CHAP. VI.

Day was just breaking when the travellers reached the gates of Florence.

“We are now safe!” exclaimed Father Chrysostom, “here ends our toil.”

“Not absolutely,” replied Sebastian, looking gladly around him, “till I rest these weary limbs in Portugal, my fatigues cannot be said to cease.”

“But we are almost safe,” whispered Aziek, “beyond the Venetian territory we may breathe and dismiss apprehension.”

Chrysostom turned on her as she spoke, and his dark grey eyes assumed an expression that made her recoil; ere she recovered from the strange alarm they struck into her, he had seized a hand of each, and bringing them through the gates which were just opening, stopped before a party of military.

“Here ends our toil!” he repeated, in an altered, triumphant, and ferocious tone, “Soldiers sieze this Calabrian! my duty is done!”

Sebastian was instantly surrounded by a band of armed men, who drawing their swords at the same moment with a horrid noise, which drew forth a shriek from Kara Aziek, flashed them before him with menacing attitudes.

Sebastian stood root-bound in their circle, his eyes fixed with amazement on the perfidious Chrysostom: stunned by so atrocious a perfidy, his faculties were for awhile overpowered: at length bursting into such a tempest of rage as had been long unknown to him, he called out, “Traitor! fear you not that heaven’s bolt will fall and strike you?”

“Bridle this madness, impostor or apostate!” (whichever name you affect most) replied the stern friar, “I fear no bolts; I look rather for the mantle of Elisha! Chrysostom might indeed have dreaded divine judgment, had he acted with the inconsistency of his reprobate brethren. Your damnable creed is my abhorrence: whoever you are, for that creed I would burn you at the stake, did I rule in Spain. My stratagem has succeeded; I have secured to myself the gratitude of the whole church; and may every pernicious heretic thus run into the snare of destruction!”

“And may every—— but no, I will not curse,” exclaimed Sebastian, interrupting his own fierce transport. “God will avenge.”

“Thy ways are hard to understand, O Father all-powerful! teach me to adore and to submit.”

His head fell on his breast at the last words, and he remained so awefully wrapt in meditation that he saw not Kara Aziek fall at the feet of Chrysostom, and wildly embrace his knees. Her supplicating voice first awakened him: he recovered himself with a smile almost divine, and tenderly raising her, said calmly, “kneel not there, my beloved! forget not that we are in the hands of God as well as man; if he commands to spare, who shall destroy?”

Aziek answered but with low and grievous groans, while she continued to hang upon him; and he, motioning for the soldiers to take him where they would, prepared to follow them.

More confounded by this majestic acquiescence, than by the fiercest violence, Chrysostom stood with a troubled look: “Is this hypocrisy! or what is it?” he exclaimed.

“It is Christian submission,” returned Sebastian, not deigning to turn his eyes on him. The friar made an effort to resume himself: “Rather say, coward consciousness of base desert! cease to profane the name of our Redeemer, by uniting it with the accursed doctrines you profess: your miserable imposture is over: you also, madam, may queen it no longer, or if you will still appeal to some tribunal, prepare yourselves for answering at the great judgment-seat of Heaven.”

Chrysostom’s withering eyes were levelled at both his victims; he stood with his arm extended in the attitude of denunciation, and every lineament of his gigantic figure seemed to grow in power and malignity. Kara Aziek shuddered, turned deathly pale, and closing her eyes, suffered her head to fall back upon the shoulder of her Lord.

Sebastian earnestly gazed on the man before him: “Of what stuff art thou formed?” he said, “art thou man, or devil? is it avarice, or ambition, or hellish bigotry, that has prompted thee to a deed like this? O! blind to the merciful and faithful character of him thou professest to follow! thinkest thou that he will reward thee for perjury and lies? study his doctrines better.”

“Away with him!” cried Chrysostom, “the revilings of reprobate souls, are the testimonies of the saints—my glory is his opprobrium.”

The soldiers now hurried their prisoner forward, who (suffered to hold her in his arms from whom he trusted nothing but death would hereafter divide him) still retained a gleam of comfort to illuminate future days of darkest misery.

The loathsomeness of the dungeon into which they were thrust, was a melancholy earnest of their intended treatment: but Sebastian complained not; and all devoted to the hard task of detaining the flitting soul of his Aziek, in its feeble tenement, he passed a weary day without learning to what fate he was doomed.

His thoughts were less employed upon personal sufferings, than with amazed consideration of the black treachery of him whom the Portuguese had so incautiously trusted; and many were the censures he passed on them for their credulity.

But in truth Sebastian blamed them unjustly: hypocrisy is the only evil that walks unseen “by man and angels;” and father Chrysostom was a hypocrite even to himself: he could cajole and cheat his own soul.

While his thoughts were in reality fixed upon earthly distinctions, he believed they were solely turned towards heavenly ones. He fasted, he prayed, he mortified his affections and his senses; he distributed alms, he visited sufferers, he arrayed his body in “sackcloth and ashes,” and he persuaded himself that he did all this from love and zeal for our divine master. But it was the praise of men he coveted, rather than the approbation of conscience; and having early fixed his eyes on the triple crown, he placed not his foot except where the step promised to lead towards that envied object.

His advancement had been gradual and sure: now it was likely to prove more rapid. In his quality of confessor to the Portuguese viceroy, he speedily heard of Sebastian’s re-appearance, and of the alarm which the success of his various agents spread through the Spanish court. Rodrigo acknowledged that it was Philip’s earnest wish to have the pretender at his mercy; and upon this acknowledgment Chrysostom suddenly conceived the bold plan of affecting zeal for the Portuguese monarch, insinuating himself into his confidence, learning who were his secret abettors, and in case the Venetians should not deliver him up to Spain, deceive him into her power by the means described.

His affected renunciation of places and profits, together with a shew of hot persecution from the Spanish and papal court, warranted the friends of Sebastian in their fatal dependance on his superior talents: he obtained his victim; and secure of the Duke of Tuscany’s concurrence, apprized him of the day and hour at which they should enter the gates of Florence.

Juan De Castro, and Don Christopher, who were already in the city, no sooner heard of their King’s second detention, than aware of the danger which menaced themselves, and conscious that by the captivity or death of his friends, Sebastian’s situation would only be rendered more hopeless, they fled hastily, severally betaking themselves to France and England with entreaties for effectual aid from both those powers.

Meanwhile Sebastian was reconveyed, with the faithful partner of his afflictions, from the Florentine prison, to the nearest sea-port, where being embarked in a Spanish ship of war, and closely kept from the sight of the crew, they set sail for Naples.

Sebastian rarely condescended to question the only person who was allowed to attend him, for the man was cold and savage, and seemed prepared to reply with insults; but on launching again upon that ocean which he had so often traversed under such variety of fortune, he one day broke silence, and asked whither they were going to take him. “To the prison Del Ovo, for life,”—was all the answer of his attendant, as he shut and bolted the cabin door.

Sebastian and Kara Aziek turned their eyes on each other: they needed not speech to understand what was passing in each others hearts: their daughter’s fate alone occupied every feeling.

“Ah, if I could be assured that her innocent life would be spared, her days pass in peace,” exclaimed Kara Aziek, “my soul would find rest: I could bound my little remnant of happiness with the walls of my Sebastian’s prison, or I could die with thee, my husband—die gladly.” She bent her face on his neck to hide her gushing tears, as she thought of their perishing together.

Sebastian regarded her tenderly: “I do believe it, my Aziek! cherish this angel resignation; and since it seems Heaven’s will, that the sins and the errors of thy husband should descend upon thy guiltless head, O let me hope, that with so grievous an addition to my burthen as that conviction, Heaven will be satisfied, and spare me the pang of having caused my child’s wretchedness.”

To combat this painful and incessant throe of self-condemnation, Kara Aziek now roused up her fortitude with her love, and while she exhorted him to remember that human sufferings are much more frequently promised to the favorites of God, as trials and perfecters, than as penalties and punishments, her own spirit was elevated and comforted, and she suddenly appeared endowed with supernatural strength.

Resigned to bear, because humble and confiding, no voice of lamentation was heard from the chamber of Sebastian and Kara Aziek. Their dignified stillness, with their gentle and unresisting looks, sometimes moved even the rough fellow who supplied them with food to murmur as he left them, “I shall be sorry to hear that they come to harm.”

Sebastian could take no other advantage of this compassion, than that of winning from his attendant the name of the Neapolitan Viceroy. He learnt with pleasure that it was the Count of Lemos, a very old and worthy Spaniard, who had been nobly entertained at the Portuguese court by Don Sebastian, and had more than once bravely hazarded advice to him on important subjects, when his own courtiers shrunk from the delicate task.

From a nobleman of this character, both Sebastian and Kara Aziek now ventured to hope for at least an amelioration of their destiny; and with something like satisfaction beheld their vessel cast anchor in the bay of Naples. They were speedily conveyed to the castle Del Ovo, a dark and fearful fortress, now become a prison for criminals. At sight of the narrow dungeon, without any other furniture than straw, Kara Aziek’s looks betrayed the sudden horror with which she was seized, “Is it here we are to linger out our lives?” she exclaimed, sorrowfully.

“I have no instructions to confine you,” observed the man who had conducted them, “indeed I never heard of any other prisoner than this gentleman, so you must be content to abide somewhere else.”

He attempted to take her hand to lead her out, but Kara Aziek sprang back, and Sebastian advanced to deprecate the heaviest of their misfortunes. The man urged his orders to confine the pretended Calabrian in a solitary dungeon; Kara Aziek still resisted, she clung to her husband, wildly exclaiming:

“Kill me—kill me—tear this poor frame to atoms—still will I remain here.—Surely no force can take me away, if I am resolved to die beside him.”

Wrung to torture by her frenzy, Sebastian earnestly sued for permission to detain her. The man’s inclinations were in favour of compliance, but his life might have been risked by yielding, and promising to urge their suit in the morning to the Viceroy’s secretary, he reluctantly repeated his orders.

The arguments and soothings of Sebastian, rather than the explanation and peremptory behests of the gaoler, allayed the ravings of Kara Aziek; suddenly she grew calm, started from the ground, and as if alarmed lest her obstinacy might endanger her husband’s safety, she cried out, “Now, now I am ready to go!”—a convulsive embrace was exchanged between her and Sebastian, and the next moment the door of the dungeon closed and divided them.

“No further!” said she, in a low hurried voice, as the man would have led her from the spot, “Here is my bed this night—every night—here will I live till he is restored to me again—force me not from this sad lodging, if you have love or pity in your heart—I cannot get back to him—I may but hear his steps and his sighs, and know that he is near me.—Alas! is that too much of consolation?”

The bitter tears which flowed down her cheeks, and the sorrowful wringing of her hands, presented so moving a picture, that the Neapolitan said kindly, “Well, stay here then, I will surely get you admitted in the morning—what shall I bring you to sleep on?”

“O no sleep—no sleep”—she replied, with joyful wildness, “I will wake to bless you and to pray for him.” She lightly seated herself on the stone floor while speaking, and leaning her head against the door of Sebastian’s cell, remained drinking in at her ear each breath he drew.

Frequently did she long to speak and tell him she was near; but then conscious that the idea of her being alone and unprotected in an open passage, exposed to the insults of the wandering guards, and doomed to rest only on a damp pavement, would overbalance the satisfaction of hearing her voice, she checked the wish, and relapsed into stillness.

Morning was far advanced when Stephano appeared; he had been to the secretary and had returned successful. At this intimation, which Kara Aziek demanded even while he was afar off, she uttered a cry of transport; it was answered by the voice of Sebastian from within, “Kind heaven! my Aziek, art thou here again so soon?”

“I have been here the whole night; I would not leave thy door.” While Aziek was speaking, Stephano unlocked the dungeon, and she flew into the melancholy, grateful embrace of her husband.

It seemed as if Providence had allotted them this temporary privation only to make them sensible, that while undivided, they had no right to abandon themselves to despair. Kara Aziek with overflowing thankfulness acknowledged this truth, and promised henceforth to grieve no more.—Stephano passed his hands across his eyes, and replied to some anxious inquiries of Sebastian.

As it was the most earnest wish of the King to be seen by the Count of Lemos, he learnt with regret that Lemos was then lying ill of a dangerous disorder, which devolved his duties upon Sossa, the next nobleman to him in rank and civil honours. This information was indeed unwelcome; however, Stephano promised to inquire regularly after the Viceroy’s health, and to discover whenever his Excellency was in a state to hear of business.

“I am heartily sorry,” he added, “to be forced to deal hardly with you and this sweet lady: whatever you be, King or poor Calabrian, you seem to love your wife, so I would fain make you both comfortable. But the Auditor-General (he that commands now) has charged me to keep you very strictly; and since your wife insists on sharing your prison, she is to be served with bread and water like yourself. I am heartily sorry for it, Sir, but I must do my duty.”

Sebastian bowed in token of reply, for his emotion choaked him as he gazed on the heavenly smile which shone through the tears of Aziek; that smile said how little she regarded the pains and privations of the body—and at that moment he loved her dearer than ever, for never had her unrivalled attachment been so perfectly displayed.

Stephano withdrew, leaving the husband and the wife to seek consolation in the possession of each other’s attachment.

On the fifth morning, Sebastian was surprised by the appearance of the Auditor-General with his secretaries, who entering his cell, regarded him some time with severe scrutiny. “I am come hither,” said he, “to ask you for the first and last time, whether you persist in your imposture? if you abjure your crime, and consent to make public confession of it before all men, I am commissioned by our sovereign, Philip III. to promise you life and liberty: but if you continue thus to maintain a falsehood, you will either be left to linger out your days on bread and water, or perish at once by the hands of the executioner. What is your reply?”

Sebastian turned on him a look of exceeding majesty: “I disclaim your authority with that of your master, for I am his equal and his kinsman: let him do with me as he will, I will still call God to witness that I am that self-same Sebastian King of Portugal, who in the year 1578, passed into Africa against the Moors; and the very same, who to augment the name and the power of the Christians, put his life to the hazard, together with that of twenty thousand brave men, whom his criminal obstinacy devoted to slaughter. I am that unfortunate Prince, who for the punishment of his sins lost the battle of Alcazar!—this is a truth which I may not deny without endangering my immortal soul. Deal with me as you are commanded, I will continue to utter the same words, in prison or at the stake.”

Sebastian turned from him as he concluded, and awed by his royal manner, the auditor with his notaries (who had taken down the King’s words in writing) departed without further speech.

Day after day now lingered by, and as they passed they cast a deeper gloom over the prospects of Sebastian. The Count Lemos grew worse, and Sossa (naturally of a harsh temper, and devoted to Philip) prohibited the slightest mitigation of suffering to the unfortunate Sebastian.

Not for himself did Sebastian grieve, but for her whose tender heart and delicate frame, were so ill suited to the rigours of their destiny. Yet alas! his grief was vain and powerless.

Nearly two weeks had elapsed, when Stephano entered with a glad look, to communicate the news of Count Lemos’s disorder having taken a favourable turn; and to assure Sebastian that his friend the secretary (whose mediation had procured to Kara Aziek the liberty of sharing her husband’s fate) had promised to inform his master, of the peculiar severity with which the alleged Calabrian was treated.

The secretary kept his promise. No sooner was Count Lemos in a situation to investigate business, than he granted Don Sebastian permission to appear before him, and for that purpose had him brought privately to his house.

Neither time nor suffering could wholly deface the rare lineaments of him, who might once have stood forth the model of manly beauty. Lemos was not long of recognising in this interesting stranger the noble and heart-winning Sebastian: he looked at him with sorrow and surprize; and having questioned him on several matters known only to themselves, he acknowledged himself convinced.

But the old nobleman was too well versed in the character of ambition, to hope that Philip’s persecution arose from a real belief of imposture: he justly thought that his august prisoner was secretly devoted to a lingering death, and thus trusted to his keeping, from the apprehension, that if brought either into Spain or Portugal, his escape would be productive of more immediate danger, or his death exasperate the people into a revolt.

Lemos could only promise what he sincerely meant to perform, a strong testimonial to the truth of Sebastian, and a consequent remonstrance with his royal master: should that fail, he must content himself with watching over the life of his prisoner, and yielding him all the comforts within his power: to permit his escape, a nice sense of honor forbade.

“Whatever be the trust reposed in me, Sire!” he said, “if I accept it, I am bound to hold it inviolate: and as my respect may sweeten your majesty’s hard destiny, to refuse the charge of your person would be only to deliver you up into the hands of a severer guardian.”

Too grateful for any amelioration of his fate, since that of Kara Aziek was inseparable from it, Sebastian urged not a single argument against the opinion of Count Lemos: he bestowed a warm eulogium upon his justice and generosity, and accepted with gladness the offer he made him of future protection.

By Lemos’s orders, the royal prisoners were removed into the best chamber of the fortress, where Stephano and his sister were permitted to wait on them. Books, musical instruments, and occasional walks in the garden, under certain restrictions, now lightened their captivity: air and better diet quickly restored some bloom to the cheek of Kara Aziek, and the information (which she covertly obtained during the visit of Count Lemos) that the Medina Sidonia family remained undisturbed, brought back some peace to her mind. But anxiety for the ultimate end of their misfortunes, devoured the inmost part of her heart, and like a canker-worm, preyed on the source of life.

It was well for Sebastian that some innocent recreations enlivened his captivity, since the prospect of ever being released, seemed daily less probable. Philip’s answer to Lemos, had been in his usual strain of artful moderation: afraid of exasperating that most respectable of his nobles, into a revolt from his authority, and a public espousal of Don Sebastian’s interests, he deemed it wise to tolerate him in dispensing those indulgencies to the prisoner, which he boldly avowed his intention of always allowing; while at the same time he peremptorily forbade the viceroy to write or to speak to him in defence of an impostor. This title Philip scrupled not to give him, in defiance of the Count’s testimony, being determined to resolve every difficulty into the unreal solution of those days, absolute sorcery.

Several of the Portuguese, who had openly taken part with Sebastian, were outlawed, and their properties confiscated: amongst them were Don Christopher of Crato, and Juan De Castro.

Braganza’s high birth and vast influence alone saved him from feeling the heaviest weight of Spanish resentment: policy taught Philip not to exasperate the Portuguese too much, and Braganza was therefore spared. But in the persons of his retainers he felt the malice of his rival:—Father Sampayo was cast into the cells of the Inquisition on spiritual charges; and had not Texere escaped into England, (where Sir Anthony Shirley for the love he bore his master, granted him an honorable and safe asylum) he too must have groaned in the same dismal prison.

Either by threats or bribes, the Spanish King had allured into his views, nearly all of his courtiers that had been hardy enough to plead for a fair scrutiny of the pretender. Rome had launched her lightnings and terrified France again into silence: and in England, the disastrous fall of Essex, the death of Elizabeth, and the succession of James, had changed its politics, and rendered any expectation of support from that quarter a vain chimera.

To pass their lives in the castle Del Ovo, was therefore the last prospect that remained to Sebastian and to his blameless wife. When our fate appears inevitable, who is it that weakly continues to contend against it? Confiding their daughter’s future happiness to Heaven, and to the Duchess Medina Sidonia, they dried their tears, as they sometimes flowed, when thinking of their eternal separation, and taught themselves to rejoice in her liberty.

Of the world they now thought only as of a scene on which they should never more appear: they banished its hopes, its fears, its anxieties, and submitting to the divine decree, made their world in each other’s hearts.

Those qualities which had never failed to attract and to attach every one within their influence, still continued to win the affections of whatever persons approached them. Stephano and Baptista privately confessed to their friends, their admiration of the royal sufferers, and their firm belief of Sebastian’s just claim on liberty and dominion: these confidential discourses, spreading from confidant to confidant, at length diffused throughout Naples so lively an interest in the supposed impostor, that Sossa and others of Philip’s party became uneasy, and remonstrated against the indulgence of Count Lemos.

While persisting in his generous line of conduct, the good Lemos was seized by a return of his disorder, and in a very few days reduced to the brink of the grave: his son, who was just arrived from the Spanish court, and who came hotly zealous for the punishment of him, whom Philip affected to consider a base-born Calabrian, was summoned to the deathbed of his aged parent.

Count Lemos spoke of the prisoner: having listened patiently to the short but violent reply of his son, Lemos raised himself on his pillow, and addressing him with a solemn voice, said, “I am dying, my son! and the words of a dying man may be trusted.—As I hope for mercy and pardon at the judgment seat of Christ, I believe this man whom you call an impostor, to be the true and lawful Sebastian King of Portugal: as such I charge you (should my government devolve on you) treat him nobly; and let no worldly honours tempt you to touch his life, or to connive at the violence of others. Friends! you who surround and hear me at this awful moment, I charge you all to testify what I have said, and to bear with it, my dying request to my sovereign master Don Philip: I intreat him for his soul’s sake, to sift this matter more closely.”

Exhausted by this exertion, Count Lemos stopt, and laid his head back upon the pillow:—shortly after he breathed his last, and nothing remained of the venerable old man, but a clay-cold corpse.

This event was a fatal blow to the comparatively happy state of Sebastian and Kara Aziek: they were immediately remanded back to their dungeon by Sossa; for Lemos feared Philip too much to obey his departed father, and compromising with his conscience, by resigning the invidious task into another’s hand, pretended that an excess of filial grief, made him unfit to investigate so momentous a subject.

This severe treatment was followed by a visit from the stern auditor: he came to demand a second time, the outraged King’s reply to his insulting questions. Again Sebastian declared, that were he to live a thousand years, and every hour of that long period to be employed in making the same demand, he could not return any other answer than that he would live and die professing his truth and his wrongs; that he appealed to a public trial in his own dominions; that he protested against the injustice of his kinsman’s proceedings, and would persist in doing so to his last breath.

“Your sentence is then pronounced,” returned Sossa, as he departed, “your obstinacy condemns yourself: our illustrious and long-suffering monarch has condemned you for life to the galleys.”

As the auditor disappeared, Sebastian fixed a fond but sad look on the agitated features of Aziek. “Faint not, my beloved?” he said, “our appointed trials must be bravely borne to the last—every species of oppression and insult are to swell the cup of your Sebastian’s destiny; but remember the bitterness of that mortal draught is short, in comparison with the eternal spring, of which, through God’s grace I hope we shall drink together in Heaven.”

Kara Aziek smiled with a breaking heart, and filled with admiration of her husband’s magnanimity, earnestly prayed for strength to imitate so noble an example.

On the day which removed Sebastian to this new scene of misery, he was led from his prison to be conveyed to the gallies. Lemos and Sossa believed that to shew this compassionated sufferer to the expecting crowd under degrading circumstances, would be a surer antidote to their respect, than if they beheld him brought to public execution: they had therefore decreed that he should be led through the streets of Naples to the port, mounted on the most ignoble of animals, and followed by his faithful Aziek, in the meanest attire.

At the gate of the castle, he beheld multitudes of soldiers and spectators, and a herald holding the ass upon which he was to mount:[A] his countenance was unchanged: he placed himself on the lowly animal with a serene and majestic aspect that might have become a throne; it ennobled his sorry garments, and touched every beholder with respect and pity.

His eyes, (brightening as he moved) were fixed upon Heaven: it seemed as if in this triumph over human weakness and human passion, he felt the blessed earnest of eternal reward.

As Kara Aziek hastened to follow the slow progress of Sebastian, some unfeeling wretches scoffingly bade her behold the King her husband, and admire the splendor of his array; she flashed on her insulters a glance of honourable indignation, for in her heart was love and veneration united for him they contemned. No fear, no shame could find entrance there: love raised to enthusiasm by grief and admiration, irradiated her features, and gave its former bright flush to her burning cheek: a single black garment wrapt her somewhat wasted figure; her head and feet were bare, by orders of the merciless Sossa; but those delicate feet rending their tender surface against the sharp pavement of the streets, and that hair which fell dishevelled in all its beauty around her, excited only the more compassion. Beauty is the most touching orator; and the loveliness of Kara Aziek heightened the effect produced by her devoted attachment to the husband she followed.

As they moved along, preceded by a herald, proclaiming the offence and the sentence awarded to Sebastian, the murmurs which at first rose among the crowd, gradually died away, till an awful and unbroken silence universally prevailed. The people looked on each other with sorrow and amazement; while Sebastian now and then removing his eyes from Heaven, looked round upon the spectators with pardon and pity for their sin of consenting to so black an act. At times, when the herald called aloud, “this man whom traitors assert to be the King of Portugal, &c.” Sebastian would interrupt him in a loud voice, exclaiming, “and so I am,”—then resuming his calm attitude, proceed in dignified silence.

Arrived at his place of destination, he turned to bid farewel to some of his humblest friends, whom he recognized amongst the crowd. “Friends!” he said, “ere you lose sight of me for the last time perhaps, bear witness that I testify to the truth of my own assertion: I am Sebastian King of Portugal; this matchless woman my lawful and beloved wife. I submit humbly to the will of God, not basely to the oppression of man: my body I account for nothing; and upon that only, may Philip heap indignity and pain; my soul, is above his reach.

“From such of you as have suffered, or may suffer loss for my sake, I crave pardon and pity; the most grievous of my sorrow, is the consciousness of having caused sorrow to others: Heaven will reward you, since the unfortunate Sebastian has no longer any thing to bestow but his poor thanks.”

He had scarce spoken, when the sound of weeping was heard, and a woman pressing forward, threw herself on the earth before him and Kara Aziek: it was Paula the widow of Gaspar. At sight of her, Sebastian turned pale from excess of emotion, and tears gushed from his eyes. “My poor Gaspar!” he exclaimed, “I regretted thee when I should have rejoiced! hadst thou lived to see this woeful day!”

Sebastian stopt, for Kara Aziek’s long-stifled grief, now burst forth with such passionate violence at the prospect of separation from him (for she was denied the consolation of sharing his destiny) that his fortitude began to faint, and his limbs shook as he sought to support her.

Meanwhile Paula was calling on the people around, to witness, that since she now saw the person whom they had taken her to Venice to swear was Marco Cattizone, she denied his being so; that she recognized in him the former master of her deceased husband, and not that dear husband himself. She wept the memory of Gaspar with unfeigned sorrow, which encouraged Sebastian to require her care of his Aziek, for whom no better habitation offered an asylum than the humble one of Baptista and Stephano.

These good people had promised to receive and to comfort Kara Aziek at the fatal moment in which she must be severed from the partner of her life. Baptista engaged to effect occasional interviews between the wife and husband, through her influence over a young man in the galley to which Sebastian was doomed; and it was from this promise that Kara Aziek gained strength to live through the wretched scene in which she was now performing.

Amidst tears, embraces, lamentations, and exhortations, she was torn from the arms of Sebastian: he was hurried into the galley, and she led almost lifeless away to the lodging of Baptista.

Associated with slaves and malefactors, behold the once imperious and fiery King of Portugal submitting to his destiny with a resignation that gave a dignity to humiliation: he arraigned not Providence, for he remembered his past bigotry; and though the humanity of his nature had prevented him from carrying his zeal into absolute persecution, he ventured not to say how far that zeal might eventually have transported him; devising it just that he should find his present punishment from that disposition in others, which he had cherished in himself.

Even the most merciless of his oppressors in Naples, dared not outrage that dignity which awed them, by insisting on his labouring like a criminal at the oar: he was condemned to the galley merely as to a more public prison. Philip thus making a show of believing that the more he was seen, the less he would be credited; but in reality hoping that one of those malignant fevers common to the galleys, would soon send him to another world.

Stephano kept his word, and procured more than one meeting between the royal sufferers. Paula undertook to transmit an account of the King’s situation to his kinsman Braganza, by whom her infant was now protected. She herself was thus far on her way to rejoin the Duchess of Medina Sidonia in Spain, whither Paula found her gone to take leave of a dying friend. Paula used all her rhetoric to persuade Kara Aziek to accompany her: but not even the temptation of beholding Blanche again, could swerve the conjugal love of Aziek: she was determined to follow the fate of her husband, wherever it might lead; and as the Duchess held in her possession the little remnant of their wealth, and might transmit it through Paula, Aziek resolved to avail herself of Stephano’s protection, and dwell at least in the vicinity of the galleys.

Charged with letters to their beloved child, and to the Duchess, in which the anxious parents besought all efforts for their own happiness to cease, and nothing be attempted but for that of Blanche, Paula departed from Naples.

No sooner was the injured King of Portugal placed in a situation which exposed him to all eyes, than crowds flocked to see and to converse with him. Every day, every hour, produced fresh testimonies to his truth: and had not religious prejudices enfeebled their compassion, and lowered their respect, the Neapolitans would have joined the loyal Portuguese in rescuing him by force from the galleys.

This universal discontent so far alarmed the new Count Lemos, that he dispatched a messenger to Madrid, with a detail of what he feared: the consequence of his dispatch, was an order for the galleys to quit the Mediterranean and come down to the western coast of Spain.

Not even this change, could divide Kara Aziek from Sebastian: she followed him in a little vessel bound for the same port, accompanied by Baptista, whom kindness and fidelity had endeared to her, and rendered her chief solace.

The galleys were commanded to ride in the bay of St. Lucar: and at St. Lucar Kara Aziek took up her abode.

Unknown and unnoticed, she depended solely on the humanity of Baptista’s lover, for distant interviews with her husband.

The saddest period of Kara Aziek’s life was now present: she lived forlorn of every comfort except only the humble attentions of her servant, and the occasional sight of him from whom she once fondly hoped nothing less than death would ever have parted her. She beheld this object of her heart’s idolatry, loaded with chains, and condemned to the vilest of human stations: her imagination pictured the closing scene of this dismal tragedy, and presented him at the stake, or on the block. Her amiable daughter was now far away, and too probably the eyes of each fond parent would close for ever without beholding her again. Their private friends were dead, or dispersed; their more potent ones, the sovereigns of Europe, changed by circumstances, or rendered powerless from necessities of their own. All around was dark and dreary; and wherever she looked, still the same black horizon shut in her fate.

Where is the spirit that can resist calamities so heavy? Religion may enable us to curb complaint, to submit with humility and a thorough conviction that he who ordains, is all-wise, and all good; but not even religion can benumb “the nerve whence agony is born:” The heart may break while it yields.

Kara Aziek felt hers to be fast decaying: sorrow wasted her bodily strength, and with it her mental energy. A deep sadness was fixed upon her countenance, and heavy and continual sighs (of which she was herself unconscious) told the attached Baptista, that her suffering mistress was hastening to the repose of Heaven.

At this period, Baptista unexpectedly heard that the family of Medina Sidonia had a residence in the neighbourhood of St. Lucar, and were coming to visit it: she imparted this to Kara Aziek, believing Paula likely to be in the Duchess’s suite, and knowing of no other interesting object; this intelligence lifted up the soul of the fond mother; she hazarded a letter to the Duchess through the medium of Paula, and remained with trembling eagerness anticipating an answer.