W.H.G. Kingston (continued 11)

“You will perform good service to our holy order, and to our sacred religion,” returned Father Jacinto.

“To that have I ever devoted my life and energies,” said Father Malagrida.

“Truly have you ever been the great upholder of the faith, and have gained the esteem of our community, and the admiration of the world,” answered Father Jacinto.

“A little flattery will incite this madman to the work,” he thought. “If it fails, it will be easy to persuade the world that the idea arose but from the wild workings of his disordered brain. No one will venture to suppose that we could have been the instigators.”

“Brother, I must depart to the wilderness, where the wickedness of this second Pharaoh, and his evil counsellor, have compelled me to dwell,” said Malagrida. “In three days we shall meet again, I trust triumphant; till then, farewell.”

“Farewell, my brother,” returned Father Jacinto, and they separated; the latter, after leaving the deserted garden, returning to his convent, while Malagrida sought the river’s side. He there found a boat awaiting him, with a single rower. He silently took his seat in the stern, and the man plying his oars with vigour, the small skiff shot rapidly from the shore. The Jesuit, keeping a watchful eye on every side, directed her course so as to avoid any of the boats rowing guard on the river, which might have impeded his progress.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

On the following morning, the King, accompanied by his Ministers, and the chief officers of his household, held a grand review of all the troops quartered in and about Lisbon, in an open space in the neighbourhood of Belem.

After performing various evolutions, in no very perfect manner, it must be confessed, the troops marched past him in close order. At the head of a regiment of horse, called the Chaves Cavalry, rode the Marquis of Tavora, he being their colonel. He bowed respectfully to his sovereign, and passed on to form his men in line with the other troops, before firing the parting salute.

“That man can be no traitor,” said the King, in a low voice, to Carvalho, who was close to him.

“I wish he was the only one in the kingdom,” answered the Minister; “but I fear me there are many more.”

“I trust you are mistaken, my good friend,” replied Joseph. “If there are no worse than the Marquis of Tavora in my kingdom, I shall have little to fear.”

“Some day I shall be able to convince your Majesty by clear proofs,” said the Minister; “otherwise I would not thus alarm you with reports which may seem idle.”

The Portuguese army was at this time the very worst in Europe. Through the supine negligence of former sovereigns, it had been allowed to become completely disorganised. The troops were ill paid, ill clothed, and ill fed. The officers, chiefly of the inferior grades of society, were ignorant of their duty, and illiterate, without a particle of the esprit de corps among them; nor did Carvalho, among his other designs at this period, take any measures to improve them.

The review being over, the King returned to his palace at Belem, where he received all those who had the entrée at Court. On these occasions, it was the custom for the nobles to assemble first, when the sovereign, entering the rooms, passed among them, addressing each in their turn in a familiar way.

It was the duty of Teixeira, the chief domestic of the King, and the confidant of his amours, to stand at the door of the ante-room, to see that none but the privileged entered. He had, some time before, from some insolent behaviour, seriously offended the Marquis of Tavora, who threatened him with punishment. When the Marquis now approached, Teixeira, who was standing directly in the way, pretended not to observe him. The Marquis, enraged at the premeditated insult, exclaimed, “Stand out of my way, base pander, or I will run my sword through your body.”

“If I am a pander, as your Excellency thinks fit to call me,” answered Teixeira, turning round, and eyeing him malignantly, “I am one to your wife and daughter, haughty noble.”

“Wretched slave, dare you speak thus to me?” returned the Marquis, forgetting, at the moment, that he was within the precincts of the palace; “you shall rue those insolent words;” and half drawing his sword, he made as if he would put his threat into execution.

“Your Excellency forgets where you are,” exclaimed the servant, trembling for his life.

“I do not, nor do you, when you venture to speak thus,” answered the Marquis; “but remember, insolent wretch, you will not escape punishment as easily as you expect;” and passing on, without speaking another word, he entered the principal apartment.

When the King appeared, he made his complaint of Teixeira’s insolence; but the former, assuring him that the insult was not intended, took no further notice of the circumstance.

The Levée, for so it might properly be called, being quickly over, the King retiring to his private apartments, the Marquis returned to his home. As he sat down to dinner with the Marchioness and his family, while the domestics were standing round, he complained bitterly of the manner in which Teixeira had insulted him, and of the King’s indifference to his complaints.

“The servant has but learnt to copy his master,” said the Marchioness. “Yet he deserves a severe chastisement, though it would disgrace your rank to bestow it. There are, however, many of your followers who will gladly avenge their master’s honour.”

Several of the attendants, who hated Teixeira for his good fortune, not more than for the insolence with which he had treated them, looked eagerly towards their master, as if they would willingly undertake the office; but he, either not observing them, or pretending not to do so, made no answer, and soon turned the conversation.

When left alone with her lord, the Marchioness used her utmost eloquence to persuade him to take instant vengeance for the insult he had received; for the circumstance alarmed her, lest her own plots might, by some extraordinary means, have been discovered.

“Depend on it,” she said, “if the servant dares thus to act, he knows full well that his master will not be displeased.”

“I think not thus of the King,” answered the Marquis. “He has some faults, but he has too much respect for himself to ill-treat his nobles. On another occasion, I will complain of this villain Teixeira’s conduct, and I doubt not he will be dismissed.”

“I think far differently from you, my lord,” returned the Marchioness. “The King, by the instigation of his upstart Minister, has become jealous of the power and wealth of our Puritano families. In every one of us he has been taught to suspect a foe, and he waits but the first opportunity to crush us.”

“Your feelings of indignation have exaggerated the danger, Donna Leonora. The only foe we have to fear is the Minister; and we must endeavour, by exhibiting our love and devotion to our sovereign, to counteract his evil influence.”

“It will be the very way to increase the suspicions of the King,” returned the Marchioness. “Half measures are of no avail. If we are to retain our wealth and influence, if we are to remain grandees of Portugal, we must either compel the King to dismiss his counsellor, or he himself must suffer the punishment of his obstinacy.”

“What mean you?” exclaimed the Marquis, with an alarmed expression of countenance.

“I mean, my lord,” returned Donna Leonora, with a firm voice, “that the King who dares insult his nobles, who interferes with our privileges, who is a despiser of religion, and heaps contumely on its ministers, must die.”

“Great heavens! utter not such dreadful treason!” cried the Marquis. “The very walls might hear you; and such thoughts alone might bring ruin on yourself and your whole family. From henceforth banish such an idea from your mind.”

“Never!” exclaimed the Marchioness. “I have far too great a respect for our family honour, and for our holy religion, to submit tamely to such indignities. If you forget that you are a Tavora and a Catholic, I do not forget that I am your wife.”

“I prize the honour of my family as I do my life, but it shall never be said that a Tavora became a traitor to his sovereign,” said the Marquis.

“None shall have cause to say it, my lord,” answered his wife; “it is unsuccessful treason which is alone so stigmatised, and the noble enterprise in which I would have you engage will, I have been assured by a voice from heaven, succeed.”

“Say rather, by the instigations of the evil one,” said the Marquis, with agitation.

“It was through the voice of that living saint, the holy Father Malagrida,” responded Donna Leonora. “He has ever led me in the right path to holiness, and why should I now doubt his words? Oh, harden not your heart, my lord, but put faith in that holy man, for be assured whatever he utters proceeds alone from the fountain of truth. Of what object would have been all his fastings, his penances, and his prayers, if Heaven had not more particularly selected him among men to utter the words of truth to mankind? I feel assured that those who follow his advice cannot err; then wherefore hesitate in this ease?”

“I doubt not the sanctity of the Father Malagrida, Donna Leonora, but I have reason to doubt his sanity. His enthusiastic mind has been overthrown, and what he now conceives to be the inspirations of Heaven, are but the workings of a disordered imagination.”

“Cease, cease, my lord, from giving utterance to such dreadful impiety,” exclaimed the Marchioness, interrupting him; “do not peril your immortal soul by speaking blasphemy. The holy Father Malagrida insane? The greatest prophet of modern days, the speaker of unknown tongues, a mere mad enthusiast! Oh, my beloved lord, say not thus, as you value my happiness.”

“I will not discuss the character of the Father Malagrida,” answered the Marquis. “But tell me how you would wish me to act, for against the sacred life of his Majesty will I not lift up my hand.”

“I would wish you to act like a high noble of Portugal, worthy of your Puritano descent,” returned Donna Leonora. “I would wish you to protect the high order to which you belong from the encroachments of the King and his Minister, and I would wish you to take fitting vengeance for every insult offered you.”

“In overthrowing the Minister, am I ready to hazard all; and never will I act otherwise than as becomes a high noble of the realm; nor will my sword be slow to avenge any insult offered to me or mine; but of the King have I ever been a faithful servant, and faithful will I die. Urge me then no more to engage in conspiracies which can but end in the destruction of all concerned.” The Marquis rose as he spoke, and quitted the apartment, as the most easy way of finishing the discussion.

His lady gazed at his retiring form, but attempted not to stop him. “Oh! that I were a man, to lead the faint-hearted beings with whom I am associated!” she exclaimed. “The slightest shadow of danger frightens them from the most noble undertakings; the prophets of Heaven counsel them, but they will not listen to their words; even if the dead were to arise to assure them of it, they would not believe that the deed is a righteous one, and must be successful. Yet have I still some hopes that my lord will not close his ears to the divine words of the holy Malagrida, and that he may be brought round to follow his counsels. I will pray to the Blessed Virgin that she will turn his heart to the right path.”

The Marchioness then retired to her own chamber, and, throwing herself on her knees before her private altar, she poured forth her prayers to her patron saint for the success of an enterprise, which was for the destruction of a King, the placing an usurper on his throne, the restoration of a tyrannical order of the priesthood, and the enslaving a whole people with the grossest of superstitions; yet not for a moment did it occur to her that she was performing an act otherwise than grateful to Heaven. No; she fully believed that her motives were pure and holy; and she felt assured that pride, ambition, and hatred formed no part of her incentives to action. Yet were they the chief motives, veiled from her own eyes by a fancied zeal for religion.

In the mean time, Antonio and Manoel Ferreira, two of the principal servants of the Marquis, as soon as they were released from attendance on their master, hurried off to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro, which was at no great distance from that of the Tavoras.

“What think you that villain Teixeira deserves for thus daring to insult our lord?” said Manoel to his brother, as they walked along.

“Nothing less than his death would satisfy me, if I were in our master’s place,” answered Antonio.

“My very thought,” said the other.

“But then, you know that it would be beneath the dignity of so great a lord as our master to slay with his own hand a man of such low birth as this upstart Teixeira,” observed Antonio.

“The very thing I was going to say; but should we not be doing a service to our lord, think you, and be well paid for it too, if we were to put a piece of lead into this impudent servant of the King’s,” said Manoel. “For my part, I should have no scruples on the subject, and we should have plenty of opportunities as he drives about at night in his carriage, for no good purpose either—the base villain—I warrant. How proud he has become, too, with his fine clothes and his carriage! Why, I recollect him no better than either of us were at that time, when he was glad enough to call us his friends, and now he would not speak to us if he met us.”

“True enough, brother,” observed Antonio. “Yet, where is the difference? We are honest men, and serve a Marquis, he is a rogue, and serves a King;—so he rides inside a carriage of his own, while we ride outside our master’s.”

“The vain upstart! He does serve a King, in more ways than one; but he shall pay dearly for it,” exclaimed Manoel. “You heard what our lady said at dinner to-day, and I think it is our duty to take the hint.”

“What mean you?” asked Antonio.

“Mean I? it is clear enough—that we are bound to shoot him, of course,” returned the other. “You have grown dull, Antonio. You see we shall thus serve ourselves and our master into the bargain.”

“I understand you clearly enough now; but should we not to a certainty be discovered?” asked the less daring Antonio.

“It would matter little if we were, after the deed was done. Our master could protect us,” returned Manoel.

“We will think about it to-morrow,” said Antonio. “I wonder what Senhor Policarpio wanted with us this evening, that he insisted we must visit him.”

“We shall soon learn, for here we are at the gate. Now, he is a man I like; though he is chief servant of a duke, there is no pride or vanity about him. He is just as friendly with us as ever.”

Manoel having pronounced this eulogium on Senhor Policarpio, they entered the gates of the Quinta, and went in search of their friend. He received them with all imaginable courtesy, and conducted them to his own apartment, where a repast was spread in readiness for them by his own servant.

“Welcome, senhors,” said Senhor Policarpio. “I have done my best to entertain you; for, when such friends as you are honour me with their company, I like to be hospitable.” The two followers of the Marquis bowed at the compliment. “Ah! it is not every day I have this pleasure,” continued the host. “But never mind, we shall soon all see better days, when a certain friend of mine becomes higher than he even now is, and Senhor Don Joseph finishes his life. The sooner he does so the better, as far as I am concerned.”

We do not intend to detail the conversation of these worthy personages; indeed, it is so nearly illegible in the manuscript before us, that it would be a work of great labour to decipher it. During the time, Senhor Policarpio went to a closet, from which he produced three guns, or rather blunderbusses, praising their excellent qualities. At first sight of them, his guests seemed much alarmed by the observations he at the same time made; but, quickly recovering, he persuaded them to repair with him to a retired part of the garden, where they might exercise themselves by firing at a mark.

While they were thus occupied, the lovely Duchess of Aveiro was seated in her drawing-room, with her embroidery frame before her, gazing over the orange groves at the lovely scene which the Castle of Belem on one side, and the placid river, now shining in the light of the setting sun, and covered with vessels and boats, presented. A fine boy, of some fifteen years old, was in the room; her only son, the young Marquis of Gouvea. He was leaning against the side of the window opposite to her, regarding her with a look of affection and respect, when the Duke abruptly entered. He threw his hat on the table with an indignant air, as he exclaimed—“By Heavens! I have again been insulted by this King beyond all bearance! He has had the audacity to declare to me that my son, forsooth, cannot marry the daughter of the Duke of Cadaval; and when I demanded his reasons for the refusal, he chose to give none. I told him that they were betrothed, and that I had set my heart on the match, as one in every way suitable to both parties; when he only answered, that he had arranged it differently. What say you, my son? how do you like losing a fair bride through the caprice of a tyrant?”

“That I wish I were a man, to carry her off in spite of him,” answered the young Marquis.

“Spoken like my son!” exclaimed the Duke. “But you shall not be disappointed. His days are numbered; and then we shall see who will venture to dispute our authority.”

At these words the Duchess looked anxiously up at her husband. “I trust that you allude not to the designs you once spoke to me about,” she said. “I had long hoped you had abandoned them.”

“Why did you nourish so foolish a hope, lady?” exclaimed the Duke. “I should have thought my wife was equally interested with myself in their success.”

“I hoped so because I feel convinced that they cannot fail to bring destruction on yourself, and ruin on all your family; to drag many to the scaffold, if you are unsuccessful; and to introduce the horrors of a civil war into the country should they succeed: but such cannot be; Heaven will not favour so guilty a purpose. Oh! hear me, my lord. Abandon the dark and evil designs you have meditated. If you have any remaining love for your wife, if you regard the interests of your son, think not again of them.”

The Duke laughed scornfully, as he asked, “What! would you not wish to be a queen, and see your son a prince?”

“I would far rather be a peasant’s wife, than the queen of a blood-stained usurper; for, to become a king, such you must be,” answered the Duchess, boldly. “No, my lord, I would not be cheated of my happiness by so deceitful a phantom.”

“Silence, madam!” exclaimed the Duke, angrily. “This is but weak folly. Would not you wish to be a prince, my boy?” he said, turning to his son.

“Gladly, if my father becomes a king,” answered the young Marquis.

“Fear not, my boy. You shall be so; before long, too; but speak not of it, though I know I can trust you. Such I cannot your cousin, who would turn pale at the very thoughts of the enterprise; so utter not to him a syllable of what I have said.”

His wife rose, trembling with agitation, to make a last appeal, and laying her hand upon his arm, she exclaimed, “Let me solemnly implore you to desist from this purpose; it cannot thrive—even should the King fall, you cannot succeed to his throne; the nobles and people would rise up in one body against you, and hurl you, with your few friends, to destruction. Many who now, for their own interests, are cordial, would desert you, and, instead of a throne, you would mount a scaffold.”

The Duke turned a scornful smile on her as she spoke, but she continued boldly,—“Last night I dreamed of this, and that I saw you, mangled and bloody, upon the ground, while a rude mob stood around, gazing at you with scoffs and jeers.”

“Silence, foolish woman!” suddenly exclaimed the Duke, shaking her off, though turning pale at the thought of what she described. “I remain not to hear such mad nonsense as this. Go, and learn more wisdom;” and, with an angry frown on his brow, he rushed from the room.

The Duchess gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears, while her son threw himself into her arms with fond solicitude, endeavouring to soothe her agitation, but in vain. She saw too clearly the dreadful future.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

If the country inns of Portugal are bad, those of the cities are very little better. So thought Luis d’Almeida, as, towards the evening of a day at the very end of autumn, accompanied by his faithful Pedro, he rode into the capital. So think, also, most travellers of the present time, except when they are fortunate enough to secure rooms at the one or two tolerable hotels which Lisbon now affords.

Luis had never before been compelled to seek lodgings, having always had his father’s palace to which to resort; so that now he was at a loss whither to direct his steps; for so unfitted did he feel himself for society, that he was very unwilling to seek for the hospitality of several friends, who he knew, however, would be very willing to afford it.

At last Pedro, who was very anxious to get housed in some place or other, intimated to his master that he had the honour of claiming as a relation an old lady who lived in a small house in the suburbs; that she was of the highest respectability, for her husband had held an office under government; and, indeed, she was apt rather to look down upon the number of poor relations who insisted on her acknowledging them as nephews, nieces, and cousins, to the sixth degree. Pedro, however, felt confident that, notwithstanding her high pretensions, she would be happy to receive, as a lodger in her house, a young nobleman so highly esteemed as his master; and he undertook, if Don Luis would ride as far, to assure him of a cordial reception, provided she had not, by any chance since he heard of her, departed this life, or from any other reason changed her residence. Luis very gladly acceded to Pedro’s proposal, for he was fatigued both in body and mind, and he thought that, in so remote a part of the city, he should be better able to avoid the annoyances to which he must be subject in a more public situation.

As they reached the house Pedro had indicated, he looked up, and, to his great delight, beheld an old lady busily employed in knitting at the open window.

“There she is, Senhor Conde,” exclaimed Pedro. “That is my good aunt, and as kind an old lady as ever lived, when nothing puts her out of her way.”

The old lady, hearing horses stopping at her door, put her head out of the window to see what it could possibly mean, when Pedro, bowing most respectfully, exclaimed, “Ah! my good aunt, my master and I have come a long way to see you; now do not come down, I will run upstairs to explain matters;” and, leaping from his horse, he begged the Count to excuse him, while he performed his promise.

As may be supposed, he had no great difficulty in persuading the old lady to receive a gallant cavalier like Luis for her guest, and she forthwith hurried down to pay him due honour. Pedro, assisting his master to dismount, the hostess conducted him upstairs, when, begging him to be seated, after various little complimentary speeches, she set about preparing a repast for him: with the aid of Pedro, and a little damsel, her maid-servant, a room also was made ready for his reception.

By the time these arrangements were completed, it was too late to think of going out in search of his friends, and he was glad when he was at length able to retire to his room. He threw himself on his bed, but not to sleep; the images of the past haunted him, and sad forebodings for the future. He thought of the danger to which Theresa was exposed, indefinite, and therefore more to be dreaded, and of the aid which he had pledged himself to afford, by means uncertain, perhaps criminal. He knew full well the passionate and fierce disposition of the young Marquis of Tavora, and that no fears for the consequences would make him hesitate in proposing any measures which might rescue his wife, or, at the worst, vindicate his honour.

Early the following morning, Luis despatched Pedro to inform his young friend, Jozé de Tavora, of his arrival; for, remembering the warnings of the Minister and of his mysterious friend, Senhor Mendez, he was unwilling to become more intimate with the rest of the family than was necessary, and therefore refrained from visiting at their house except on occasions when custom required it.

Luis had just taken his morning meal, when the young Tavora rushed into the room, and embracing him with affectionate warmth, exclaimed, “I lost not a moment, my dear Luis, in hastening hither, when I heard of your arrival. Say, you have come to aid us; you have come to join the noble cause of justice and honour, arrayed against the overbearing tyranny of the plebeian Minister, and his profligate tool—the so-called King of Portugal?”

“I came to offer my aid, if necessary, in rescuing my cousin Theresa from the persecutions of the King,” answered the young Count; “but in no other scheme ought I to engage, nor will I; for I feel assured, that maintaining the peace and happiness of the people at large is of paramount importance, to avenging any slight, which we nobles, as a body, may conceive ourselves to have suffered. Beforehand, therefore, I warn you not to attempt to induce me to engage in any enterprise which will in any way cause disorder or bloodshed in the country.”

“What! can you, one of the purest of our class, speak thus?” exclaimed the young Tavora. “Is not our honour paramount to every other consideration? Surely we ought not for a moment to weigh it with the interests of the base plebeians,—the scum of the earth,—wretches beneath our notice. In that creed have I been educated, and in that will I die.”

“’Tis a creed, my young friend, which, put in practice, has already injured us, and will finally drag us all to destruction,” answered Luis. “Let us endeavour to maintain our position in the scale of society, as did our noble ancestors, by being the foremost in every danger, the most upright, and the most honourable; then no one will venture to molest or insult us; but, by following any other course, we may, in a moment, find ourselves hurled from our high posts, and trampled on in the dust damp with our gore.”

“In Heaven’s name, my dear Luis, where did you gain these extraordinary ideas?” cried his visitor. “I did not suppose such could exist in the brain of any fidalgo in Portugal.”

“They are taught by the study of every history, from the earliest times to the present day,” answered Luis, smiling at his own vehemence. “But we will not now discuss the subject. Tell me, where are Donna Theresa and your brother?”

“She is at their palace; but he,—you know his temper,—is not there. He is offended at her conduct, and vows he will not return to her till she promises never again to exchange a word with the King. This she, being equally firm, will not do; so that they are not exactly on the best terms for husband and wife; but I suppose that they will, before long, get tired of being separated, and so make up their quarrel, as other people do.”

“Alas! I regret to hear this,” said Luis. “She is thus left exposed to the persecutions of the King.”

“So I tell my brother,” interrupted the young Tavora; “but do not speak of it—my heart burns when I think on the subject. Will you come with me to-night where you can meet him, and you may be able to persuade him what is right to be done? He knows, perfectly well, since his quarrel with the King, that he hates him; so that he has thought it wiser not to appear anywhere in public, and is, at present, in a place of concealment, whither I will conduct you. Will you go with me this evening?”

Luis, without making further inquiries as to the spot where the young Marquis was concealed, promised to visit him, in company with his brother. After some time more spent in conversation, the younger Tavora agreed to call for Luis, with a horse for his use, desiring that Pedro might be in attendance, to take charge of it, while they approached his brother’s abode on foot. These arrangements having been made, his visitor took his departure; leaving Luis, for the rest of the day, to his own solitary meditations; for he felt utterly averse to moving from the house, and mixing with the noisy and careless crowd in the city below. He attempted to read, but in vain, so he threw his book aside, and paced the room for many hours, unable to concentrate his thoughts on one point. He could not divest himself of the feeling, that some indefinite disaster was hanging over him, yet that he wanted the power to avoid it. It is a sensation we have often ourselves experienced, although our forebodings have seldom, if ever, been accomplished; until, at last, we have learned to consider them as arising more from the effects of past sorrows, fears, or annoyances, than from any prescience of forthcoming events. Luis, however, had many reasons for his feelings, both from the past and for the future. His spirits were lowered by many griefs; the loss of her he loved—his father’s death—the destruction of his property,—and he was too well aware that many dangers surrounded him; for, from the language his young friend had used, in the course of their conversation, he could not help suspecting that the younger Marquis was meditating some desperate plot against the government, if not against the King himself; nor could he tell how far he might find himself compromised by his connexion with him.

Daylight had nearly departed, when Jozé de Tavora, with a servant on a second horse, rode up to the house.

“Up, mount, my dear Count!” he exclaimed, as soon as Luis appeared at the door. “I have brought you a good steed, and we have no time to lose. Our servants must follow in the best way they can on foot, and keep us in sight. I will tell you whither lies our course as we ride along.”

Luis, accordingly, desiring Pedro to follow, mounted a dark stout Spanish horse, provided for him; and at an easy pace, the fastest, however, that the execrable roads would allow of, they wound their way for a considerable distance through the outskirts of the city, to the north of Belem, passing beneath one of the vast arches of the grand aqueduct, which had, fortunately, escaped the devastating effects of the earthquake with but slight injury, and then, turning to the left, they approached the river to the westward of the castle.

“Whither are we going?” asked Luis. “Are we near your brother’s abode?”

“We are yet a long way from it,” answered his companion, “though we go not much further on horseback. I ought to have told you, that a considerable part of our journey must be by water; yet, as it is a fine night, that will be by far the most agreeable mode of conveyance, if you do not object to it.”

Luis assenting to the proposal, they soon after reached a sheltered spot beneath a high wall, where, dismounting, they left their horses in charge of the servants, and proceeded on foot to the river’s side.

The bank was in that spot high and steep, so that they were obliged to descend by a narrow and winding path to reach the water, and when there, no boat was to be seen, and not a sound was heard but the gentle ripple of the tide upon the shore, or the sudden splash of some finny inhabitant of the stream, as it leapt up from its limpid home. Jozé de Tavora, after waiting impatiently for some minutes, gave a low whistle; the silence still continued unbroken,—he again gave a second and third signal, when it was answered, at a short distance from where they stood, and a boat shot from behind a little promontory which jutted out into the river. The crew, on seeing two persons, seemed in some doubt whether they ought to approach, but the young Tavora again signalising to them, they pulled in without hesitation.

“Why were you not waiting at this spot, as I ordered you?” he asked.

“We came here first, senhor,” answered one of the two men in the boat; “but we saw two or three persons on the shore, who seemed watching us, so we pulled round beneath yonder point, where we could be out of sight.”

“You did well, though they were, probably, but chance idlers. Come, Luis, we will embark,” he added, stepping into the boat, followed by his companion. “Now, my men, bend to your oars!” he said, taking the helm, and guiding the bark down the stream.

It was a lovely night, though so late in the year: the air was soft and balmy, the water smooth as a polished mirror, reflecting the bright and glittering stars which shone from the deep blue sky. The scene and hour had a soothing effect on the spirits of Luis, as he leaned back in the boat, and gave himself up to their calm influence. Now and then they would pass through a shoal of fish, sporting on the surface, their bright scales shining in the light of some lustrous star. Far off, too, the song of the fisherman would rise in the still air, as he sallied forth to his night of toil; and in the distance might be seen the sails of the larger fishing-boats, as they slowly glided up with the current, or the canvas of some vessel looming large through the obscurity, like some giant phantom of the deep. Not a word was exchanged for some way; and at length, when Jozé de Tavora broke the silence, by addressing his friend, their conversation was carried on in low whispers, which could scarcely have been heard by the men who rowed the boat. After rowing about two miles, at a sufficient distance from the shore to be unnoticed from thence, the boat’s head was directed again towards it, at a spot where the shattered remains of some building could be seen rising against the sky. Luis demanded of his companion whither they were now going.

“To yonder ruins,” he said, “of a summer residence of the good monks of the convent of San Bento. It was once a lovely spot, but the sea destroyed the grounds, and the earthquake shattered the walls, though there are still some chambers which escaped total destruction.”

He had got thus far in his description, when the boat ran alongside the remains of a quay and jetty, from whence the friars used to embark on their fishing expeditions, or when they chose the water as a means of conveyance to the city. Stepping on shore with Luis, he ordered the men to wait their return, and led the way towards the ruins, which were at some little distance from the landing-place. They proceeded among heaps of walls overthrown, shattered pillars, formed to support the graceful vines which overshadowed the long cool walks, and fragments of broken statues, which had ornamented the sides of the tanks, once stocked with fish; but the flood had uprooted the vines, and carried away the aqueducts which supplied the tanks. Passing beneath an archway, once forming the entrance to the convent, and winding through several passages open to the sky above, they arrived at a small door, through the chinks of which a light streamed forth. The young Tavora knocked three times without hesitation, at the same time mentioning his name, and begging to be admitted.

“You will find more persons here than you expect,” he said to Luis, during the time which elapsed before the door was opened; “and many whom you will be surprised to meet in this place; but they are all friends of my family, who have come hither to listen to the exhortations of a holy and pious man, who has resided here for some time past, concealed from the persecutions of those who hate him for his virtue and zeal for religion.”

“I thought we had come hither to see your brother,” answered Luis. “If there are strangers here, whom I may not wish to meet, I will wait outside in the garden till they have departed, or till he can come to meet me.”

“There are none you can object to meet,” eagerly responded Jozé de Tavora. “See, the door opens. Come, you must enter, or our friends will be disappointed, and look upon you in the light of an enemy.” And, taking the arm of Luis, he led him forward a few steps through the portal, when the door was suddenly closed behind them.

“Your blessing, Father,” said Jozé de Tavora, to a tall figure, in the black habit of the order of Loyola, who stood before them, holding a lamp in his hand.

“You have it, my son,” answered the deep-toned voice of the Jesuit Malagrida. “And blessed are all they who follow my counsels! Who is your companion?” he added, in a different tone. “I recollect not his face among the millions I have known.”

Jozé de Tavora explained who Luis was, and that he had brought him to see his brother.

“My blessing on his head, if he joins our righteous cause!” exclaimed Malagrida.

While this conversation was taking place, Luis looked round the chamber in which he so unexpectedly found himself. It was low and vaulted, the roof being supported by rough stone pillars, and had, apparently, formed a capacious cellar to the not over-abstemious brethren of San Bento. Some rude attempts had been made to convert it into both an habitation and a chapel, it would seem; for great was the surprise of Luis to observe, at the further end, a rough altar, on which lights were burning before a figure of the Virgin, and a number of people seated on benches on each side of it; others, standing about in knots, and conversing, their glittering swords and rich dresses forming a strange contrast to the ruined and sombre appearance of the chamber. He had just finished this slight survey, when one of them, rising and advancing towards him, he perceived the young Marquis of Tavora. The latter, giving him an embrace, exclaimed, “I am, indeed, grateful for the favour you do me by coming here, though prepared for it by a message my brother sent me; and I must rejoice that there is another partisan added to the cause of honour and the privileges of the nobles.”

“I certainty, when I promised your brother that I would visit you, did not expect to find you in so strange a place as this, and with so many companions,” returned Luis.

“As for my abode, it is one selected by the Father Malagrida, where no one has ever thought of coming to search for him; so I was advised to share it with him; and for my companions, they are my nearest relations and friends, so do not be afraid of them,” answered the Marquis, in an offended tone.

As he finished speaking, the Father Malagrida addressed them. “Come, my sons,” he said, “let us not tarry here, at the portals of my abode, but straightway join the goodly company who are called together to hear my words, and to consult about the welfare of our holy Church.”

Having thus delivered himself, he led the way to the further end of the vault, followed by the young men; for, though Luis felt that he had been unfairly seduced into associating with persons whom he more than suspected were met together for some unlawful purpose, it was now, he thought, too late to withdraw. As they approached the party, who were all in earnest conversation together, Luis, to his still greater surprise, perceived a lady among them, in whom he recognised the elder Marchioness of Tavora. She was the only female among the party; but there were present, besides many members of her own family, several nobles of the highest rank, and dignitaries of the Church, with a few of inferior grades in society, attached to the houses of the fidalgos, and whose only rule of action was their masters’ will. With many of the persons assembled Luis was already acquainted; and, as he advanced among them, they rose to receive him, and welcome his return to Lisbon. The Marchioness was most particular in her attentions, thanking him for the interest he took in the welfare of her sons, and assuring him that she should be for ever grateful for what he had done.

“Why have you brought me here?” said Luis to Jozé de Tavora, as soon as he could escape from the Marchioness, and had led his young friend on one side of the vault, out of hearing of the rest of the party. “Had you forewarned me of whom I was to meet, I might have acted as I thought right.”

“I brought you here to give you an opportunity of listening and judging of the truth,” was the answer. “Had I told you that you were to meet some of the first nobles in the land, who were engaged in forming plans to protect their honour, their lives, and fortunes from destruction, you might have answered that you would engage in no conspiracy; and as I was not at liberty to reveal any of their intentions, I could not have reasoned with you. But now you are here, stay and listen to what is proposed; if you like it not, you can depart without hindrance, for I will answer for your honour.”

“I will remain, to convince those assembled here that I will not betray their place of meeting; but, except for the purpose of protecting my cousin, will I engage in no scheme whatever. My refusal arises from no fear of danger to myself individually, but from a dread of the consequences to the nation at large. Inform your friends of my opinions, and I will here await the result.”

“Such is unnecessary; they will ask none to join them who do not willingly enter into their projects; so come, we will return to our friends; for hark! the prophet is addressing the assembly, and when you have heard him, you will be convinced that his words are those of inspiration.”

Although there was, at that time, a more general belief in prophets and saints, than there is, in Portugal at all events, in the present day, Luis was surprised to hear his young friend profess faith in the inspired character of a man whom he had learned to look upon as a madman, if not an hypocritical impostor; but still greater was his astonishment when he discovered that the whole assembly placed the most implicit confidence in his declarations. On one side of the altar a sort of pulpit had been formed of rough boards hastily nailed together, and into it Malagrida now mounted, stretching forth his hands to bless his congregation. A complete silence ensued, and for some minutes he refrained from speaking, to cause a greater effect; at length he commenced, in a slow and impressive tone, to deliver a discourse, of which we shall venture only to give a few sentences.

“You have assembled here, my children, to listen to the words of one who has propagated our holy religion even in the far corners of the world, but who now, through the wickedness and impiety of the rulers of this hapless country, is compelled, like a fox, to burrow beneath the earth, and to hide his head from the bright light of heaven. Will you—can you—allow sin to be thus triumphant? Will you stand calmly by, and see our holy religion trampled in the dust, your altars profaned, your priests degraded?”

“No! no! we will die to protect them,” answered several voices.

He continued, without noticing the interruption. “Will you allow all you have considered sacred to be despised, and yourselves to be insulted by the tyrant and his Minister?”

“We will not! we will not!” repeated the voices again.

“Hear me, then. Even now a decree is about to come forth to banish all the true priests of the order of Jesus from the land. A few days, and the impious command will be executed, if our rulers are not stopped in their heaven-accursed career of crime. What say the sacred writings? ‘The judges of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his anointed.’ Such do our rulers, and they will not listen to the words of warning. Thrice has the King been warned, and he has turned a deaf ear to our words; still does he persist in his wickedness. We have, then, but one course to pursue—to avenge our wrongs, and right our grievances. Boldly I speak it, for I speak what is just, what Heaven demands at our hands—the King must die! and blessed is the man by whose hands the deed is done!”

The speaker paused, and at these words fear and trembling took possession of his infatuated audience. They doubted not that he spoke the words of inspiration, but each man feared lest he himself should be called upon to perform a deed which he had longed to see executed by the hands of another. At last the young Marquis of Tavora, with much of his mother’s boldness, mingled with superstition, arose and exclaimed, “I have been the most grievously wronged, and I will undertake to avenge the cause of all. I will lead a chosen band of followers into the very heart of the palace, while others surround the building; and, while the King deems himself most secure, I will accuse him of the foul injury he has done me, and slay him on the spot. I will teach a lesson to all his successors, and sovereigns shall learn to tremble, who, presuming on their power and station, dare to insult the dearest rights and honour of their subjects.”

Some of the younger conspirators applauded the speech of the Marquis, but the older men shook their heads in disapprobation, and were silent, till Malagrida took upon himself to answer. “Alas! my son,” he said, “such plans are hopeless! By force alone can force oftentimes be repelled, but never thus openly attack power. To ensure success, commence with secrecy and caution. Let not your enemy suppose that you feel aught but friendship for him, and then strike him unawares, when none can know who did the deed: the poisoned bowl, the dagger, or the pistol, are far more certain means than such as you propose. As the injuries our foe inflicts are silent and secret, so, does Heaven decree, must be the retributive punishment.”

To these observations the older men more cordially assented, but no one proposed any definite plan. An air of doubt and uncertainty hung over all who were present, except the Marchioness, her eldest son, and Malagrida. Many whom they expected had not arrived; others had refused to join them till their plans were successful, and all danger was passed; these last were very numerous, and, in this case, the wisest part of the nobility; “others,” they reasoned, “will be found to risk the peril, while we shall equally secure the profit, if they succeed.”

“Why came not the Marquis of Tavora with his lady?” asked one of his neighbour.

“He knows not of our designs,” was the answer. “It is supposed he would not approve of them, and his sons fear to confide them to him.”

“The Duke of Aveiro ought to have been here long ago,” said another noble. “He told me that he purposed coming, and no common cause would, I am sure, detain him.”

“On the former night we met he seemed eager in our enterprise,” responded a fourth. “Can he have been suspected and apprehended? I always fear that vigilant-eyed plebeian—nothing escapes him.”

“Can the Duke, fearing detection, have repented of his intentions, and, perhaps, informed the Minister of our designs?” observed one who was cynically inclined, and had ever hated the Duke. “It would be a certain way of securing his own pardon, though at the expense of a few of us.”

“In mercy, do not put such dreadful thoughts into our heads—you quite unnerve me,” said the person he spoke to. “I wish I had refused to join the enterprise.”

“That is a pity, seeing you will probably share the fate of all, if it miscarries,” answered his friend. “Do, my dear Count, pretend to be brave, or you will frighten the rest. You will not feel comfortable, I fear, till it has succeeded.”

“You offer rather doubtful consolation. I wish some one would propose himself to kill our tyrant quietly—it would save much discussion.”

“Likely enough. What, and if he happens to have a secret enemy among us, who might be tempted to turn traitor, how completely he would be within his power without risking the safety of the rest? No, no; we have, doubtless, a good many fools among us, but not quite so great a one as you suppose.”

“You are in a severe humour this evening, my friend.”

“Have I not cause for it, when I have heard so much nonsense spoken, and our enterprise not advanced since the first day it was proposed? It provokes me: I shall lose my South American property before anything is accomplished, I very clearly perceive, so I think of embarking for France to await the result.”

Such was the style of conversation carried on in all directions round Luis, so that he began to entertain hopes that the conspirators would abandon intentions which he considered, notwithstanding the assurances of the prophet, to be both highly criminal, and dangerous in the extreme.

All were looking for the arrival of the Duke of Aveiro, who, having more to gain by the destruction of the King, was the most active leader in the conspiracy; but, after waiting a considerable time longer, some of the party expressed their impatience to depart, and the Duke came not at all.

The assembly at length broke up, Malagrida first performing a short religious ceremony at the altar, dismissing them with his blessing.

Before Luis took his departure with his young companion, he addressed the Marquis. “Tell me,” he said, “how can I aid you in the object for which I came here? How and where is Theresa?”

“Speak not of her, my friend,” exclaimed the young husband, with vehemence. “I live but for revenge! Farewell! I ask you not to share our dangers; but you will pardon what you look upon as a crime, when you know the cause which has driven me to desperation.”

Jozé de Tavora took Luis’s arm. “It is time to go,” he said. “Follow me closely, for the night is dark, and you know not the intricacies of the path. We will still trust to the river, though no one else ventures on it. The rest have departed in different ways and directions, and my lady mother passes the night at a house at no great distance, whither my brother will conduct her.”

On emerging into the open air, they found the night to have become excessively dark, there being no moon, and a thin mist obscuring the brightness of the stars; but they soon sufficiently recovered the use of their eyes, to be able to find their way among the ruins towards the landing-place, where the boat was waiting. Not a breath of wind stirred the silent night air, their footfalls alone being heard as they proceeded through the ruined garden.

Just as they were about to step into the skiff, not having exchanged a word on their way, for fear any foe might be lurking in the neighbourhood, Jozé de Tavora fancied he heard a shout in the distance: they listened attentively, but it was not repeated; and at length, being persuaded that it was but fancy, they took their seats in the stern of the boat, the crew pulling rapidly up the stream, which was now in their favour. So dark was the night, that they had much difficulty in seeing their way, and had they not kept close in with the banks, they would have found it nearly impossible to steer a direct course.

Luis was silent; for, though unwilling to blame his young companion, he felt that the latter had not acted towards him with openness and honour. Of this Jozé de Tavora seemed aware, as he was the first to speak. “Luis, I must crave pardon for what I have done; for I now see, when too late, that I ought not to have led you blindfold into the society we have just quitted, which seems not to your taste; but say, will you forgive me?”

He spoke in so deprecating a tone, that Luis could not resist his petition; and, giving him his hand, in token of forgiveness, assured him that he believed his motives, at all events, had been good.

After nearly an hour’s row, they reached the spot where they embarked, and near which they found Pedro and the other servant waiting with their horses,—Jozé de Tavora insisting on accompanying his friend to his lodgings. Thus so much time passed, that the first streaks of dawn were in the sky before the latter was seen to enter the gates of his father’s Quinta at Belem.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

We left that very respectable personage, Senhor Policarpio, entertaining two friends in the garden of the Duke of Aveiro’s residence. As it grew dark, he invited them again into the house to partake of a supper he had prepared for them. After the repast was finished, and he had plied his guests well with wine, he opened an attack which he had been meditating.

“So the Marquis complains that he has been insulted by that low-born villain Teixeira, and that the King will give him no redress,” he began. “Now, that is what I call not acting in a kingly way; and I think your master very ill-treated.”

“Your observation is a just one, Senhor Policarpio,” answered Manoel. “And this is not the only instance in which he has been ill-treated. He applied to be created a duke the other day, and the King, without any reason, refused his request, to the great indignation of the Marchioness, who had determined to enjoy the title.”

“Ah! if the Marquis would but follow the advice of my master, he might easily be made a duke,” said Senhor Policarpio; “but that he will not do, talking instead about his loyalty, and all that sort of nonsense. Now listen, my friends. It strikes me that we might arrange these affairs ourselves, without consulting our masters till the work is done, when they will reward us accordingly. We are not likely to be made dukes and counts, but we are certain to get as many purses of gold as we want, which are far better than all the titles in the world without them. As we well know, there are certain plots and conspiracies hatching, which will, if not discovered, all end in smoke. Now, when I have an object in view in which I wish to succeed, I entrust it to no one more than is necessary. You feel assured that your master would reward you, if you were to punish this Teixeira for his insolence; and I am ready to aid you, on condition that you speak to no one on the subject, or it will be certain to fail. This is my plan:—Teixeira drives out every night in his carriage (vain as he is of it) to some place or other. I propose to watch for him, mounted on good horses, when, as he passes by, we will fire into his carriage, and cannot fail to kill or wound him severely. We may then, favoured by the darkness, easily escape before any alarm is given, and you may then claim a reward from your master. For me, it will be sufficient to know that I have served you; besides that, I owe him a debt of vengeance on my own account.”

The brains of the two servants being by this time considerably confused by liquor, they willingly assented to Senhor Policarpio’s proposal, not having sufficient judgment left to perceive that he had probably other motives for the deed than their interests, or his own wish for revenge.

“Well, then, my friends, there is no moment like the present, when work is to be done,” he continued. “I have notice that Teixeira will this night visit a certain house; and I propose to waylay him on his return to the palace, and pay him his deserts. Are you agreed?”

“Agreed! agreed!” exclaimed both the men. “We are ready to do anything so honourable a gentleman as yourself proposes.”

“You flatter me, gentlemen, by your good opinion. We will not dream on the work, then—this night it shall be done. I must tell you, another friend of mine will join us; but do not speak to him, as he wishes not to be known. We will divide into two parties. You, Manoel, must accompany my friend; and you, Antonio, keep by my side; then, if the first shots do not take effect, the second ambush will be more fortunate. Come, gentlemen, we will prepare for our expedition. I have horses in readiness at a stable in the neighbourhood; for I fully counted on your assistance. Another glass to our success. Nerve your arms for the deed, and it cannot fail!”

It was an intensely dark night, when three men, with masks on their faces, (for a guilty countenance would fain hide itself even from the sight of Heaven,) sallied forth from the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro. They walked some way, when, stopping before the door of a low, solitary building, the principal of the party applied a key to the lock, and, all entering, they found three steeds ready saddled. Without uttering a word, they led forth the horses, the last closing the door; and, mounting, they rode back in the direction they had come. They had not proceeded far when they encountered a fourth horseman, dressed completely in black, with a black mask, and a horse of the same hue.

“Who goes there?” said the principal of the three, in a low voice.

“A friend of religion,” was the answer, in the same low tone.

“’Tis well,” said the first speaker. “This is the friend I expected,” he continued, turning to one of his companions. “Do you, Manoel, accompany him. Fire, when he fires, and keep close to his side. We will all again meet at the stables, where we will leave our horses, and return on foot to the Quinta. Onward, my friends, to our work.”

The stranger, accompanied by him who was addressed as Manoel, now separated from the other two, both parties, however, proceeding by different routes toward the upper part of Lisbon, to the neighbourhood of a house called the Quinta da Cima, which lay directly in the way between the residence of the young Marchioness of Tavora and the royal palace.

Antonio and his companion, who, as our readers may have suspected, was no other than Senhor Policarpio, rode on in silence whenever they passed any houses, the former, who was of a more timid disposition than his fellow-servant, already repenting of the deed he had undertaken to perform.

“Hist!” he said, drawing in his rein as they were passing between some of the high blank walls with which that part of Lisbon abounds. “Are you certain there is no one following us? Methought I heard a horse’s footsteps.”

“On, on,” muttered his companion with an oath. “The more reason for speed.”

They proceeded a few paces further, when the other again stopped.

“I am sure I heard the sounds again,” he whispered.

“Cursed fool, his cowardice will spoil all,” thought Policarpio. “’Tis but the echo of our own horses’ feet, friend,” he said aloud. “Fear not; ’tis too late now to draw back, and the work must be done.”

They again rode on, encountering no one on their way; for, at that late hour, and in those solitary roads, few ventured out, if they could avoid it, and then only in large parties, with servants and torches, to guard against the daring marauders who infested them, committing every atrocity with impunity. They at length observed a number of people advancing towards them with torches, the flames throwing a lurid glare on their figures and the surrounding walls; but Policarpio, desiring his companion to follow, turned down a lane on one side, till they had passed by. Riding a little further on, Antonio again vowed he heard the sounds of horses’ feet. Policarpio listened.

“Yes,” he said, “’tis our friends—we are near the spot agreed on.”

As he spoke, four horsemen were perceived emerging from the gloom towards them.

“How is this?” exclaimed Antonio in a tone of alarm. “There were but two!”

“They are more of our friends,” was the answer.

“What, all enemies of Teixeira?”

“All, and trusty men. Speak not again, friend. We come to act, not to talk,” whispered Policarpio.

The six horsemen rode on at a slow pace, so as to allow their horses’ hoofs to emit the least possible sound, till they arrived at a deep archway, into the recesses of which not a ray of light penetrated. Here the stranger, in sable garments, with his companion, Manoel, took their posts, their horses’ heads turned towards the road, so as to sally forth at a moment’s notice. This was the ambush nearest the residence of the young Marchioness of Tavora. A little further on, a lane between high walls turned off to the right, and towards it Policarpio and Antonio directed their course; the two other unknown horsemen passing further on to another place of concealment.

“Halt here, my friend,” said Policarpio; “we shall not have long to wait; this is the best place we could have selected. As soon as the deed is done, follow me down the lane, and we will make a circuit to the Quinta.”

“How is it there are so many engaged in the work; I thought we three only were to be privy to it?” observed Antonio.

“The man has many foes,” was the laconic reply. “Now silence.”

Slow seemed the hours of darkness to lag along over the heads of the intended assassins. It was a time of the most harrowing anxiety, of doubts and fears to them all. During the bright glare of day, or when excited by wine and conversation, they had contemplated the deed as a duty they were called on to perform; but now, on the silent watch, when the moment for action was drawing on, they felt that they were about to commit a deed such as would, if discovered, hold them up to the execration of mankind. Darkness, which serves to cloak a crime from the eyes of others, reveals it to the startled conscience of the criminal in its native deformity. In vain each man sought to banish the voice which rung in his ear—Murder! murder!—but that mocking voice would not be silenced; and yet it was a useless warning, for each had resolved to do the deed, and now it was too late to fly; besides, when one would have done so, the thought of the reward to be reaped rose up in his mind, and determined him to persevere in spite of all consequences.

Policarpio listened eagerly for the expected sound of the carriage-wheels. “Ah! he comes,” he muttered, as a low rattling noise at a distance was heard; and even he, cool and hardened villain as he was, felt his heart beat quicker, and he drew in his breath at the thought of what he was about to do; he felt almost a relief from suffering as the noise died away in a different direction. The clear ringing sound from the clock of a neighbouring church now struck; he listened attentively to mark the hour—one, two; he counted on—ten, eleven, and no more. He must have been mistaken; he thought it was much later. Another dreadful hour of suspense must elapse, for their intended victim was not expected to pass till nearly twelve o’clock, and he was sometimes much later. His doubts were soon set at rest, for another clock, at a greater distance, now gave forth the hour of eleven. Thus they waited, sometimes supposing that their enemy had not paid his usual visit; that he might have taken another road, or that, by some mysterious chance, he had been forewarned. There was one among those midnight assassins whose fierce and fiery temper could ill brook this delay, and, as he sat on his horse beneath the arch, he gnashed his teeth with impatience, and grasping a pistol in his hand, longed for the moment to use it. Twelve o’clock struck, and scarcely had the sound from the last stroke of the bell died away on the calm midnight air, when a carriage was heard rapidly approaching. Each of the assassins gathered in his rein, and more firmly grasped his weapons to prepare for action. There could be now no further doubt—another minute and their victim would be in their power!

Onward came the carriage. It approached the dark archway; it had scarcely passed it, when the stranger in black, followed by Manoel, dashed forward, discharging his pistol at the head of the postilion; but the piece missed fire, as did that of his companion.

“Curses on the weapon,” he cried, raising his carabine, as the carriage dashed by; he fired, but the ball took no effect.

“Forbear! forbear!” shouted the postilion, as he drove on; “’tis the King you are firing at!”

He had just uttered the words, when Policarpio and his companion rode furiously towards him; the former discharging a pistol, but without effect. On their approach, he was seen to turn rapidly round before Policarpio could come up with him, and to drive down a steep and rugged path, towards the river.

“Fire!” shouted Policarpio to his companion, as they galloped after the carriage. “Fire! or they will escape us!” and, at the same moment, both discharged their pieces at the back of the carriage. A loud cry was heard, but they could not further tell the effect of their shots, for the postilion, driving for his own life, as well as that of his master, if he had escaped destruction, urged on his mules at a furious pace beyond their reach, before they had time to reload their fire-arms.

“What shots are those?” cried a voice from a window above them. “Murder! murder!”

The sound struck terror into the bosoms of the guilty assassins; and, turning their horses, they galloped off from the spot, by the roads previously agreed on, fancying that they were closely pursued. Onward they dashed, the dying shriek of their victim ringing in their ears, mixed with unearthly sounds—it seemed like the mocking laughter of demons. But at that time they dreaded not the supernatural powers half so much as the anger of man; him they had made their enemy, and now detection was what they most feared. “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed,” was the rigid law to which they had become amenable. No obstacles stopped them in their course. Their steeds, as if conscious of their masters’ haste, leapt fearlessly over the fragments of ruins which, in many places, strewed the road. With bridle and spur their riders kept them up, for a fall would have thrown them into the power of their fancied pursuers. After making a considerable circuit, Policarpio and Antonio approached the stable where they were to leave their horses. Leaping from his horse, Policarpio opened the door of the stable, for they were the first arrived, and entered, ordering his companion to follow, and to take off the saddles from their steeds. Having placed the horses in their stalls, they waited the return of the other two, in anxious expectation. Some minutes elapsed, and yet they arrived not.

“Can they have been seized?” muttered Policarpio to himself; “if so, all is lost, and I must make my escape.”

“We have made Teixeira pay dearly for his insolence,” said Antonio Ferreira. “Think you he could possibly have escaped? We sent shot enough through the carriage to kill most men.”

“Think you we should have run all this risk, and taken so much trouble, merely to kill a vile wretch as he is? But talk not of it again. We aimed at far higher game than he is; he may have been within, for it was his carriage; but it was not his paltry life we aimed at. It is the King we have killed!”

“Heaven pardon me!” exclaimed Antonio, in a trembling voice; “I thought not to have done such a deed!”

“Bah! this is no time for repentance,” answered Policarpio. “What is the difference between one man’s life and another’s. You have done your master a greater service than you thought. But silence; some one may overhear us: the devil has quick ears.”

They waited some time longer for their companions.

“I fear me, Manoel and your friend have been captured,” whispered Antonio.

“If so, we shall to a certainty be betrayed; and in flight is our only chance of safety. Adeos! friend Antonio. I shall take one course, and you may take another. This country will be no longer a safe abode for either of us.”

He went, as he spoke, to the door of the stable, and was about to hasten away, when he heard the sound of horses approaching, and directly after, the masked stranger, with Manoel, rode up. The former leaping to the ground, gave the reins to Policarpio. “I shall return homeward on foot,” he said. “Let silence and discretion be your motto, my friends, and you are safe; you shall not be forgotten.” And the stranger in black disappeared in the obscurity. Having relieved the horses from their saddles, and well fed them, Policarpio, with his two friends, returned to the Quinta.

As they entered a room, where lights were burning, they gazed at each other’s pale and haggard countenances, on which guilt had already stamped its indelible marks. Conscience-struck, they scarce dared to speak of the deed they had done. Policarpio was the first to recover his usual daring.

“Come, my friends,” he cried, filling for himself a bumper of wine, “banish these childish fears. Here’s to the health of the next King who shall reign over us, and may he prove a better master than the last!” His companions endeavoured in vain to imitate his careless bearing, though, at his desire, they gladly pledged him.

“Ah!” he continued, “to-morrow the whole city will ring with this night’s work! but no one will suspect us of the deed; and if they do, it matters little—we shall be above all fear of punishment.”

“I wish it were not done,” muttered Antonio; “I thought not to kill the King.”

“I pray we have not missed doing so,” answered Policarpio. “Curses on the weapons that failed when most required.”

“Who were those who accompanied us,” asked Manoel; “they seemed not of low degree?”

“That matters not, friend,” responded Policarpio; “you will gain your reward, and seek not to know more.”

Fearful of returning home, the two servants of the Marquis of Tavora threw themselves, overcome with fatigue, on the ground; but sleep visited not the murderers’ eyes that night, their victim’s shriek still rung in their ears, and their guilty hearts still beat with fears of the future.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

In a large saloon, richly furnished with every article of luxury then invented to minister to comfort or to pride, a young lady was seated on a sofa, before a table, on which had been thrown some fancy-work, with which she had been endeavouring to amuse herself. Her face was turned towards the ground, and while, her elbow resting on a cushion, she supported with her hand her small and delicately formed head, her other arm, of beautifully rounded proportions, hung carelessly by her side. A greyhound, of the graceful Italian race, and of pure fawn colour, was leaping up and licking her fingers, in a vain endeavour to attract her attention to himself. A lamp, which hung from the lofty ceiling, (for it was night,) cast a bright light upon her high and polished brow, from which her hair, as was the fashion, was drawn back; and it seemed that those long silken eyelashes of jet, which scarce concealed the lustre of her eyes, cast down though they were, were glistening with tears. One of her small feet, on which she wore a high-heeled satin shoe, resting on a cushion, an ankle of the most slender proportions was revealed. Her gown was of the richest flowered silk; her whole costume, indeed, notwithstanding that she was thus alone and sad, was arranged with the greatest elegance and care.

More than once a deep-drawn sigh escaped her, as her bosom heaved with agitated throbbings, which in vain she endeavoured to calm. Alas! lovely and young as she was, anguish was at her heart; for an accusing conscience was already at work within. Yet were others far more guilty—traitors doubly damned, who walked abroad in the well-sustained characters of honest men; while she, the betrayed, the abandoned wife, was left to mourn alone, or to receive the treacherous consolations of the subtle seducer, a licensed prey to the slanderous tongues of the malignant.

Time passed on, yet she stirred not from her position; nor did any of her domestics enter to interrupt her solitude. Her little dog had desisted from his attempts to gain her notice, and, weary with his gambols, had lain himself down at her feet, yet anxiously watching to win a look of encouragement from her eye. A clock, on a side table, had some time given notice that it wanted but two hours to midnight, when the Italian greyhound lifted his broad falling ears, half rising from his recumbent position. In a few seconds more, the noise which had first aroused him was reiterated, and, leaping up, he ran towards the door, uttering a shrill bark, again running back to his mistress.

“Lie down, my pretty Fiel, lie down,” the dog instantly obeying her. “Ah! you will not too desert your mistress,” she said, and relapsed into her former thoughtful mood.

The next moment the door opened slowly—so silently, that the lady did not look up; but her four-footed companion bounded forward, and leapt up fawningly on a gentleman who entered, of a dignified figure, dressed in a handsome costume, with a sword with a richly jewelled hilt by his side. He allowed his hand to caress the little dog, as he advanced close to the lady, and pronounced the name of “Theresa!”

The lady starting, with marked confusion, instantly rose, making one step towards him; while he, stooping low, took her unresisting hand with respectful devotion, imprinting on it a kiss: he then led her back to the sofa, and seated himself by her side, gazing with deep admiration on her lovely countenance, now softened by an expression of melancholy which rather increased than dimmed its attractions.

“Theresa, in spite of your commands, your wishes, I could not resist the temptations of my heart again to visit you. I come to entreat you to withdraw your cruel prohibitions, which must reduce me to despair,” and the stranger knelt at the feet of Donna Theresa de Tavora.

“Rise, in mercy rise!” she exclaimed, with a trembling voice. “Your Majesty must not thus kneel to a subject.”

“I will not rise till I know from those sweet lips that I am forgiven for my fault,” answered the King, in a tone of tender passion; for he it was who thus took advantage of the forced absence of her husband to urge his criminal suit.

“Your Majesty has committed no fault which I have power to forgive,” returned the Marchioness; “’tis I alone who am to blame for having dared to cherish a sentiment—for having owned that unhappy love which has attracted your Majesty hither.—Rise, Sire, I must not see you thus.”

“Your words afford balm to my bruised heart,” answered the King, in an enraptured tone, again placing himself by her side; but she gently withdrew her hand from his clasp.

“Your Majesty mistakes my meaning,” she said, with a vain attempt at firmness; for her lips quivered as she spoke. “Hear me, my liege: it is not on my own account I speak; for myself, I have no longer the power to retract. You know too well the secret of my heart; from henceforth my lot is one of sorrow and remorse: but it is for your Majesty’s sake, I beseech you to come hither no more. There is a danger in it which I may not—I dare not reveal, so terrible that I tremble at the thought alone.”

“For your sake, sweet one, I would brave all danger,” answered the King, with a gallant bow and a smile of incredulity; then suddenly changing his tone, he added, “Surely no one would venture to lift his arm against our person? Speak lady, does your husband meditate revenge, that we have more highly appreciated those matchless charms than himself?”

“Oh! do not ask me, my liege,” exclaimed the unhappy lady. “My husband has always proved himself a loyal subject; and surely naught but the most aggravated offence would drive him to commit treason against your Majesty. I speak not of what I know, but my fears have raised up suspicions, perchance but phantoms of the brain, yet should I be far happier if I knew that you, my sovereign, would avoid the risk you run by pursuing one whose love may bring destruction on your head.”

The King seemed dissatisfied with this answer, and the recollection of his Minister’s assertions, that plots and conspiracies were constantly brewing, but were discovered and defeated by his sagacity, now recurred to his mind with full force. In his fear, he forgot the character of the lover he was playing. “You hint to me that you have suspicions of danger to my person; but you neglect to tell me how to discover and defeat it,” he said, in a far different tone to that in which he had before spoken.

A woman is quick to perceive when the lordly heart of man begins to tremble with fear, and as Donna Theresa’s discerning glance fell on the countenance of her royal admirer, for the first time a feeling nearly allied to scorn entered her breast: it was transitory, but it left an impression not easily effaced. She wished to warn, but she loved him the less that he was so easily alarmed. Such is woman. She will fondly cling to man—she will idolise him, in the full majesty of his power, even though he treat her as an inferior being, so that he exert that power to shield her from harm; but let him once show that he is equally alive with herself to the sensations of fear, which is cowardice in him, he at once sinks in her estimation to a level with herself, and she no longer regards him as her lord and protector.

The young Marchioness withdrew her eyes from the King, as she answered, “Pardon me, your Majesty, I spoke but of my own womanly fears, indefinite also, and perhaps groundless they are, yet, when once they had arisen in my bosom, I could not but speak them; then, if I possess your Majesty’s love, do not press me further. Mine is a cruel, a hard duty to perform, yet for your sake, my King, I will not shrink from it. We must part now and for ever!”

“This is a tyranny, lovely lady, to which I cannot submit,” exclaimed the King, his passion for the moment conquering his fears; “I should pine to death were I to be banished from your sight.”

“Your Majesty possesses the hearts of many other ladies, who will console you for my loss,” returned Donna Theresa, with a faint smile.

“What! ’tis but a fit of jealousy then!” thought the King. “No, lovely one, believe it not,” he exclaimed aloud. “None have enchained my heart as you have done. Tell me that you will receive me to-morrow. Let my unswerving devotion, since you first honoured my Court with your presence, plead for me: let my ardent love be my excuse if I disobey your commands,” and he again took her hand, and would have knelt, but rising from her seat, she drew back.

“Let me be the suppliant,” she said. “Do not work upon the weakness of my sex, but exert your powerful judgment, my King, and ask yourself whether the pursuit you follow will repay you for risking both life and crown. No, Sire, it cannot; and therefore I once more beseech you to desist. I should indeed be doubly guilty were you to suffer for my sake.”

Her voice faltered as she uttered the last words. Never had the young Marchioness looked so lovely as now that she stood with her hands clasped in an attitude of entreaty before the sovereign; the energy of her feelings throwing the rich blood into her hitherto pallid cheeks. It served unhappily to increase the King’s admiration.

“It is useless, lovely Theresa, thus endeavouring to dissuade me; crown, life, all, I would risk to retain your love.”

How easily are our most firm resolves turned aside,—how wonderfully is our judgment obscured, when passion intervenes! Man, with all his boasted power of intellect, in a moment sinks to the level of the soulless beings, who have but despised instinct for their guide. Let haughty man remember, secure, as he fancies himself in the strong armour of superior wisdom and calculating judgment, that he, too, is but mortal, and liable any instant to fall; and let him learn not to pass too harsh a judgment on those whose reason has been, perchance, but for one fatal moment overcome.

Donna Theresa’s rising feelings of disdain, her fears for his safety, all other thoughts were forgotten at the King’s last passionate declaration of his love; and, in a fatal moment, she consented no longer to persist in her determination to see him no more.

Having gained his point, the King soon after took his leave, with further protestations of unalterable constancy. On entering his carriage, in which Teixeira was waiting for him at the door, he threw himself back in his seat, exclaiming,—“Truly these women are wonderful creatures; changeable and uncertain in their tempers, as the vane on the topmast head! At one moment, my lovely Marchioness vowed she would enter a convent, or see me no more; and the next she was all love and affection. At one time, overcome by fears that her husband, I suppose, in a fit of jealousy, would attempt my life, and then forgetting all about the matter. The truth is, she loves me to distraction, when a woman is always full of alarms; but methinks none of my nobles are of that jealous disposition, that they would endeavour to revenge themselves for the honour I pay their wives.”

“Few, perhaps, would harbour a treacherous thought against your Majesty; but all are not equally loyal,” answered Teixeira. “The Tavoras are of a haughty and revengeful disposition, and it would be well to guard against them. I told your Majesty how, the other day, the old Marquis almost struck me in the palace, because, not seeing his Excellency approach, I was by chance standing in his way.”

“What, do you truly think there is danger to be apprehended from them?” said the King, in a voice expressive of suspicion.

“I have no doubt of their disloyalty, if such a feeling can possibly be harboured by any against your Majesty,” answered Teixeira.

“We must speak to Sebastiaö Jozé about it,” said the King. “He will know well how to discover their feelings.”

“Senhor de Carvalho is of my opinion, that they are not to be confided in,” observed the confidant, who had thus the power, with a few words, to cast the taint of disloyalty on a whole noble race.

“I thought that Donna Theresa’s fears arose from idle fancies, though I now suspect she had some foundation for her warnings,” observed the King. “Sebastiaö Jozé, however, will discover whatever is wrong.”

“The country is truly blessed, which possesses so good a King, and so wise a Minister,” said the confidant.

“Which way are we going?” asked the King, looking out of the window, though, from the darkness, it was impossible to distinguish the road.

“I ordered him to drive the usual way, past the Quinta da Cima, and down by the Quinta do Meyo,” answered Teixeira. “We are now near approaching the arch of do Meyo.”

“’Tis a night, which an assassin would select to commit a deed of blood,” said the King; the thought arising probably from his own fears, and from the observations of his servant. He had scarce uttered the words, when both were startled by a loud cry from the postilion, Custodio da Costa, and by seeing the flash of a pistol in front; the next instant two musketoons were discharged, the bright flashes from which lighted up the dark figures of two horsemen, urging their steeds towards the carriage, and several shot rattled past the window.

“Jesu Maria! what means this?” exclaimed the King, in a tone of terror.

“Foul treason! your Majesty,” answered Teixeira. “We are betrayed.”

“Stop, fool! or you die!” shouted one of the horsemen to the postilion; but he, disregarding the command, boldly galloped on his mules, crying out, “’Tis the King you are firing at!” when two other horsemen rushed out towards him from behind a high wall. With admirable presence of mind, though at great risk, he suddenly wheeled round the carriage.

“Stay, mad fool!” cried the assassins; but he heeded them not, and proceeded down a steep path to the left, nearly in the direction from whence he had come. Just as he had succeeded in turning, the report of two fire-arms was heard.

“Holy Virgin! I am slain!” ejaculated the King, falling backwards.

“My life shall preserve your Majesty’s,” cried Teixeira; and, with a heroism worthy of a better man, he forced his sovereign down into the bottom of the carriage, covering him to the utmost with his own person.

The urgency of the case added nerve to the postilion’s arm, and keenness to his sight; for, avoiding all obstacles, he galloped on through streets where it would seem almost impossible that he could pass; which, as the chronicler observes, “was one of the wonderful and miraculous works performed on the unfortunate night of that most horrid and sacrilegious insult, in order to preserve the inestimable life of his most sacred Majesty, for the common benefit of these realms of Portugal.”

The postilion, Custodio da Costa, (for he deserves that his name should be commemorated, on account of his gallantry and presence of mind), as soon as he perceived, after driving some way, that he was not followed, stopped the carriage, when his anxiety for his Majesty’s safety was relieved by hearing his voice ordering him to proceed to the palace of the Marquis of Tancos, which was close at hand.

“Say not what has occurred,” said the King to the postilion, as, descending from the carriage with Teixeira’s aid, a cloak being thrown over his shoulder, he entered the palace of the Marquis.

The noble host, wondering at the cause of his being honoured by a visit from his sovereign at so unusual an hour, hastily rose from his bed, and entered the apartment into which his royal guest had been ushered.

The King, who was seated on a chair, was pale, but perfectly calm. “I have met with an accident, my friend, though I know not its extent,” he said. “Send for Senhor Assiz, my chief surgeon, and speak to no one else of the affair.”

The Marquis immediately sent to obey the commands of the King, who, on his return desired that his chaplain might forthwith be summoned; when, all retiring except the holy man, he returned thanks to the King of kings for the preservation of his life from so great a danger, and then confessed himself of his sins at the feet of the minister of the gospel.

In the mean time, the honest Custodio could not restrain his tongue from whispering to the servants of the Marquis, under promise of secrecy, an account of the dreadful occurrence; and they, of course, repeated it to their fellows; so that, before the morning dawned, the tale, with wonderful additions and alterations, was spread far and wide.

On the arrival of the surgeon, he and the Marquis, with Teixeira, were again admitted into the presence of the King, who had concluded his religious devotions; and the horror of all may be better conceived than described, when, his cloak being taken off, his breast and right arm were perceived covered with blood, which had trickled down over the rest of his dress. Without having uttered a word of complaint since he was wounded, the King now submitted himself into the hands of his surgeon, who, to the extreme satisfaction of his friends, pronounced the wounds to be unattended with danger, although they were very severe. Several slugs had entered his shoulder and breast, tearing away the flesh from the arm, but no other injury was committed on his person.

“Another mark of the miraculous interference of Divine Omnipotence,” as again observes the chronicler, “on that night of horrors; for it cannot be in the common order of events, nor can it be in anywise ascribed to the casualty of accidental occurrences, that two charges of slugs, fired out of such pieces, should make their way through the narrow space of a carriage, without totally and absolutely destroying the persons who were in such a carriage.”

The surgical operation having been performed, the King took leave of his host, and, accompanied by Teixeira and the surgeon, returned to the royal palace; the Marquis, however, with two of his servants, riding on each side of the carriage, to protect him from a further attack; nor did he quit his post till he had aided his sovereign to descend at the private door, where he was in the custom of alighting.

Pale and agitated with the alarming occurrences of the night, the King entered his private cabinet, where the sagacious Minister was still seated, deeply immersed in business. Carvalho rose as he entered, but started back with horror as he beheld the countenance of his sovereign. “What has happened to your gracious Majesty?” he exclaimed.

“Foul treason has been at work, Senhor Carvalho; though, through the mercy of Heaven, we have escaped destruction.”

“Alas! then, my fears have not been groundless,” said Carvalho; “and your Majesty will be convinced that there are men wicked enough to seek your life. Let me now entreat you to retire to your chamber, where, if it pleases your Majesty, you can detail all that has happened.”

The King, when placed in bed, no one but the Minister, his surgeon, and Teixeira being admitted, gave an account to the former of what had occurred.

Carvalho listened with breathless anxiety, and well he might; his fame, his life, and power depended on the preservation of the King. A slight frown was on his brow, and a quivering movement might have been perceived on the upper of his closed lips, but he gave no other evidence of the thoughts passing within, till he answered, in a deep voice, “I will discover every one of the instigators and perpetrators of this atrocious outrage; and I ask but one condition of your Majesty:—Let me deal with the vile monsters as I may deem expedient, and all others shall learn such a lesson that, from thenceforth, your Majesty shall have no cause to dread a recurrence of such deeds. Will you, my Liege, grant this promise, which you owe to your own safety, and to the happiness of your people?”

“I give you the power you ask, my friend,” said the King.

“Then am I satisfied,” said the Minister.

Those words sealed the fate of the nobility of Portugal.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

On the morning after the events last described, a rumour was spread over Lisbon that something dreadful had happened; and people met each other in the streets with alarmed and inquiring countenances. Some said the King had been assassinated; others that his carriage had been overturned, and that he had been killed by the shock; others that he had died of apoplexy; while others, again, affirmed that he was still alive. The greater number, however, fully believed that he had been assassinated, several declaring that they had been aroused from their sleep in the dead of night, and looking out of their window’s had perceived the dark figures of horsemen galloping along at a furious rate. By degrees, large crowds assembled in the neighbourhood of the palace, all anxious, from many different motives, to learn the truth; but the windows were kept closed, and not a person was seen to issue forth to give the information sought for.