Crato, arrived from the court of London with a threatening letter from the English Queen. She demanded a public trial of the pretended impostor, menacing Venice and Spain with immediate destruction if they refused compliance. The terror of a British fleet decided the irresolution of the Venetians, and summoning a full senate, they consented to hear their royal prisoner.

It was in vain that the Portuguese lords prayed permission to be present at this examination, in order to compare him with their own recollection of the unfortunate Sebastian. The Seigniory alleged that the Portuguese were all too desirous of believing the impostor to give an impartial testimony, and that by questioning him on the events of his life, they were more certain to detect him in contradictions.

Venice yet feared and hoped much from Philip, whose ambassador alternately threatened and caressed her; and armed with assertions which Morosini’s communications enabled him to fulminate, he now made one of the assembly, proudly pronouncing himself the umpire, since he had frequently seen the real Don Sebastian in his palace of Ribera.

It was midnight, and cold December, when Valdorno came to conduct Sebastian into the presence of the senators: Sebastian wished never more to lose sight of Kara Aziek, and with an air of high authority that would not be denied, he persisted in making her his companion.

A solemn expectancy sat on the faces of the numerous senators who with the Doge, habited in their most imposing habits, formed a semi-circle in the grand hall of the senate-house. One massy branch of lights threw a sullen gleam over the more sullen crowd: no sound was heard amongst them, as the great doors were opened, and Don Sebastian appeared, advancing between Kara Aziek and Signor Valdorno. He paused when he had passed the threshold, and cast an undaunted look around the hall.

The King of Portugal was now at that period of life, when manly beauty assumes a character of majesty, and awes rather than wins: the bright colours of youth were no longer on his cheek, nor its luxuriant fulness on his limbs, but his countenance was splendid still, for the fire of his eyes was unextinguished. He looked

By his side stood the gentle Aziek, with loveliness faded, not obliterated; graces so lightly touched by the hand of time, and so interestingly mixed with looks of unresisting sweetness, that she appeared born to contrast the severe dignity of Sebastian. But there was a modest nobleness in her air that seemed as if love had copied the object beloved, and made her worthy of it.

At the first sight of these august sufferers, murmurs of shame and admiration ran through the assembly. Sebastian advanced to the Castilian ambassador, whom his eagle glance had singled out, and stopping before him, said in a high voice, “Here is one that should know me. Sir! whom say you I am?”

The Spaniard who had half-discredited, half-believed the existence of Don Sebastian, now amazed into perfect conviction, turned pale, and the acknowledgment was bursting from his lips, when recollecting himself, he turned aside, and said coldly, “I know you not.”

“We have sent for you, Stranger!” interrupted the Doge, as he saw Sebastian hastening to speak, “not to question others, but to answer for yourself, we are met here, without prejudice or partiality, to decide between you and the most Christian King Philip III. of Spain, Portugal, and the Indies. I charge you answer truly to the questions that shall be put to you.”

“As an honest man desirous to have his truth apparent to all the world, I am ready to answer you,” replied Sebastian, “I will forget awhile that I am a King—aye Lords! a King: (he added, seeing them look strangely at each other,) there are some amongst you that know I am so. Woe unto them, sons of Judas! have they not betrayed me with the kiss of friendship?”

Signor Morosini drew back at this expression, and averted his head; the Doge proceeded to speak.

“How comes it, that you have thus long suffered the kingdom of Portugal to be enjoyed by the sovereigns of Spain, if confident that you were its lawful possessor?”

“Because I had not any direct promise of support from other Princes, and abhorred the thought of plunging my people into war.”

“Where have you passed the long period of twenty years which has elapsed since the battle of Alcazar? and how comes it that you are the husband of a Moorish woman?”

“Part of that period has been spent in Barbary, part in Persia, the remainder in Brazil. You ask me how it comes that I am the husband of a Moorish woman, I answer, because I loved her, I owed her eternal gratitude, and she deserved both sentiments.”

“What say you to the well-known fact of Don Sebastian’s body having been found in a suit of green armour on the field of Alcazar?”

“I reply, that it was the body of some other person. Near the cave of Abensallah, a Moorish hermit, who dwelt among the mountains of Benzeroel, my armour will be found buried under a plane tree; the royal insignia are on it; since Spain and Morocco are at peace, I challenge you to have it sought for.”

“How comes it, that having passed this long period, first in Mahometan countries, and lastly in a Catholic one, that you should profess doctrines known only to a few miserable European states?”

“I was instructed in them by the Moorish proselyte of an English slave; I heard, and examined, and believed.”

“Enough!” exclaimed the Doge, “now hear what you are said to be. A Calabrian impostor: we have inquired, and heard of a strange person bearing the name of Marco Tullo Cattizone, who abode some time at Messina, and him thou art. This woman is—I know not what;—thy lawful wife is the servant of the Duchess Medina Sidonia, and is now in this city ready to swear to thee as her husband.”

“Peace!” exclaimed Sebastian, with a voice of thunder, and throwing his arm round Kara Aziek with a look of protection. At that moment his eye caught Morosini’s, and the tide of resentment turned: it was evident that he was the informer, since after their first meeting, Sebastian had directed Giuseppe to address his letters to Cattizone at Messina, and doubtless having supposed that he bore that name, they had confounded him with Gaspar, and discovering his wife, who concluding him to be her husband, without intending to abet falsehood, was beguiled into doing so.

Sebastian briefly stated these circumstances, adding, “of his evidence I am deprived by the most cruel misfortune; my faithful follower is no more; but his dying words attest my truth, and the noble Braganza is prepared to repeat them. Let this woman you speak of, be brought hither; she will quickly acknowledge that I am not her husband. If I am a Calabrian, bring forward those who know my birth and lineage.—You have state papers signed by Don Sebastian’s name, compare these signatures with my hand writing now. Question me on the secret articles of our various negociations; if you find me falter in my answers, then brand me with imposture. Let my person be compared with the description of Don Sebastian’s: shew me to my Portuguese, they will know the voice and the features of their King, though time and sorrow have marked me with their heaviest print: if my own people deny me, then let disgrace and death light on me and mine.”

Sebastian concluded, and seeing that his last words had taken the colour from Kara Aziek’s cheek, he gave her such a smile as might in calmer times have transported her to fall upon his neck in an ecstacy of delight: but now, it redoubled her anguish, by heightening her love, and she remained wildly gazing on the men who had the fate of her husband in their hands.

A sharp debate ensued amongst the Venetians. Some, moved by the interesting softness of Kara Aziek, were forward to espouse the cause of her husband, insisting on the equity of complying with his demands. Some, awed into admiration of Sebastian, feared to maintain the assertion of his imposture, but excused their conduct on the plea of his apostacy: others, denounced him in the same breath as an impostor, an apostate, a magician, calling for his instant delivery into the hands of Rome, or of the Inquisition. All questioned him with perplexing varieties of inquiries, which he compelled himself to satisfy.

The Castillian grew clamorous; and at each convincing explanation, called out, “He is an impious sorcerer!”

But the senate, though far from unanimously believing this superstitious assertion of their ally’s envoy, were too much afraid of papal power, and of protestant indignation, to take a decisive part on either side: they deemed it best to steer the middle course, and getting rid of Sebastian without providing for his protection, leave him to his fate in the midst of Philip’s adherents.

They commanded their prisoner to withdraw, and leave them to deliberate on the nature of the decision they were about to pronounce. Sebastian retired with Kara Aziek.

In a vacant anti-chamber, attended only by Signor Valdorno, whom respectful pity kept silent, they sat awaiting the moment of their recal. The tumult of sharp debate still reached them from the senate hall: at each noisy burst, the blood retreated yet further into the heart of Kara Aziek; her lips, her cheeks, her very eyes were pale: violent tremblings alone gave to her death-like figure any semblance of life. She sat with one hand closely grasping that of Sebastian, who continued in low and tender tones to chide such apprehension.

He felt the King in his breast, and he could not conceive the possibility of being doomed to leave the world denied and reviled.

At length a person appeared at the door, Sebastian arose, but Kara Aziek hung on his arm unable to raise her sinking frame. That moment was come in which their fate was to be pronounced! Scarcely could Valdorno support her on his stronger arm, as they followed Sebastian into the council room.

The Doge was standing.—“Stranger!” he said, “he to whom you applied for acknowledgment of your bold pretensions, the ambassador of our noble ally, Philip of Spain, solemnly assures us, that your features are unknown to him: we may not therefore, examine you further: to do so, would be to insult the honour of a great sovereign, in the person of his representative. We leave you at liberty to seek other investigation: and as we acknowledge no other King of Portugal, besides Philip III. of Spain, we command him who usurps that title, to depart this city within three days, on pain of perpetual imprisonment.”

The Doge reseated himself, and with a shriek of joy, Kara Aziek fell lifeless at the feet of her husband. Signor Valdorno hastened to raise her in his arms: Sebastian cast on her a look of sad tenderness, but attempted not to remove her from Valdorno. He turned to the assembly, and viewing them with an undaunted and indignant air, that struck conviction of his royal dignity to every soul, he said aloud, “Once more I tell you, I am Sebastian King of Portugal. I go, with God’s help, to prove this assertion on the war-fields of my country, since thus he wills it.”

He vouchsafed no glance to Morosini, but passing his arm round Kara Aziek, with Valdorno’s aid, carried her forth. A gondola was provided for their conveyance to the lodgings of Don Juan De Castro: Kara Aziek recovered her senses at the movement of the boat, and then so many powerful emotions (joy relapsing into fear, gratitude suddenly checked by remembrance of former evils, love for her husband, and indignation at his false friends) shook her frame, that she evidently trembled on the verge of death and madness.

Sebastian succeeded in beseeching her to let this agitation subside, ere she mixed in a scene likely to increase it still more; it was long past midnight, and as they entered De Castro’s house, he resigned her into the care of a female domestic, whom they encountered in the hall, desiring her to conduct the exhausted lady to a place where she might take rest.

Having disposed of her who demanded all his care, Sebastian preceded the courteous Valdorno into a saloon filled with a numerous concourse of friends and strangers, and glaringly lighted. He advanced with his usual kingly port into the centre of them, and stopped there without speaking: Don Juan De Castro fell back amazed at the figure he saw before him.

De Castro retained the vivid image of a young and smiling warrior, gallantly attired, bright with health, and happiness, and conscious power; he now saw a man in the autumn of life, negligently habited, darkened by foreign suns, wasted with many cares, dimmed by long experience of this world’s uncertainty and emptiness. He scarcely knew how to trust his sight: but as Sebastian, observing his trouble, and conjecturing its cause, mournfully smiled, Juan precipitated himself at his feet, exclaiming, “My King, my King!”

That well-remembered smile was decisive: at the same instant, several other persons cast themselves on the ground, proclaiming the person they beheld, to be their King.

Eyes, that had never wept before, now flowed in sympathy with the Portuguese and their persecuted sovereign: Sebastian’s full heart overflowed at every side; and calling each friend by their name, he turned from one to the other, alternately embracing and raising them to his bosom.

When they were standing around him, he cast a look over the circle, and seeing them variously habited, most of them in disguises, which were assumed for the purpose of dispatch on their different missions, some in the fashion of France, some in that of England, some in that of Holland, others as pilgrims, a few as mendicants; he smiled pensively again, and said with a heavy sigh, “So many sorts!”—

The sad grace with which he spoke, once more touched every heart, and renewing their exclamations, the Portuguese crowded about him to kiss his hands and his garments.

Amongst this groupe he distinguished the Fathers Texere and Sampayo, De Brito, who had last seen him on the field of Alcazar, when they fought together in defence of the royal standard, Mascaranhas, his favorite attendant, and a tall fair young man, whose countenance was peculiar from its expression.

Sebastian fixed his eyes on this last, with extreme earnestness; the colour fluctuated on the young man’s cheek; “Is it not a kinsman I behold in you, young sir!” he said kindly, “Don Christopher of Crato, I think.”

Don Christopher answered by a painful blush; Sebastian resumed, and his heart yearned towards him as he spoke, “You resemble your father in complexion; God grant you grace to resemble your grandfather in deeds!”

“The infant Don Louis is the only parent I wish to remember,” replied Don Christopher, dropping his eyes, while a deeper dye covered his face.

Sebastian’s eyes were still rivetted on him; for now he recalled that dreadful hour, when he had seen this young man a child in the cradle at Xabregas, and remembered anguish seized him with a transient pang. “Where is his father!” he whispered to Don Juan. “He is dead, my liege, at Florence.” Sebastian gave a sigh to their former attachment, then turning with animation to those around, said—

“Which of you will compare this wreck of Sebastian, with what the proud vessel was, in her day of brave appointment? Care may have furrowed this once smooth brow, but nothing could obliterate these well known marks.” As he spoke, he lifted aside his hair, and shewed a deep scar above the right eyebrow, which had been caused in his earliest youth, by an accident in hunting.

“Here De Brito! is the memorial of a wound you saw me receive, on the most fatal of days,” and bending his head, he displayed another large cut above the forehead itself. “This body is flesh, not iron, on which a man may grave what he pleases, yet these marks are accidental; what I am about to shew, were imprinted on me by the hand of nature.”

He now pushed down his cloak, and baring one shoulder, discovered on the exceedingly white skin, a singular mole resembling a dark seal or coin: at the same time he extricated his left foot from its sandal, and shewed another curious mark, well remembered by all his familiar associates.

At these convincing evidences, those who secretly wavered between doubt and belief, uttered a cry of gladness, and again the tumultuous murmurs of joy and sorrow (for how could such recognition be made otherwise?) ran through the crowd.

While the King was answering the many questions which followed this complete conviction, and thanking the surrounding strangers for their generous sympathy, Father Texere came forward, leading in his hand a monk in the vigour of life, tall and commanding, on whose acute brow were stamped energy and ability: “Sire!” he said, “suffer me to claim your notice for this excellent person, who of all men present, has sacrificed the most for your sake: it is now some months since he added his powerful support to our party.”

“What is he, good Texere? to whom stand I indebted for the zeal you will find me warm to acknowledge?”

“To Father Chrysostom, the most distinguished follower of our holy Faith. He lately filled the office of almoner and confessor to the Viceroy of Portugal, but struck by the recital of your story by Caspar Ribeiro, and indignant at that atrocious act which brought Ribeiro to the grave, he abandoned his high situation, resigned the revenues and honours granted him by the Marquis Castel Rodrigo, and having travelled through these countries at the peril of his life, boldly declaring your existence wherever he went, and rousing the people to demand their King, he has reached Venice, and become the most zealous for your Majesty’s enlargement.

“On his eloquence we depend for reconciling his holiness to your espousal of the new doctrines. Father Chrysostom is unimpeachable in his own profession, and what he sanctions, no devout catholic may venture to question. Sampayo and myself fail of surmounting the religious prejudice which opposes you, Sire! for they accuse me of being a Lutheran in my heart, and Sampayo of being too little careful for the salvation of others.

“Deign then to accept the services of Father Chrysostom, and to admit him into the number of your chosen servants.”

Sebastian extended his hand towards the lofty-looking Chrysostom, who received it with respect, and the calm aspect of a man that is actuated rather by reflection and principle, than by any enthusiastic impulse. His thoughtful looks, his temperate words, his unimpassioned manner, when connected with the knowledge of his ardent actions, made Sebastian muse on the contrast between this sacrificing friend and the selfish Morosini.

How different, thought he, look truth and falsehood; or rather, how different does a steady and an unstable character express the same feelings!

When Sebastian had urged many inquiries to Chrysostom respecting the Braganza family, and the situation of Portugal, some of the Portuguese would have learned from him the particulars of his own exile, but sadness shaded his countenance, and praying them to forbear awhile, since the relation of his adventures must painfully revive the memory of early error, he proceeded to learn the state of his affairs at foreign courts, fixing on fit operations for the future.

The unsettled posture of Holland forbade him to seek that asylum there, which he purposed seeking somewhere; (an asylum was necessary to rest in till Portugal should proclaim him, and his allies fulfil their engagements of furnishing him with men and money.) England was beginning to dread a change, for Essex was fallen into disgrace, Elizabeth, grown so capricious with age and jealousy, that she changed her humour every hour, and no longer listened to the solicitations for Don Sebastian, since her favourite was not nigh to urge them. France was the only country that opened her arms to the fugitive.

The King, deeply interested in depressing the house of Austria, and convinced of Sebastian’s identity, from the representations of others, had empowered Don Christopher to offer the persecuted monarch an honourable asylum. It was to his court that Sebastian resolved to direct his steps: while he hastened thither to join the army which Henry offered to raise, [if swelled by succours from any other Prince;] Sampayo and his companions were to return into Portugal, and proclaim their sovereign; Braganza was to seize on the national fleet and the treasury: two acts less difficult than they appeared, owing to the devotion of the sailors to Don Sebastian’s memory, and the extreme weakness of the Spanish garrisons.

Sebastian reckoned not on Castillian assistance; he did not even permit himself to name his friends of Medina Sidonia; for he justly concluded, that although he might trust implicitly where his own safety alone was implicated, he should rigidly abstain from all imprudence when it might endanger another.

He found that the Duke of Medina Sidonia had been suspected of having favoured his cause, and had been strictly sifted by the minister of Philip; but as no proof appeared of his knowing the stranger in any other character than that of a Portuguese from Brazil, to whom his wife had shewn attention out of regard to her brother’s memory, he was dismissed with nothing more than a severe warning.

Upon this information Sebastian remarked in such terms that no one present guessed him at all in correspondence with Medina; and restraining his anxiety to learn, if possible, whether his daughter had been alarmingly noticed, he returned to the subject of his departure from Venice. No doubts could be entertained of the republic’s willingness to further in secret, Philip’s aim of getting his rival into his power, and this conviction rendered extreme precaution indispensible. By the influence of Philip’s ambassadors, all the passages into France and Germany were closed against them; wherever Sebastian went openly, he must expect to be seized as a subject of Spain, being pronounced a Calabrian. (Calabria now forming part of its Italian possessions.) Father Chrysostom therefore proposed that their numerous party should separate, and by different parcels, and different ways, seek their different places of destination. He offered to risk himself through Italy, with Don Sebastian alone, provided he would assume the disguise of a monk, and travel under that character to a free port, where they might embark for France.

This advice, after some consideration, met with general concurrence; it was agreed that the King, with Aziek and their prudent guide, should pass first to Chiozzi; from thence through Ferrara to Florence, so to Leghorn, and finally take ship for Marseilles. Such of his Portuguese as chose to join him on his route might rendezvous at Florence, where they were not likely to be known or stayed, and they might then proceed all together to Marseilles.

Upon this arrangement the consultation ended, and leaving their well-beloved monarch to the care of Juan De Castro and of Don Christopher; the several Portuguese repaired to their respective lodgings, wishing the morning soon to appear, since they were permitted to return at noon, in order to be introduced to their Queen.

The next day re-assembled the friends of Sebastian. Kara Aziek entered the apartment where they met, with extreme emotion, so much had she to look back upon with horror, so much to look forward to with anxiety! yet gratitude and joy were in her bosom, and on her countenance.

She presented herself to the Portuguese with a timid grace, (as if beseeching them to love her for their sovereign’s sake) her gentle demeanor won all their hearts, and when the separate nobles repeated their oaths of fidelity to Sebastian, thanks, mixed with tears and smiles, heightened the interest excited by her beauty.

Juan De Castro had undertaken the task of conveying letters to his cousin Medina Sidonia, and to Blanche; this prospect gladdened the mother’s spirit, and she now entered into discourse of their momentous departure with cheerful courage.

The assembly separated before dusk, and at night-fall, attired as pilgrims, with Father Chrysostom in his monk’s habit, Kara Aziek and Sebastian took their eventful departure from Venice.

The speed with which they journeyed induced them to hope that they should reach Florence (where Don Christopher and De Castro were gone to await them) ere suspicion of their route could arise. The Venetians concluded that Sebastian’s escape would, if possible be made to England, and of course the Castillian ambassador’s search after him would be directed to the shores of the Adriatic; this idea was what determined Chrysostom to take the route of Tuscany.