W.H.G. Kingston (continued 14)

“Silence, base traitor!” thundered forth the chief criminal magistrate. “Commend your soul to God, or you shall be stopped by a gag!” at the same time giving the signal to the executioner.

To spare him the agony his brother had suffered, he was seated on a chair, made fast to the cross, with his hands fastened above him, and being then strangled, and his legs and arms broken, the body was shown to the people, and placed on another wheel, likewise covered with a black cloth.

“Ah! my poor master will be the next,” cried Pedro. “I will die with him; for I shall never be able to rescue him from their clutches, the barbarians!”

The next sufferer who appeared from the sedan-chair was the Count of Atouquia. He mounted the steps with a furious and indignant air, and when he attempted to speak, he was compelled to hold silence. He was executed with the same ceremonies as his brother-in-law.

Manoel Ferreira, the Duke’s servant, Captain Braz Romeiro, of the Marquis of Tavora’s late regiment, and Joaö Miguel, the Duke’s page, then followed in the order named, dressed in ragged and scanty garments, and were executed like the previous victims.

Carpenters were now employed to make several alterations in the scaffold, and two large crosses, without a centre-post, were brought to the front.

The body of Donna Leonora, with the head, were placed on a bench in the centre, so as to meet the view of her husband, who was destined to be the next victim.

As the unhappy Marquis appeared, the muffled drums of the military bands gave forth irregular sounds, the troops whom he had once commanded with distinction and honour, and through whose lines he was now led, turning their left shoulders as he passed. He mounted the steps with a quick and firm pace; but started with horror, a death-like pallor overspreading his countenance, as he beheld the mangled, body of his wife, whom he had last seen in all her pride and beauty before their apprehension. The lacerated bodies of his sons and servants were then exhibited to him, as well as the instruments of torture with which he was to suffer death. He was next led round to be shown to the populace, whom he did not attempt to address, and returning, as soon as he was permitted, he knelt down by the side of the cross. He then humbly confessed himself to his ghostly attendants, and, when they retired, boldly extended himself upon the cross laid flat on the ground, to which he was then bound; the executioner next lifting a vast iron mallet, with a long handle, struck him three blows on the chest, the stomach, and the face, besides breaking his arms and legs,—his sobs and pitiable groans of agony being heard for some minutes ere he expired.

It was past two o’clock when the Duke of Aveiro mounted the scaffold, dressed in the morning-gown in which he had been taken, bare-headed, and holding a crucifix in his manacled hand. The anticipation of an agonising death had somewhat humbled his once presumptuous pride, though, perhaps, even at that moment, indignation at the ignominy with which he was treated was his predominant feeling, as he gazed around with looks of rage and despair. He underwent precisely the same ceremony as the Marquis; but the executioner, through nervousness, struck the first blow on his stomach, causing him the most excruciating tortures, as was known by his heart-piercing shrieks, and it was some minutes ere, by this most barbarous method, life became extinct.

Next was brought forward Manoel Ferreira, and with him an effigy of Joseph Policarpio, who had escaped,—the former habited merely in a shirt and drawers. The unfortunate wretch was bound to one of the posts, seated on an iron chair, with the effigy opposite to him, two friars administering to him the consolations of religion. The boat was then unloaded of its cargo of wood and barrels of tar, which were placed under and upon the scaffold, he being surrounded by faggots, and a pan of sulphur placed beneath him. The executioners and workmen now descended from the scaffold; a friar, prompted by zeal for the welfare of the criminal’s soul, and feeling he might afford him comfort in his moments of agony, with noble intrepidity remained to the last moment, while the former, lighting their torches, set fire to the fabric in every direction. The wind having blown till now across the scaffold, it was expected that the flames would soon put an end to the wretch’s sufferings; but, suddenly changing, it blew them directly away from him; his shrieks and groans, while he thus slowly roasted, being dreadful to hear, the good friar remaining near him till he was himself scorched, and compelled to fly for his life, hitherto regardless of the shouts of the people to call him away.

The greater proportion of the populace were horrified at this dreadful event; but some were not yet satiated with blood. “What!” cried one ruffian, “are these all? I thought we were to have many more.”

“Stay patiently, my friend, till to-morrow,” answered another; “we shall have a fresh batch then. This is far better worth seeing than a bull-fight, or an Auto-da-fé. Our Prime Minister is a fine fellow; he does not do things by halves.”

“Thank Heaven, my dear master is still alive!” exclaimed Pedro, with a deep-drawn breath, as he hastened, sick with horror, to make further inquiries for the Count.

The flames burnt brightly up, and, after twenty minutes, the shrieks of the burning wretch ceased,—death had put an end to his sufferings.

At length, by four o’clock, the bodies of the ten human beings, who had that morning breathed with life, the scaffold, and all the instruments of torture, were reduced to one small heap of black ashes. One ceremony remained to be performed. The ashes were swept together by the executioners, and scattered upon the bosom of the Tagus, so that not a vestige remained on the face of the earth of those who had once been. People gazed upon the spot of the tragedy: one blackened circle alone marked it. All that had passed seemed like some dreadful dream of a disordered brain. People rubbed their eyes, and looked again and again, to persuade themselves of the reality.

When the account was brought to the Minister—“Tremble, haughty Puritanos!” he exclaimed. “Now I have ye in my power.”

The military band now struck up a martial air, the troops moving off the ground to their quarters, and the officers of justice to their homes.

That very evening, the King, for the first time since the attack, appeared in public, holding a Court for all his nobility. None dared absent themselves; but all wore an air of gloom and fear; for, feeling as they did, it was impossible to say who might be the next victims to the Minister’s policy.

The account of the above-mentioned dreadful execution we have translated from a very valuable manuscript work in our possession, written by one who was, we conceive, an eye-witness of the scene he describes, though we have rather softened and curtailed, than enlarged upon, its horrors. He was certainly no friend of the Prime Minister’s; but there is a minute exactness in his descriptions, and an upright honesty in his observations, which gives us no reason to doubt their correctness.

The fidalgos of Portugal have never forgotten the lesson they that day learned. Alarm and mistrust entered into every social circle; no one dared write, or scarce speak, to another, for fear of treachery; and day after day the prisons were filled with fresh victims of the Minister’s despotism. The most trivial expressions were remarked and punished with rigour. One day, a nobleman, a licensed favourite at Court, was conversing with the Queen and a party of ladies, when the subject of the lost King Sebastian was introduced, one asserting that the common people firmly expected his return. “Oh, they are perfectly right,” exclaimed the Count: “King Sebastian reigns at present in Portugal.”

A few days after this speech he found himself an inhabitant of a prison, in which he lived for many years.

The King now bestowed on his Minister the title of the Count of Oyeras, nor was he made Marquis of Pombal for many years afterwards.

Though the King still drove about as usual unattended, Carvalho never appeared abroad without a body-guard to attend him, so fearful had he become of the revenge of the friends of those he had slaughtered or imprisoned. The most beneficial act of his life to Portugal was the expulsion of the Jesuits, nearly all of whom he transported to Italy, the rest he imprisoned; among the latter was the Father Jacinto da Costa, who never more appeared in the world. He was too subtle a foe to be allowed to wander loose. He is supposed to have died in one of the solitary dungeons built by Carvalho’s command.

Malagrida was also imprisoned; but three years passed before he was brought to trial. He was delivered up into the hands of the spiritual court of the Inquisition of Portugal, who found him guilty of heresy, hypocrisy, false prophecies, impostures, and various other heinous crimes, for which they condemned him to be burnt alive, having first undergone the effectual public and legal degradation from his orders. He obtained, by way of mitigation, that he should be strangled before the faggots were kindled around him. The whole ceremonial was adjusted according to the fashion of the most barbarous times. A lofty scaffold, in the square of the Rociò, was erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and richly decorated, convenient seats being provided for the most distinguished nobility, and the members of the administration, who were formally invited as to a spectacle of festivity. Fifty-two persons were condemned to appear in the procession of this Auto-da-fé, clothed in red garments and high conical caps, with representations of devils, in all attitudes and occupations, worked on them; but Malagrida, who walked at their head, was alone to furnish the horrible amusement of the day. Crowds assembled from all parts to witness the spectacle, and shouted with savage glee as the flames consumed the remains of the insane old man. Hypocrite and knave though he had been, he was then more fit for commiseration than punishment.

As his ashes were scattered to the wind—“Now!” exclaimed the Prime Minister, “I have no other foes to fear!”

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Ours is a tale of human woe and human suffering; of blighted hopes, of disappointed ambition, of noble promise, and of bright aspirations doomed never to be realised; of crime, of repentance, of despair a description of a dark and gloomy picture, with but a few green spots to enliven it—a picture of the world!

We have long lost sight of the beloved of the Count d’Almeida, the fair Donna Clara Christovaö, and we now return to her with delight, for we love to gaze upon a being young, innocent, and lovely as she was. On her return from Lisbon, her father had allowed her to remain at home for some months, to recruit her strength and spirits among the scenes of her childhood, after all the terror and danger she had undergone; nor did he, during that time, once refer to the monastic life to which he had dedicated her; indeed, he tried to forget it himself; and would, perhaps, though not addicted to changing his purpose, have deferred the fatal time from year to year till death had removed him from the world, had he not his father confessor by his side, who at length thought fit to remind him of his vow. It is needless to say, he had repented of it, though he would not acknowledge it to himself, and he strenuously endeavoured to persuade the father that he could in no way compromise his soul by deferring the commencement of the year of probation to a future period; but the latter was firm, painting the enormity of such conduct in colours so glowing, so that the unhappy father was obliged to yield, and promised to make no further delay.

For reasons known only to herself, Donna Clara had firmly refused to perform her confession before Father Alfonzo, and taking advantage of the privilege allowed to every member of a family, she had selected a venerable and worthy priest as her confessor, whose best qualification was his kind and simple heart, and his innocent and credulous belief in all the miracles, the relics, and the infallibility of his Church.

Father Alfonzo, who well knew his character, lost no opportunity of winning his regard, and thus making a tool of him in his plans on Clara, which, though delayed, he had not abandoned. No; the devil, in whatever shape he appear is ever treacherous, watchful, and persevering, and naught but the armour of innocence can turn aside his deadly shafts.

Clara had learnt to confide in the good priest, and flew to him on all occasions for consolation and advice; and now, when the fidalgo, urged on by his confessor, again proposed to her to fulfil her mother’s vow by entering a convent, she requested permission, before determining, to consult her ghostly adviser on the subject.

She hastened to the aged priest, telling him her unwillingness to give up the world, and her feeling of unfitness for a life devoted wholly to the services of the Church.

“Alas! my daughter, it is hard for an old man, broken by infirmities, with one foot in the grave, to advise a young and joyous being to abandon all her hopes of domestic felicity, and the pleasures which the world affords, for a life of ascetic seclusion,” he answered; and Clara felt her heart lighter at his words. “But,” he continued, “as a minister of religion, it behoves me to advise you to obey your father’s wishes, and to fulfil your mother’s vow. There is but one course, my daughter, marked out for you to follow—the stern one of duty; and your duty demands the sacrifice of yourself; yet weep not, my child, a few years will quickly pass away, and you will no longer regret the world you have left, with all its vanities, while an immortal crown of glory will assuredly await you, the blessed reward of your virtue and resignation. Think of this world as it truly is, a vale of tears, and place your hopes of happiness in a heavenly future.—My fair daughter, you must become a nun.”

Pale and trembling, Clara listened, and bent her head in meek resignation, while the tears stole down her fair cheeks. The advice, though good and pious, doubtless, was not such as to afford consolation to a lovely girl of nineteen, who might naturally and innocently hope to find some enjoyment in the world her aged confessor likened to a vale of tears; yet she had determined to abide by his counsel, and her fate was sealed.

She made no further resistance to the fidalgo’s commands, consenting to recommence her noviciate whenever he should think fit. A day at a short distance was fixed, and Father Alfonzo saw with malignant satisfaction the commencement of his long sought for triumph.

The Convent of Santa Clara, at Oporto, is situated on the brow of a steep hill to the east of the city, overlooking the rapid Douro. It is a lofty and handsome building of carved stone, the windows looking towards the outer side being strongly barred; the church stands on one side of the entrance, which is through a court-yard with wide oaken gates. A long and steep flight of steps leads up to it from the river, but on the other side it is approachable by a broad though winding road, with the backs chiefly of some large houses and dead walls on each side, making it altogether a most secluded situation. The garden is surrounded by a high dark wall, with pointed battlements, exactly similar to the walls of the city; indeed, one side of it is enclosed by them, and at the end furthest removed from the convent is a summer-house, likewise, alas! securely grated, from whence a beautiful view is obtained both up and down the river. On the opposite side, on the summit of a precipitous cliff, at whose foot the river rushes with impetuous force, stands the Serra Convent, with its high cupola-roofed church, then surrounded by groves of fine trees and lovely gardens, and inhabited by the most wealthy and high-born monks of Oporto, that of Santa Clara receiving none but the daughters of fidalgos. On the right is a view of the city, and the town of Villa Nova, with the heights beyond, between which the river winds its way towards the sea; while on the left, a soft and smiling scene, with rich green banks rising from the water, is beheld, beyond a narrow gorge of dark rocks.

To this convent Clara was now conveyed, and, torn from the embrace of the good Senhora Gertrudes, notwithstanding all the old nurse’s entreaties that her darling might be allowed to remain at home with her.

It must be confessed that Clara had but little to complain of during her noviciate in this lovely spot, and she had much to make her contented. She had many companions of her own age; merry, light-hearted girls, who laughed and talked all day long, hurrying over the daily ceremonials of their religion to laugh and talk again. Then their confessors would come, who never troubled them with too severe penances, entertaining them instead with many laughable stories. They would no more have thought of imposing any disagreeable task on the fair young fidalgas, than would a fashionable preacher in London of annoying the consciences of his hearers. Then the doctor would come and feel their pulses, while he detailed all the anecdotes he had collected during his professional visits, and indeed everything that was going forward in the world.

All, however, were not thus happy; the young love of some had been blighted in the bud, and they had retired thither in the expectation of finding peace and a solace for their woe in the duties of religion; others had been compelled by cajolery or threats to embrace a life they detested and despised, these invariably recompensing themselves by indulging in every license within their power, for they soon discovered “that where there’s a will there’s a way.” We well recollect the Convent of Santa Clara, the most fashionable of our day, so we must not be scandalous.

The fair flower of his garden, as her father used to delight to call Clara, found naught congenial to her feelings and thoughts in this new life, and with fear and sad forebodings she looked forward to the time when it must irrevocably become hers for ever. She pined for freedom, and she thought of the love and devotion of her poor, though high-born, lover, Don Luis. In vain she tried, for she thought it her duty to banish his image from her mind, but she had engraven it too deeply to eradicate it. Each time it returned with greater beauty than before, till at last she gave up the attempt as hopeless; so she cherished it with greater fondness than ever.

About two months of her noviciate had passed, when one evening, as she was seated in the summer-house, inhaling the fresh breeze, and gazing on the lovely view, her companions having all quitted her, she heard a low strain of music, sounding as if it came from far down the cliff below her. She listened attentively for some minutes—it ceased—when it again sounded as if from directly beneath the wall. At one of the windows a bar had been loosened, so that it could be easily removed, as the fair birds were, it must be confessed, rather frequently in the habit of doing. She soon discovered the necessary way to do it, and, looking out, she beheld a graceful figure, with a cloak over his arm and a guitar in his hand. As he gazed up towards the window of the high tower, he struck a few low notes on his guitar, as if to draw the attention of any fair captive within. The eye of love was not slow in piercing the thickening shades of evening, and her heart beat with tender emotion as she distinguished Don Luis d’Almeida. He stood evidently uncertain whether he was known, or whether it was Donna Clara herself towards whom he was looking; he feared, she thought, to pronounce her name, lest it might in any way betray her, and she equally trembled to speak his. She held in her hand a handkerchief marked with her name, “Would it be wrong?” she let it drop, and had just time to see him spring forward, seize it, and press it rapturously to his lips, when the bell for vespers rang, and she was obliged to hasten into the convent.

The following evening she anxiously watched, from the window of the tower, the return of Luis. He at length appeared, having climbed, with great difficulty and danger, the steep heights from the river; but this time he had not encumbered himself with a guitar. Clara looked hastily into the garden below her—no one was within hearing.

“Oh, Luis,” she cried, “your presence gives me both joy and pain; joy to know that you are near me, and pain that I feel it will soon be sin even to think of you.”

“Say not so, my beloved Clara; I come to tell you to hope,” answered Luis. “Resist to the utmost taking the fatal vows. Defer it in every possible way, and something may yet occur to favour our wishes.”

“Heaven grant there may!” exclaimed Clara; “but, much as I delight in seeing you, for my sake, do not venture here. Ten months must elapse before the dreaded time arrives; ere that time, return again here, and believe me, I will trust in your constancy. I have seen and heard such things within these walls as make me almost doubt whether I am bound to obey my father’s commands by remaining in them till released by death. It is treason to speak this; but thus much I must tell you, Luis. Hark! some one approaches. Farewell!”

“I will rescue you or die,” whispered Luis, yet loud enough to reach her ears; and while she watched him, as he disappeared over the brow of the cliff, a young novice entered the tower.

“What! sister Clara, ever meditating in our bower?” exclaimed the girl, laughing, “I shall begin to suspect you have some lover among the gallant friars opposite, or perhaps some one has managed to fly to the foot of the tower; for Love, we are told, has wings, though he generally uses them rather to fly away; but in no other way could a human being contrive to get there, I am sure. I quite forgot—I came to bring you a message from the Lady Abbess, to say that your father and a certain Padre Alfonzo are waiting to see you.”

“I will accompany you,” answered Clara, taking the arm of Sister Amalia; and the two young ladies entered the convent together.

More trials awaited Clara. Her father received her with an angry brow, unusual to him, and chiding her, gravely informed her that he had received intimation that Don Luis had been seen at Oporto, whither he had doubtless been attracted for her sake, insisting on her promising never, without his leave, to see him. He little suspected that she had, within the last few minutes, both seen and heard him.

“Remember, too,” concluded the Fidalgo, “that although he has not been convicted as the murderer of your brother, he has not proved his innocence, and he is without either fortune or influence; were it not so also, you are dedicated to the Church, and can never be his. Pass your word to me, therefore, that you will not see him; if not, you must, by the advice of the Lady Abbess and the good Father Alfonzo, be subjected to such a confinement as will preclude the possibility of seeing him, or receiving any account of him.”

“I trust, my father, that the love and respect I hear you, and my own honour, are a sufficient guarantee of my not disobeying your commands when they are just and right; but no further promise will I make,” answered Clara, firmly. “Pardon me, my beloved father, that I should ever have spoken thus to you; but I will not be unjust to myself, or to one whom I know truly as innocent of any crime except that of loving me.”

Clara continued firm in her determination, notwithstanding all the Lady Abbess, her father, or the priest, could say to her; and at last, wearied out, they were obliged to desist from all further attempts to make her alter it. Their system of tactics then changed. She was from henceforth never allowed to leave her chamber, or to walk in the garden without an attendant; and though at first she bore up with spirit against this irksome species of petty tyranny, at last her health gave way, and it was not till she was allowed, as before, to wander alone in the garden that she at all recovered. It certainly did not increase her taste for a monastic life. Her father at length departed for Lisbon. Three months of her noviciate only remained to be accomplished, and she had not heard from Luis. Week after week passed by, yet he came not. With all a woman’s trusting love, she felt confident he would come to see her, and bid her farewell, if not to bring proofs that her brother fell by another’s hand, and to rescue her.

At last the alarming accounts reached her of the apprehension of the conspirators, among whom the name of the Count d’Almeida was mentioned. She believed him innocent; but he was in prison, and escape was hopeless. Then arrived the dreadful description of the cruel execution. She trembled as she listened, but his name was not among the sufferers. She thanked Heaven that he was preserved, though for herself she had ceased to hope.

At last came the stunning intelligence that her father also was a prisoner on the charge of high treason. It was the very day before she was to pronounce the final vows. She longed to fly to him, to comfort him in prison, but she was told such was impossible. With tears and entreaties she petitioned the Lady Abbess to allow her to depart, yet in vain. The fidalgo had committed his daughter to her charge, and by his permission alone could she allow her to quit the convent under any pretext. His confessor, in whom he placed implicit confidence, assured her such was his wish, and by him was she guided.

Despairing, therefore, of all human aid, Clara yielded to her fate, trusting, as she did so, that Heaven would afford her peace of mind, and reward her for obeying her father’s commands and her mother’s wish.

It was a bright and lovely morning, although in winter, when she rose from her couch, whereon she had spent a sleepless night; several attendants being in readiness to robe her for the last time in the garments of the vain world. Bright flowers were braided in her fair hair, glittering jewels decked her neck, and a robe of white satin, richly ornamented with lace, clothed her graceful form. She appeared as a bride about to be led to the altar—a lovely sacrifice to Heaven; say rather to bigoted superstition and priestcraft, the worst remnant of heathen idolatry and imposture: and let us bless the era, and the true patriot, who, with one daring stroke, banished for ever those vile institutions from his country. (Note.)

Before Clara left her chamber for the last time, her future abode being a narrow cell without ornament, and with but scanty furniture, old Gertrudes was permitted to visit her. Tears and sobs almost choked the poor nurse’s utterance, as she embraced and kissed, over and over again, her young charge.

“Oh! and you look so lovely in that beautiful dress!” she exclaimed; “and they are going to cut off all that fair hair, and put you on a dull, ugly habit, which you must wear all the rest of your days—Oh dear! oh dear!” and she burst into a fresh shower of tears.

“Do not thus mourn for me, my good nurse; I care not for my change of habit,” answered Clara, smiling mournfully; “and I trust I shall be happy in the consciousness of performing my duty.”

A sister now entered to inform Clara that the procession was nearly ready to enter the church, so Senhora Gertrudes was obliged to tear herself away to witness the sad ceremony, while Clara accompanied the sister to the hall, where the whole community were assembled previous to entering the church by their private door.

Two other novices were that day to be professed, and a large assemblage of their friends, kindred, and acquaintances, besides many strangers, had collected in the church to witness the ceremony.

Preceded by the cross-bearer, with slow and measured steps, and singing the hymn, “O Gloriosa Virginum,” the procession of nuns entered the sacred edifice, and took their allotted places. The holy Father Alfonzo, also the professor extraordinary to the convent, first preached a sermon from the altar, with the postulants seated before him, giving the most glowing picture of the religious life they were about to enter, so that not one of the audience could doubt they were peculiarly blest in their choice.

The Bishop of Oporto, in his full canonicals, standing before the altar, with his chaplains on either side, the postulants were next led up the steps to him, when he severally interrogated them, first addressing Clara.

“My child, what do you demand?” he said.

“The mercy of God, and the holy habit of religion,” answered Clara.

“Is it with your own free-will that you demand the holy habit of religion?”

“Yes, my lord,” faltered forth Clara.

“Reverend Mother,” said the Bishop, turning to the Lady Abbess, “have you made the necessary inquiries, and are you satisfied?”

The Lady Abbess signified her assent.

Several other questions were asked, to which the young postulants responded satisfactorily, and they were then led forth to put off the garments of the world, and assume that of religion.

During their absence, the assembled monks and nuns broke forth in a solemn harmonious chant: “Who is she who cometh up from the desert, flowing with delights, leaning on her beloved?”

They soon returned, clothed in the habit of the order, yet wearing their long hair covered by their white veils, and again knelt before the altar, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

On one side was a bier, as if prepared for the dead, on the other a table, with the act of profession and implements for writing placed on it, while the black veil, which, once assumed, would separate them for ever from the world, lay upon the altar.

Clara trembled violently—a faintness came over her—she saw not the assembled crowd;—she heard not the rich melody, and scarcely the voice of the officiating minister. A dull, stunning feeling oppressed her—she was scarcely aware of the answers she made; but the Bishop appeared satisfied. He then, with a solemn prayer, blessed the black veils, and sprinkled them with holy water. A rich melody pealed through the church, while sweet scented incense ascended to heaven.

The eldest postulant then, led forward by the Lady Abbess, after further questions from the Bishop, pronounced her vows, while he held upraised the holy sacrament, and the organ sent forth its most solemn tones. With a trembling hand the young girl signed her renunciation of the world, and a tear-drop blotted out the mark of the cross she made.

The Bishop then severing a lock from her hair, the professed sisters advanced, and placed her on the bier, and while the black veil was thrown over her, the organ now sent forth a mournful dirge for the dead. For three minutes did she thus remain, all standing round as if mourning her dead, and when the veil was again raised, the sisters, lifting her hand to aid her to rise, it fell powerless by her side. A thrill of horror crept over them—for they thought her dead indeed; yet it was not so; the solemn mummery had overcome her—she had fainted; but the organ ceasing, and then changing to a triumphant air, she gave signs of returning animation. She was lifted from the bier, and borne from the church.

It was now Clara’s turn. The Lady Abbess, taking the lighted taper from her hand, led her forward, giving her the act of confession. Almost fainting, she then knelt, the richest tones of human voices floating round the building, while the Bishop bore towards her the adorable sacrament. A dimness came over her sight—her voice faltered as the moment to pronounce her final vow had arrived. Scarce had she uttered the first word, when a voice—it sounded like that of human agony—rung through the church. “Stay, in mercy stay!” it cried; and at those tones Clara sunk senseless to the ground.

Note. Dom Pedro, the father of her present Majesty of Portugal.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

We left the Count d’Almeida an inmate of the Jungueira prison, from whence the stern policy of the Prime Minister allowed few captives to depart, except to the scaffold and to death. Many an unfortunate victim of this iron despotism remained there year after year, demanding to be brought to trial,—to be told of his crime,—to have the witness of his guilt produced, but his petitions were unheard or disregarded; he might, if free, become dangerous, so he was allowed to pine on in chains, till death, more kind than man, released him.

Luis sat disconsolate and sad in his narrow cell, with few happy remembrances of his past life to dwell on, and without a book to withdraw his mind from the melancholy present. For his own fate, come what might, he was prepared; but he thought of Clara, and there was bitter anguish. He could now prove himself innocent of her brother’s death, but he was a prisoner, without a hope of escape, and within a week, at furthest, perhaps at that very time she might be pronouncing the fatal vow which would tear her from him for ever! The thought almost drove him to madness—his feelings may be more easily pictured than described. He felt that he was shrieking, but his voice gave forth no sound,—that he could dash himself against the door, but yet he sat, his hands clasped before him, without moving,—a statue of manly grief.

His meditations were interrupted by the opening of his prison door, and his worthy friend, Frè Diogo Lopez, stood before him.

“Ah! my dear Count, you see I have not delayed long in fulfilling my promise,” began the Friar.

“I saw your young friend, and offered him such consolation as was in my power, and now I have brought you a fresh bottle of wine, to keep up your spirits. I offered him a little, but he could scarcely drink a drop. I fear he is going, poor youth.”

“I much fear so too,” answered Luis. “But tell me, have you found the letter to his father, you spoke of? It has been so wonderfully preserved, that I fain would think it of importance.”

“I have it here. Is not this it?” answered the Friar, producing a much soiled packet. “Read the superscription, for my eyes are dim, and cannot well decipher it.”

“The same. Now will you undertake to forward this to Senhor Gonçalo Christovaö,” said the Count.

“It will not have far to go, then, for he is a prisoner within these walls,” answered the Friar.

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Luis. “Then I may prove to him that I am not the murderer of his son. Does he know that the poor youth is here?”

“I have not myself spoken to him, though it is almost impossible he should discover it,” replied the Friar.

“Then, in pity to all, contrive to let him see his dying son, and I, too, long to converse with him. It is the greatest favour you can afford me, next to one which I scarce dare hope for, to aid me in my escape.”

The Friar shook his head—“Your last wish is impossible; the first I will endeavour to accomplish. You know not all the precautions taken to prevent escape. Were your life in danger, it might, perhaps, be done at the risk of both our lives, or of perpetual imprisonment in some loathsome dungeon, to which, in comparison, this is a palace.”

“For the purpose I have in view, I would risk death, torments, and imprisonment!” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Unless I succeed, all I value in life is worthless. Within a few days from hence, Donna Clara de Christovaö will be compelled to assume the veil, if I do not contrive to rescue her from the convent at Oporto, where she is confined. I vowed to her to attempt it, and if she hears not of me, she will deem me faithless, and yield without a struggle to her fate.”

Frè Diogo smiled, as he shook his head. “You might as well attempt to rescue the lamb from the talons of the eagle, as to carry off a fair girl from the clutches of those who have her in their power,” he answered. “In any possible plan I would, if in my power, aid you gladly. But consider a moment. If you could escape from hence, which is next to impossible, you manage to reach Oporto, though the chances are, that you are recaptured before you arrive there;—you demand the young lady;—you are refused even an interview. You then contrive to let her know you are in the neighbourhood;—she sends you word she is shut up, and cannot get out. Or suppose you have surmounted all difficulties, and you have managed to carry her off; whither would you fly? In each direction the Minister has his spies, who would soon restore you to your present abode, if not to a worse, and the lady to her convent. No, my dear Count, be advised by me, do not attempt an impossibility. You have but one course to pursue; practise your patience: when a man is at the bottom of a well, he cannot go lower.”

“No, but he may be drowned, though, when the water flows in,” said Luis, despondingly.

“Not if he knows how to swim,” answered the Friar; “and then the water, which would destroy another, will be his preservation. Let that be your consolation.”

“Alas! I fear your observations are too correct, and I must submit to my fate,” said Luis. “Can you, however, contrive to let me see Gonçalo Christovaö?”

“There will be no great difficulty, for since the execution, in some parts of the prison, the captives are allowed to communicate with each other.”

“Of what do you speak?” inquired Luis; and the Friar recounted to him the dreadful tragedy which had taken place. “Alas!” he exclaimed, “and has that gay and bold youth been a victim?” and while he shuddered, as he recollected the risk he had run of sharing their fate, he thought how nobly young Jozé de Tavora had behaved in not betraying him; for, as he heard, torture had been administered to extract confession.

“Come now with me,” said the Friar, interrupting his thoughts. “The turnkey waits without, and will, under my responsibility, allow you to visit this old fidalgo, for his cell is close to this, I heard as I came hither.”

“Then no delay!” exclaimed Luis, starting up; “I will this instant accompany you.”

The turnkey, on the representations of the Friar, was easily persuaded to allow them to pass, and enter the fidalgo’s cell.

The old man started with terror, as he beheld them, fancying that they were officers come to lead him to trial, or to death.

“Lead on, ye myrmidons of tyranny! I am prepared!” he exclaimed, rising.

“You are mistaken, senhor,” said Luis. “I come as an old friend, a fellow-prisoner, to offer such consolation as is in my power.”

“Thanks, senhor, for your courtesy, but your name has escaped my memory,” said the Fidalgo, scanning him closely.

“Luis d’Almeida.”

“What! the murderer of my son?—the destroyer of my daughter’s peace?”

“Certainly not the murderer of your son, for he yet lives; and rather would I die a hundred deaths than cause one pang of grief to your fair daughter.”

“My son lives, say you?” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Bring him hither, then, that I may embrace him before I am led forth to death.”

“He lies himself upon a bed of sickness; but I trust, Senhor, to be able to conduct you to him,” answered Luis.

“In mercy then, without delay, let me hasten to my long-lost boy,” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Is he within these cruel walls—a prisoner like ourselves?”—“He is, senhor, alas! and this good Friar will arrange an interview, which will require some precaution,” answered Luis; and turning to Frè Diogo, he requested him to learn from the gaoler, when they might visit the cell of the unfortunate youth.

“Pardon me, for the want of courtesy with which I received you, Senhor Conde,” said the Fidalgo, as soon as they were left alone. “I owe you much for the news you bring me; and my poor boy, does he know I am near him? and what crime has he committed to be confined within these walls?”

Luis described, in as few words as possible, the dreadful treatment his son had suffered, and the fatal results he apprehended. We need not describe the father’s grief, or his regrets for the manner in which he had treated his guest; but his emotion was far greater, when, on Luis presenting the long-lost packet, he tore it open, and his eye hurried over the contents.

“Great God! how have I been deceived in that man!” he cried, in a tone of agony. “My child, my sweet child! and thou hast been the sacrifice! Oh, for freedom, that I might hasten to rescue her from the bondage she detests! A week hence, and her fate will have been sealed, when I, alas! shall have no power to release her. And I—oh, how cruelly have I treated her! Curses on the stern tyrant who thus detains me. He is a father, and did he know the cause, he would release me. No, the base upstart would but smile the more to see the high-born fidalgo’s agony. May Heaven’s anger blast all the works in which he prides himself! May—ah! I am raving—oh! God, support me!”

Luis stood amazed at this sudden outbreak of the usually sedate and dignified fidalgo, though scarcely himself less agitated in his eagerness to learn the contents of the letter, the purport of which the fidalgo’s words appeared to intimate. The old man saw his inquiring gaze. “See,” he continued, extending his hand with the paper. “Read that, and see how I have been deceived; and alas! my poor child has been sacrificed;” and he sunk into his chair, covering his eyes with his hands, while Luis read the letter. It was to the following effect:—

“Heaven has thought fit to summon me from this world, during your absence, my beloved husband, and already do I feel the near approach of death. Alas! I have no one to whom I can confide my dying wishes, and a secret which I would entrust but to your ears alone. I therefore write with faltering hand this paper, which I trust may be seen by our sweet Clara, and given to you. It is for her sake I am anxious; for I see perils surrounding her course through life, which will require all a mother’s care to guard against.

“Do not, as you value her happiness or your own, confide in the Father Alfonzo. He is a wretched hypocrite; yet till lately I discovered it not. For many days past has he been endeavouring to persuade me to devote our Clara to the service of the Church; but I know too well the misery and wretchedness it will entail on her, and firmly have I refused to sanction his plan. While I spoke, he smiled scornfully in return, nor do I doubt his purpose. He has long hated me, for he knew I was not deceived in him. As you love me, as you prize our child’s happiness, let her select her own lot in life; but warn her against the dangers of a convent. She will never insist on wedding one beneath her in family; but never insist on her marrying one she cannot learn to love. My eyes grow dim, my hand weak, yet do I exert myself, during the absence of Frè Alfonzo, to finish this, lest he should return before I have concealed it. Adieu! my beloved husband! ere you can reach your home, I shall have ceased to breathe; and, as you have loved me in life, forget not my dying prayer.”

The last lines were faint and almost illegible. Luis returned the paper with a look of despair, and, for a minute, the father and the lover stood gazing at each other, without uttering a word.

“What hope is there?” at last exclaimed the Fidalgo.

“Alas, none!” was the dejected reply of Luis; then, suddenly rousing himself, he exclaimed, “Yes, there is hope! I will escape from hence, and save her, or die in the attempt! Give me but your written order to the Lady Abbess, to prevent your daughter’s taking the veil, and I will bear it to her, and also a note to Donna Clara, to assure her of her mother’s real prayer, and of your consent to her following her own inclinations.”

“Alas, I fear such is but a hopeless chance,” said the Fidalgo. “We must confide the order to some one who is at freedom.”

“No one can be found who would hasten as I will; for no one has the same excitement,” answered Luis.

“Remember you are still a captive,” said the Fidalgo, mournfully.

“Alas! too true,” ejaculated Luis.

Just as he spoke the door opened, and the gaoler, whispering to them to walk carefully, beckoned them to follow him, while he led the way to the cell of the young Gonçalo. The son uttered a cry of joy, as he rose to embrace his father, and then sunk down languidly on his couch. For many minutes they remained in earnest conversation; the fidalgo seeming to forget his daughter in the joy of recovering his son, while Luis, in the mean time, explained to Frè Diogo the importance of the paper he had preserved, beseeching him to lend his assistance, either in aiding his escape, or in forwarding the fidalgo’s despatch to Oporto.

“I am happy to do all I can to mitigate the irksomeness of your imprisonment, my friend; but it is more than I can do to risk my neck in aiding your escape, or carrying any communication beyond the walls of the prison, which would, most certainly, be discovered, and punished with almost equal severity. Think better of it, Count; there is no use running so much risk for the sake of any girl under the sun. Let her take the veil, she will be happy enough; and, when you get out of this place, you can easily find another to make amends for her loss.”

“You have never been in love, to speak thus,” exclaimed Luis.

“No, thank Heaven, I never have,” answered the Friar. “I never saw any good come of such folly.”

“Then, have I no hopes of your assistance?” asked Luis.

The Friar shook his head.

Meantime the fidalgo rose from his son’s couch, over which he had been leaning, and took the Count’s hand—“Pardon me, for all the wrong I have done you!” he exclaimed; “but you see how severely I have been punished. My poor boy!” and he pointed to young Gonçalo, and his voice faltered—“and my fair daughter. Have you persuaded the good Friar to forward the letter I will write to the Lady Abbess?”

“He refuses to aid me,” answered Luis, again appealing, in vain, to the Friar.

“Then I have no hope!” exclaimed the unhappy father, sinking into a chair.

The bolts, as he spoke, were heard to be withdrawn, and a stranger entered the cell.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

The day following the execution of the Duke of Aveiro and his unhappy companions, a fine merchant ship was seen to glide slowly up the broad Tagus, dropping her anchor within a short distance of a frigate, which lay off Lisbon. A person of some consequence seemed to be on board the former, for a boat quickly pushed off from the sides of the frigate, bearing her Captain; and approached the merchantman. He eagerly stepped on board, and hastened towards a venerable and dignified-looking man, who was pacing the deck, with short and hurried steps, casting anxious glances towards the city, while several attendants stood round, and various chests and packages lay about, as if ready for speedy disembarkation.

No sooner did the stranger see the Captain of the frigate, than he advanced to embrace him, with an expression of satisfaction, “Ah! my kind friend, Captain Pinto,” he exclaimed, “this is kind indeed! The last to see me off, and the first to welcome my return to Portugal, no longer a wanderer and an outcast, but at length with my toils at an end, and my property secured.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” answered our old friend, Captain Pinto, “though I have some sad news to give in return, which I will communicate as we pull on shore, if you are now prepared to accompany me.”

“Gladly! I long once more to tread my native land,” returned the stranger, as he descended with the Captain into the boat. The distance to the landing-place was not great; but, during the short time occupied in reaching it, many important matters were discussed; and, for the first time, the stranger learned of the conspiracy, and the dreadful punishment of those supposed to be the chief leaders, and the imprisonment of many hundreds of others implicated in it.

“Poor boy! it wrings my heart with grief to hear it!” exclaimed the stranger, as they neared the shore: “I cannot believe him guilty.”

“Nor I neither,” said the Captain. “I have in vain endeavoured to discover the place of his imprisonment, and would risk all to save him. It is reported that the Minister has determined to punish many more, either by banishment to the coast of Africa, or by death; but, without interest, as I am, I could do nothing till your arrival, for which I have anxiously waited. Our only chance of success is by an appeal to the Minister himself.”

“To the Minister we will appeal, then,” said the stranger; “I have some hope through him. He will scarcely refuse the first petition of an old and long-lost friend.”

“We have not a moment to lose; for Sebastiaö Jozé is a man both quick to think and to execute, and even now my young friend may be embarking for Angola,” said the Captain, as the boat touched the shore.

A smile of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features, as he once more landed in his native country, but it quickly vanished as he thought of all the miseries that country was suffering; and, accompanied by Captain Pinto, whose well-known person enabled him to pass without the interference of the police, he hurried towards the residence of the Minister. As they arrived in sight of the house, they observed a strong body of cavalry dashing down the street at full speed, who halted in front of it, and, from among them, the commanding figure of Carvalho was seen to dismount from his horse, and enter the building.

“What means this?” asked the stranger. “Does the preserver of his country require a body-guard?”

“The corrector of abuses, we should say, or the despotic tyrant, as his enemies call him, does,” observed the Captain, cautiously. “Alas! by such means only can our countrymen be governed.”

When they arrived, they found a guard drawn up in the entrance-hall; and after Captain Pinto had sent up his name, requesting an audience, they were compelled to wait a considerable time in an ante-room, before they were admitted.

The stranger smiled,—“Times have changed since we parted,” he said.

The great Minister rose to receive them, with his usual courtesy, as they entered, desiring them to be seated, while his piercing eye glanced sternly at the stranger with an inquiring look, as he demanded of the Captain the cause of his visit.

“I came, your Excellency, to introduce one, whom, with your permission, I will now leave to plead his cause with you,” and, bowing profoundly, he withdrew.

The Minister rose, as did the stranger.

“I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your youth,” said the latter.

“My recollection is not liable to be deceived,” said the Minister, scanning the stranger still more earnestly. “They recall the likeness of one long since dead, and truly mourned—one to whom I owed a debt of gratitude never to be repaid—the preserver of my life!”

A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features. “I am not forgotten, then!” he exclaimed. “You see before you one long supposed dead—him, I trust, of whom you speak.”

“What!” cried the Minister, grasping the stranger’s hand. “Speak! are you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty,—does the Luis d’Almeida I loved so well still live?”

“The same, my friend,” cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; “and great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten.”

“’Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my friend,” said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men. He had chosen his station—it was one of power and grandeur, but of danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a rod of iron.

The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the flight of time.

“I have one petition to make to you,” said Senhor d’Almeida, for so we may call the stranger; “it is my first, and it shall be my last.”

“What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?” interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. “Yet let me hear it, for I would not willingly refuse you.”

“I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are centred—the young Count d’Almeida, my nephew.”

“Ah! I have been deceived in that youth! He is accused of the darkest treason,” exclaimed the Minister.

“I will answer for his innocence—he is incapable of a dishonourable deed,” answered the uncle, warmly.

“He is in prison with others equally culpable, and I have vowed to show no mercy to any,” returned the Minister. “If I waver, they deem mercy arises from weakness, and my power is at an end.”

“Then have I lived and toiled in vain,” said the stranger. “Pardon me, I ask but this grace, and I find that I have presumed too far on the love you bore me.”

“Stay, my friend!” exclaimed the Minister. “You wrong me and yourself: I will not refuse your request, but on one condition: your nephew must forthwith quit the country, and till he embarks, appear to no one. He is not proved innocent, and the guilty must not escape punishment. I will send some one who will, this night, set him at liberty, and conduct him to the house where you reside: from thenceforward he is under your charge; and remember, he must run no risk of being retaken.”

The stranger expressed his sincere thanks to his powerful friend; and at length rose to depart. Carvalho accompanied him to the ante-room, and as he saw the worthy Captain Pinto still waiting—“Senhor Pinto,” he said, “prepare to sail, to-morrow morning, for England; I have despatches to send by you.”

The Captain intimated the readiness of his ship for sea; and, accompanied by the stranger, whom the Minister again affectionately embraced, he withdrew.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

We must once more return to the cell of the younger Gonçalo Christovaö, in the Jungueira prison. The person who entered, narrowly scrutinised the features of all the occupants; the only one of whom that seemed rather uneasy under his glance being the good Frè Diogo.

“What! you here, and in this disguise, my old friend,” he said, laughing. “Are you caught at last, then?”

“I am in no disguise, but in the habit of the order to which I belong, Senhor Antonio,” said the Friar.

“It matters not—my business is not with you, but with the Senhor Conde d’Almeida, if he will favour me with his company,” said the stranger.

Luis started as he spoke, for he recognised the officer of police who had assisted him in his search for Clara; and he fully believed that he had now come to conduct him to some other prison.

“I shall be ready to follow you when I have taken farewell of my friends,” he answered.

Antonio approached him, and whispered in his ear, “Fear not, I come to set you at liberty.”

Delightful words to a prisoner! A thrill of joy shot through the Count’s heart—he might yet be able to rescue Clara! “Stay,” he answered; “a few minutes are precious. Senhor Gonçalo, I have the means of conveying the order to the Lady Abbess to set your fair daughter at freedom.”

Writing materials were soon procured by the kind-hearted gaoler, and the important document being written, and signed by the fidalgo, he committed it to the care of Luis, saying, as he did so, “Should better times come round, and should you regain your liberty, and your fortune, to no one would I more gladly consign my child’s happiness.”

“My liberty I trust to regain, but my fortune, alas! is irretrievably gone,” answered the Count, despondingly.

Taking leave of Clara’s father and brother, the latter of whom appeared revived by the sight of his parent, Luis signified to Antonio that he was in readiness to accompany him. Frè Diogo followed them from the cell, the door of which the gaoler locked behind them, and then bringing the Count’s cloak, and throwing it over his head, carefully led them along the low, dark passages which Luis had traversed on his entrance, and now sincerely hoped never to see again.

“Farewell, my dear Count,” whispered the Friar, as they were about to enter into a more public part of the prison; “I may as well not be seen with you, for I must take care of my character, you know. May Heaven bless you!” and he gave Luis a hug which almost took the breath out of his body; then, putting his mouth to Antonio’s ear, he whispered, “Have more regard to a holy friar’s cowl and gown, than to allude to days when I was sowing my wild oats: I am a reformed character, now. Adeos!” and, with a low laugh, he glided away.

At a signal from Antonio, the guards at each post allowed him and his charge to pass without question; and soon, to Luis’s delight, he once more found himself breathing the free air. A carriage was in waiting, which quickly conveyed them to the other side of Lisbon, where, stopping at the door of a house, Antonio begged Luis to descend. “Adeos, senhor, we may not perhaps, meet again,” he said; “’tis my last day of service, and an agreeable duty I have performed. You will find friends awaiting your arrival.”

Luis sprung eagerly up stairs, and, entering a room, found himself in the warm-hearted embrace of his kind friend, Captain Pinto. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was released, “I am rejoiced to see Senhor Mendez also.”

“No longer Senhor Mendez, but your lost uncle, Luis d’Almeida,” exclaimed the Captain.

Luis threw himself at the feet of his uncle, who, raising him, pressed him affectionately to his heart. “This is, indeed, a happy moment to me, my nephew, after all my sufferings, to find one of my family who learned to love me as an outcast and a beggar!” he exclaimed.

The young Count was soon informed of the means taken to procure his liberation, and of the banishment to which he was doomed; his uncle, however, assuring him, that it should not be passed in poverty.

“Alas!” he answered, after expressing his gratitude, “liberty and fortune are of no value, except I can share them with one to whom my heart has long been engaged;” and he hurriedly described his love for Donna Clara, the position in which she was placed, and her father’s authority delegated to him to rescue her.

His uncle and the Captain looked at each other disappointed. “It cannot be helped, Luis,” said the latter; “you must be on board my ship to-morrow morning, when I sail for England; and all I can promise is, to land you for an hour or so at Oporto, if the sea is smooth; when you can deliver her father’s despatches to the young lady, and pay a farewell visit.”

“That plan will never do,” exclaimed Luis: “contrary winds might delay us, or a rough sea might prevent my landing, and Clara would be lost to me for ever. I will trust only in my own exertions; and I purpose this very hour to start on my journey, for I cannot rest till I know that she is free.”

“I see how it is,” said the Captain; “there is but one way for it. What hour is it? Not ten: then the Minister will yet see me. He is a stern ruler when political necessity demands it, but he has yet a kind heart. Let me see, I know all the story.” Without waiting to hear what anybody might say, the Captain hurried away.

Scarcely had he gone, when Pedro rushed into the room, embracing his master’s knees, in his joy at seeing him alive, and at liberty; but Luis was obliged to hurry him away, to bring a change of raiment from his lodgings, and to procure horses, and make other preparations for his journey.

We need not give the interesting conversation which ensued between the uncle and nephew; one important part of it was, that the former informed the latter that he would find five hundred pounds at his immediate disposal on his arrival in England; and that he had already settled the bulk of a far larger fortune than his family had ever possessed upon him, nor did he doubt, if he was in time to prevent Donna Clara from taking the veil, that her father would longer hesitate to bestow her upon him.

The Captain now returned in high spirits. “I told him the whole story, how the fidalgo had shut up his daughter in a convent, and how you wished to release her: so, as he hates the system of convents, and, I verily believe, would like to thwart what he imagines the fidalgo’s wishes, he has given you a passport, and an order for horses wherever you may require them, besides an order to the Lady Abbess to deliver Donna Clara de Christovaö into the charge of Don Luis d’Almeida: so now, the sooner you are off, after taking a little rest, the better. I sail to-morrow by day-break; and shall land at Oporto, while my ship cruises outside. I will wait for you, and take you on board after you have seen the lady, and restored her to her home.”

This plan being arranged, and Pedro having returned, and reported that he had selected a couple of strong horses for the journey, the Captain repaired on board his ship; and Luis endeavoured to snatch an hour’s sleep before the horses were in readiness. Long before daylight he was in the saddle, after taking an affectionate farewell of his newly-found uncle. He had a journey of full one hundred and fifty miles before him, over rough roads, with dangers of all sorts; but he thought not of them, his only consideration being how he could most quickly perform the distance. The time of year was in his favour, but three days was the very least he could hope to do it in, and all depended on finding fresh horses on the road.

“Pedro!” he exclaimed; “we ride for life and death! You will not desert me? We must place Leiria to the south of us before we rest.”

“Fear me not, my dear master, I will follow wherever you lead,” answered Pedro, with enthusiasm; and away the two horsemen galloped; and before the sun rose, Lisbon was many leagues behind them. So well did the horses perform their work, that it was still daylight when they reached the gates of Leiria. The Count, with the magic order from the Minister, instantly went in search of fresh steeds. Of course, no one had them, till he fortunately encountered an old acquaintance, who indicated to him where they were to be found; and, with delight, he soon discovered two, fresh and strong for the road. The surprise of the inhabitants was great indeed to see the travellers again in their saddles, and galloping out of the town. Night overtook them just as they reached the little inn, where, two years before, their adventure with the banditti had occurred; but they thought not of danger, as they threw themselves from their saddles, and, seeing their horses carefully attended to, were, it must be confessed, after a hasty supper, soon fast asleep. The buxom maiden of former years had now become the landlady, nor did Pedro forget to whisper Frè Diogo’s name in her ear, for which he got a good box on his own. Again they were on the road, and “Onward, onward!” was Luis’s cry. Coimbra was reached safely, and once more they were fortunate in finding even better steeds than before. Pedro was already almost knocked up with the fatigue, but the lover felt it not, as he galloped onward. He thought but of one thing the whole time, the quickest way to reach the end of his journey.

Alas! the end was not to be so prosperous. Within five leagues of Oporto both the horses began to stumble through fatigue, and at last that of Luis came to the ground. He was himself, fortunately, uninjured, but for some minutes the horse refused to move, and at last they found it utterly impossible to proceed further. A small inn was at hand, where they took shelter, and from whence, the next morning, they again set out.

The sun was already high in the heavens when they came in sight of Oporto, rising on its cluster of hills directly opposite to them. The sight of a goal, where his hopes were to be blest or blasted for ever, inspired Luis with renewed ardour. He dashed down the steep hill, through the town of Villa Nova, and reached a pontoon bridge which connects it with Oporto. He crossed without an accident, and the first person he encountered on the opposite side was Captain Pinto.

“Not a moment is to be lost, Luis,” he exclaimed, pointing to his boat, a fast pulling, six-oared gig. “Up that way, and then up a flight of steep steps, you will reach the church—the ceremony has begun, but cannot have concluded.”

Luis waited not to answer him, but, throwing his horse’s bridle to a bystander, as did Pedro, he sprung up the steps near him. He flew like lightning: breathless he rushed into the church. He gazed wildly around—Clara was at the altar. Had she pronounced the fatal oath? He stopped not to inquire; but, thrusting the spectators aside, he uttered the cry which caused her to faint. He sprung forward, he lifted her in his arms, and exhibiting to the astonished eyes of the assembled monks and nuns the orders both of her father and the Minister, he bore her to the open air.

“She is mine!” he exclaimed, “and I confide her to no one else.”

“They are base forgeries,” he heard the voice of Frè Alfonzo exclaim, as he stood in advance of the rest. “Seize the sacrilegious wretch! The holy Inquisition must be his judge.”

Luis waited not to hear more; but, pressing the yet unconscious girl to his heart, he leaped down the steep steps, while Pedro closely followed, keeping any one from attempting to seize him. Captain Pinto caught a glimpse of him as he neared the place of embarkation, and, shouting to his crew to be prepared, he hastened to assist him in lifting the lady into the boat. Pedro jumped in after them, and the boat had just gained the centre of the stream as a group of monks and priests, with Frè Alfonzo, had collected on the quay, uttering their anathemas against the daring marauder, who had robbed the Church of their prey. The young Count, his heart throbbing with joy and fear, heard them not, as he bent over the yet senseless form of the lovely Clara. There was but one course now to pursue. He well knew the dreadful deeds which had been done by the ministers of religion and he could never venture to entrust the rescued girl within the powers of the infuriated monks. He must bear her on board the frigate.

“The only safe plan,” said the Captain. “You have the Minister’s authority, her’s you will soon get, and her father can give his when you return; if not, you must do without it. Give way, my men!”

The boat shot rapidly down the stream, and ere long was breasting the rolling billows of the Atlantic. The frigate stood towards her, the lady was carefully lifted on deck, the boat was hoisted in, and when Clara came to herself she found herself in the cabin, her head supported by the young Count, who was kneeling by her side. She pronounced his name. “Where am I?” she exclaimed, gazing wildly around.

“In safety, and borne onward, I trust, to happiness,” answered her lover; and a very few sentences sufficed to explain all that had occurred.

“Thank Heaven,” she whispered, “I am not shrouded, as I fancied, in that dreadful black veil.”

Favourable breezes carried them to the free and happy shores of England, where, a few days after their landing, they were married, with due pomp, at the Portuguese Embassy, a measure Gonçalo Christovaö highly approved of, when he discovered that the Senhor d’Almeida had settled a handsome fortune on his nephew.

For many years they resided in England, where their generous relative joined them; for his principles but ill agreed with the bigotry and ignorant superstition which he encountered on every side. Clara had the happiness of hearing of her brother’s recovery and escape from prison; but the Conde San Vincente, by high bribes, avoided punishment.

The only person of whose fate we are not quite certain was Frè Diogo, though we have our fears that he figured in an Auto-da-fé in 1765; his crimes being, speaking ill of the holy office, not paying due reverence to the holy sacrament, and entertaining scandalous and heretical opinions.

The fate of the Prime Minister is well known. On the death of Joseph, he was deprived, by Donna Maria the First, of his offices, and banished to his native town, where, at an advanced age, he died, his sons inheriting his titles and property, of which his enemies could not deprive him.

Finis.

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Preface

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Volume 1 Chapter 1

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Volume 1 Chapter 2

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Volume 1 Chapter 3

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Volume 1 Chapter 4

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Volume 1 Chapter 5

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Volume 1 Chapter 6

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Volume 1 Chapter 7

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Volume 1 Chapter 8

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Volume 1 Chapter 9

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Volume 1 Chapter 10

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Volume 1 Chapter 11

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Volume 1 Chapter 12

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Volume 2 Chapter 1

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Volume 2 Chapter 2

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Volume 2 Chapter 3

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Volume 2 Chapter 4

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Volume 2 Chapter 5

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Volume 2 Chapter 6

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Volume 2 Chapter 7

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Volume 2 Chapter 8

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Volume 2 Chapter 9

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Volume 2 Chapter 10

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Volume 2 Chapter 11

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Volume 2 Chapter 12

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Volume 2 Chapter 13

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Volume 2 Chapter 14

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Volume 2 Chapter 15

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Volume 2 Chapter 16

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Volume 2 Chapter 17

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Volume 2 Chapter 18

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Volume 2 Chapter 19

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Volume 2 Chapter 20

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Volume 2 Chapter 21

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Volume 3 Chapter 1

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Volume 3 Chapter 2

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Volume 3 Chapter 3

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Volume 3 Chapter 4

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Volume 3 Chapter 5

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Volume 3 Chapter 6

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Volume 3 Chapter 7

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Volume 3 Chapter 8

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Volume 3 Chapter 9

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Volume 3 Chapter 10

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Volume 3 Chapter 11

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Volume 3 Chapter 12

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Volume 3 Chapter 13

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Volume 3 Chapter 14

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Volume 3 Chapter 15

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Volume 3 Chapter 16

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Volume 3 Chapter 17

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Volume 3 Chapter 18

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Volume 3 Chapter 19

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Volume 3 Chapter 20

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Volume 3 Chapter 21

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Volume 3 Chapter 22

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