W.H.G. Kingston (continued 13)

“Pardon me, your Excellency, then,” answered Policarpio; “I feel very certain that he will venture to hang me, if he can catch me, so I must take care of my own life.” And, without waiting to hear anything his master might wish to say further, he hurried from the apartment.

His first care was to go to his own room, and to collect in a bag all the money he had hoarded up. He then threw off the garments he wore, and dressed himself in some ragged ones, which he had brought under his cloak. The latter garment served to conceal his new costume, as, seizing his bag of coin, he hastened from the house, unnoticed by any one. He took the least frequented way across the estate, stopping every now and then to listen and to look around, lest any guards might be approaching. He then, after quitting his master’s property, hurried across the country, and halted not for many miles, till he arrived in the centre of a pine-forest, through which ran a clear and tranquil brook. Having looked carefully around, he sat himself down on the bank, and, drawing a knife from his pocket, he deliberately cut off every particle of his hair, throwing it, as he did so, into the water. His next operation was to scratch the entire surface of his face and neck, and the greater part of his legs and hands, with his knife, rubbing them over at the same time with an ointment he had provided. With this application the skin became swollen and discoloured to a frightful degree, so that, after a few minutes had passed, it would have been utterly impossible, even for the most intimate acquaintance, to have recognised him. He next tore and dirtied still more the garments he wore, and, cutting a rough staff from a branch of a fallen tree, he left the spot with the exact appearance of a loathsome and wandering beggar. For many years was that wretched figure seen roaming from spot to spot, expecting every instant to be recognised, daring to confide in no one, without a friend in the world, conscience-stricken and miserable, yet clinging to life—no one suspecting that beneath those rags was hidden the atrocious criminal, Joseph Policarpio.

We must now return to the Duke of Aveiro. For some time he would not believe the account Policarpio had given him; but sat waiting, every instant expecting his return, to give him further information, when his servant, Manoel Ferreira (who, at the particular desire of Policarpio, had, for obvious reasons, transferred his services from the Marquis to him), rushed into the room with the information, that an officer of justice, and a considerable body of armed men, were approaching the house.

He now, for the first time, showed some symptoms of comprehending his danger; and, when his Duchess, entering the apartment, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to fly, he no longer hesitated to comply with her urgent prayer. He hastened to the window, which commanded a view of the entrance to the grounds, and there, at a few paces off only, he beheld a body of cavalry, advancing rapidly up the avenue. He stood for a moment, irresolute what course to pursue.

“Come, my lord, we must not stay here to be taken like rats in a trap,” exclaimed Manoel, whose impatience had become excessive. “We have yet time to escape into the woods, where we may remain concealed till we learn the worst that is likely to happen to us.”

“Oh! follow Manoel’s advice,” added the Duchess. “I will stay, and endeavour to delay the police.”

“Close every door and window in the house,” she cried to the other servants, who crowded in to learn what was the matter. “Haste, haste! not a moment is to be lost—your master’s life depends on your alacrity. We may hold out for some time, before they suspect we are deceiving them.”

While the servants hurried off to obey her orders, she took her husband’s hand, and led him to a small door, at the back of the building, whence he might escape across a field, into the woods which surrounded the Quinta. She here resigned him to Manoel; for so completely had terror now mastered him, that he seemed incapable of guiding his own steps, while she retired to an upper window to watch his progress.

The Duchess gazed anxiously from the window. She saw her husband pass through the garden, without being observed; and he had already crossed more than half way the field which separated it from the wood, when the tramp of horses sounded in the paved court, in front of the building. No one yet followed him. A loud knocking was now heard at the hall-door, and a voice, in an authoritative tone, demanded admittance in the King’s name. She longed to watch, until he was in comparative safety; yet she feared, lest the servants, becoming alarmed, might open the door to his pursuers, when his capture must be inevitable; for, exposed to view, as he now was, from every upper window at the back of the house, they could scarcely avoid seeing him, as they hurried through the rooms in search of him. Casting a last glance in the direction he was pursuing, she hastened down stairs, where she found most of the servants collected in the hall, consulting as to the prudence of admitting the emissaries of justice. The blows on the door were repeated with greater violence; the old major-domo, trembling with alarm, had his hand on a bolt, about to withdraw it.

“Would you murder your master?” she exclaimed, seizing the old man’s arm. “If you are men, protect him to the last; I will be answerable to these people for all that may happen.”

With prayers and commands, she then persuaded the domestics to retire to the upper part of the house, whither she followed them; and, throwing open a window, she inquired, in a calm voice, the object of the visit of the military.

“We come to demand the body of Don Jozé de Mascarenhas, Duke of Aveiro,” answered the Desembargador, the officer of justice, who had charge of the party. “If he does not forthwith deliver himself up to our lawful authority, we shall instantly proceed to force open the door.”

“Let me first see the warrant for his apprehension, and I will then obey your commands, if I find you speak the truth,” returned the Duchess, anxious by any excuse to gain time.

“That cannot be,” answered the officer. “Either at once open the door, or we must find some other means to make an entrance.”

“Do so at your peril,” said the Duchess, firmly. “The Duke does not feel disposed to allow any stranger to enter his house; but, if you will wait, I will go and consult his wishes with regard to our proceedings;” and, closing the window, she hurried away to the back of the house, leaving her enemies under the belief that the Duke was still within.

The servants were running backwards and forwards, wringing their hands, and sobbing with alarm, as they entreated her to allow them to throw open the door. Again insisting on their obeying her orders, she looked forth towards the wood.

“Oh! Heaven protect him!” she exclaimed, as she saw the Duke and his attendant, still at some short distance from the wood. “In two minutes more he will be hidden from their view.”

Scarcely had the Duchess uttered these words, when again the loud blows on the door resounded through the house. Again they were repeated; a crashing noise, as of wood rent asunder, was heard. The women shrieked, and fled in all directions to hide themselves, followed by the men-servants, except a page of the Duke’s, who, seizing a sword, seemed determined to defend his mistress from insult. The door was thrown down, the tramp of feet echoed through the hall, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, but the Duchess heeded them not; her gaze was fixed on her lord. A few paces more and the trees would have concealed him, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and several men rushed in. She could endure no longer, and uttering a cry of despair, she sank, fainting, on the ground. The page in vain attempted to prevent the soldiers from approaching the window; he was soon disarmed and bound, when, at that moment, the officer of justice entering, his keen eye caught sight of the persons of the fugitives in the distance. He at once guessing who they were, and the reason of the Duchess’s refusal to admit the party, despatched some of his followers in pursuit.

The Duke’s courage had revived on finding that no one followed, and he was congratulating himself on his chance of escape, when, as he and Manoel had just entered the wood, the latter, turning a glance towards the house, beheld, to his dismay, several persons emerging from the garden.

“On, on, my lord! we are pursued!” he exclaimed.

“Then all is lost!” cried the Duke, abandoning himself to despair.

“Not so, your Excellency. By plunging deeper into the wood, we may find some spot where, throwing ourselves on the ground, we may remain concealed till the soldiers have passed by,” the servant answered.

The Duke caught at the idea as a drowning man will at a straw; and, his courage once more reviving, they ran forward among the trees, completely screened from the view of those who were on the other side of the field. They ran for life and liberty, straining every nerve, and exerting every faculty, to escape, while their pursuers were urged on in the chase by the hopes of the reward they expected to receive, and the excitement of hunting a fellow-creature. We leave the case to moral philosophers to determine which have the most powerful incentive, the hunted, or the blood-hounds thirsting for their blood; though we should be inclined to award it to the latter. The first can but, at the worst, be captured and slain, while the hunters may gloat over their prey, and talk in after times of the deeds they have done.

The Duke and his servant now reached a deep dell, to cross which was absolutely necessary; yet, on mounting on the opposite side, they must be exposed to observation.

“We are lost!” cried the Duke again.

“No, no, your Excellency,” returned Manoel. “Quick! quick! it may prove our salvation. See those piles of wood heaped up at the bottom, which the wood-cutters have left, we may crawl beneath some of them, and the soldiers will, probably, in their haste, not think of stopping to search for us.”

This being the only feasible plan, they hurried down the bank towards the piles of wood. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, just entering the forest, as they reached their place of refuge. A quantity of branches and brushwood had been cut down, and lay scattered about. These they hastily collected together against the piles of newly-cut wood, when, an instant before the foremost pursuer had reached the summit of the bank, they crept beneath the heap. Onward came the hunters in full cry. They rushed down the glen.

“He has gained the opposite bank,” cried one.

“Yes, I just now caught sight of his dress among the trees,” shouted another.

“Hurra for the reward of the lucky one who captures him!” echoed several.

“Courage, comrades! Onward, on!”

The Duke trembled with alarm, as these sounds reached his ear. The tramp of feet was heard hurrying close by the place of their concealment—they passed—they mounted the bank,—their voices grew less distinct, and at greater distances from each other, as if they had extended their line. Gradually the noises altogether ceased, and the Duke and his companion breathed more freely. Manoel ventured to look out, and, as far as he could see, no one appeared.

“What shall we now do, my good Manoel?” asked his master.

“We must remain quietly here till the night,” was the answer; “we may then with some degree of safety be able to reach the interior of the country before the morning breaks; but never must we allow ourselves to be discovered by daylight on the road.”

“This is a very uneasy posture I am in,” observed the Duke.

“It is better than your Excellency would enjoy on the scaffold,” pithily answered the servant; and the master made no further complaints. “Hark! what sound is that? Footsteps approach—silence, for our lives!” whispered Manoel.

When the Desembargador had despatched the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives, he had also ordered the Notary, Senhor de Leiro, to accompany them, an office that respectable personage was not very well qualified to perform, seeing that, although his fingers, from constant practice, were active and pliant, his legs, as for many years they had never moved faster than a sedate walk, were very far from being so. He had also read that the van of an advancing army was a far more dangerous post than the rear; and, as it was said that the terrible Duke had fired at the King, he felt that he would make very little ceremony in shooting him outright; he therefore allowed the fighting party to precede him, while he advanced in a more dignified way in the same direction. By the time, however, that he reached the side of the dell, the soldiers had already run completely out of sight. He sighed as he thought of the toil before him; but his duty peremptorily called on him to proceed; or it might have been that he dreaded the loss of his situation if he neglected it; so he managed to reach the bottom of the glen, and to scramble again up the opposite side. Here, however, fatigue overpowered him, and he was obliged to seat himself down on the bank to rest. While there, hoping that the soldiers would quickly return with the prisoners, and thus save him further exertion, and, bemoaning his hard fate, he observed a heap of dried boughs at the bottom of the glen begin to move, and a man’s head protrude beyond it.

“Ah!” he thought, “that head belongs to one of the criminals, to a certainty. Now, if I were a strong man, I would capture him myself; but as I am not, I had better not attempt it, for he may think fit to give me a quietus instead.”

The Notary having come to this judicious resolution, kept a vigilant watch on the heap of branches, in the hopes that some one would pass that way to afford him assistance in capturing the prey; nor had he long to wait before chance led a farmer and his servant to cross the wood at no great distance from where he sat. On his beckoning to them, they immediately came up to him; when, in a few words, he explained that he was on the watch for an atrocious criminal, and promised them a reward if they would assist in capturing him. They immediately assented, when they all three set forward towards the spot where the wretched Duke was concealed.

“Seize the traitor, alive or dead!” exclaimed Senhor de Leiro, in a loud voice, as he pointed to the underwood.

On hearing these words, Manoel, finding further concealment was hopeless, sprang up, determined to make one struggle for life, the Duke following his example, with the intention of flying. The appearance of two desperate men somewhat staggered the valour of the Notary, particularly when Manoel, rushing towards him, seized the sword from his side, and would have run him through with his own weapon, when a cry from the Duke drew off his attention for the moment. On turning round, he beheld his master dragged away by the farmer and his servant.

“Release him, villains!” he cried; “he is the Duke of Aveiro!”

“We know that well enough,” answered the farmer. “He shot at our gracious King!”

Manoel was about to avenge his master, or endeavour to release him, when the shouts of the soldiers, returning through the wood, struck his ear. He now saw that all further attempts to save the Duke would be hopeless; so, abandoning him to his fate, he rushed past the Notary, who tried to impede him, and sought his own safety in flight. He was still in sight when the soldiers appeared on the top of the bank, and the Notary, pointing in the direction of the fugitive, some set off in pursuit, while others hastened forward to secure the greater prize.

The unfortunate Duke was dragged back to his mansion, and, without being allowed even to alter his dress, or to see his Duchess, he was hurried into a carriage, waiting ready in the court-yard to receive him. Just as he was driven off, he saw his young son brought in, vainly struggling in the grasp of the rude soldiers who held him.

No sooner had the Duke disappeared, than the Duchess was led down stairs, and desired to enter her own carriage, which was now brought round to the door. Almost fainting with grief and terror—for she had beheld her husband a prisoner, and her fears pictured his too probable fate—she requested that her son might accompany her; but this was peremptorily refused. She then entreated that she might be allowed to see him.

“Such cannot be, madam,” answered the Desembargador. “My orders are explicit to allow no communication between the prisoners. Your destination is the Convent of the Grillos; the young Marquis must accompany me.” Without waiting to hear the answer of the unhappy lady, he ordered the driver to proceed.

A third carriage was in attendance to convey the young Marquis to the prison intended for him. He was now brought out of the house in the custody of some soldiers. The news of his parent’s apprehension had come on him like a thunderbolt; but he neither shed a tear, nor uttered a complaint. On being informed that he must quit his home, he insisted on being allowed to prepare for his journey: this was refused him. He then desired to return to his room, to procure some money and necessaries.

“No, senhor,” answered the Desembargador, “you will require no money where you are going, and all necessaries will be supplied you. Come, quick, young sir; I am hurried.”

“You seem to have the power to enforce your commands, so I must obey,” said the young noble, haughtily, as he stepped into the carriage. Looking from the window, to take a last farewell of the house, destined, poor youth, never to be his own, he saw, to his sorrow, the servant Manoel dragged forward bleeding, with his hands bound, and, with his father’s page, thrown into a cart, which had been provided for the occasion. All the other men-servants were, likewise, carried as prisoners to Lisbon, while the officers of the crown took possession of the house.

The Desembargador then took his seat by the side of the young Marquis, and, as they drove towards Lisbon, he endeavoured, by a variety of questions, to gain as much information from him as possible respecting the Duke’s movements; but the son was on his guard, and refused firmly to answer a word. He was then offered his liberty, if he would agree to assume the cowl of a monk.

“No,” he answered, boldly, “I was born to be a noble of Portugal; and never will I consent to become a lazy monk. Lead me to prison: I am innocent, and fear you not.”

“We shall see, young sir, if in a few days you do not change your tone,” said the Desembargador, as the carriage stopped before the gloomy walls of the Jungueira.

“Never!” answered the young Marquis, firmly: nor could the dungeon into which he was thrown, and the barbarous treatment he received, compel him to change his determination.

Much of the above description we have extracted from a manuscript work written by the unfortunate Marquis d’Alorna, who was confined for many years in the Jungueira.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Luis d’Almeida had already spent some time in prison, each successive day expecting to be informed of the cause of his detention, and to be brought to trial; but nothing of the sort occurred. He received, it is true, several visits from the polite and complaisant Governor, who appeared to take great pleasure in his conversation, and who was most liberal in his promises of a more airy and commodious lodging, and of every luxury which he had the power to bestow; but his memory appeared to be very bad, for the prisoner found no improvement in any way in his treatment. It is true that, on the night of his incarceration, he had been supplied with bedding, which the Governor, on his first visit, assured him was procured with considerable difficulty and expense, hinting that his most advisable plan would be to pay for it at once, lest it might be required for some other person, who might possess sufficient means to purchase it. Luis at once paid the exorbitant demand, requesting, at the same time, to be furnished with writing materials, which, though they were at once promised him, never made their appearance. He begged also to be allowed to send to his lodgings for a change of linen and clothes; but this was at once refused, he being informed that his friends must not learn even the place of his imprisonment.

On the first night after his incarceration, when the outer world was hushed in silence, as he lay awake on his wretched pallet, he fancied that he heard suppressed groans, as if proceeding from the ground beneath his cell. He listened attentively, and became certain that his senses had not deceived him. “Alas!” he thought, “can a human being be confined in a yet more wretched abode than I inhabit?” The groans were continued at intervals, and proceeded, apparently, from some unfortunate prisoner suffering from pain and sickness. Day after day they continued, but Luis was left in vain conjecture as to their origin.

One day, at about the usual hour, the Governor, with a complaisant smile on his countenance, made his appearance, and bowing politely to his prisoner, he seated himself on the bed, begging him to occupy the chair near the table.

“You must excuse ceremony, Senhor Conde,” he began; “but though, to say the truth, I am rather hurried, I wished to enjoy the pleasure of a little conversation with you. I fear you must find it very solitary here, and must be getting heartily tired of your present life.”

“Indeed I am, senhor,” answered Luis; “and I shall much rejoice to find myself at liberty.”

“Very naturally. Most prisoners think the same; but do not despair; you will, in the course of time, get perfectly accustomed to it. I have heard of people living twenty years in prison very happily, so that, at last, when they were allowed to quit it, they preferred remaining where they were.”

“I trust that will not be my case,” observed Luis.

“That depends on circumstances,” said the Governor. “I might, indeed, point out a way by which you might instantly gain your freedom.”

“Pray then inform me what it is, for I would do much to be set at liberty,” said the prisoner.

“I am glad, at length, to hear you talk so reasonably,” said the Governor. “I need not tell you an execrable conspiracy has been discovered against the life of his Majesty, in which several known friends of yours are implicated; now, if you will give information on the subject to the Minister, he will not only overlook any share you have taken in it, but will reward you in any way you may wish.”

“As I have entered into no conspiracy against his Majesty, it is impossible that I should give information, which, in fact, I do not possess,” answered Luis; “but assure the Minister, that my very soul revolts against the foul crime which was almost perpetrated, and that I would gladly assist in bringing the criminals to punishment.”

“All prisoners speak much in the same strain, my dear sir; but, when once at liberty, they are very apt to forget their former promises,” returned the Governor. “Though you may, for many reasons, not like to give any information direct to the Minister, if you will confide it to my ear, you may depend on my making a favourable report of your case to him; if not—I speak as a sincere friend—I fear that you will be deprived for ever of your liberty, if a worse fate does not await you.”

Luis at once saw completely the object of the Governor’s observations, and was ready to answer them. “I must prepare, then, to meet my fate to the best of my power, for information of any sort I am unable to give,” he said.

“That is the answer many gentlemen similarly situated make at first,” observed the Governor, smiling; “we find, however, that when put to the question, their powers of recollection are wonderfully stimulated. Of course it will not be necessary with you, Senhor Conde. Heaven forbid it, for the agony few people can support. To be sure, there are occasions when but little respect is paid to persons; indeed, to tell you the truth, such is the case at present; for the Minister has determined to sift this mysterious affair to the bottom, and he is not, you know, very scrupulous about the means he employs. It is whispered about in the prison circles, that the Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, with his sons and sons-in-law, and a few other individuals, underwent the question yesterday. The Duke suffered the most severely, and made extensive confessions; in consequence, several other persons were apprehended during the night. Oh, there is nothing to be compared to the question, for extracting the truth!” and the Governor fixed his keen grey eye upon his prisoner’s countenance; but Luis retained his composure, as he answered calmly,—

“I cannot doubt, senhor, your wisdom and experience; but I do the efficacy of the measure you propose for learning the truth. Some men will endure the most excruciating tortures rather than reveal what they have vowed to keep secret; and others, again, who are unable to bear pain, will, in the hopes of avoiding further suffering, even invent a story, and accuse others falsely to save themselves.”

“Silence! silence! Senhor Conde, this is blasphemy and treason you are talking,” interrupted the Governor. “What! dare to doubt the efficacy of the rack and the thumb-screw? Horrible sacrilege! How could a good wholesome despotism exist without them, I should like to know? Take care,—such expressions are strongly confirmatory of your own guilt. Beware!”

A cold shudder passed through Luis’s frame as his eye met the threatening glance of the Governor fixed on him, but he winced not under it, and, folding his arms on his breast, he prepared to listen in silence to whatever observations his unwelcome visitor might think proper to make.

The Governor, however, appeared satisfied that he could gain nothing from him by ordinary conversation, and therefore rose to take his leave, with his usual mock civility, after looking at him with the same sort of eye with which an experienced butcher regards the calf he has just bought, and is leading home to slaughter. “He is a tough subject, and will endure much before he utters a syllable,” he muttered loud enough to be heard, as he left the cell, though Luis fortunately did not understand the tenor of his words.

The next day passed, much to his satisfaction, without a visit from the Governor, though an under-gaoler brought him his food, and cleaned his cell, as usual. This man, whose manner and words showed him not to have been completely-hardened by the sufferings he had witnessed, would generally stop a few minutes more than his strict duty required, to offer a few expressions of comfort to the prisoner, for whom he had conceived a compassionate feeling.

Luis now took the opportunity to inquire from whence and from what unhappy prisoner the groans he had heard for several days past proceeded.

“Ah, senhor, I, am sorry they disturb you,” answered the gaoler. “There is a poor gentleman confined in the very next cell to yours, who is continually groaning with pain, and bemoaning his hard fate, at being shut up for no crime at all; but the walls are so thick, that I should have thought you could not have heard the sounds.”

“Know you his name?” asked Luis.

“I have never heard it, senhor, and never thought of asking him, but I will do so, and tell you. Poor young gentleman, I fear he will not last long.”

“Do you think, my friend, that you could manage to let me see my fellow-prisoner?” asked Luis, who felt that it was his duty to offer every consolation in his power to the sick man, besides a natural curiosity to learn more of one whose voice had sounded in his ear for so many days past; “you may trust to my discretion, and that I will not betray your kindness.”

“I am not afraid of you, senhor; but if it was by any means discovered that I allowed such a thing, I should not only lose my situation, but be imprisoned in one of the darkest cells, as a warning to my brother gaolers, though I wish that I could do as you desire, for I do not see that any harm can come of it.”

Luis was, however, determined not to be defeated in his project; and taking the opportunity to make a present, which he had before intended, to the kind-hearted gaoler, he at length induced him to promise that he would allow him to pay a visit to the neighbouring cell on the first safe opportunity; probably directly after the Governor had gone his rounds,—the time which, in all prisons, gaolers seize to afford similar favours to their captives, as our readers have no doubt observed while perusing every history or romance on the subject.

To a prisoner, the slightest variation in the monotonous routine of his life affords subject of interest; and thus Luis looked forward with anxiety to the time when he was to be allowed to pay a visit to his companion in captivity, though he was aware that but little benefit could be expected to result to either of them from the interview. The Governor at last came his rounds; Luis heard the bolts of his cell door withdrawn, but that worthy personage, merely putting his head in to see that his prisoner was safe, wished him good night, and again retired.

After he had been gone about half an hour, the under-gaoler, faithful to his promise, made his appearance, having carefully opened the door, which, by long practice, he was able to do without any noise, and telling Luis to follow, he gently opened the door of the cell in which the sick man was confined, when, desiring him to enter, he closed and bolted it as before.

The sick man scarcely noticed the entrance of a stranger, as Luis placed himself by the side of the rude couch whereon he lay; but continued his groaning and piteous cries for fresh air and liberty. A lamp, burning on the table, shed its feeble rays around the cell. Luis rose to trim it, and again seated himself, the sick man continuing with his face averted towards the wall. Luis spoke to draw his attention.

“I have come, as a brother in affliction, to offer every assistance in my power to a fellow-prisoner,” he said.

Suddenly the sick man turned round, when the light falling on his thin and emaciated countenance, Luis started with amazement, a thrill of joy shooting through his frame; for in those features, though sadly altered by disease and confinement, he beheld the long-lost brother of his beloved Clara, of whose death he had been accused,—the younger Gonçalo Christovaö. He pronounced his name.

“Who is it that calls on one long-lost to the joyous world?” exclaimed the young Fidalgo, in a feeble voice, raising himself on his arm, and gazing wildly at his visitor.

“One you have seen but seldom, who has been vilely traduced, and accused of your death—Luis d’Almeida.”

“You have been amply avenged, then, senhor, for the evil thoughts I entertained of you,” answered the young Gonçalo. “This is true charity—thus to visit, in a loathsome dungeon, one who has so wronged and injured you. Ah! It is too late now—I have but short time to survive.” And he again sunk down exhausted.

“I have never for a moment had a hostile feeling towards you,” said Luis, offering his hand, which the other took, with a grateful expression on his countenance.

“Thanks, thanks! it is a consolation to know that a friend of those dear to me will receive my dying breath, and convey my last wishes to my father and sweet sister,—or do I see in you the husband of Clara?”

“Alas! no, my friend,” replied Luis, deeply affected. “I am a prisoner like yourself, and, perchance, shall be released but by death.”

“What! have you also fallen a victim to the wiles of that vile miscreant, San Vincente?”

“I know not even of what crime I am accused,” answered Luis; and he explained, in a few words, the supposed conspiracy, and its fatal consequences. “But tell me by what extraordinary circumstances I see you here?” he continued.

“By the machinations of a villain!” returned the young Fidalgo. “But I am faint, and can scarce tell my tale. A few drops from yonder flask of wine, supplied me by the charity of my kind gaoler, will give me strength to proceed, if you will hand it to me.”

Luis brought the flask, when Gonçalo, somewhat revived by a draught of the light refreshing wine of Lisbon, commenced an account of his adventures since the fatal night when Luis had so unintentionally wounded him. His sentences were short and broken, he frequently being obliged to stop, in order to recover strength to proceed.

“I was half mad with intoxication and the excitement of revelry, when, urged on by my evil counsellor, San Vincente, I made that wanton assault upon you, for which I have been so severely punished; but I must confess, that when your sword entered my side, I felt that I deserved my fate. When I returned to consciousness,—for in my fall I must have struck my head, which, aided by the effects of wine, had rendered me insensible—I found myself borne rapidly along the streets by several men. I inquired where they were carrying me; but, though I repeated the question several times, I received no answer; and at length, from the copious effusion of blood, I again fainted. When I once more recovered my senses, I found myself in a low vaulted chamber, on a mean pallet, with the rest of the scanty furniture of the commonest description, and a wrinkled old hag, of the most sinister expression of countenance, sitting in one corner, occupied in spinning. I anxiously inquired where I was; but, putting her finger to her mouth, she pretended to be dumb, to prevent my asking further questions; nor had I the slightest means of conjecturing to what part of the city I had been conveyed. When I endeavoured to rise, I found myself too weak to stand, and was obliged to give up the attempt in despair. It now occurred to me that I had been brought to this place for some sinister motive, and, though I acquitted you of having any share in my detention, I began strongly to suspect that San Vincente was the author of the outrage. I had for some days previously entertained uneasy doubts as to his character, which, in my more serious moments, made me regret that I had favoured his suit to my sister. I recollected, also, that I had lately won from him, at the gambling-table, some large sums of money; and now, incensed against him, I deemed him capable of the darkest acts. It struck me that he supposed, if he married my sister, I should release him from his debt, or, if he could get me out of the way, he should be equally free. Subsequent events proved the correctness of my supposition. Why he did not murder me at once, when I was so entirely in his power, I have never been able, to this day, to determine. Either he is not so bad as I suspected, and felt some compunction at killing an old friend, and the brother of his intended wife, or the fear of discovery and punishment deterred him. I remained thus for two days, without seeing anybody but the old woman, who still retained her taciturnity, and even when she brought me a scanty allowance of food, did so with a morose and unwilling air.

“Never could I forget, if life were prolonged, the awful sensations I experienced when the first shock of the earthquake was felt. I was alone, unable to move,—the terrific sound rang in my ears,—the groans of the dying, the shrieks of despair, reached even that remote spot,—the walls and roof trembled and cracked,—pieces fell around and on me,—I was almost stifled by the dust; yet, utterly helpless, I resigned myself to my fate. Shock after shock occurred, yet still, to my surprise, the walls stood uninjured. I was reserved for more severe suffering.”

He ceased speaking, from exhaustion.

“Ah!” thought Luis, as this account brought back the recollection of that dire event, “at that time was I rescuing your sweet sister from destruction. Both our fates have been cruel; yet yours, poor youth, even worse than mine.”

Gonçalo, now recovering, continued. “For the whole of that day of horrors, and the following one, I continued without food, becoming each moment more weak, till I thought death must put an end to my suffering, when a tall masked figure entered the vault, a few streams of light, entering from a barred window near the roof, enabling me to distinguish him. At a glance, notwithstanding his disguise, I recognised the Count San Vincente. He looked eagerly towards the spot where I lay, and Heaven forgive me, if I wrong him in believing that he felt disappointed on discovering I was still in existence. Without uttering a word, he directly quitted the vault, and soon afterwards returned with a basket of provisions, which he placed within my reach. He remained not a moment longer than was necessary, nor did I venture to trust myself in speaking to him. I heard him lock and bolt the door after him, as he retired. The old woman never returned; and for the two following days I was left entirely alone.

“During the third night, I was aroused from slumber by a noise near me, and, looking up, by the light of a lantern I beheld several men standing round my bed; a cloth was then thrown over my head, my arms were bound, and I felt myself lifted up, and placed upon a sort of litter, as I concluded, for immediately I perceived that I was being borne along at a rapid rate, and in the open air. I was too feeble to raise my voice; but once, when I attempted to cry out, a person whispered in my ear a warning to be silent, or that death would be my fate. The motion continued for some time, till at last it stopped, and I found myself again placed upon a bed. My arms were then released, but, before I could remove the cloth from my head, my bearers had disappeared, and I found myself in total darkness and silence. Here was new matter for speculation, but I was still utterly at a loss to comprehend the reasons for my removal, or whither I had been conveyed; indeed, I have never learnt to a certainty, though I suspect it was to some house belonging to my persecutor, San Vincente. When the morning dawned, I found that I was in an apartment rather better furnished than my last place of imprisonment, but with only one small window, high up in the wall, and that closely barred with iron. A surly-looking ruffian made his appearance twice a day to bring me food and make my bed, but, like the old woman, he never uttered a word. He, however, brought me a collection of books, which solaced my captivity, and I verily believe prevented me from losing my senses altogether. Several months thus passed away, and I was at length able to rise and walk about my room. The first use I made of my renewed strength was to try the door, but I found it secured by bolts, and plated with iron. I then climbed up to the window, but the walls were thick, and a board sloping upwards from the lower part prevented me seeing aught but a broad expanse of sky. This was a grievous disappointment; indeed, my spirits sank under it, though my strength continued to improve. When my surly attendant perceived that I was strong enough to attempt to, escape, I observed that he invariably came into my room armed with a pistol and dagger, keeping a wary eye, during the time he remained, on every movement I made. This dreadful life of solitude I could no longer endure; my health gave way under it, and I again took to my bed. I entreated the ruffian to send a physician to me, or a priest, to give me the consolations of religion, but he looked at me with a grim smile, without answering, and no one appeared. Gradually I became worse and worse, till I fully believed myself to be dying, so thought also my attendant. One night I awoke from my sleep to find my eyes blinded, and my hands bound as before, when I was brought thither. I was then gagged, while a voice whispered in my ear, ‘If one sound escapes you, this dagger shall silence you for ever!’ and, at the same time, I felt its sharp point at my breast. I was now lifted up, and found myself suddenly placed in a carriage, which immediately drove on for a considerable time; when it stopped, I was once more lifted from it, and borne along till I heard the sound of bolts and bars withdrawn, when I was placed on the bed where I now lie, and from which I never more expect to rise. Here I have for months been confined, and it seems a miracle to myself that I have existed so long. Except the compassionate gaoler’s, yours is the first friendly face I have seen since you last beheld me with my sword raised against your life. Pardon me, my friend, for that deed, for I have bitterly expiated it.”

Luis assured the unfortunate youth not only of his forgiveness, but of his sincere commiseration for his sufferings.

“Soon after my arrival here, I gained a clue to ascertain the reason of my last removal,” continued Gonçalo. “The Governor of the prison came one evening into my cell, and no sooner did my eye fall upon him, than I recognised a person on whom I had once inflicted chastisement for an insult he had offered me, and whom I well knew to have been at one time an intimate acquaintance of San Vincente’s, though he had latterly pretended to have discarded him. I knew why he came—it was to gloat over my sufferings—to reap his revenge. He is a wretch capable of any atrocity—base, mercenary, and avaricious. He told me that I was a prisoner for life, accused of treason; that my name was Diogo Lopez, and that I was spared under the plea of insanity. He then quitted me with a grin of gratified malice on his countenance. I feel confident that the plot was concerted between the two. San Vincente has easily bribed him to engage in it, and gratify his own revenge at the same time; he probably feared that I should die in his custody, when he might have some difficulty in disposing of my body; or, perhaps, he was anxious to destroy me sooner, which he knew sending me here would do. Once incarcerated under a false name, as a condemned criminal, I should here remain without a hope of release, all responsibility being removed from him; and dying, as he knew I soon must, I shall be buried with the other wretches who end their lives here. This is my allotted fate, and, had you not discovered me, it would never have been known. You will, I know, inform my father, and aid him to bring the miscreant San Vincente to the punishment he deserves.”

Luis promised to obey his wishes, if he himself ever escaped from prison.

“I have one more request to make,” said Gonçalo: “I long, ere I die, to perform the last duties of religion, but I have, in vain, asked for a confessor. The Governor knows I have nothing to reveal. You may in this assist me, by desiring to see one yourself, and you may then, in the same way that you have come, conduct him hither.”

“I will use my utmost endeavours to do so,” answered Luis, “though I fear much I shall be unsuccessful.”

Gonçalo now made many inquiries about his family, to which Luis answered to the best of his knowledge; and when he told him that Clara was about to take the veil, his self-reproach knew no bounds.

“Alas, alas!” he exclaimed, “this has happened through my own mad obstinacy: had I not praised San Vincente to my father, she might even now have been your bride, and both might have been happy.”

“Heaven willed it otherwise,” said Luis, checking his rising emotion, when he endeavoured to console his unhappy friend; and so far succeeded, that he already appeared to have recovered strength—his spirits, more than his body, had suffered. The gaoler, now softly opening the door, beckoned away Luis, who, pressing Gonçalo’s hand, returned to his own cell, reflecting, that if he himself had suffered much, others had yet more to endure.

The following day the Governor thought fit to honour the Count d’Almeida with a visit. He entered, bowing and flourishing his little three-cornered hat, as usual, smirking as he seated himself on the bed. “I fear that you find your life in prison a very dull one, my young friend,” he began; “most people do, yet such is the fate of those who will disobey the laws. In the course of a year or two you will become more habituated to it, and then you will learn to like it, if—for I am sorry to say there is an alternative—you are not proved guilty of a crime of the first magnitude;—but, in the latter case, you must prepare for death! Ah, you start;—it is very sad to die, but, I wished to spare your feelings, and therefore concealed your fate from you till now; however, feeling a sincere friendship for you, I would point out the only means you have of escaping. Make a complete confession of all you know, and then, probably, a short imprisonment will be your only punishment.”

Luis watched the Governor’s eye while he spoke, and although he did not believe his assertions, he felt that they might too probably be founded on truth. Not disconcerted, however, by unmanly fears, he, recollecting his promise to Gonçalo, pretended to credit them; and, on the plea that, perhaps, his death was near, he petitioned to have the consolation of religion afforded him.

“I rejoice, my young friend, to hear you speak in so proper a frame of mind,” said the Governor, sententiously. “Even to the prisoner’s cell the Church extends her benign influence, and Heaven will be pleased if you confess your sins to the holy man I will send you. He shall visit you this very day, and, putting full confidence in him, let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to follow implicitly his counsels.” The Governor, flattering himself that he had gained the very point at which he was aiming, bidding his prisoner be of good cheer, withdrew.

The Governor was in this case true to his word; late in the evening the friendly gaoler entering Luis’s cell to inform him that a Friar waited without to see him.

“Beg him to enter,” said Luis.

The gaoler retired, and directly after returned, ushering in a cowled and bare-footed Friar.

“Pax vobiscum,” said the holy man, as he entered. “I come, my son, to bring food and comfort to your soul. Leave us,” he added, turning to the gaoler, “I would be alone with the prisoner.”

No sooner had the gaoler withdrawn, than the Friar, throwing back his hood, exhibited to the astonished gaze of his intended penitent, the rotund and ruddy countenance of the holy Frè Diogo Lopez.

“Hush!” said that worthy person, putting his finger to his lips. “I am sorry to find you a prisoner here, though I am glad that it is I who have been sent to you. Come, give me an embrace, to convince me that you retain a kindly recollection of me.”

Luis, scarcely able to speak with surprise, performed the ceremony; indeed, the face of one who, though he considered him a rogue, had always shown a friendly disposition towards himself, could not but afford him pleasure.

“Now, we will make ourselves as happy as circumstances will permit,” continued the Friar, at the same time producing from beneath his gown a good sized flask, and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table, a smile curling his lips, and his eyes glistening the while. “Stand there, my friends, till you are wanted,” he added, as he seated himself on the bed. “Now, Don Luis, I wish to convince you that, although you once thought me a rogue, I can, at all events, be honest towards you. I am sent here to pump you, to discover all your secrets, and to betray them to the Governor. Now, take my advice; do not tell them to me, or any other confessor; and as there are no proofs against you, as far as I can learn, you have a chance of escaping the punishment many others are about to suffer. This plan will prevent either of us incurring any risk, and I shall feel a wonderful satisfaction in deceiving that cunning devil of a Governor. Ha, ha! the very thought amuses me. I little thought that you were among the unfortunate prisoners shut up in this horrid place, till the Governor sent for me to-day, and informed me that one of his pets desired to see a priest, in order to make confession, desiring me to learn all I could, and let him know without delay. I have done so often before, without feeling any compunction on the subject; for there are so many knaves in the world, that I considered it as merely telling one rogue’s secrets to another rogue, besides being well paid into the bargain. I do not wish to know yours, in case I might be tempted to betray them. With me the old weakness is as strong as ever. I cannot resist temptation, though I bitterly repent it afterwards. I, by chance, inquired the name of my penitent, when, to my surprise and sorrow, I learnt it was you. However, I soon made up my mind how to act, and, providing myself with that flask of good wine, I determined to make a jovial evening of it with a clear conscience, instead of hypocritically drawing the secrets from some poor wretch, to betray him afterwards. So now, my dear Don Luis, or rather I ought to say Count, let us to business. I can give you a short shrift afterwards, if you require it, when we have finished the bottle.”

So saying, the Friar drew the table between himself and Luis, and filling both glasses with wine, he nodded familiarly to his penitent, draining his off, and smacking his lips, to set him an example. He then indulged in a low quiet chuckle at the young Count’s astonishment.

Luis first felt inclined to be disgusted with the Friar’s open acknowledgment of his contempt for the sacred office he performed; but the imperturbable coolness and thorough good nature of the latter, at last conquered that feeling, and, forgetting that he had come to perform a religious rite, he could no longer refrain from pledging him in return.

“Well, my dear Count, I am glad to find that you have at length conquered your scruples,” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “I have always said it is impossible to know what a man really is till you learn his works. Now, if I had put on a sanctimonious face, played shriver, and betrayed you, you would have considered me a very pious man; and now, because I tell you the truth, and kick hypocrisy to the devil who invented it, you, in your heart of hearts, believe me a knave. Well, it cannot be helped, such is the way of the world. Come, Count, don’t be cast down, you have many years to enjoy life yet before you, if I mistake not. Fill your glass, and drive away care. I wish I could venture to sing a stave, it would wonderfully rouse your spirits, but it would not do to be heard—even I could not pass it off as a hymn.” And the Friar hummed a few lines of a song in a low tone. “Bah! the effect is spoilt; you ought to hear it trolled forth by a jovial set of us, the roof of the old hall of our convent rings again. Oh, that would do your heart good!”

Luis, in spite of himself, could not help joining in the Friar’s merriment, which seemed to give the latter much satisfaction. “That is as it should be, my friend; I wish the gaolers were deaf, and that the rascally Governor was not likely to be prowling this way, for we might drink and sing away to our heart’s content. Come, help me to finish the bottle, or I shall not be quite in a clerical state to make a clear report to the Governor of your confession.”

There was such a laughing devil in the Friar’s eye all the time, that it struck Luis he might even then be playing off some trick upon him.

“How comes it, Frè Diogo, that I see you here in Lisbon as a professed Friar, when, the last time we met, you acknowledged you had never taken the vows?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience.”

Luis had not forgotten poor Gonçalo’s request; but he was considering in his mind whether the priest in question was a person qualified to administer the consolations of religion to a dying man; but there was a sincerity in the eccentric Friar’s manner, which at last determined him, for want of a better, to confide in him. At all events, he felt that it might afford satisfaction to the dying youth. He, therefore, told the Friar of his interview with his fellow-prisoner, the young Gonçalo Christovaö, whom he had been accused of killing, recalling to his mind their fruitless search, and finished, by begging him to administer, with the utmost decorum he could assume, the rites of the Church appointed for the sick or dying.

“You seem by your words, to suppose that I am not as capable as the most rigid and sanctimonious confessor, who ever shrived a fair penitent, to put on a serious air when necessary,” said the Friar, laughing. “There you are wrong again; and I will show you that I can equal the best of them. By the way, now you mention the name of Gonçalo Christovaö, it reminds me that, in a most wonderful way, I came into possession of the very letter I gave you with the jewels in the cave, and which you lost before you could deliver it to the person to whom it was directed,—the father of this same hapless youth. You will not press me to explain exactly how I got it—suffice it to say, I found it in the pocket of a coat which, doubtless, had been yours, and which I strongly suspect had been stolen.”

“Have you the letter still?” inquired Luis, eagerly. “I have ever since had cause to regret its loss; for, though I know its contents, I have had a feeling that it might have saved much wretchedness to one I love dearer than life itself.”

“It struck me, also, at the time I found it, that it might be of some consequence, so I preserved it carefully for several months in my breviary, intending to restore it to you or Senhor Christovaö, should I meet either of you, though I had long forgot all about it; whether or no it is still there, I cannot say,” said the Friar. “I fortunately brought the book to Lisbon with me, so if the letter is in it, I will bring it to you on my next visit. I shall take care, by my account to the Governor of your confession, to be sent to you again.”

“Thanks, my kind friend,” answered Luis. “You may thus render me a great service, though, could you send it to Gonçalo Christovaö yourself, it would sooner reach him. I know not when my term of captivity may end.”

“I will endeavour to do as you wish,” answered the Friar. “Now, my dear Count, I am speaking more seriously to you than I ever did to any one in my life. I have a true regard for you, and sincerely wish to rise in your opinion. Do not think me a scoundrel, for I am better than I have too often appeared. Will you promise me this?” The Friar spoke with energy, and a tear stood in his eye, as he took Luis’s hand, and pressed it to his heart.

“I firmly trust in you,” answered Luis, “and know you to be my kind and generous friend,—one of the few I now possess on earth.”

“Thanks, Count, thanks! your words have made me a happier and better man,” said the Friar, much moved. “The knowledge that I am esteemed by one honest person, who knows me as I am, will prevent me from ever again acting the part of a knave.” He drew a deep sigh. “Ha! ha! we must not let care oppress us, so we will finish our bottle before the turnkey comes to summon me away. I will then visit your sick friend, and do what I can to comfort him. Remember, whatever happens, confide in me. If I find that your life is in the slightest danger, it shall not be my fault that you do not escape from hence.”

Luis warmly expressed his thanks to Frè Diogo, for he now felt convinced that he had gained an invaluable friend, and the dull leaden sensation he had experienced at the thoughts of his speedy execution, gave way to a renewed hope of life.

“Ah! here comes the gaoler,” exclaimed the Friar, as steps were heard in the passage; “he is a worthy fellow, and the only honest man employed in the prison. I now and then crack a bottle with him for society’s sake;—thinking of that, I must hide my friend and the glasses under my robe; so fare you well, Count, till to-morrow.” As he spoke the turnkey opened the door, when Luis, entreating him to introduce the Friar to the sick man in the next cell, he promised to comply, and the Count was left alone to meditate on his own fortunes.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

Words are insufficient to describe the sufferings of the high-born captives who lay in those wretched cells, formed to contain wild beasts instead of human beings, whither the stern policy of the Minister had condemned them to be conveyed. Kept apart from each other, in darkness and solitude, though near enough to hear each other’s groans and cries, they were allowed no change of garments from those in which they were first apprehended; straw heaped in a corner on the floor, unswept since the removal of its former savage inhabitants, formed their places of rest; the coarsest food, sufficient to sustain nature, was alone supplied them, and no one but the officers of justice was allowed to visit them.

Day after day they remained thus, in anticipation of their dreadful fate; then came ferocious looking men, callous to the sufferings of their fellow-beings, whose appearance bespoke them to be the detested executioners of the law; even the guards and gaolers shuddered as they beheld them entering the prison, bearing their implements of torture. Two Desembargadors, a notary, and a surgeon followed, repairing to a large hall, round which the cells occupied by the prisoners were ranged, their fronts being now blocked up with masonry. The executioners had here erected their instruments of torture, chairs being prepared for the judges and notary, with a table for the latter to take minutes of the examination.

The first prisoner led forward was the Duke of Aveiro, but he refused to answer any of the questions put to him.

“Since you refuse to speak in any other way, we must try what effect the rack will cause,” said one of the judges. “Let the question be administered to him.”

The Duke turned pale, but answered not a word till the dislocation of his limbs commenced, when he gave way to shrieks and cries for mercy, which rang through the hall, piercing to the cells of his fellow-prisoners, and giving dreadful warning of the fate awaiting them.

“I will confess! I will confess!” at last he cried, unable longer to endure the agony; but when, on being cast loose, he again denied any knowledge of the occurrences the Desembargadors mentioned, he was once more placed upon the engine of torture, nor would they listen to his entreaties to be released till he had further felt its power.

“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” he cried, when the surgeon approached him, and his cries ceased. He had fainted. He was lifted off the machine, and carried back to his cell, where restoratives were administered, and he was left till sufficiently recovered to bear further questioning.

The Marquis of Tavora was then brought forward, and subjected to the same system of examination; but not a word, to criminate either himself or others, could be elicited from him. His sons, the Conde d’Atouquia, and the servants of both houses, followed in succession; the agony of their sufferings drawing statements from some of them which the others denied. Young Jozé de Tavora was the only one, who, like his father, boldly and firmly persisted in the declaration of his innocence of the crime laid to his charge.

“Were I guilty of the deed of which you accuse me, I would acknowledge it,” he exclaimed; “but no tortures the cruelty of Sebastiaö Jozé can invent have power to make me speak a falsehood.”

“Take him to his cell,” thundered the Magistrate; “he is obdurate. Bring back the Duke.”

The same scene of horror was again enacted, when the wretched noble, overcome by terror, made a long statement, which was eagerly committed to paper by the Notary, accusing himself, his fellow-prisoners, and numerous others of the highest nobility in the land, of conspiring against the life of the King. Whether his account was true, or whether it was the invention of his brain wrought into madness by agony, has never yet been satisfactorily determined. We leave our readers to form their own conclusions.

We do not venture to describe more minutely the dreadful scene of tyranny, injustice, and human suffering; for we have yet in store horrors sufficient to make the heart of the strongest sicken at the recital; and we would advise those who would avoid having their feelings harrowed with the tale which truth compels us to narrate, to pass over the chapter succeeding this.

At last, all the evidence which could be wrung by torture from the prisoners, or obtained from other witnesses, being collected, their trial formally took place. On the first day, the judges appointed by the Minister to preside could not come to an agreement; two of them firmly refusing to sign the process. Carvalho, probably, firmly believed most, if not all, of the prisoners guilty; and, after the violent steps he had taken, his own existence depended on their condemnation; but, owing to the absence of clear and satisfactory evidence, this was difficult to be obtained. He therefore instituted another court, taking care that the presidents should be creatures entirely devoted to his service, and the result of the trial may be anticipated.

The weak and timid Monarch yet remained a close prisoner in his palace, suspecting a traitor in each noble of his court, and starting at every sound, fancying it a signal of rebellion. His physician had just quitted him, Teixeira was absent, and the Minister had himself gone to watch the proceedings at the trial of the conspirators. He was alone—his feelings were oppressed, his thoughts gloomy; for his disposition was naturally mild, and indisposed to bloodshed; and he now knew that the blood of his first nobles was about to flow like water for his safety. Yet what injustice will not fear make a man commit! He wept.

“Alas!” he cried, “they must die. The trial must, ere this, have been concluded, and I shall then know the punishment awarded them. It must be so; I cannot feel security till they are no more.”

The King heard a suppressed sob near him, and looking round, he beheld a young page kneeling at a short distance from where he sat. He started, and rising, retired a few paces, for in every human being he had been taught to suspect an agent of treason.

“What brings you here, boy? How could you have entered unperceived?” he exclaimed rapidly, as a strange thrill shot across his bosom. “Speak! who are you?”

“A wretched suppliant for your Majesty’s clemency,” answered the Page, in a low and broken voice.

“What mean you, boy? There are too many such in our dominions,” exclaimed the Monarch, bitterly. “But rise, boy, and retire: this intrusion ought to have been prevented. Whatever petition you have to make, present it to our Minister, Sebastiaö Jozé, two or three days hence, when he will have time to attend to you. We would be alone.”

“Alas! two days hence will be too late,” responded the Page, in the same low tone as before. “It is not to that cruel unbending man I would make my prayer. It is to your Majesty’s compassionate heart alone, a miserable guilty creature would appeal. Hear me, my liege; hear me. By my guilty conduct, many of those I was bound to love and honour—my kindred and connexions—have been, like the vilest felons, imprisoned and tortured, and some have, within this hour, been condemned to an agonising death and everlasting disgrace. For them I come to plead—their lives, their honour, are in your power. Spare them, my liege, and let me be the victim; for I, and I alone, have been the cause of all their sufferings.”

“Great Heavens! Whose voice is that?” exclaimed the King, more agitated than his suppliant, towards whom he hurriedly advanced, and whom he raised from the ground. “Donna Theresa!”

“Would to God you had never known that name, my liege. I am that wretched woman,” ejaculated the seeming page, still keeping her hands in a suppliant attitude before her, while the King gazed fondly at her care-worn, though yet lovely, countenance. “I have braved all dangers and difficulties,—I have deceived your guards,—I have penetrated to your Majesty’s retirement, to throw myself at your feet, and plead for my kindred’s lives. They cannot be guilty of the foul deed for which they are condemned;—they never could have sought to injure your Majesty, though even I have been accused by some (to heap greater wretchedness on my head) of having falsely accused them of the crime. Your Majesty knows I am thus far guiltless; and, if my injured husband, incited by jealousy and indignation of his wrongs, should have harboured a thought of malice, oh! show your magnanimity, by pardoning him and his family. Disarmed by your clemency, they could not then further injure you; or let them retire to some other land, where they may repent of ever having given cause of suspicion to so good and kind a master. This act of mercy alone would put down sedition, and bind more firmly all the nobles of the land to your service, and, revered while you live, your name would descend to posterity as a magnanimous and generous prince, who feared not to pardon those who had offended him. But, if your cruel Minister requires some one on whom to vent his hatred, of the aristocracy of the land, the legitimate and noble guardians of your person, whose jealousy he well knows has been aroused at his persevering interference, let me be delivered up as the victim of his vengeance. My fatal love for my sovereign first kindled the spark which has never yet burnt into a flame, and I alone ought to be sacrificed for my crime, if so your Majesty deems it.”

The King was deeply moved at the energy of her passion, her tears, and prayers. He led her gently to a chair, and insisted on her being seated, while he stood before her with his arms folded on his bosom; but, as soon as she perceived it, she rose, and threw herself kneeling on the ground.

“This must not be, Donna Theresa,” said the agitated Monarch, again attempting to raise her, but she would not quit her suppliant posture.

“Rise, madam, rise. I have no enmity against your relations. It is not I who accuse them. They have been tried by the laws of the country, and, if guilty, I have resigned all power over them. My crown, my life, the happiness of my people, and the tranquillity of the land, require their punishment. It is by my Minister’s advice I act thus, and to him you must plead their cause.”

“Oh, say not so, your Majesty. Do not thus yield to the grasping ambition of that enemy of our race, who seeks to rise by their destruction,” exclaimed Donna Theresa. “Exert your own royal authority, and act according to the generous dictates of your heart. You have the power—exert it, and be merciful; if not, before two suns have set, such deeds of cruelty will have been perpetrated as will cause the nations of Europe to execrate the very name of a Portuguese.”

The King’s firmness was fast yielding to the entreaties of his lovely petitioner. “I will endeavour to mitigate the rigour of their sentence for your sake, fair lady,” he answered. “If clearly proved, for the sake of my successors, I have no right to overlook their crime.”

“Rather let it be supposed by posterity that such a crime was impossible in Portugal,” interrupted Donna Theresa; “or teach your successors the virtue of clemency.”

“You plead most powerfully to my heart, Donna Theresa, nor can I longer withstand the energy of your prayers,” said the King. “Rise, then, and let me rather ask pardon for the anguish I have caused you. I it was who ought to have knelt to you.”

“I cannot rise till I hear their pardon pronounced by your gracious lips,” returned Donna Theresa. “Let me, to prove my innocence of betraying them, be the bearer of your forgiveness.”

“I do forgive them,” answered the King; “yet, in so important a matter, I may not act further without consulting my Minister.”

“Then their doom is sealed!” cried the unhappy lady. “Sebastiaö Jozé has moved heaven and earth to destroy them; and unless your Majesty rescues them by a determined act, they can in no way escape death.”

The King still looked as if he was about to deny her.

“Oh! hear me, your Majesty,—by the devoted love you so lately professed to bear me, by all your tender endearments, by your vows of constancy, by the sacrifice of my name and reputation to your passion, pardon those innocent ones—at all events, comparatively innocent—and let the punishment fall upon my guilty head!”

Where is the man who can withstand a lovely woman’s prayers, when, weeping, she pleads, and pleads for justice? The King could no longer resist her entreaties; he gently raised her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, he was about to pledge his kingly promise that none should suffer—the words faltered on his tongue—the door opened, he looked up, and beheld the commanding figure of the Prime Minister! The latter stopped, gazing with amazement. Donna Theresa saw not, heard not aught but her sovereign, as she waited eagerly for the words he was about to pronounce.

“You promise, then—you promise they shall be pardoned?” she ejaculated.

The King’s eye sank before the searching glance of his potent Minister.

“Pardon me, your Majesty, for my intrusion, and will you graciously deign to explain the meaning of this lady’s presence?” exclaimed the latter, advancing rapidly, for he had heard Donna Theresa’s last words, and in a moment clearly comprehended the cause of her visit. He felt that his own power hung upon a thread, and he foresaw that, if she gained her cause, he must inevitably be the sacrifice.

In an instant he had arranged his plan. “I need no explanation,—Donna Theresa de Tavora has ventured hither against your Majesty’s commands, to impose, with a false tale of her relatives’ innocence, on your gracious clemency, and, for the sake of saving the guilty, would sacrifice your life and crown to their implacable hatred. Be not deceived, Sire, by the treacherous tongue of an artful woman. I come now from the trial of the once so-called Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, and their associates: the judges have found them guilty of the most atrocious of conspiracies, and have condemned them accordingly. Your Majesty’s sacred life had nearly fallen a sacrifice to some unknown traitors. For months have I incessantly toiled, day and night, to discover the miscreants, and at length I have been successful, and they are about to receive the punishment of their deeds. Let not, then, all my exertions prove vain; and, above all, Sire, do not jeopard your own precious life by mistaken leniency.”

The Minister watched the King’s countenance, and saw that he had won his cause. He advanced to Donna Theresa, and grasped her arm: “Come, madam, you must no longer intrude upon his Majesty!” he exclaimed.

She started at his touch, and turned an entreating look towards the King. The Monarch’s eye was averted. “All, all is lost!” she cried, and, uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless upon the ground.

“Pardon this seeming harshness, Sire,” said Carvalho, deprecatingly, as he raised Donna Theresa in his arms. “It is necessary for your safety.”

“You are always right, my friend,” said the King. “Let every care and attention be paid her; and let some one be with her to console her for her disappointment;” and he turned away to hide his own emotion: he longed to hide his feelings from himself.

“’Tis another step gained towards supreme power,” thought the Minister, as he bore his unconscious burden from the apartment, and committed her to the charge of his guards, with strict orders not to allow her to depart. He then returned to the King, with the fatal document in his hand,—the condemnation of the noble prisoners. His Majesty’s signature was required; nor had he now much difficulty in obtaining it.

When nearly all of the most influential in the country were interested in the preservation of the accused, and all feeling that Donna Theresa was the most calculated to persuade the Monarch to pardon them, she had experienced but little difficulty, aided by high bribes, in penetrating to the apartments of the King; though, on Carvalho’s endeavouring to discover the delinquents, every one solemnly averred that they had never seen her enter,—though, in her page’s suit, she might have passed them unobserved.

Let her fate be a warning to others. Let those consider, whom passion would lead from the strict path of duty, that not themselves alone, but many others also, whom they once loved, and by whom they were beloved, they may drag down to perdition.

When Donna Theresa returned to consciousness, she found herself surrounded by her own attendants, and when she was pronounced in a fit state to be removed, she was conveyed to the Convent of Santos, where a large income was settled on her, and a retinue appointed to attend her. Though nominally a prisoner, she had perfect liberty. She did not die:—such was too happy a lot for her. For many, many years she lived on, a prey to remorse, hated and scorned by her few surviving relatives, till age had wrinkled her brow, and no trace of her former enchanting loveliness remained. Guilty of one crime she was, but not that of which she was accused; yet none would believe her assertions, when she had failed to procure the pardon of her husband. Such was her punishment!

For eighteen years did her father, the Marquis d’Alorna, his wife, and children, languish in separate dungeons, and scarcely one of his kindred escaped the like fate.

She became deaf and blind, and at length she died. On her tomb was found inscribed, “The Murderess of her Family.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

We would gladly avoid detailing the following narrative, but no one who is writing the life of the great Prime Minister of Portugal can pass it over in silence; and while his name is mentioned in history, so will be the dreadful tragedy in which he was the principal actor, with the execrations of all who have a sentiment of pity for human suffering in their bosoms; even had the sufferers been proved guilty, which we, as Britons, and lovers of our own just laws affirm they were not. Guilty in the sight of Heaven, some of the accused too probably were, but by no law founded on common equity or humanity were they proved so.

The morning of the 13th of January broke dark and gloomy on the heads of a vast concourse of people, already assembled in a large open space on the borders of the Tagus, near the Castle of Belem.

In the background was the Quinta of Bichos, the entrance-door of which opened towards the river, and round it was now stationed a strong body of troops under arms. Here the noble prisoners since their condemnation had been confined, and thither also, during the dark hours of night, the Marchioness of Tavora had been removed from the Convent of Grillos. In front of the gateway, and close to the water, appeared a scaffold, which, since the setting of the sun, workmen had been incessantly employed in erecting, and on which the sound of their hammers was still heard. It was fourteen feet high by thirty long, and twenty broad, covered with black, without ornament of any sort; a wide flight of steps with balustrades leading up to it, on the side towards the Quinta. On the scaffold were seen two posts painted black, a chair, and a bench, on which were placed heavy iron mallets, and an instrument with a long handle, and an immense iron weight shaped like a quoit at the end of it; there were, besides, several large St. Andrew’s crosses of wood, and the same number of wheels, and many other instruments of torture. Two regiments of infantry and two of cavalry were drawn up from the gate of the Quinta to the steps of the scaffold, extending their lines also on each side of the square; the embouchure of every street leading to the spot was also occupied by troops, companies of cavalry moving up and down them continually, and allowing no one to pass who wore a cloak, or could in any way have concealed arms about his person, without examining him. Notwithstanding, however, every impediment, thousands of persons pressed eagerly forward to the scene of execution, of every rank, age, and sex, mostly excited by that vulgar curiosity which has, among all nations, and in all times, drawn people together, however revolting the spectacle might be, one would suppose, to human nature.

Here were collected, mothers with children in their arms, whom they held up to behold the black scaffold, and the glittering arms, and gaudy uniforms of the soldiers, the little wretches cooing with delight, unconscious of the meaning of the scene: here were old men leaning on their staves, and discussing the late events with stoical indifference; sturdy ruffians, who longed eagerly for the commencement of the horrid drama; boys, youths with the down still on their lips,—ay, and young maidens too, listening to their tones of courtship, and smiling as they listened; many sat in groups discussing their morning meal, regardless of which they had hurried from their homes;—yes, there was love-making, laughter, and feasting; but dark Death, with his most terrific horrors, was the great actor they came to behold—all else, like a dull interlude, was insipid and tame.

The water also was covered with boats crowded with people, many too, of the higher ranks, anxious to behold the scene, yet unwilling to be observed by the common people, as they sat shrouded in their cloaks, waiting in silence for the commencement.

There was one boat which attracted great attention; it was a barge, moored to the quay, and loaded with faggots, wood, torches, and barrels of pitch.

“What, is all that firewood for?” asked a nursing mother of her husband; “there is enough there to supply us to the end of our lives.”

“What, in that boat? Oh! that is doubtless the wood to burn the criminals.”

“Jesu Maria!” exclaimed the woman, “they are not going to burn them alive?”

“Why not?” answered the man, “the holy office does so, and what they do must be right.”

“Ay, yes, I forgot; of course, they are right,” muttered the woman.

“Burn them, to be sure they will,” chimed in a neighbour; “and will serve the regicides right. Do you know what they did? They tried to kill the King, the Queen, the Minister, and all the royal family, the wretches!”

“What! did they? Then they deserve to be burnt, doubtless,” cried the woman.

“Ay, that did they, the haughty fidalgos!” exclaimed the neighbour; “we shall, now we have got rid of them, have some chance of becoming fidalgos ourselves.”

“Oh! it will be a glorious sight!” cried another of the crowd, “full fifty fidalgos all burning and shrieking together; far better than any Auto-da-fé—the holy office never burns more than eight or ten at a time.”

“Full fifty! gracious Virgin!” cried a girl. “Who are they?”

“Ay, and more than fifty. Let me see; there are the Duke and Duchess of Aveiro, and all their household and children, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tavora, the younger Marquis, his brother and their sisters, the Marquis of Alorna, and his family; the Conde de Atouquia, and Captain Romeiro. Let me see, there are many more—oh! there are Gonçalo Christovaö, who excited the rebellion at Oporto, and the young Count of Almeida, the Count of—”

“Who did you say?” exclaimed a young man, a stranger to the party, who was standing near. “Who was the last person you mentioned to be executed?”

“The Count of Almeida,” answered the oracle of the party, coolly. “He came to Lisbon the very morning of the outrage, and has, it is said, the very look of an assassin.”

“It is a vile falsehood, and anybody who says he is guilty, is a villain,” exclaimed the young man, vehemently. “My master would never hurt a lamb, much more fire at a king.”

“Your master? then you ought to be in his company, my fine fellow,” answered the man, who was in a most loyal mood. “The masters and servants are all to be burnt together.”

“Burnt! my dear master burnt alive!” ejaculated Pedro, almost unconsciously; for it was he, having wandered about the city, daily, unable to gain any tidings of the Count, till he, at last, heard his name mentioned among the captives, and had now, with sorrow and fear, come to the place of execution, expecting to see his beloved master among the sufferers. Not knowing the precautions taken to prevent a chance of escape, he watched, with feverish anxiety, the appearance of the prisoners, in the hopes of finding some means of rescuing him. Not liking the proposal of the people, near whom he was standing, and being unable to gain any further information from them, he moved away to another group, one of whom appeared to know a great deal about the matter.

“Can you tell me, Senhor, the names of the conspirators who are to suffer?” asked Pedro, with tears in his eyes, and a faltering voice.

“Of course, my friend, I shall be happy to enlighten you to the utmost of my power,” answered the person he addressed, enumerating the same names as the former one, with a few additions.

Poor Pedro wrung his hands with agony.

“Alas, alas! are they to be burnt alive?” he asked.

“Oh, no, not all of them,” said his informant. “Some of them are, for which purpose you see those black posts erected, to fasten them to. The ladies are to lose their heads, the leaders are to be beaten to death, and the others are to be strangled. A few only are to be burnt alive, to please the people; and then the scaffold, and all the bodies, will be consumed together and thrown into the river.”

Pedro could listen to no more of the dreadful details, but, hurrying away to a distance, he sat himself down on a stone, and hiding his face in his hands, he gave way to the anguish of his feelings, in tears. Suddenly, however, recovering his presence of mind, he considered how he might yet afford some aid to the hapless young Count.

While the scene we have described was proceeding, one of violence and destruction was enacting in another part of the city. A vast mob were collected in and around the palaces of the Marquis of Tavora and the Duke of Aveiro; some employed in dragging forth the rich and valuable furniture, breaking it in pieces, and piling it in heaps to burn; some endeavouring to conceal the smaller articles about their persons; and others fighting and wrangling about the booty. A few minutes sufficed to accomplish the act of destruction, when workmen instantly commenced demolishing the entire edifices, and ere their once proud owners had ceased to breathe, already were they in ruins. When the palaces were completely razed to the ground, salt was sprinkled over their sites; and on that of the Duke of Aveiro a column was erected, on which was inscribed his crime and punishment.

To return to the former scene. At length, at seven o’clock, the gates of the Quinta were thrown open. “They come! they come!” murmured the crowd, as a body of horsemen were seen to issue forth, some in uniforms, being the chief military commanders of the kingdom, others in dark cloaks, who were the principal officers of the crown, the ministers of justice, the criminal judges, and others. The Prime Minister was not among them. He, it was said, contemplated at a distance the work he had ordered.

Forming in two lines, between them appeared a sedan-chair, painted black, the bearers dressed in the same hue, and on each side walked a friar of the Capuchin order. As they advanced towards the scaffold, the dragoons formed round them, and, at the same time, the chief executioner, with three assistants, mounted the fatal platform to receive the wretched occupant.

When the party arrived at the foot of the flight of steps, every voice was hushed, and every eye was strained to see the first victim. The door of the sedan-chair was opened, and a female form was led forward. “The Marchioness of Tavora!” ejaculated the crowd.

It was, indeed, that unhappy lady. Firm and composed, she advanced to the first step of the scaffold, where, kneeling down between her ghostly comforters, she performed the last duties of religion, employing thus upwards of half an hour, during which time some further arrangements on the dreadful theatre were being made. At the end of that time, the executioners gave a signal that all was in readiness for the first scene of the tragedy, and, rising from her knees, she mounted, without faltering, the fatal steps, appearing in the same robes of dark blue satin, her hair dressed with white ribands, and a circlet of diamonds, as when she had been apprehended. On the summit, the friars delivered her into the hands of the executioners, who first led her round to each side of the platform, to show her to the people, and then, with a refinement of cruelty worthy of the brain of an Eastern barbarian to conceive, they, according to their orders, exhibited to her the knife by which she was herself to suffer, at which she merely smiled. But when she beheld the rack, the crosses, the mallets, and other instruments of torture prepared for her husband, children, and the other partners of her fate, while the chief executioner explained their object, the intrepid spirit which had hitherto sustained her in that hour of bitter anguish, at length gave way in a gush of tears.

“As you hope for Heaven’s mercy, oh! hasten with your work,” she exclaimed.

Even the executioner was moved. “I perform but my orders, lady, and pray your forgiveness,” he answered, as he hurriedly performed the hell-invented task, and led her to the chair in the centre of the platform.

Throwing off his cloak, he appeared in a close-fitting black vest. As he stooped down to fasten her feet, he raised her clothes slightly.

“Remember who I am, and respect me even in death!” she exclaimed, proudly; but the moment after, seeing the man had done so unintentionally, as he released her hand, she took the circlet of diamonds from her head, and presenting them to him, “Take this as a token of my forgiveness,” she said, clearly. “Now Heaven receive my soul, and forgive my murderers!” These were her last words. The executioner, now securing her arms to the chair, took the handkerchief from her neck, and bound her eyes, the friars repeating the prayers of a parting sinner; he then, seizing a large knife, shaped like an eastern scimitar, took her long hair in his left hand, and lifting high the blade, gave one stroke on the back of the neck, for the sake of greater ignominy, the head falling on the bosom, a second being required to sever it from the body. The butchery being finished, he exhibited the head to the people, while his assistants untied the body, both being thrown on one side, and covered with a black cloth, from beneath which the blood flowed, trickling down the outside stage.

Thus died Donna Leonora de Tavora, once Vice-Queen of India, one of the most lovely, high-spirited, and most noble ladies of Portugal; the favourite of the former Queen, and the most admired dame of the Court! Either her own fatal ambition, or the envy and revenge of another, was the cause of her untimely end, which, no one can now determine.

During this time, the day still remained obscure, some thought, as a signal of Heaven’s disapprobation at the bloody scene which was enacting. Alas! if the sun shone but when the land was free from crime, when should we enjoy a clear day? It was at last discovered that an eclipse was taking place.

This execution being concluded at half-past eight, the ministers of justice still remaining in their places, the sedan-chair, escorted by the dragoons, proceeded to the Quinta; from whence it again returned, a friar, as before, walking on each side. From it was led forth, trembling with agitation, the young Jozé de Tavora, dressed in a suit of black; and supported by the friars, he mounted the scaffold. As he was led round to be exhibited to the people, wearing his long, light hair in curls, his youth, his graceful figure, and the sweet engaging expression of his countenance, gained him universal commiseration. He regained his courage, and spoke a few inaudible words; then petitioning pardon for his own sins, and for those of his enemies, he resigned himself into the hands of the executioners. His eyes being bound, he was fastened by the wrists and ankles to a cross, brought forward to the centre, and elevated nearly upright, the whole weight of the body hanging by the arms, increasing the agony of the sufferer, while the chief executioner passed the cord, to strangle him, round his neck, and the assistants with their iron clubs broke the eight bones of his arms and legs. His shrieks resounded through the assembly, drawing tears of pity from the eyes, and cries of sympathy from the breasts of many, even of the most hardened. The mangled corpse, being exhibited to the people, was placed on one of the wheels, and covered with a black cloth.

Poor Pedro watched this execution with the most dreadful anxiety; for in the young Don Jozé he had recognised the companion of his master during the excursion on the fatal night of the attempt against the King’s life. He turned his straining eye-balls towards the gate of the Quinta, as the third sad cortège issued forth in the same manner as the first towards the scaffold; but instead of the Count the young Marquis of Tavora appeared.

With an impatient step he mounted the stage, dressed in full court costume though bare-headed; and, walking round, he attempted, in a loud voice, to address the populace with a declaration of his innocence.

“Hear me, Portuguese!” he cried. “My kindred and I have been sacrificed to the lust of a weak King, and the ambition and hatred of a tyrant Minister; but our blood will not cry in vain for vengeance; and for centuries, war, disorder, and wretchedness are in store for our hapless country. A dying man speaks.”