W.H.G. Kingston (continued 8)

Pedro regarded them earnestly. “That is the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö. I know him, the father of Donna Clara; and that old woman is her nurse. Depend upon it, senhor, they are in search of the young lady. Alas, alas! I fear that it will be as hopeless as that for my master; but, with your leave, senhor, we will follow them; for I know that if Don Luis was alive, he would be searching for her also.”

The captain agreed to the proposal, and hastened after the fidalgo, who no sooner perceived the group of nuns, than he rushed up to them, wildly inquiring among them for his beloved daughter. The captain and Pedro came up with him at the same time: not one of the nuns would venture to speak. With tears he besought them to answer him; explaining, with broken exclamations, that he was the father of a lady belonging to their convent. At length one of the sisterhood, pointing to the ruins, exclaimed, “Alas, senhor, we are the only survivors of the two hundred inhabitants of the convent; the rest lie buried beneath yon shattered walls!”

The hapless father heard no more. Had he not forced his daughter to enter that retreat, she might have been safe; and with a loud cry he fell backwards, and would have sunk to the ground, had not Captain Pinto and Pedro been at hand to support him.

Poor Senhora Gertrudes redoubled her cries, and wrung her hands in despair, as she seated herself on the ground near her master. Regardless of whatever else might happen, and calling on all the saints to restore her young mistress, she would, every now and then, seeing that the fidalgo was unable to comprehend her, reproach him for being the cause of her unhappiness; then she would abuse the convent for falling, and the nuns for leaving her lady behind. Captain Pinto was in a dilemma how to act; he was anxious to search for his friend, at the same time that he was unwilling to leave the fidalgo in his present state, and not a drop of water was to be found to assist in recovering him.

The unhappy father giving no signs of returning animation, the captain grew weary of watching one with whom he was not even acquainted, when his aid was so much more required by others: placing him, therefore, in a situation as far removed as possible from danger, he at length brought the old nurse sufficiently to reason, to induce her to watch by the side of her master, while he, and Pedro, continued their search for Luis. His purpose was first to visit, if possible, the palace of the Conde d’Almeida, in case Luis should have thought of returning homeward, and not hearing of him in that neighbourhood, to work his way to the outskirts of the city, and to make inquiries for him at every place where he found people collected, among whom he could discover any of his acquaintance, intending either to return himself, or to despatch some one with assistance to Gonçalo Christovaö.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

It would be impossible to describe, and difficult even to conceive, a scene in which a greater assemblage of crime, wretchedness, and filth was to be found, than that which, at the time we write of, was offered by the prison of Lisbon.

In a courtyard, where the prisoners were allowed to take whatever fresh air descended within the precincts of that abode of wretchedness, were now collected a number of unfortunate beings, on the countenance of every one of whom might be traced the marks of fierce ungovernable passions, sullen and vindictive humours, a low cunning which had overreached itself, and was longing again for freedom to indemnify itself for its fault. Some were endeavouring to warm themselves in the narrow strip of sunshine which found its way into the courtyard; others were staking all they possessed, a few coppers, perhaps, at games of dice, their eagerness as great as that of the man who is hazarding his thousands; some were carrying on a silent game at cards, the loser, by the motion of his hand towards the place where his dagger used to be, proving the use he would have made of it had he been armed. There were also various other games going forward; but by far the greater number of the inmates of the prison were sitting down, staring with apathetic looks on the ground, and thinking of past, or planning fresh, deeds of wickedness; and though there was every variety of cast of features, and, apparently, many different nations—blacks, mulattos, and Europeans, the same expression and squalor universally prevailed.

On one side of the yard, next the street, was a large hall, with vaulted roof, and strongly-barred windows, at which were posted as many as could clamber up, of men, women, and even children, imploring compassion of the passers by, and fishing up whatever, in their charity, they bestowed, in small baskets, or old hats, at the end of a string fastened to a stick. Here no distinction of age or sex was preserved; men hardened in crime, and young children cast in with their wretched mothers; beardless youths, and girls scarce verging on womanhood; murderers who boasted of their deeds of blood, and miserable beings whom poverty and hunger had tempted to steal a loaf, were thrown together, and scarcely supplied with food sufficient to sustain life: execrations, laughter, screams, and wild songs of desperation, mingling in horrid discord throughout this den of abomination.

In one corner of the yard were seated two men, whose dress had once been superior to that of their surrounding companions, but was now torn, disordered, and dirty in the extreme; their looks betokening them, at a glance, to be villains hardened in crime, exhibiting every mark of the common ruffian.

“I am growing weary of this cursed confinement, and am determined to submit to it no longer,” said one.

“Very likely, so am I,” returned his companion; “for though we have plenty of good company, and meet many old friends, I like to be master of my own conduct. But how do you purpose escaping, Miguel? Count on me as a staunch supporter; for I shall be happy to get out also, if I knew but the way.”

“I have means which will not fail, though I have waited lingering in prison till now, in hopes that others would exert themselves in my favour to procure my liberation; but I see there’s no use trusting further to them,” returned the other. “I shall send to the count, and let him know, if he does not get me set free before many days are over, I shall give a history of some of our transactions, which will go a good way to blast his character, proud as he is, and secure as he deems himself.”

“It’s very well talking about it, but do not suppose that any of the haughty nobles would care what such poor wretches as we said against one of their number, even though they might guess we told the truth,” responded the other.

“I would soon take means to make him care; and if not, I would give him a lesson with that dagger he has so often paid me to use against others,” exclaimed Miguel, grinding his teeth with rage at the thought of having been treacherously treated. “If we can once get out, we will join some of our old friends, and we shall soon be able to lift up our heads in the world again.”

“Since this Minister, Carvalho, has taken it into his head to interfere in the affairs of the city, it is easier to get into a prison than to get out of it again,” observed the other.

“Fear not, we will manage to escape in spite of him,” said Miguel.

Scarcely had he uttered those words, when the dogs beneath the prison walls set up a piteous howl, which was followed by a low, rumbling noise—the walls of the prison shook. All started on their feet, consternation and dismay depicted on every countenance;—a thundering crash was heard, as the side of the vaulted chamber was seen to fall outward, carrying with it the unfortunate wretches who were assembled in the windows.

Regardless of their cries, the remainder of the prisoners made a rush over the fallen ruins; “Hurra for the earthquake! liberty, liberty!” they shouted, some, with wanton barbarity, seizing the muskets of the guards stationed in front of the prison, and dashing out their brains, before they had time to defend themselves.

With wild cries and imprecations, the savage band hurried on, regardless of the dreadful convulsions of nature, attacking, in their blind fury, the affrighted inhabitants, who were flying from their falling houses. They halted not in their mad career till they reached an open space, from whence they could look back on their late abode; and as the second shock came on, when they beheld the prison hurled prostrate to the ground, they uttered wild yells of delight, pointing with gestures of derision towards the spot; in the intoxication of liberty, dancing and singing like a troop of demons.

What was it to them, that every instant thousands were suffering the most agonising deaths?—what cared they that a flourishing city was being destroyed?—they had gained their liberty! “Viva, viva to the earthquake! the loss of others is our gain. Viva to havoc and confusion! all is now our prey.—The rich man’s wealth is left unprotected,—Death has parted the miser from his gold,—all is now ours!” and on they rushed. Some of their number were killed by the falling ruins, but what cared they for their loss? it was soon supplied by crowds of accursed wretches like themselves, hardened by years of crime, and excited by thoughts of indiscriminate plunder. They met a man flying with bags of gold. “What ho! Dare you to take our property, fool?” and he was hurled lifeless to the ground. The third shock came—but while others were falling on their knees, with prayers for mercy, they shouted and blasphemed; the wilder the havoc, the greater would be their booty;—what cared they for aught else? Away they rushed through the streets—none dared oppose them. They seized upon arms, which some soldiers had thrown aside. “Hurra, hurra! the city is ours! who is lord now?” they cried.

Hapless were those whom they encountered flying with their wealth; but such paltry booty would not satisfy them. “The shrines of the churches are unguarded; for the earthquake has spared some for us.” The candles burnt on the altars, rich gems decorated the figure of the Virgin,—they tore away the glittering jewels,—they seized upon the golden cups and salvers of the Holy Sacrament. An aged priest had knelt in prayer, during the awful visitation, happy to die in the sanctuary of his God. With horror he beheld the sacrilegious deed, and cursed the impious wretches in the name of Him he served. “What, old dotard, darest thou interfere with our pursuits? Knowest thou not that all now is ours?” And, on the steps of the altar, where he stood, they dashed out the old man’s brains, and laughed, that no one could bear witness of the deed. They entered the palace of a wealthy noble; for the doors were open—no one was there to guard his property. They wandered through the sumptuous chambers; they found jewels in the chamber of his countess; in another room, a box of gold lay open. The foremost seized on the spoil; the others fought to obtain it—knives were drawn, and blood was spilt; but the wounded scarce stopped to staunch their wounds, so eager were they to grasp the rich plate, which lay scattered about. Nothing could satisfy them: their avarice was excited, and they thought of nought else but gaining wealth.

“To the Mint, to the Mint!” they cried,—“that will be unguarded.” Away they hurried, each eager to outstrip the other; but when they arrived there, they found the building entire, and the doors closed; though the soldiers who had been stationed there had fled from their posts. They attempted to force the gates; but though his men had quitted him, their officer, a gallant youth, the son of a distinguished noble, had disdained to fly. Fearless of the savage band, he appeared at a window, and ordered them to depart. They still persisted in attempting to force an entrance, when, collecting the loaded muskets of his men, he, with admirable coolness, successively discharged them, killing several of the foremost ruffians. The rest were disheartened.

“There is abundance of booty to be found elsewhere, without fighting for it,” shouted some, and immediately took to flight; others followed, and the bravery of one man, scarce numbering eighteen summers, preserved the building from pillage. His name we know not. Throughout the awful scene he had stood undaunted, every instant expecting the building to fall and crush him, or the earth to open and swallow him up, with the sea breaking from its confines, and rushing towards him on one side, yet refused to quit his post. Surely the sentinels at the gates of Pompeii, when the fiery shower fell on them, were not a greater example of heroic courage and military discipline.

Onward hurried the band of marauders. The house of a wealthy banker was before them. Here they might revel amid his chests of gold. They loaded themselves with plunder, till they could carry no more; but their depredations would be discovered. The earthquake had not committed sufficient ravages to satisfy them; they must increase the destruction and confusion. Some houses were already in flames; they seized on torches, and, like the intoxicated Macedonians in Persepolis of old, they rushed through the city, setting fire to every mansion they plundered in their course.

They passed the royal palace. “The King it was who imprisoned us,” they cried; “we will be revenged on him.” A great part of the edifice had already fallen; but that did not satisfy them; they ransacked the remainder, though, at the risk of their lives, throwing away what they had before collected, for the sake of what they now found; and then applying their torches in every direction, quitted it exultingly, as they beheld the flames burst forth with relentless fury. Away they sped again, to commit further havoc. No one thought of offering any resistance; so paralysed were the energies of all men, that while their houses and property were being consumed, they looked on, without attempting to interfere. At length the savage horde appeared satiated with plunder, and other yet more brutal passions excited them to fresh deeds of violence. Hapless, alas! were the unfortunate beings who fell into their power: they laughed at the tears and prayers of their victims—wealth could not bribe them; the whole of the city was at their disposal—fear could not intimidate them; they thought not of the morrow, and that day they were lords of all. High rank, youth or beauty, were but greater incentives to their fury—many a grey-haired sire, and gallant husband or brother, fell beneath their blood-stained knives, in striving to protect those they held dearest to them on earth. Not greater atrocities were ever committed in a town taken by assault, and given up to the indiscriminate license of an infuriated soldiery, than did those vile monsters of humanity perpetrate during that and the following days.

At length, having loaded themselves with spoil, four of the ruffians separated from their companions, and slunk away together: they had been the most active and choice in seizing on the booty, leaving to others the work of spilling blood to gratify their savage dispositions. Two of them were the wretches we introduced in the commencement of this chapter, the others had joined them during the day, in their course through the city, and with one of them also we have already as intimate an acquaintance as we could wish.

“Hist, Miguel, hist!” said one, fearful that their companions should hear them. “Where dost purpose to hide thy wealth? It will never do to place it where others may come and seize it.”

“Fear not for that, man, there are plenty of places where none will think of hunting; the earthquake has stood our friend in this case, as in many others,” said Miguel.

“Say then, Miguel, where wouldest advise to hide it—under the ruins of some church or other?”

“No, fool, no; the churches were too full of gold, and numbers will soon go to dig for it,” answered his companion. “That would never do. Hark thee, Baltar! There are plenty of vaults under the monasteries and convents, where no one will think of going. Who will take the trouble to dig out the lazy monks or nuns? So come along; we have no time to lose, and then we may set to work and gain more.”

Away they hurried, the other two men following. They examined several places, but none seemed to satisfy them. They saw that they were observed, and, drawing their knives, they waited till the others came up.

“What! think you to rob us of our property?” they exclaimed, with dreadful curses, flying at them with the fury of savage beasts. They plunged their knives into the breast of the foremost, who, with a shriek, sunk dead among the ruins; but the other was prepared for them, and, instead of flying, he stood on the defensive.

“This is folly, to kill each other, when we have so much better employment for our time,” exclaimed the man who was the assassin employed by Count San Vincente, and he held out his hand towards those who had just slaughtered his friend.

They laughed. “You are a brave fellow,” said Miguel; “so come along. We will hide our booty together.”

They examined several other spots, without finding one sufficiently secure for their purpose; at last they reached a vast heap of ruins: not a wall was standing of what had once been an extensive building.

“Ah! this will suit us; and there is no one to observe us!” they exclaimed.

They looked cautiously around, and then, clambering over the remains of a garden-wall, they wandered among beautiful shrubs and flowering plants, which hid from their view the scene of havoc which surrounded them. Those had stood while the proud fabrics raised by the hands of men had fallen. In the centre were round tanks, which had in the morning thrown up glittering jets to cool the air; but the water had deserted them, and the gold and silver fish lay dead at the bottom. A little farther on, the plants were crushed by the fallen stones; and here and there might be seen some female form, killed by the same terrific shower, in a vain endeavour to escape; or, perhaps, at the moment of the shock, employed in tending those very plants which now bloomed sweetly near her. From others the breath had scarcely departed; and the ruffians even fancied that they heard faint sighs proceeding from some; but, uttering brutal jests, they passed on among the ruins. They looked about in every direction, to discover some place convenient for their purpose; and, after climbing over some of the ruins which had fallen the furthest outward, Miguel, who was in advance, came to a spot where, descending a short distance among the vast piles of masonry, he observed the top of a small arched door. He endeavoured to open it, but his single strength was not sufficient.

“Here is the very place to suit us!” he exclaimed, calling his friends to his assistance. “None will ever think of looking here. Now remember, comrades, we swear by the holy Virgin never to reveal the spot to any one, or to rob each other.”

“Agreed, agreed!” said the other two.

“Now let us see into what place this door opens; for if we stay talking about it, the city will be half burnt down before we have time to collect our share of the booty which Providence has bestowed.”

The three ruffians having come to this resolution, set to work with energy to clear away the stones and mortar which blocked up the entrance to the vault,—a task which, after some labour, and considerable risk of being crushed by the crumbling walls, they at length accomplished. But they had now a new difficulty to overcome; for it was discovered that the door opened against them, having evidently led into an outer chamber, in which they were standing. They, in despair of opening the door, which resisted all their efforts, were about to relinquish the attempt, when an iron bar, which had fallen from some window, caught Miguel’s eye, and, searching about, they discovered several others. Thus armed, they renewed their attacks; and, although the door was strong, it could not resist their joint efforts, when once they had managed to insinuate the ends of the bars within a crevice in the wall. On entering beneath the arch, they found themselves in a low, vaulted passage, which appeared to lead off in two different directions; but, after proceeding a short distance in the dark, the foremost stumbled over a heap of stones, which had, probably, fallen from above; and, having no light to guide them, nor means at hand for procuring one, they were fearful of going further. Returning, therefore, to the mouth of the vault, they examined it narrowly on every side, and succeeded in discovering a place in which they considered their treasure would be secure, and could be removed without labour at any time. This was a small recess in the wall,—for what purpose formed, it was difficult to say, unless it could be one of those living tombs in which common report affirms the unhappy victims of monastic tyranny who had broken their vows, or divulged any of the secrets of their order, were at times immured. Having convinced themselves that they could not fix on a better place, they deposited all their treasure within it, in three separate parcels, piling up stones in front, so as completely to conceal the entrance; and then, closing the door, and throwing rubbish in front of it, to secure it further, they hurried off in search of fresh booty.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

It is a very common saying, that there is honour among thieves; in which, from the information we have collected on the subject, we perfectly agree, provided they are convinced it is their interest to maintain it; but, at the same time, they will ever be very unwilling to place more confidence in each other than they know is absolutely necessary. So thought Senhor Rodrigo, the most noted villain and professional bravo of Lisbon, and so think we, perhaps, of a certain portion of mankind, who are not professional cut-throats, and would be furious if they were not considered men of perfect honour. As soon, therefore, as the bravo saw his two companions busily engaged in plundering, and after he had contrived to fill his own pockets with gold, and had secured as much plate as he could conceal about his person, he hastily returned to the place of concealment they had selected, from whence he intended taking out his own share of the booty, and hiding it with what he had last acquired, in a spot known only to himself. He had cleared away the stones in front of the door, and was about to open it, when he heard his own name called from above, and, looking up, he saw Miguel and Baltar descending towards him with threatening gestures.

“What, Senhor Rodrigo, is this the faith you swore to keep with us? But we are even with you, you see.”

“I came but to hide this further booty I have collected; so banish your fears, my friends,” he answered.

While he was speaking, having advanced a little way towards them, the door was suddenly forced open, and a man appeared before them, bearing in his arms a female form. The robbers started, as if they had beheld an apparition from the grave; for the gloomy appearance of the spot was increased by being contrasted with the bright glare which the burning houses and churches in the neighbourhood cast on the surrounding ruins. It was some seconds before their courage returned; for, daring and savage as they were, anything which they fancied supernatural had greater power over their minds than either fear of the wrath of Heaven or of their fellow-men.

“Thank Heaven, loved one, we are at length freed from that dreadful vault. Speak, my Clara—speak, to assure me that you have truly recovered!” exclaimed Don Luis; for he it was who, with Donna Clara, had thus, by the unintentional agency of the robbers, been restored to liberty.

When the robbers entered the vault for the first time, he had been remaining for some hours in a state of stupor, hanging over Clara, who was in one of those deep swoons which, in some instances, have been prolonged for several days. The first rush of fresh air completely restored his senses, as it aided to revive her; but his dismay may be conceived, when, unperceived by them,—for the ruffians passed close to him,—he discovered, by their conversation, their desperate characters. Summoning all his presence of mind to his aid, he remained perfectly quiet, trusting that the men would quickly retire, and allow him to escape with his precious burden in safety. He felt her pulse: it already beat more strongly, and he prayed Heaven to restore her completely. Anxiously he waited till the robbers had secured their treasure, when, what was his horror to hear them close the door behind them! He trusted, however, to be able to force open the door, towards which, bearing Clara in his arms, he groped his way, aided by glimmering streams of light, which found an entrance through various crevices in the door, affording to his eyes, so long accustomed to darkness, sufficient assistance to enable him to reach it. He was driven then to the most maddening despair, when he found that all his strength was not sufficient to open it. He called loudly for assistance; but no one heard him, till at length, in hopeless agony, he seated himself on the ground, with Clara in his arms, under the dreadful anticipation of a lingering and painful death;—though it was not for himself he felt, it was for the loved being he supported; and it was more with regret than joy that he found her gradually reviving. After some time, she uttered a few incoherent words, as one just awaking from sleep; but she was again silent, evidently with the impression that she was labouring under some dreadful dream; and Luis felt that it would be cruelty to assure her of the truth: he was fearful of making even the slightest movement, lest it should recall her to consciousness; and he now mourned that she had not rather died at the first shock of the earthquake, than suffered the tortures she must now too probably undergo.

The return of Rodrigo, and alone, gave him renewed hopes of escape, which were quickly disappointed, when he found that the robber had desisted from opening the door, and was, besides, joined by his companions. During the dispute of the ruffians, Luis, finding that the door yielded to his pressure, forced it open; and, trusting that they would be too eagerly occupied in their own quarrel to pay attention to him, with tottering steps he bore Clara from the vault. The fresh air revived his strength; he looked with horrified amazement at the scene of destruction around him, lit up, as we have said, by the blazing houses; but this was no time for thinking; so, without further delay, he commenced climbing the ruins on the opposite side to that where the ruffians stood. He had already reached the summit of the mound, and was able to look on every side, to decide in which direction he should attempt to escape, when the robbers recovered from their surprise.

“What ho! a spy on our secrets!” exclaimed Rodrigo, climbing after him. “Know that no one passes through this city without paying tribute to us, so deliver up the burden you carry, fair sir.”

On hearing these alarming demands, Luis, removing Clara to his left side, and supporting her with his arm, drew his sword, prepared to defend her to the last. As he stood thus on the summit of the pile of ruins, a few shattered walls of the neighbouring church still remaining at a little distance, the red glare of the burning houses casting a bright reflection on one side of his figure, he offered a fine subject for the painter.

As Rodrigo approached him, now that every feature of his countenance was so clearly visible, he recognised in him the Count San Vincente’s enemy, whom he had been hired to murder, and the fidalgo who had slain his brother in the forest, and deprived him of his booty.

“Ah! senhor, we at length meet again, where there are none to interfere and save you,” he exclaimed, attempting to reach the spot where Luis stood; but the latter kept him at bay with his sword, and the ruffian having no other arms than his knife, was afraid of closing with him till his companions came to his assistance.

Luis saw that to speak to them would be useless, and that he must depend entirely upon his own courage and firmness, and had he had but one assailant to contend with, he might have been successful in defending himself, and the being dearer to him than life; but while Rodrigo was attacking him in front, the other two robbers, climbing up the ruins, suddenly seized him from behind, and the dagger of the former had almost reached his bosom, when the ruffian’s arm was arrested by a person who had sprung up to the spot without being perceived by any of the party.

“What, ye villains! were ye about to murder my friend, Don Luis, while he was protecting a lady, too?” exclaimed a loud voice; and Rodrigo, turning fiercely on the new comer, beheld Frè Lopez.

“What demon brings you here, when you are not wanted?” cried the robber, turning on him fiercely, while his companions still held Luis, who in vain endeavoured to break from them.

“Don Luis’s good demon, I suppose,” answered the Friar. “You forget that your figures can be clearly seen from the street; so, as I chanced to be passing, and observed some fighting going forward, I came to see what it was about. Ah! as I live, that is the very lady who gave us so much trouble in the forest! Hark you, Rodrigo—” Saying which, the Friar drew the robber aside. Their conference was but of short duration, yet it seemed perfectly satisfactory to both; when the Friar addressed Luis, who still remained completely in the power of the other two: “I regret to say, senhor, that though I have been the means of saving your life, I can do nothing further for you; and you must consent to this gentleman’s terms, though you may think them rather hard.”

“Gladly. Any sum he fixes on I will endeavour to pay,” answered Luis; “and you, senhor, who have already done me so great a service, will, I trust, aid me in conveying this lady to a place of safety.”

“You are mistaken, senhor,” interrupted the miscreant, with a laugh of derision. “I give the Padre your life; but I am to have the lady for my share; so yield her up without further delay.”

“Never! I will die first!” exclaimed Luis; but, at that instant, by a signal from Rodrigo, one of the men who held him threw a handkerchief over his head, and dragged him backwards, while the principal ruffian forced Clara from his arms. She was by this time sufficiently recovered to comprehend fully all the horrors of her situation; but the wretch heeded not her cries for mercy as he bore her away, while Luis exerted all his energies to free himself from the others; but they, throwing themselves on him, held him down securely, though with considerable difficulty. His struggles exhausted their patience.

“Give him a taste of the steel!” muttered Miguel; “that will keep him quiet enough.”

“Hold!” said the Friar, who stood by, a quiet spectator, without attempting to interfere; “Rodrigo will soon be at a sufficient distance, and then you may set the young fidalgo at liberty. In the mean time, senhor,” he added, turning to Luis, “I would advise you to be quiet; your exertions only fatigue, without benefitting yourself in the slightest degree.”

“Either destroy me at once, or let me fly to save that lady,” exclaimed Luis, in a tone of agony.

“It is not wise to seek death before your time,” returned the Friar; “and as for saving the lady, who is already a long way from this, I have not the power to do it. Had I not arrived at the moment I did, the lady would have been in the same condition she now is, and you would have been dead; so you, at all events, have to thank me for your life.”

Luis scarcely heard what was said; indeed, so intense were his feelings, that they deprived him of utterance and power of thought, except the all-engrossing one of Clara’s fate. Had he been aware of the lawless license practising in the city, his agony would, if possible, have been yet more intense.

“When are we to let this young fidalgo go?” muttered Miguel; “I cannot stay here all night watching him; and I must have some security that he does not betray to any one a spot where we have hid a few trifles we found scattered about the streets.”

“I will answer for his honour,” returned the Friar; “but stay a little, stay a little, you are in too great a hurry, man.”

Though Luis had recognised in his preserver his quondam acquaintance, Frè Lopez, by his tone of voice and his expressions, he certainly could not have done so by his outward appearance; for he had now laid aside all pretensions to a holy character in his costume. On his head he wore a three-cornered hat, and a full wig, with side curls and pigtail; his waistcoat, of flowered silk, was of great length; and his coat and breeches of large proportions, the pockets being now filled, almost to bursting, with a variety of little articles, such as trinkets and gold pieces, which he also, probably, had picked up about the streets; a sword by his side, completed his very unclerical costume. He had seated himself near Luis and his captors, and amused himself for some time in addressing, now one, and now the other; though, from the former, he could seldom elicit an answer.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

We fear that our readers will begin to suppose that we are romancing, when we describe so many hair-breadth escapes and unexpected interferences, which preserved the lives of the principal characters mentioned in this work; but we can assure them, that some equally wonderful befall us every day of our lives, though we are not aware of the circumstance at the time. The simple case of a man meeting a friend in the street who twitches his button off while he is inquiring after his wife and family, may be equally providential with our examples, though not so romantic; for, had he gone on, he would have been crushed by the falling chimney, or drowned when the bridge gave way. Of course, when we are writing the adventures of people who are continually getting into danger, it must be expected that they will escape somehow or other; and we suspect that most of our readers would find great fault if we allowed them to do so in a common-place, every day sort of way; we shall therefore, as we have before declared it our intention, adhere strictly to what we find in the documents before us.

We left the unfortunate fidalgo in front of the ruins of the Convent of Santa Clara, lying in a swoon, caused by the supposition of his daughter’s death, and watched by her nurse, who continued sobbing and wringing her hands in the bitterest grief.

Night came on, though it was scarcely perceptible on account of the bright fires which blazed in every part of the city, and still they continued in the same position; nor did Captain Pinto, according to his promise, return.

“Oh, Santa Maria Jozé! my sweet mistress!” cried poor Gertrudes; “you are torn from us for ever, in your youth and beauty! alas! alas! and here am I, a worthless old woman, alive and well, mourning for your loss!” and again she wrung her hands in despair.

On a sudden her master sat upright, and looked wildly around, unable, at first, to comprehend what had happened; but the sights which met his view soon convinced him of the dreadful reality. His heart was indeed bowed with grief, his pride fallen—his only son was slain, his fair daughter lost to him for ever! Yet, though convinced of her fate, he could not tear himself from the spot—and whither could he go? It was impossible for him to venture through the ruined streets, amid burning houses and falling walls. He had just arrived at a complete perception of his misfortunes, when a shriek struck his ear. A father’s senses were not to be deceived—it was his daughter’s voice! He rose to his feet as a man rushed by, bearing a female form in his arms. There was no deception—that cry for aid was Clara’s—that shape was hers. He in vain endeavoured to arrest the man in his flight—he attempted to pursue—but his strength failed him. He called on him, in accents of despair, to restore his child; but the ruffian heeded him not, and the fidalgo sank exhausted on the ground. Old Gertrudes, also, had striven to follow; but, weak from fatigue and long fasting, she had not taken many steps before her strength failed her; and, uttering cries for assistance, she fell near her master.

Though the group of homeless and helpless nuns still remained where they had first collected, they were in too apathetic a state to offer any assistance. No one thought of impeding the vile ravisher in his course, for, alas! such scenes had already become but too common, and the whole city was now filled with shrieks and piteous cries for mercy, unheeded by the savage miscreants who had become the undisputed lords of all.

Captain Pinto’s search for his friend proved, of course, as unsuccessful as at first, till at length he recollected the state in which he had left the bereaved father of his friend’s mistress, when, with great difficulty procuring some food, notwithstanding all the dangers to be encountered, he set forward to carry him assistance, accompanied by Pedro and another man, whom he engaged for the purpose.

The ruins of the convent being on the outskirts of the conflagration, he was able, by making a long circuit, to approach it with less risk than he had before encountered; but, when he arrived there, it was some time before he could discover the object of his search, now utterly unable to assist himself. The two servants, therefore, supporting the fidalgo between them, and the old nurse being somewhat revived by some of the food the Captain had brought, which she contrived to eat between her sobs and exclamations of grief, he led the way towards the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, which was in the uninjured part of the city. As the party were leaving the fatal spot, a man, with a drawn sword in his hand, rushed up to them with frantic gestures, and the noble sailor’s satisfaction may be conceived when he discovered his friend Luis. Pedro, in his joy and hurry to embrace his master, almost let the fidalgo fall to the ground; although Luis offered, it must be confessed, but a poor subject for congratulation. From the broken exclamations of Senhora Gertrudes, the Captain had understood that she fancied she had seen her young mistress, but he was unprepared for the excited vehemence of Luis.

“Fly with me to overtake the monster!” he exclaimed, without waiting to receive his friend’s congratulations on his safety. “Which way did he bear her? Have none of you seen her? speak!”

“Of whom do you speak, my friend?” asked Captain Pinto; “for I have but just arrived here.”

“Of Clara, of my own Clara!” ejaculated the unhappy lover; “she has been torn from me in the moment of preservation, and conveyed I know not whither; but, as you love me, aid me to recover her. Does no one know which way she was carried?”

The old nurse now recognised Luis. “Does the senhor ask for my young mistress?” she exclaimed. “I knew it was her, I knew it was her, and a savage has carried her away.”

“Speak, woman, speak!” exclaimed Luis, with agitation. “Which way did he go?”

“Alack! senhor, I scarcely know; we have moved since then—but let me see: yes, it was there—that was the way;” and she pointed in the direction of a street, on each side of which the houses were burning furiously, the walls every instant falling with loud crashes, and throwing showers of sparks into the air.

As old Gertrudes pointed to the street, Luis, heedless of the dangers, was about to break away from his friends towards it, but the Captain held him back. “It is impossible that she could have been carried amid that fiery strait, or that you could enter it without instant destruction. Hear reason, my friend; it is now some time since she could have passed here, and since then she must have been conveyed to a considerable distance, where it will be utterly impossible, unaided, to discover her. I know her danger is great, but I cannot believe there breathes the hellish monster who would injure her. It is far more probable that she has been carried off by some designing ruffians, for the sake of receiving a reward for restoring her; or, if not, be assured that Heaven will, by some unexpected means, protect her innocence. I cannot believe it possible that any harm can happen to her. Assist me now in conveying her father to a place of safety; you see his helpless state, and you will be performing an act gratifying to her. To-morrow we will collect some friends and attendants, and having procured authority from the Minister, we will search for her in every direction, examining every one we meet, and I trust that success will crown our efforts.”

With such like persuasions Captain Pinto strove to calm his friend’s mind, although he well knew how fallacious the hopes he endeavoured to excite would too probably prove; but he felt that any deceit was excusable to prevent him risking his life in a search which he knew must be futile; and also, not being in love himself, his judgment was cool, and he was very unwilling to accompany him, from the conviction of the uselessness of the attempt. Pedro, also, though a very brave fellow, and very much attached to his master, was not quite a hero, and, as he had already seen horrors enough to make him wish to avoid further danger, he joined in attempting to dissuade him from pursuing his search on that night, when, at length, the Captain cut the matter short by seizing his arm and attempting to drag him along. “Come, my friend,” he said, “you have frequently been guided by my advice; be so now, and accompany me whither I will conduct you.”

“What! and leave my mistress to her fate? Never! I go alone, if no one will accompany me!” exclaimed Luis; and breaking suddenly from Captain Pinto, he rushed in the direction Gertrudes indicated that the ruffian who bore away Clara had taken. Pedro, who was supporting the fidalgo, was compelled to place his burden on the ground before he could pursue his master; nor could the Captain even attempt to overtake him with any hope of success. Don Luis had already disappeared down a street, the houses rocking and burning on each side, when Pedro reached the commencement. At that instant, a lofty building, not fifty yards before him, fell with a loud crash, completely blocking up the street, and sending up showers of sparks and flame, like the bursting forth of a volcano.

Pedro stood aghast, trembling at his own narrow escape, and at the too probable fate of his master, with whom all communication was now hopelessly cut off. The Captain now coming up, said, in an agitated voice, as he led him back to where the fidalgo had been left,—“We can be of more service to the living than to the dead. We will see this old man in safety, and then return to search for your master.”

This was, indeed, the only thing now to be done, and after many difficulties and much labour they reached the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda. The door was open, and the mansion deserted, though it appeared not to have been pillaged, and after searching in every direction, it was discovered that the inmates had taken refuge in the garden, where they were collected beneath some orange trees; still uttering lamentations for what had occurred, which were increased when they heard the account Gertrudes detailed to them of the loss of Clara, and on seeing the state the fidalgo was in. The ladies were collected together in the centre, and their female attendants and men servants around them, all wringing their hands and sobbing, not one of them thinking of raising any covering to shelter themselves, or bringing out benches or chairs to sleep on. The Captain, however, with a sailor’s activity, set to work to make such arrangements as were practicable, for the comfort of the ladies and of the unfortunate fidalgo, who, as yet, gave few signs of being conscious of what was going forward. The servants worked but slowly, and were afraid of entering the house, although they did not hesitate to obey the Captain, who, it must be remembered, was a perfect stranger among them; but, on occasions of danger and difficulty, the man of courage and talent will always command obedience. Overcome with fatigue, the gallant Captain and the faithful Pedro, after snatching a short rest, again set out in search of Don Luis.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Twice had the sun risen over the city of desolation since the dreadful catastrophe of the 1st of November; and the flames yet raged in every part. Nearly twenty thousand persons, it was supposed, had been destroyed by the earthquake; and the greater number of the remaining citizens had quitted the fatal spot, and were encamped in the open fields in the neighbourhood; some with scarcely clothes to cover them, and without food to supply the cravings of hunger. Here all classes and orders of people were promiscuously mingled; respectable citizens reduced to abject poverty by the entire destruction of their property; the hapless virgins dedicated to the service of Heaven, driven from their sanctuaries among the most lawless and abandoned of mankind. Servants and their former masters; ladies, accustomed to gentle nurture, among mechanics, soldiers and porters; the virtuous and the profligate, the rich and the poor, the noble and the beggar, in the same wretched condition. The whole fabric of society was completely disorganised; murders, robberies, and all species of crimes were committed with the most flagrant daring; and naught was heard but groans and cries of distress. Slight shocks still continued to be felt at intervals of every half-hour; famine also had visited them; and, to add to their disasters, the effluvia arising from the vast number of dead bodies which choked up the streets, threatened them with a pestilence; so that hundreds of those who were able had already taken their departure to other towns; and the city would have been completely deserted, had not Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho, now created Prime Minister, exerted his utmost power to prevent so unfortunate an event to the kingdom.

It was now that he exhibited, in the greatest degree, that energetic character, and those extraordinary abilities which distinguished him among his countrymen. Having received full powers from the King to act as he judged expedient, both day and night he drove from place to place in his carriage, to observe what was most necessary to be done,—it serving him for his bureau, his couch, and his parlour; the only food he took on the first day being a basin of broth, which the Countess Daun, his wife, brought him with her own hands. His first care was to cut off all communication between the burning part of the city and that which remained entire; for to extinguish the conflagration was beyond his power, or the means of man to accomplish; his next was to despatch messengers into all the surrounding districts, to collect provisions for the houseless inhabitants; and his third was to send round to all the parochial clergy and heads of yet existing convents, to urge them to impress on their congregations and inferiors, as a duty both grateful to Heaven, and called for by man, to bury the dead without delay.

This last order had at first, owing to the paralysation of their energies, with which terror and misery had affected all men, been but negligently obeyed; and the streets were yet, in some places, actually blocked up with the dead, particularly in front of the churches, where they lay piled in heaps, mangled in every shocking way; some burned to cinders or scorched by the flames, and others torn almost to pieces by the savage dogs and vermin. Such sights were, indeed, dreadful to behold, but the eyes of those who had ventured into this arena of devastation and confusion had already become familiarised with them. Some of the noblest in the land had, with philanthropic boldness, wandered amid the ruins, to bear succour to those who might yet providentially remain alive beneath them; and among the first of those charitable persons, who set so bright an example to their fellow-men, was Don John of Bragança, a cousin of the King’s, and brother of the Duke of Lafoens, well-known about that time, in France and England, as the Duke of Bragança. It was reported that, in his presence, a young damsel was dug out of a cellar, in perfect health, on the sixth day, and it was fully believed by the pious that she was, as she affirmed, saved from destruction by clasping a figure of Saint Anthony, which was found in her embrace.

But to return to the day we first spoke of. From all the yet existing churches, mournful processions issued, headed by priests or friars, and accompanied by parties of seculars carrying biers, who perambulated the streets, and bore the bodies of the wretched victims, either to the water’s edge, from whence they were conveyed to the centre of the Tagus, and sunk with weights; or else to large receptacles prepared in the neighbourhood of the city, when quick-lime was thrown in on them. But, though these toiled all day, little progress appeared yet to have been made in the sad work, so great was the number of the dead.

They were not the only people seen among the ruins; for the ruffian banditti continued their depredations, unawed by the summary punishment of two or three of their number, who had been seized in the fact, and hung, by the Minister’s orders, without further trial. But there was one who belonged to neither of those classes, who had been seen, night and day, constantly wandering in every direction, gazing at every female corpse he passed, and eagerly eyeing every person he encountered, fearless of danger from the burning edifices, and disregarding the menaces of the vile wretches he often interrupted in their lawless pursuits. His countenance was worn and haggard, and his dress disordered and soiled, though, from his air and general appearance, he evidently belonged to the Fidalguia. He was closely followed by another person, who, although pale and wearied, did not exhibit the same signs of mental prostration and wretchedness, and was, from his costume and manner, apparently the servant of the first. The day was nearly spent, but still he wandered on, uncertain which way to direct his steps. He stopped to question each person he met; but all considered him as one whose brain had been turned by the horrors of the times, and, disregarding him, hurried by. On he wandered, his search proving, too clearly, as fruitless as at first, till he observed a naval officer, followed by a party of men in uniform, at a little distance: he hurried towards them.

“Have you discovered any traces of her?—have you any chance of finding her?” he eagerly exclaimed, addressing the officer.

“Alas! my dear Luis, no,” answered Captain Pinto. “I have as yet been unsuccessful; but the Minister, to whom I recounted your sad tale, has sent for a person who will to-morrow accompany you in your search, and will be of more aid than all the soldiers of the kingdom. He declares that, if these atrocities, which have disgraced humanity since the fatal day, do not cease, he will inflict such severe chastisement on all malefactors as will effectually terrify others from continuing the like excesses. In the mean time, come and take some rest, or you will to no purpose wear out both body and mind with fatigue.”

“I cannot rest until I have recovered her; or, if she is lost to me for ever, death will bring me the only tranquillity I can hope for,” answered Luis, in a tone of deep melancholy.

Pedro, who had soon discovered and followed his master through all dangers with constant faithfulness, heard this declaration with dismay, and joined the Captain in endeavouring to persuade him to quit his hopeless search for a time, to recruit his strength; but it was not till darkness came on, the first that had shrouded the city for the last three days, for the flames were now subsiding, that he consented to return to the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, to snatch a few hours’ troubled rest.

Captain Pinto was obliged to leave him, to perform certain duties he had undertaken by the Minister’s desire, in watching the banks of the river, to prevent the escape of robbers with their booty in that direction.

On the following morning, the carriage of the Minister was beset by numerous persons complaining of the fresh and atrocious outrages which had been committed during the past night.

On hearing the cases, he directly wrote the following decree, in the name of the King:—

“It having been represented to me, that, in the city of Lisbon and its neighbourhood, since the first of the month, many atrocious and sacrilegious robberies have been committed,—churches have been profaned, houses have been broken open, and people, even when endeavouring to save themselves from the falling edifices, have been assaulted with violence in the streets, to the great scandal, not only of Christian piety, but even of humanity,—and considering that like crimes, by their turpitude, make the perpetrators unworthy of the advantage of the usual process of trial, and indispensably require a prompt and severe chastisement, which may put an end to so horrible a scandal,—I decree, that all persons who have been, or shall be, apprehended for the above-said crimes, shall be tried by the simple verbal process by which the deed may be proved, and that those who are found guilty of those crimes, shall be forthwith forwarded, with the said verbal processes, to the Chief Regidor of the House of Punishment, who shall name, without delay, those Judges whom he is accustomed to name in like cases, that they may, without loss of time, also pass judgment on all the aforesaid processes verbal, so that those judgments passed by them shall be put into execution on the very day on which they are passed, and all without embargo of any laws, decrees, edicts, and ordinances whatever to the contrary, because these are passed for this particular purpose, they still retaining their vigour. The same Chief Regidor having thus understood, let him carry it into execution.—Belem, 4th November, 1755.”

Then the Minister despatched orders to the magistrates of every barrier of the city, to erect as lofty gibbets as they possibly could; another decree ordering that the condemned should be immediately hung up, and there left to rot in the sun; and before many days had passed, two hundred persons graced the gibbets; and though probably a few innocent ones may have been among them, the greater number were doubtless a good riddance from society; and, as the Minister observed, violent diseases require violent remedies. This proved the truth of the saying; for the atrocities were at length put a stop to for a time. One man in chains may inspire a youthful Turpins romantic ardour; but we suspect two hundred ghastly corpses would have sickened even Jack Sheppard of his lofty ambition.

We find ourselves anticipating the course of events. As soon as the Minister had ordered the erection of the gibbets, he bethought him it might be as well to assemble some troops to guard them, lest, as the rogues and vagabonds were pretty numerous, they should take it into their heads to hang thereon the honest men instead. Soldiers were, therefore, marched from all directions, so as to form a complete cordon round Lisbon, allowing none to enter or go out without a pass from the chief of police.

It was next thought advisable, since the aforesaid rogues and vagabonds could scarcely be expected to be so convinced of the enormities of their crimes, as to come and offer themselves voluntarily for punishment; and that as they could not possibly be hung without being first caught, any more than a hare can be cooked when still ranging her native fields, that bodies of police should be selected, under fit and proper officers, to apprehend the villains. Some were chosen among the military; but, as the soldiers, it was suspected, might be too apt rather to imitate than suppress the excesses, the greater number were respectable citizens, who were glad to volunteer under good leaders, among whom our friend Captain Pinto was the first chosen.

Even before the morning broke, Luis had again commenced his search for Clara, which proved fruitless as before. On meeting his friend, however, he accompanied him to visit the Minister, to whom he was about to make some reports.

“I have not forgotten you, my young friend,” said Carvalho, as soon as he saw Luis. “Though all require my care, yours is a peculiar case, and here is one who will be of more assistance to you than any other I can afford;” and he called a man to his side, to whom he gave some directions, and motioned towards Luis, when he added, “Farewell, and may success attend you!” and again turned to the public business in which he was engaged. That with Captain Pinto was soon despatched, when, accompanied by Luis and the person the Minister had introduced to him, he returned to the city.

Not to keep our readers in suspense as to who this personage was, we may as well intimate that he was our acquaintance, the ci-devant cobbler, Antonio; though at present he bore none of the signs of his trade about him, but rather had the appearance of a quiet notary, or sedate shopkeeper.

“I will do my best to serve you, senhor,” he said; “but I fear much we shall not discover the young lady. In ordinary times I might have been successful; but now I cannot set about the work in the way I would have done.”

Luis, at Antonio’s desire, gave him an exact description of Clara, (though perhaps he painted her with the pencil and colours lovers are apt to use,) and then of the ruffian who had carried her off, and of whom, for the same reason, it may be supposed, he did not speak in the most flattering terms; but his hearer, who seemed inclined to smile at the narration, made due allowances for both; and by the time the party had reached the ruined part of the city, he had made himself fully master of all the circumstances of the case. He then, turning to Captain Pinto, begged him to separate from them for a time, appointing to meet him at a certain hour, if he was successful in the first steps he intended to pursue.

Accompanied by Luis and Pedro, who would not leave him, he then plunged into the most intricate and narrow lanes of the city, climbing over ruins, among which were seen the mangled and burnt bodies of the wretched inhabitants, scaring, as they proceeded, the gorged dogs from their horrid feast. Now and then only they met a human being; for none, except for the purposes of concealment, had ventured where, even in better days, few were willing to wander unprotected. Antonio spoke to each one he passed, but all shook their heads in answer; yet, not discouraged by his want of success at first, he pursued the same plan, though the appearance of his acquaintances, it must be confessed, did certainly not afford Luis a very high opinion of his character, for a more villainous set of cut-throats it had never been his lot to encounter, although they were habited in the richest and most costly garments; but these were so evidently part of the spoils they had collected, and sat so ill upon them, that they only increased the ferocity and wildness of their countenances. Once or twice they met persons with whom he held rather longer conferences, and he appeared by degrees to be gaining some information which was satisfactory. At length, as they were turning the corner of a street, they came suddenly on a person who endeavoured to escape them, by hurrying, at some risk, among the smoking ruins, the moment he saw them approaching; but Antonio was too quick for him, and running after him, caught him by the arm. The person made no further resistance; but, on the contrary, as soon as he saw who was his pursuer, he embraced him cordially, seeming to feel much pleasure at the rencontre, accompanying him quietly as he walked on, followed at a little distance by Luis and Pedro.

“Do you know, senhor, that I have seen the figure of that man before,” said the latter to his master. “I caught a glimpse of his countenance, and as I am a sinner, and hope to be saved, it is no other than the hermit of Nossa Senhora da Pedra, and the holy padre Frè Lopez.”

“Thank Heaven,” ejaculated Luis, “that we have met him. It must be him, and he is the only man who will be able to assist me;” and he was hurrying to overtake Antonio and his companion, when the latter, giving him a parting embrace, hastened off in a different direction.

“Who was that person?” inquired Luis, as he joined Antonio.

“A very great vagabond, senhor, but yet not near so great a villain as many who profess to be virtuous. I have known him for a long time, and if he could but resist temptation, he would be an honest man; and I would trust my life in his power, provided it was not his interest to take it.”

“If he is the man I supposed, he saved mine three days ago,” returned Luis. “Is he not called Frè Diogo Lopez?”

“That is one of his names, to which he has as great a right as to the coat he now wears; but he is no friar, senhor; no, no, he is too honest for that; but if he is tempted to commit any piece of villainy, he assumes the character, as most appropriate for the purpose, he says. He once entered a monastery as a lay brother, where he learned all the habits and customs of the monks; but they did not accord with the ideas of morality he then entertained, so after a couple of years he quitted them, and has ever since wandered about the country in various disguises, as suits his purpose; but if the holy Inquisition get hold of him, I fear he will not be able to escape their clutches.”

“But has he given you any information that may be of service to us?” interrupted Luis eagerly.

“That is to be proved,” said Antonio calmly; “I know the man from whose power the Frade saved your life, and who carried the lady off; a greater villain there does not exist in Lisbon. I have learned so much from our friend, though the difficulty will be to find this Rodrigo; and the chances are that he will adorn one of the newly-raised gibbets before long. I hope, however, to have an interview with him before that time; and then the sooner he is hung, the sooner will there be one villain less in the world.”

“Is this the only clue you have been able to discover?” said Luis, dejectedly. “I fear that it will be of little service.”

“Fear not, senhor,” answered Antonio: “in the first place, you have the satisfaction of knowing that the lady was not killed by the falling houses, when Rodrigo carried her off; and, in the second, I have reason to suppose that it was not for his own sake he committed the outrage.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” ejaculated Luis.

“In the mean time, our friend the Frade is making inquiries which may assist us,” continued Antonio. “And we will now, by your leave, find Captain Pinto, to whom I wish to make some reports.”

They accordingly proceeded in search of the Captain.

When Don Luis and his companions arrived at the spot where they had agreed to meet Captain Pinto, which was at an open place called the Caes Sodrè, near the royal arsenal, they found the people under his command with several prisoners in their custody.

Antonio examined the countenance of each, but he did not recognise any one till he came to a man lying bound on the ground, his clothes torn and bloody, with two of the guards standing near him, badly wounded. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Senhor Rodrigo, you know me, I think?”

“Yes,” answered the ruffian; “I am not likely to forget you.”

Luis looked on with anxiety, for he beheld the ruffian who had carried off Clara; but Antonio, desiring to be left alone with the man, knelt down by his side, while Captain Pinto detailed to Luis the circumstances of his capture. His last act had been in character with his former life. The guards were passing a house from which loud cries were heard to proceed, and on entering it an old man was found weltering in his blood on the floor, and a woman was struggling in the grasp of the ruffian, whose shrieks prevented his hearing their entrance. Before they could seize him, however, he had plunged his knife into her bosom; and then turning on them, had wounded two in his attempt to escape; but at last, after a desperate resistance, he was captured.

Luis shuddered as he heard the account. “Has my beloved Clara been in the power of a wretch like this?” he thought.

Antonio held some minutes’ conversation with the bravo. “For what purpose did you carry off the lady?” he said, after some time.

“To serve another, the greater my folly,” was the answer.

“And she is there still?” inquired Antonio.

“Yes, if he has not removed her.—Go, I would have my revenge on him. He has deceived me twice, and you may gain the ransom I expected—and then I shall die happy.”

Before night the corpse of the noted bravo, Rodrigo, was seen hanging from the highest gibbet at the gates of Lisbon.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

We have observed, in the course of our very desultory custom of reading, that most novelists delight in endeavouring to make their readers suppose, somewhere about the middle of their second volume, that their hero, or heroine, in whose fate by that time they may have begun to feel some interest, has been engulfed beneath the raging waves, or dashed to pieces from falling off a lofty, sea-worn cliff, or murdered by banditti in a forest, or blown up in a castle, or has made his or her exit from this terrestrial scene in some equally romantic way; for we cannot fill our page with further instances. Now, we confess that, after a little experience, we were never deceived by such ingenious devices. In the first place, very few writers have the hardihood to kill their heroes or heroines at all, for the reason, that few readers approve of the principle; and, in the second, they would not think of doing so till the end of the third volume, as they would find considerable difficulty in continuing their story without them. For our own part, rather than commit so atrocious an act, we would alter the truth of history, and defer the dreadful catastrophe to the final scene.

Having made this preamble, we must return to the ruins of the Santa Clara Convent, at the moment the bravo Rodrigo had torn Clara from the arms of Don Luis, after their almost miraculous escape from destruction. She had just recovered sufficient consciousness to know that she was separated from him, and had no power to liberate herself. In vain she called on Luis to save her, as the ruffian bore her away. He carried her quickly across the ruins, passing close to the spot where her unhappy father then was; and when he saw himself pursued, not knowing by whom, he dashed down the nearest turning with his fair prize, regardless of her cries and prayers for mercy. His progress in that direction was soon impeded by the burning buildings, when he was obliged to turn back part of the way, and make a circuit through the northern part of the city in the direction of Belem, towards which he proceeded on the very opposite side. No one regarded him as he passed: they were either wretches like himself, or unhappy beings who had, that day, perchance, lost all they loved on earth, and heeded not aught but their own misfortunes; besides, alas! such spectacles had become too common to attract the notice of any: no one attempted to rescue her from the ruffian’s power. At length, weary from his exertions, for the road he was obliged to follow was long, steep, and intricate, Rodrigo stopped to rest. Even over the most savage bosoms lovely innocence will always be able to exert a softening influence, and we believe that there is no man born of womankind so hardened as not to feel its power. Clara, though she thought not this, for terror had deprived her of all power of thinking, took this opportunity, by a natural instinct, to entreat her captor to restore her to her father, promising him a high reward for so doing.

“So you said once before, lady, when I had you in my power; but I shall not be again disappointed, depend on it,” answered the robber. “However, don’t be alarmed, for your lover, as I guess him to be, is, as far as I know, still alive, no thanks to my intentions, though; and I am going to take you to one who will treat you well, and pay me highly for my trouble and loss of time, so there is nothing after all to cry about.”

“But my father will pay you any sum you demand,” quickly responded Clara, thinking she had made some impression on the man’s feelings.

“No, no,” he answered, “he would not have shut you up in a convent if he cared much about you; besides, for what I know, he may be killed, as thousands were to-day; now my employer was alive a few hours since, and I intend this time to make sure of my reward.”

The thoughts of her father’s death stopped Clara’s further utterance, and the bravo, again lifting her in his arms, bore her onward. He now again turned through some partially ruined streets, several fierce bands passing him who uttered horrid jests, and seemed inclined to dispute possession of his prize; but his fierce threats of vengeance made them desist, for his character was well-known to all.

Full two hours had passed ere he finally stopped before the door of a low house, which appeared uninjured; for while the lofty temples and the proud palaces of the great had been overwhelmed in ruin, the humble shed of the mechanic had escaped.

He forced open the door, and entered without hesitation. An old woman was seated on the floor, trembling and weeping with alarm: a small oil lamp burning near her gave just sufficient light to show the wretched state of the apartment.

He placed Clara on one of the two only chairs the room afforded, and then fastened the door behind him. “Come, rouse up, mother, and stop your tears, the earthquake will do no further harm. Here is a lady I have brought you to attend upon, and remember you must treat her properly.”

“Take her away—I want no ladies here!” muttered the old hag, without looking up.

“Hark you, mother! I expect to be well paid for my trouble, and you shall have plenty of gold if I return her safe to her friends. My taste is not for such delicate fish as this.”

“Am I to have plenty of gold?” said the old woman, eagerly. “Yes, yes, then I will do all you require.”

“That is well,” answered Rodrigo. “Treat her kindly, and give her food, if she can eat such as we poor people have; and take care she does not escape, or we shall lose our reward—remember that.”

“Ay, ay, we are to have gold, are we? then I will take care she does not get away,” returned the hag, glancing at her with her baneful eyes.

“I have said, no harm shall happen to you, lady, so cease crying,” said the bravo, turning to Clara; and, whispering a few words in his mother’s ear, he quitted the house, locking the door behind him, and taking away the key.

The old woman followed her son’s directions, without addressing a word to her prisoner; but, weak and faint as Clara was, she could not, as may be supposed, partake of the fare placed before her. Her witch-like hostess then supported her to a rough couch in a corner of the room, on which, more in a state of fainting than sleeping, she forgot, for a time, the horrors of her situation, though her brain yet retained a confused impression of the terrific sounds and dreadful scenes she had encountered.

It was daylight before the bravo returned, bringing a basket of delicate provisions already cooked and prepared with care, which he placed on the table, without addressing Clara, and withdrew in haste, merely nodding to his mother as he passed out, again locking the door behind him. A few hours’ rest had partially restored Clara’s strength, and enabled her to take a little refreshment; but to all her questions the old woman was as uncommunicative as her son, pretending entire deafness, to escape being troubled with further ones. Her manner was, however, sufficiently respectful, and she was attentive to her prisoner’s wants; but her behaviour was actuated, evidently, more by the hopes of gain than by any feminine or kindly feeling. As she moved about the room, at her work, muttering curses, she would every now and then cast suspicious glances towards the fair girl; but whenever a slight shock of the earthquake was felt, she would fall down on her knees and kiss and fondle the image of a saint, the only ornament the room possessed: as soon, however, as it had passed away, she would again rise and pursue her former occupations. On these occasions, Clara could not avoid trembling with alarm, as she saw the fragile building vibrating with the shock, expecting every instant to be overwhelmed in its ruins; but the earthquake providentially did no further damage than cause pieces of mortar to fall from the ceiling, or the walls, till at last she learned no longer to dread it.

Clara had remained many hours in a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, not only as to her own future fate, but as to that of Luis, whom she had last beheld in the power of the ruffians; and of her father, for she could not tell if he had escaped the destruction, which appeared to her universal, though she was unconscious of the horrors of the commencement; when the door of the room was opened from without, and a tall figure entered, wrapped in a large cloak, so as completely to conceal his person, a black mask covering his features. He bowed respectfully towards her as he entered, and then advanced close to where she was seated, her lovely head bent down, and her face hidden in her hands.

“Lady!” said the stranger, “I have been deputed hither by one who adores you to distraction, and who has heard with deep concern of the violence which has been offered to you; but he has taken measures to prevent the return of the ruffian who brought you here, and if you will accept of my escort, I will conduct you to a place of greater security.”

Clara started at the first sound of that voice, which made her tremble with fear, for the tones seemed familiar; but then she thought she must have been mistaken, yet she mistrusted the speaker.

“I can trust myself with no one who requires a mask to conceal his features,” she answered; “yet let me know to whom I am indebted for assistance, and I may be grateful.”

“Circumstances prevent my declaring myself, lady, at present,” returned the stranger; “but confide in my honour, and I will escort you from this wretched hovel to an abode, which, though unworthy to receive you, is yet equal to any the city, in its present ruined state, can afford.”

“Pardon me, senhor, that I hesitate,” said Clara; “for I dare not confide in one unknown; but if you will carry the information to my father that I am here, I shall be deeply grateful.”

The stranger listened to this answer with signs of impatience.

“I would do what you wish, fair lady, but I grieve to say your father, if, as I believe, you are the daughter of Gonçalo Christovaö, fell a victim to the destroying earthquake.”

“Oh! say you do not speak the truth; you surely must have been mistaken,” she exclaimed; “my father cannot be among the dead!”

“It is but too true, lady,” was the answer; “and I fear you have few or no friends who have escaped it.”

On hearing this sad assertion, Clara bent down her head and sobbed violently, while the stranger stood by, beholding her in silence for some minutes, when she suddenly looked up. “I pray Heaven you may have been deceived in the account you give,” she said; “but if not, as you are a man, and, as I believe, from your air, of gentle birth, I entreat you to discover one who has already risked his life to save mine, and in whom I may place entire confidence—Don Luis d’Almeida. Go, senhor, inform him that I am here, and he will strive to show his gratitude to you.”

Clara, in the innocence of her heart, referred naturally to the person on whom all her thoughts and feelings centred; but her words seemed to give anything but satisfaction to her hearer. He stamped vehemently on the ground, as he answered, between his closed teeth,—“Know you not, lady, that you speak of one who is the murderer of your brother? and he, surely, is not a fit guardian for you.”

She was no longer deceived in the speaker’s voice. She rose calmly from her seat:—“Count San Vincente,” she said, “the disguise you wear cannot conceal you from me; nor do I believe your words; for I feel firm in the conviction that Don Luis could not have slain my brother. I knew not even that he was reported to have been killed; nor do I believe, from your assertion, that such is the case. Now, leave me, senhor; for I know full well you dare not venture to use violence towards a noble maiden. Find means to inform my friends of my situation, and I will not breathe my suspicions; if not, dread the consequences of this outrage.”

“You mistake, fair lady; I am not the person you suppose,” answered the stranger; “and though I am unwilling to use threats to compel you to do what I would wish you to perform of your own accord, you must remember that you are completely in my power, and that I fear not the vengeance of your friends; for none will know that you were not lost in the ruins of the convent, till he who seeks to wed you thinks fit to produce you as his bride. Will you now consent to accompany me?”

“Never!” answered Clara, firmly; “I would rather trust myself to the common ruffian who brought me hither, than to one who is capable of deceit and treachery so vile to gain his wishes. Hear me! Whatever betide, I will never become the bride of the Conde San Vincente, and him I know that I see before me!”

“You will gain little by your resolution, lady, which, like women in general, you will be glad to break on the first occasion,” answered the stranger. “I leave you now to reflect on my words; and remember, that even if Don Luis survives, which I know not he does, you cannot wed him who has slain your brother; and that such is the case, is well-known by all. Farewell, lady; I trust that, by to-morrow, you will have considered the subject more calmly, when I will again visit you.” Saying which, the stranger, bowing low, quitted the cottage, without even deigning to regard the old woman; but Clara was confirmed in her persuasion that he was a principal person concerned in the outrage offered to her, by hearing him again lock the door and withdraw the key, as the keeper of her prison.

For the remainder of the day she was unmolested by further visits; but if she even attempted to approach the window, the old beldame followed her closely, to prevent her, in case she should make any signal for assistance to those passing by; a chance not likely to occur, seeing that the cottage stood in a lane but little frequented at any time, and one end of it being now completely blocked up with ruins.

On the morning of the second day, a knock was heard at the door, to which the old woman went directly, when a hand was thrust in with a basket of provisions, as before, and immediately withdrawn. About two hours afterwards, the tall masked stranger returned, again bowing profoundly, as he advanced towards Clara.

“Lady, I trust that a night’s rest has enabled you to perceive your true condition more clearly than you did yesterday,” he began. “Pardon me that I appear importunate; but though, as I before assured you, I should be unwilling to force your inclinations, yet I must insist on your accompanying me, without resistance, from this wretched hovel, which is not fit to be honoured: by your presence.”

“Neither my opinion of my gaoler, nor my feelings, have changed since yesterday,” replied Clara; “nor is the treatment I have received at all likely to alter them; and, as I have before declared, I will not quit this house, unless in the company of friends in whom I can confide. Force, I think, you would scarcely dare exert, and it would defeat your own purpose.”

“Trust not to such fallacious hopes, lady,” answered the stranger, fiercely; “you know not to what lengths your coldness will drive one who long has lived but in thinking of your charms! By a fortunate chance you were placed in my power, and, believe me, I value you too much to allow you to escape. You understand not my character when you thus venture to trifle with my feelings, for I am one whom the fear of consequences never daunts in the pursuit of my aims; threats cannot terrify me, and all laws I despise, or can elude. Yes, Donna Clara, I will not deny it is of myself I speak. I would woo you as a humble suitor for your hand; but, if you spurn my love, I have the power, and will exert it, to command you as a master; ay, and I will so tame that proud spirit, that you will crave as a boon what you now so haughtily refuse.”

“Never!” exclaimed Clara, with energy; for all the lofty feelings of her noble race were aroused within that bosom, by nature so gentle, and formed for love. “I fear not your unworthy threats. Sooner, far sooner, would I die, than yield to your wishes; for each word you have spoken has but increased the hatred and contempt I have from the first felt for you.”

“Ah! is it so, lady?” said the stranger, his voice trembling with rage. “You will find yourself miserably deceived. Hear me for the last time. I have determined to try what leniency will effect in your sentiments; but, if you still refuse to listen to reason, you will lament the consequences of your folly. Do not suppose that you can escape from hence; for you are here as securely guarded as within one of the dungeons of the Jungueira; so build no hopes on that account. But I will not attempt to persuade you further. I now again quit you, to return but once more, when a priest will be in readiness to unite your fate with mine; and be assured that my impatience will brook but short delay. Till then, Donna Clara, farewell!” He bent low, and attempted to take her hand, but she hastily withdrew it. “Well, well, lady,” he added, in a scornful tone, “to-morrow, methinks, you will act differently;” and, as on the former occasion, he bowed, and quitted the cottage. When, no sooner had he gone than the fair girl’s self-possession gave way, and she burst into a flood of tears.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Sad was the change which three days of intense anxiety and suffering had worked on the fair cheek of the still lovely Clara. She might have been compared to the fresh-blown rose, drooping beneath the hot blast of the sirocco, yet still retaining its fragrance and beauty, and which the balmy dews of evening would quickly restore to health and vigour. The old hag had never for an instant quitted her, nor had she been able to extract a single sentence from her, even to learn in what part of the city she was imprisoned. Her thoughts all the time dwelling on the too probable loss of her father, and brother, and of one who she could not help confessing was even dearer than either, yet she did not rely on her informer’s declaration of their deaths; and she endeavoured so to nerve her courage, as to resist every attempt he might make to compel her to become his bride. Though he had spoken in a feigned voice, and she had not seen his features, she had no doubt as to the identity of her gaoler; and she felt assured that terror of the law would prevent him from perpetrating any violence,—the abduction only of the daughter of a fidalgo being punishable by death, with confiscation of property; though, had she known the disorganised state of society since the earthquake, her alarm would have been far greater. Since the masked stranger had visited her, no one had appeared, and she was now, with dread and agitation, looking forward to his return. She heard footsteps approaching—her heart beat quick—they stopped at the cottage-door, against which a single blow was struck; but the old woman paid no attention to it. It was again repeated, with the same result. Several louder knocks were then heard, when the hag approached the door, and placed her ear against it, in the act of listening.

“Who is there?” she asked, in a voice like the croaking of a raven. “Go away, and leave an aged lone woman in quiet.”

“Open the door first, and we will not harm you,” said a voice.

“I cannot open the door, for my son has gone away, and taken the key: you must wait till he returns,” answered the hag.

“We should have to wait long enough,” muttered some one outside.

Clara’s heart throbbed yet quicker; but it was with hopes of liberation; yet she feared to cry out, for the eye of the hag was fixed on her with a malignant glance; and while she held up one finger to impose silence, her other hand clasped the handle of a sharp-pointed knife, with a significant gesture.

“What is that you say about my son?” she asked, with a startling energy, which made Clara’s blood thrill with dread.

“We speak not of your son, old woman,” said the voice. “Open the door quietly, or we shall be obliged to force it, in the name of the King.”

“You had better not attempt it,” she croaked forth. “My son is not one who likes to have his house visited in his absence, so go your ways till he returns.”

“Delay no longer, but force the door!” said another voice, which caused a tumultuous joy in Clara’s bosom, for she knew it to be that of Luis.

“First tell me where my son is?” cried the beldame.

“Your son Rodrigo is in prison, where you will join him, if you do not directly obey our orders,” said the former voice.

“Ah! is it so?” she shrieked. “It shall not be without cause, and I will be revenged on you first.” Clara uttered a cry of terror—loud blows resounded against the door,—and the vile hag, with her glittering knife upraised, rushed towards her, her eyes glaring with savage fury; and, with a yell of derisive laughter, she aimed her weapon at the bosom of the fair girl; but her foot slipped, and she fell to the ground. In a moment she rose again, and pursued her victim, who endeavoured to escape her rage.

“Luis, Luis, save me!” cried Clara, in an agony of fear.

The blows against the door were redoubled. The hag, with frantic gestures, followed her. Her last moment seemed come, when the door was burst open; and, while several men seized the wretched woman—yet not before she had plunged the knife into her own heart—Clara, with a cry of joy, fell fainting into her lover’s arms.

“Where is my son? you said he was taken,” muttered the old woman, as she forced away the hand of Antonio, who was endeavouring to stanch the blood flowing from her wound.

“By this time he is dangling from one of the new gibbets at the gates of the city,” answered one of the men.

“Then I will disappoint those of what they would much like to know,” she muttered.

She then suddenly endeavoured to tear herself from the grasp of those who held her, uttering shriek upon shriek, mixed with dreadful curses on all around.

“Ay, ay, I see my son in the flames of purgatory, and the devils are dragging me down to him. I will not go yet—I will live to curse those who have slain him. May their end be like his, and may they dwell for ever in the torments of hell!”

She ceased not uttering exclamations like these till her evil spirit fled its vile tenement.

Luis bore Clara from the dreadful scene, accompanied by Captain Pinto, and followed by the rest of the party, till they reached an open space, where a carriage was in waiting; and, as he placed her in it, and took his seat by her side, he caught a glimpse of a tall man, whose features were concealed in a cloak, watching them at some distance. Having received the warm congratulations of his friend, who was obliged to return to his duty, while Pedro and some of the men prepared to accompany him as guards, Luis offered a purse of money to Antonio, as a recompense for his exertions.

“No, senhor,” he answered, declining it; “I have but performed the commands of the Minister, and I seek my reward from him alone;” and, bowing profoundly, he took his leave.

We must not attempt to transcribe the conversation of Clara and Luis, as they slowly proceeded by a long and circuitous road towards the residence of the old Marchioness. She first asked eagerly for her father, when Luis assured her that though too unwell to engage personally in the search for her, he was in no danger, and that her presence would soon recover him. Why, we know not, but she did not even mention her brother’s name. Luis then told her of his wretchedness, and almost madness, at her loss, and she confessed to have suffered as much, which afforded, doubtless, great consolation to him. Next he told her of all the fruitless endeavours he had made to recover her, which had worn him nearly to a skeleton; and, in answer, she told him of the visits she had received from the masked stranger, and of her suspicions as to who he was; when they both agreed, that, if she was right, the Count had acted so cautious a part, that though he as richly deserved hanging as his assistant Rodrigo, it would be utterly impossible to punish him by any legal means, though Luis vowed internally to take the first opportunity of chastising him. Yet they only slightly touched on these subjects; for there was a far more engrossing one which occupied the greater part of the time, as on it they had very much to say. What it was we leave our readers to guess, it being remembered that they had not met with an opportunity to converse since the evening when they first made their mutual acknowledgments of love; and they agreed that what they then felt was cold and tame, compared to their present feelings, after all the dangers and sufferings they had undergone.

We, however, prefer leaving what are usually called love scenes to be described by our fair sister authoresses; because they can paint the characters of their own sex with far more delicate touches, and, besides, know much more about the subject than we old men possibly can, whose days of tender endearment have so long passed by. We shall, therefore, carry them safely to the gates of the palace, when Luis, lifting Clara from the carriage, supported her to the garden, where, under various tents and sheds, the family were still residing.