Chapter Fifteen.A Burning Question.“To do a great right, do a little wrong.”The ill-fated expedition had not long set sail before the king discovered its insufficient numbers, and in all haste he ordered Dom Joao to equip himself and follow his brothers to Ceuta. Joao, to do him justice, was perfectly ready to do so, and in a very short time set sail with a fair number of troops, hoping to join them before they could leave Ceuta, and, had they waited for a reinforcement, all might have been well.He had not calculated on their over-haste. The vessel bearing the fatal news crossed him on the way; and when he arrived at Ceuta he was greeted with the story of the defeat of the army, of the detention of Fernando, and of the serious illness of Enrique, who, completely overcome by mortification and anguish of heart, had fainted on reaching his ship, and had been carried on shore at Ceuta, unable to exert himself further. All was in confusion; but Dom Joao wasted no time in reproaches or regrets; but after giving a few necessary orders, and encouraging the troops to look for better times, he went at once to his brother’s lodging.Enrique was recovering a little from the violence of the fever that had seized on him, and was dressed and lying on a couch; but when he saw his brother he rose up, weak as he was, and threw himself on his knees before him, covering his face.“Alas, my brother! how can I look on you?” he cried. “I have been the worst enemy of my country and of the Church and of my most dear brothers!”“It has all gone very ill,” said Joao. “We must seek for a remedy. Rise up, my brother; you shame me. This from you to me!”“Ah, could I but find a harder penance!” sighed Enrique; but he allowed Joao to help him back to his couch, and began to tell him how it had all chanced, and to ask what had brought him there in such good time.“Duarte has troubled much about Fernando,” said Joao; “how was it with him when you left him?”But the attempt to speak of Fernando threw Enrique into such an agony of weeping that Joao was obliged to cease questioning him, beginning to perceive how terrible must have been the experience that had thus prostrated one of such resolute will and power of endurance.“Courage!” he said; “a better day must dawn. Fernando will soon be restored to us; and though we yield Ceuta nominally, it shall go hard but we will soon win it back again. For that object a war will cause no difference of opinion.”Enrique made no answer. He lay silent for some moments, then turned and looked up at his brother. “We were eating our horses before we yielded, and there was no water, and no hope. That must soon have killed him and all the poor fellows whom we have led to ruin.”“You would have been fools to hold out,” said Joao, bluntly. “But what is to be done now? Here am I, with six thousand at my back—”“Here? Fresh troops?” cried Enrique, starting into animation. “Then what is to hinder one more effort? Let us go back to Tangier, and win it, or die!”“But the treaty?” said Joao.“The treaty! That does but hold Fernando fast. We gave no pledge not to continue the war on another footing. And they harassed our rear enough as we retreated to show how far they care to keep their word. I am another man, now you give me hope.”Joao was not altogether averse to the proposal, and Enrique, with reviving spirits, recovered his natural ascendency; and arrangements were made for Joao to return home with the sick and wounded, while Enrique, with the fresh troops, marched again on Tangier. No second brother, he said, should be thus risked. His first care, however, was to put Ceuta into a complete state of defence; and while he was thus engaged came first the news that the fleet which he had sent home immediately after the retreat from Tangier had met with a violent storm and been wrecked on the coast of Andalusia, where the Castilians had showed great kindness to the distressed sailors. Next arrived a peremptory despatch from the king, ordering both his brothers to return at once, and to make no further effort to continue the war for the present. Enrique was bitterly disappointed, though he felt that he could not wonder at the king’s doubt of his judgment.“I cannot look him in the face,” he said; “I cannot see his grief. Go you to Lisbon, and I will hide myself in Sagres, and pray for pardon.”The king convoked the States-General of Portugal, and a great council was held to decide on the next step. The Pope was again written to for his opinion, and the discussion began with all the ardour and heat attending a question where good men see, strongly, different sides of the right. For Duarte himself it was a time of agonising doubt. His peculiar tenderness for Fernando made the thought of his loneliness and suffering, of his possible hardships and of the loss of his daily presence, haunt him by night and day. Every feeling of his heart urged him to give up the city and win this beloved brother back. But then, he looked on himself but as the steward who must give an account of his kingdom. Ceuta, Portugal itself, were not his to yield. What right had he to give back one acre of Christian land to the realm of darkness—to let the consecrated soil be profaned once more by the accursed faith of Mahomet? What life, what love, was too precious to be sacrificed to save the souls of the Christians of Ceuta? This was one side of the question; and perhaps it is hardly possible in these days to realise how powerful this obligation seemed to such a prince as Duarte. On the other hand, it was urged that it was a foul shame to grudge any fortress, however valuable, for the life of a prince of Portugal, who had voluntarily offered himself, trusting in the honour of his country, and also that, after all, they had given their word to cede Ceuta, and were bound to redeem it, even to an infidel power. These were the nobler views on either side. Of course the party who contended for the retention of Ceuta contained many who cared nothing for the religious question, but who declared openly that the great sea-port was worth far more to the state than the precarious life of a prince who had never been able to make himself prominent or useful, while many of those who wished to yield it cared little for Fernando, and less for the pledge, but were only anxious to avoid the expense of a war.But between the right on either side Duarte’s scrupulous conscience wavered with agonising uncertainty; though with his deep love for his brother, and his instinctive preference for the simpler, more immediate duty, he inclined somewhat to the view of yielding the city. Pedro and Joao spoke in the council with no uncertain sound. A treaty should be kept, they said, and their dear brother’s life saved at all costs. No sacrifice could be too great to make. Then let them go to war with every resource at their command, and win Ceuta back, and Tangier, too. Their words had great weight; but the Archbishop of Braga, a powerful ecclesiastic, spoke on the other side, all the other bishops agreeing with him, declaring that one man’s life must not be considered in comparison with a whole city.The Pope’s letter came in support of this view. The war had been undertaken in defiance of his wishes, and had led to an unhappy result. Certainly, Christian land must not be given up to an infidel power; but he offered the much-desired full of Crusade, and recommended Duarte to go to war to deliver his brother. All this time Enrique had remained at Sagres and made no sign, only trusting that the matter might be settled without his intervention. But now, Duarte wrote, summoning him to Lisbon, assuring him of his forgiveness and affection, and desiring to hear his view of the question.The time had gone by for the wild anguish with which Enrique had met Joao; but when he came into Duarte’s presence, and kissed his hand, ten years might have passed over the heads of them both since they parted. Duarte’s gentle cheerfulness had faded, and all the fire had gone out of Enrique’s great grey eyes, and his manner was subdued and spiritless.Duarte made him sit beside him, and for a long time they were silent, holding each other by the hand. Then Enrique said—“My brother, you can forgive?”“We suffer together,” said Duarte. “Enrique, you know what our brothers say in this matter, and the contrary opinion of the Pope. How does your conscience speak?”Enrique’s strong frame shook, as he answered—“Were I the hostage, I could not so buy my freedom. Would that I were!”Then Duarte took a letter from his bosom and put it into Enrique’s hand. It contained a few lines from Fernando, speaking of his good health and kindly treatment, and begging for Duarte’s forgiveness for the rashness that had risked so much. He sent messages of love to all his brothers, especially to Enrique, “who granted me my heart’s wish at the cost of his own judgment.” There was no single word as to his own return, or as to the cession of Ceuta, and Duarte said—“This most precious letter was doubtless read by his jailor before he was permitted to send it, so that he could not freely speak his mind, to us.”Enrique kissed the letter, he seemed unable to speak, and Duarte said—“I sent for you, since you and he were ever as one, so that your mind on this matter will be his.”“So he said.”“Yes, you wrote me his words,” said Duarte.There was long silence, and at last the King spoke again.“Grieve not so terribly, my brother, speak as your conscience urges. Alike we love him.”“Alas, yes! Duarte, his one wish was to see those cities Christian. For that he longed to die. Iknow, he meant that you should hold fast by Ceuta. And we were bound to that service. Had he died by a Moslem sword, we must have given thanks for a blessed end. My life—hislife must not be weighed in the balance with Christian souls. Remember our knighthood. We shame him, if for his sake we tear down the Cross our father raised, and see the Crescent glittering again on the cathedral of Ceuta. We dare not put our brethren before our God.”Enrique’s faltering voice strengthened, and the colour came back into his face as he spoke. The terrible anguish of this avowal had been faced and met; the bitter cross which he had helped to fashion taken on his shoulders. It had cost many a long hour of prayer and fasting before he had brought himself to the point of declaring the view that his inmost conscience had all along suggested, and even now he implored Duarte to spare him from the necessity of speaking of it in the council. He could not change his mind; but if the States-General, if Duarte thought otherwise—“This was for me only,” said Duarte. “No one shall question you. Alas! your silence might have told me your conviction. I seem to hear him speak through your lips.”Pedro was less considerate than Duarte. He was indeed too generous to utter a word of reproach to Enrique for his former disregard of his opinion, and when, coming in to seek Duarte, he saw his changed looks, he greeted him with the utmost kindness; but the substance of the conversation could not be concealed from him, and he said, sarcastically—“Well, your conscience may be at ease. There are many in the council beside you and the Archbishop of Braga, who think our poor Fernando’s life worth less than a valuable fortress. He is sickly, they say, and of no use to the state, let him pine in exile, we will keep Ceuta safe while we have it.”“Hush, my brother,” said Duarte with his gentle authority. “Well you know that taunt is out of place.”“I meant no taunt,” said Pedro; “but it was one thing for Fernando to dream of crusading lying here on his couch, or even to lead an army to the attack, and quite another for him to suffer all the contumely which Moorish cruelty and spite can suggest, if we do not hold to our side of the bargain.”“You speak as if we would leave him in their hands without an effort,” said Duarte. “But, come, the Queen waits for supper for us. My Enrique, you will be a welcome guest.”Enrique would fain have been spared the supper, though of course no one but his brothers had a right to question him on his views; but he knew that it was best that he and the King should be seen together, and came to the table, though he looked so white and sad that the Queen rallied him on his unsocial air.Leonor disliked depression and dull times, and did not see why the cession of Ceuta should be made a burning question. Dom Pedro, on the other hand, disliked the Queen’s frivolity, so he turned to Enrique and engaged him in a discussion of the latest calculations, by which his study of the stars was being reduced to a science useful to mariners; and that congenial topic brought a little brightness to Enrique’s mournful face, for he and Pedro differed on some nice point, and in discussing it forgot for a brief moment the dreadful difference that really lay between them. But the responsibility that rested on his shoulders never passed from the King’s mind. Others thought, argued, believed, but in the long run he must act.
“To do a great right, do a little wrong.”
“To do a great right, do a little wrong.”
The ill-fated expedition had not long set sail before the king discovered its insufficient numbers, and in all haste he ordered Dom Joao to equip himself and follow his brothers to Ceuta. Joao, to do him justice, was perfectly ready to do so, and in a very short time set sail with a fair number of troops, hoping to join them before they could leave Ceuta, and, had they waited for a reinforcement, all might have been well.
He had not calculated on their over-haste. The vessel bearing the fatal news crossed him on the way; and when he arrived at Ceuta he was greeted with the story of the defeat of the army, of the detention of Fernando, and of the serious illness of Enrique, who, completely overcome by mortification and anguish of heart, had fainted on reaching his ship, and had been carried on shore at Ceuta, unable to exert himself further. All was in confusion; but Dom Joao wasted no time in reproaches or regrets; but after giving a few necessary orders, and encouraging the troops to look for better times, he went at once to his brother’s lodging.
Enrique was recovering a little from the violence of the fever that had seized on him, and was dressed and lying on a couch; but when he saw his brother he rose up, weak as he was, and threw himself on his knees before him, covering his face.
“Alas, my brother! how can I look on you?” he cried. “I have been the worst enemy of my country and of the Church and of my most dear brothers!”
“It has all gone very ill,” said Joao. “We must seek for a remedy. Rise up, my brother; you shame me. This from you to me!”
“Ah, could I but find a harder penance!” sighed Enrique; but he allowed Joao to help him back to his couch, and began to tell him how it had all chanced, and to ask what had brought him there in such good time.
“Duarte has troubled much about Fernando,” said Joao; “how was it with him when you left him?”
But the attempt to speak of Fernando threw Enrique into such an agony of weeping that Joao was obliged to cease questioning him, beginning to perceive how terrible must have been the experience that had thus prostrated one of such resolute will and power of endurance.
“Courage!” he said; “a better day must dawn. Fernando will soon be restored to us; and though we yield Ceuta nominally, it shall go hard but we will soon win it back again. For that object a war will cause no difference of opinion.”
Enrique made no answer. He lay silent for some moments, then turned and looked up at his brother. “We were eating our horses before we yielded, and there was no water, and no hope. That must soon have killed him and all the poor fellows whom we have led to ruin.”
“You would have been fools to hold out,” said Joao, bluntly. “But what is to be done now? Here am I, with six thousand at my back—”
“Here? Fresh troops?” cried Enrique, starting into animation. “Then what is to hinder one more effort? Let us go back to Tangier, and win it, or die!”
“But the treaty?” said Joao.
“The treaty! That does but hold Fernando fast. We gave no pledge not to continue the war on another footing. And they harassed our rear enough as we retreated to show how far they care to keep their word. I am another man, now you give me hope.”
Joao was not altogether averse to the proposal, and Enrique, with reviving spirits, recovered his natural ascendency; and arrangements were made for Joao to return home with the sick and wounded, while Enrique, with the fresh troops, marched again on Tangier. No second brother, he said, should be thus risked. His first care, however, was to put Ceuta into a complete state of defence; and while he was thus engaged came first the news that the fleet which he had sent home immediately after the retreat from Tangier had met with a violent storm and been wrecked on the coast of Andalusia, where the Castilians had showed great kindness to the distressed sailors. Next arrived a peremptory despatch from the king, ordering both his brothers to return at once, and to make no further effort to continue the war for the present. Enrique was bitterly disappointed, though he felt that he could not wonder at the king’s doubt of his judgment.
“I cannot look him in the face,” he said; “I cannot see his grief. Go you to Lisbon, and I will hide myself in Sagres, and pray for pardon.”
The king convoked the States-General of Portugal, and a great council was held to decide on the next step. The Pope was again written to for his opinion, and the discussion began with all the ardour and heat attending a question where good men see, strongly, different sides of the right. For Duarte himself it was a time of agonising doubt. His peculiar tenderness for Fernando made the thought of his loneliness and suffering, of his possible hardships and of the loss of his daily presence, haunt him by night and day. Every feeling of his heart urged him to give up the city and win this beloved brother back. But then, he looked on himself but as the steward who must give an account of his kingdom. Ceuta, Portugal itself, were not his to yield. What right had he to give back one acre of Christian land to the realm of darkness—to let the consecrated soil be profaned once more by the accursed faith of Mahomet? What life, what love, was too precious to be sacrificed to save the souls of the Christians of Ceuta? This was one side of the question; and perhaps it is hardly possible in these days to realise how powerful this obligation seemed to such a prince as Duarte. On the other hand, it was urged that it was a foul shame to grudge any fortress, however valuable, for the life of a prince of Portugal, who had voluntarily offered himself, trusting in the honour of his country, and also that, after all, they had given their word to cede Ceuta, and were bound to redeem it, even to an infidel power. These were the nobler views on either side. Of course the party who contended for the retention of Ceuta contained many who cared nothing for the religious question, but who declared openly that the great sea-port was worth far more to the state than the precarious life of a prince who had never been able to make himself prominent or useful, while many of those who wished to yield it cared little for Fernando, and less for the pledge, but were only anxious to avoid the expense of a war.
But between the right on either side Duarte’s scrupulous conscience wavered with agonising uncertainty; though with his deep love for his brother, and his instinctive preference for the simpler, more immediate duty, he inclined somewhat to the view of yielding the city. Pedro and Joao spoke in the council with no uncertain sound. A treaty should be kept, they said, and their dear brother’s life saved at all costs. No sacrifice could be too great to make. Then let them go to war with every resource at their command, and win Ceuta back, and Tangier, too. Their words had great weight; but the Archbishop of Braga, a powerful ecclesiastic, spoke on the other side, all the other bishops agreeing with him, declaring that one man’s life must not be considered in comparison with a whole city.
The Pope’s letter came in support of this view. The war had been undertaken in defiance of his wishes, and had led to an unhappy result. Certainly, Christian land must not be given up to an infidel power; but he offered the much-desired full of Crusade, and recommended Duarte to go to war to deliver his brother. All this time Enrique had remained at Sagres and made no sign, only trusting that the matter might be settled without his intervention. But now, Duarte wrote, summoning him to Lisbon, assuring him of his forgiveness and affection, and desiring to hear his view of the question.
The time had gone by for the wild anguish with which Enrique had met Joao; but when he came into Duarte’s presence, and kissed his hand, ten years might have passed over the heads of them both since they parted. Duarte’s gentle cheerfulness had faded, and all the fire had gone out of Enrique’s great grey eyes, and his manner was subdued and spiritless.
Duarte made him sit beside him, and for a long time they were silent, holding each other by the hand. Then Enrique said—
“My brother, you can forgive?”
“We suffer together,” said Duarte. “Enrique, you know what our brothers say in this matter, and the contrary opinion of the Pope. How does your conscience speak?”
Enrique’s strong frame shook, as he answered—
“Were I the hostage, I could not so buy my freedom. Would that I were!”
Then Duarte took a letter from his bosom and put it into Enrique’s hand. It contained a few lines from Fernando, speaking of his good health and kindly treatment, and begging for Duarte’s forgiveness for the rashness that had risked so much. He sent messages of love to all his brothers, especially to Enrique, “who granted me my heart’s wish at the cost of his own judgment.” There was no single word as to his own return, or as to the cession of Ceuta, and Duarte said—
“This most precious letter was doubtless read by his jailor before he was permitted to send it, so that he could not freely speak his mind, to us.”
Enrique kissed the letter, he seemed unable to speak, and Duarte said—
“I sent for you, since you and he were ever as one, so that your mind on this matter will be his.”
“So he said.”
“Yes, you wrote me his words,” said Duarte.
There was long silence, and at last the King spoke again.
“Grieve not so terribly, my brother, speak as your conscience urges. Alike we love him.”
“Alas, yes! Duarte, his one wish was to see those cities Christian. For that he longed to die. Iknow, he meant that you should hold fast by Ceuta. And we were bound to that service. Had he died by a Moslem sword, we must have given thanks for a blessed end. My life—hislife must not be weighed in the balance with Christian souls. Remember our knighthood. We shame him, if for his sake we tear down the Cross our father raised, and see the Crescent glittering again on the cathedral of Ceuta. We dare not put our brethren before our God.”
Enrique’s faltering voice strengthened, and the colour came back into his face as he spoke. The terrible anguish of this avowal had been faced and met; the bitter cross which he had helped to fashion taken on his shoulders. It had cost many a long hour of prayer and fasting before he had brought himself to the point of declaring the view that his inmost conscience had all along suggested, and even now he implored Duarte to spare him from the necessity of speaking of it in the council. He could not change his mind; but if the States-General, if Duarte thought otherwise—
“This was for me only,” said Duarte. “No one shall question you. Alas! your silence might have told me your conviction. I seem to hear him speak through your lips.”
Pedro was less considerate than Duarte. He was indeed too generous to utter a word of reproach to Enrique for his former disregard of his opinion, and when, coming in to seek Duarte, he saw his changed looks, he greeted him with the utmost kindness; but the substance of the conversation could not be concealed from him, and he said, sarcastically—
“Well, your conscience may be at ease. There are many in the council beside you and the Archbishop of Braga, who think our poor Fernando’s life worth less than a valuable fortress. He is sickly, they say, and of no use to the state, let him pine in exile, we will keep Ceuta safe while we have it.”
“Hush, my brother,” said Duarte with his gentle authority. “Well you know that taunt is out of place.”
“I meant no taunt,” said Pedro; “but it was one thing for Fernando to dream of crusading lying here on his couch, or even to lead an army to the attack, and quite another for him to suffer all the contumely which Moorish cruelty and spite can suggest, if we do not hold to our side of the bargain.”
“You speak as if we would leave him in their hands without an effort,” said Duarte. “But, come, the Queen waits for supper for us. My Enrique, you will be a welcome guest.”
Enrique would fain have been spared the supper, though of course no one but his brothers had a right to question him on his views; but he knew that it was best that he and the King should be seen together, and came to the table, though he looked so white and sad that the Queen rallied him on his unsocial air.
Leonor disliked depression and dull times, and did not see why the cession of Ceuta should be made a burning question. Dom Pedro, on the other hand, disliked the Queen’s frivolity, so he turned to Enrique and engaged him in a discussion of the latest calculations, by which his study of the stars was being reduced to a science useful to mariners; and that congenial topic brought a little brightness to Enrique’s mournful face, for he and Pedro differed on some nice point, and in discussing it forgot for a brief moment the dreadful difference that really lay between them. But the responsibility that rested on his shoulders never passed from the King’s mind. Others thought, argued, believed, but in the long run he must act.
Chapter Sixteen.Old Friends.“But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her frank voice, showed her of English race.”In the midst of all this turmoil and excitement Eleanor Northberry came back to Portugal. Suitable escorts were so rare that, one having offered itself, she was sent back without previous notice, and arrived just as her father had recovered from the wound received before Tangier, and while the question of the cession of Ceuta was still before the States-General.She had grown into a most beautiful maiden, tall and straight, light of foot, and slender of limb, with a clear voice that spoke her mind without fear or favour; blue eyes, clear and bright as the morning; and a skin fair and rosy, such as had not been seen in Lisbon since the young days of Philippa of Lancaster. The arrival of the English beauty was like a ray of sunlight in the gloom of that time of suspense and sorrow; and to Harry Hartsed it dispersed the clouds altogether; for she greeted him heartily as fellow-countryman and friend. He lived, too, with Sir Walter Northberry since the break-up of Dom Fernando’s household, so that they had many opportunities of intercourse, and Harry was envied, especially by Alvarez, who fell a victim to this new and lovely creature the first time that he beheld her.Young hearts will be gay, and young lips will laugh, happily for the world, even in sad times; and Harry and Nella, a few days after her return were enjoying a lively chat over their old recollections of pleasant Northberry.“This central court, with its fountain, and those tall orange-trees, and the couch on which my father sits, is almost the only thing I can remember well. We stood there under the trees, I and Catalina, and the prince sat here, by my father, and gave us the little crosses, on the day we sailed.”“Alas!” said Harry; “when shall we see our beloved prince again?”Nella did not know much of the matter in dispute, and decidedly inclined to the view of rescuing the good prince at all cost. She looked solemn for a moment, and then said,—“Ah! there is no witch here to tell us what he is doing.”“Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?” said Harry, slyly.“No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin’s hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so.”“I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister,” said Harry in an insinuating tone.“Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl.”“There is no speech like English,” said Harry; “I love it best.”“Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner,” said Nella, saucily. “I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me.” There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella’s voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness.“See, Harry,” she continued. “To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day.”She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey.“Rise, fair Señorita,” said Harry; “our poor court is honoured by such a guest.”“Now—now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!” cried Nella. “That speech was never learned in Devon!”“Like a Portuguese, madam, I can talk; but I mean what I say like a true son of Devon.”“I cannot believe in such perfection. You were never one to belie yourself with over-diffidence.”“I leave that to my betters,” said Harry, with a bow.“Oh, saucy boy!” cried Nella, laughing, then paused suddenly, as the gates were thrown back without, and her father entered, cap in hand, escorting an exceedingly tall and stately personage, with a sad but kindly face. Behind him came Alvarez; and the whole scene brought back strongly to Nella’s mind the visit of Dom Fernando, years ago.“My lord,” said Sir Walter, “allow me to present to you my remaining daughter Eleanor.”Blushing, and with unwonted bashfulness, Nella curtsied timidly, in very different style from her mock reverence five minutes before.“Welcome home, señorita,” said Dom Enrique, with a grave smile. “You come at a sad time;” and then, as if he could hardly turn his thoughts from the matter in hand, he continued, addressing her father,—“You know, Sir Walter, that the States-General have at length resolved to offer a heavy ransom for my dear brother, and if this is refused, the Pope offers a Bull of Crusade, and we strain every nerve to free him by force of arms.”“I am aware, my lord, that Ceuta is not to be ceded,” said Sir Walter rather drily.“It has been so determined,” said Enrique, with a sigh; for well he knew that the decision had been made on no such lofty motives as actuated himself. Most men had thought Ceuta too precious to be parted with, not because it was a Christian town, but because it was a strong fortress; and Enrique had the unspeakable pain of finding himself on the same side with men who cared nothing for his brother; and whose principles he despised.“The king resolves,” he said, “on the strictest economy, to make this possible. He has changed his mode of living, and cut off his few pleasures, for our brother’s sake. He hopes that his nobility will follow his example.”“The late king, my lord, was so generous to his nobles that they owe their utmost to his blessed memory.”“Even so,” said Enrique. “But now, Sir Walter, I came here to-day to speak with you of—of the foul treason that cut off our retreat, and made my brother’s sacrifice necessary. That most accursed traitor and renegade, Brother Martin, has indeed disappeared; but it has been whispered that others—his friends and followers—knew of his intention, and that he had in some measure spread the poison of his apostasy among his followers and admirers. Think you this is so?”Harry Hartsed, who had been standing apart with Alvarez, gave an indignant start, and coming forward, said, impetuously,—“My lord, Brother Martin’s preaching was ever in favour of the war. He never uttered a word of treason in my hearing, and I saw much of him. I do not believe that he was the traitor.”“Softly, softly,” said Sir Walter. “Master Harry, you speak too freely to the duke.”“Pardon,” said Harry, doggedly; “but I will speak for my friends when falsely accused.”“The treason of Brother Martin,” said Enrique, “has been proved by eye-witnesses. No Christian gentleman should call him his friend.”“If I may speak,” said Alvarez, “Señor Hartsed was much with Brother Martin, and in his councils.”“What! You dare to say that he spoke treason to me!” cried Harry.“Young gentlemen,” said the prince in his tone of grave dignity, “you forget yourselves. Sir,”—to Harry—“you have given your opinion, and that is enough. Sir Walter, I must go, for I have much business on hand.”Dom Enrique rose as he spoke, gave to Nella—who had retired to some distance—a courteous farewell, and went out, his look of sorrowful oppression never having given way during his visit. Alvarez followed him.Sir Walter, when his guests had departed, turned back to Harry, and rebuked him sharply, both for daring to stand up for so foul a traitor as the renegade monk, and also for forgetting the respect due to the prince.Harry took the reproof sullenly. His heart too was sore at the thought of his lost master. Brother Martin’s passionate preaching had really stirred his emotions, and made him feel himself a true Crusader. He thought him unjustly accused, and was determined to defend him.Alvarez, on the other hand, was filled with wrath at the very sound of his name, and the result was that the next time they met the two young men had a violent quarrel, in which Alvarez was passionate and Harry obstinate and sulky. They were silenced and rebuked by Sir Walter, who happened to overhear them; but they parted in mutual anger and hatred.All was going wrong. The king suffered much in health from his sorrow and from the great labours which his endeavours to fill his empty exchequer cost him. Dom Enrique was unapproachable in his grief and pre-occupation; and the gentle Fernando, whose eyes and ears had ever been open to his followers’ troubles, and who had managed to heal many a quarrel, was far away.Into the midst of this sad society, where every one was full of mortification, sorrow, or anger, had come Nella Northberry, and her high spirits recoiled from it. She was sorry for the prince and angry at Brother Martin’s treason, but she was not unhappy like the rest—only dull, and a little home-sick. She soon became aware of her power both over Harry and Alvarez, and her vanity was not quite proof against the flattery of the passionate homage of the young Portuguese. Her love of mischief prompted her to provoke her old companion by as much sauciness as was consistent with the etiquette which she was compelled to observe towards him; for the queen had placed her among her ladies-in-waiting. Nella hated court life, was too young and undeveloped constantly to keep herself in sympathy with the prevailing troubles, and, in short, she diverted herself by making her two admirers jealous of each other. Nella was young, gay, and unguarded; but she soon had cause to regret her first month in Lisbon.
“But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her frank voice, showed her of English race.”
“But the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her frank voice, showed her of English race.”
In the midst of all this turmoil and excitement Eleanor Northberry came back to Portugal. Suitable escorts were so rare that, one having offered itself, she was sent back without previous notice, and arrived just as her father had recovered from the wound received before Tangier, and while the question of the cession of Ceuta was still before the States-General.
She had grown into a most beautiful maiden, tall and straight, light of foot, and slender of limb, with a clear voice that spoke her mind without fear or favour; blue eyes, clear and bright as the morning; and a skin fair and rosy, such as had not been seen in Lisbon since the young days of Philippa of Lancaster. The arrival of the English beauty was like a ray of sunlight in the gloom of that time of suspense and sorrow; and to Harry Hartsed it dispersed the clouds altogether; for she greeted him heartily as fellow-countryman and friend. He lived, too, with Sir Walter Northberry since the break-up of Dom Fernando’s household, so that they had many opportunities of intercourse, and Harry was envied, especially by Alvarez, who fell a victim to this new and lovely creature the first time that he beheld her.
Young hearts will be gay, and young lips will laugh, happily for the world, even in sad times; and Harry and Nella, a few days after her return were enjoying a lively chat over their old recollections of pleasant Northberry.
“This central court, with its fountain, and those tall orange-trees, and the couch on which my father sits, is almost the only thing I can remember well. We stood there under the trees, I and Catalina, and the prince sat here, by my father, and gave us the little crosses, on the day we sailed.”
“Alas!” said Harry; “when shall we see our beloved prince again?”
Nella did not know much of the matter in dispute, and decidedly inclined to the view of rescuing the good prince at all cost. She looked solemn for a moment, and then said,—
“Ah! there is no witch here to tell us what he is doing.”
“Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?” said Harry, slyly.
“No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin’s hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so.”
“I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister,” said Harry in an insinuating tone.
“Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl.”
“There is no speech like English,” said Harry; “I love it best.”
“Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner,” said Nella, saucily. “I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me.” There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella’s voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness.
“See, Harry,” she continued. “To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day.”
She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey.
“Rise, fair Señorita,” said Harry; “our poor court is honoured by such a guest.”
“Now—now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!” cried Nella. “That speech was never learned in Devon!”
“Like a Portuguese, madam, I can talk; but I mean what I say like a true son of Devon.”
“I cannot believe in such perfection. You were never one to belie yourself with over-diffidence.”
“I leave that to my betters,” said Harry, with a bow.
“Oh, saucy boy!” cried Nella, laughing, then paused suddenly, as the gates were thrown back without, and her father entered, cap in hand, escorting an exceedingly tall and stately personage, with a sad but kindly face. Behind him came Alvarez; and the whole scene brought back strongly to Nella’s mind the visit of Dom Fernando, years ago.
“My lord,” said Sir Walter, “allow me to present to you my remaining daughter Eleanor.”
Blushing, and with unwonted bashfulness, Nella curtsied timidly, in very different style from her mock reverence five minutes before.
“Welcome home, señorita,” said Dom Enrique, with a grave smile. “You come at a sad time;” and then, as if he could hardly turn his thoughts from the matter in hand, he continued, addressing her father,—
“You know, Sir Walter, that the States-General have at length resolved to offer a heavy ransom for my dear brother, and if this is refused, the Pope offers a Bull of Crusade, and we strain every nerve to free him by force of arms.”
“I am aware, my lord, that Ceuta is not to be ceded,” said Sir Walter rather drily.
“It has been so determined,” said Enrique, with a sigh; for well he knew that the decision had been made on no such lofty motives as actuated himself. Most men had thought Ceuta too precious to be parted with, not because it was a Christian town, but because it was a strong fortress; and Enrique had the unspeakable pain of finding himself on the same side with men who cared nothing for his brother; and whose principles he despised.
“The king resolves,” he said, “on the strictest economy, to make this possible. He has changed his mode of living, and cut off his few pleasures, for our brother’s sake. He hopes that his nobility will follow his example.”
“The late king, my lord, was so generous to his nobles that they owe their utmost to his blessed memory.”
“Even so,” said Enrique. “But now, Sir Walter, I came here to-day to speak with you of—of the foul treason that cut off our retreat, and made my brother’s sacrifice necessary. That most accursed traitor and renegade, Brother Martin, has indeed disappeared; but it has been whispered that others—his friends and followers—knew of his intention, and that he had in some measure spread the poison of his apostasy among his followers and admirers. Think you this is so?”
Harry Hartsed, who had been standing apart with Alvarez, gave an indignant start, and coming forward, said, impetuously,—
“My lord, Brother Martin’s preaching was ever in favour of the war. He never uttered a word of treason in my hearing, and I saw much of him. I do not believe that he was the traitor.”
“Softly, softly,” said Sir Walter. “Master Harry, you speak too freely to the duke.”
“Pardon,” said Harry, doggedly; “but I will speak for my friends when falsely accused.”
“The treason of Brother Martin,” said Enrique, “has been proved by eye-witnesses. No Christian gentleman should call him his friend.”
“If I may speak,” said Alvarez, “Señor Hartsed was much with Brother Martin, and in his councils.”
“What! You dare to say that he spoke treason to me!” cried Harry.
“Young gentlemen,” said the prince in his tone of grave dignity, “you forget yourselves. Sir,”—to Harry—“you have given your opinion, and that is enough. Sir Walter, I must go, for I have much business on hand.”
Dom Enrique rose as he spoke, gave to Nella—who had retired to some distance—a courteous farewell, and went out, his look of sorrowful oppression never having given way during his visit. Alvarez followed him.
Sir Walter, when his guests had departed, turned back to Harry, and rebuked him sharply, both for daring to stand up for so foul a traitor as the renegade monk, and also for forgetting the respect due to the prince.
Harry took the reproof sullenly. His heart too was sore at the thought of his lost master. Brother Martin’s passionate preaching had really stirred his emotions, and made him feel himself a true Crusader. He thought him unjustly accused, and was determined to defend him.
Alvarez, on the other hand, was filled with wrath at the very sound of his name, and the result was that the next time they met the two young men had a violent quarrel, in which Alvarez was passionate and Harry obstinate and sulky. They were silenced and rebuked by Sir Walter, who happened to overhear them; but they parted in mutual anger and hatred.
All was going wrong. The king suffered much in health from his sorrow and from the great labours which his endeavours to fill his empty exchequer cost him. Dom Enrique was unapproachable in his grief and pre-occupation; and the gentle Fernando, whose eyes and ears had ever been open to his followers’ troubles, and who had managed to heal many a quarrel, was far away.
Into the midst of this sad society, where every one was full of mortification, sorrow, or anger, had come Nella Northberry, and her high spirits recoiled from it. She was sorry for the prince and angry at Brother Martin’s treason, but she was not unhappy like the rest—only dull, and a little home-sick. She soon became aware of her power both over Harry and Alvarez, and her vanity was not quite proof against the flattery of the passionate homage of the young Portuguese. Her love of mischief prompted her to provoke her old companion by as much sauciness as was consistent with the etiquette which she was compelled to observe towards him; for the queen had placed her among her ladies-in-waiting. Nella hated court life, was too young and undeveloped constantly to keep herself in sympathy with the prevailing troubles, and, in short, she diverted herself by making her two admirers jealous of each other. Nella was young, gay, and unguarded; but she soon had cause to regret her first month in Lisbon.
Chapter Seventeen.Misjudged.“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics.Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin’s treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying whichnowappeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen’s movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety.“Well sir,” she said, in English, “these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours.”“Speak now, then, fair mistress,” said Harry, smiling; “and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?”“No,” said Nella, pouting. “Why, have you grown into a courtier too?”“And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?”“Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry,” said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, “sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough.”“I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune,” said Harry; “nor do I wish to go—now,” he added, meaningly.Nella blushed a little and cast down her eyes, and as she raised them they met those of Alvarez, fixed on her with an expression of such passionate jealousy that her heart gave a frightened throb. How she wished that she had never teased Harry by encouraging his rival—for as such she began to recognise Alvarez; and though she scarcely realised that Harry wished her to be more to him than his old playmate, he had always been jealous of interference, and the feelings of Alvarez were unmistakable. The latter, too, was by far the best match, and Nella had a frightened conviction that her father would favour this suit whenever it was formally offered. She was glad when the queen signed to her to attend her, so that further speech was impossible.While this little scene was passing a dance had been going forward—one of those stately and ceremonious exercises which were limited to a few couples at a time, whose graceful movements afforded a spectacle for the rest of the company.Dom Pedro had led out Queen Leonor; and the king excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, sat down a little apart, watching the dancers with sad, unseeing eyes. Presently Enrique came up and joined him.“I have a petition to present to you, my brother,” he said.“What is it, then?” asked Duarte; “what is it you wish?”“Will you give me leave to go with the envoys who offer the Moors this ransom? Who could plead as I? And at least I should see my Fernando once more.”“I cannot refuse you,” said Duarte; “but, Enrique, my mind misgives me. I would not be too long without your counsel.”“Mycounsel!” said Enrique, bitterly; “take any counsel rather than mine.”Duarte smiled.“Your presence, then,” he said. “But I think it is well that you should go, though I have little hope, Enrique, in my heart—”“Dare to utter such a threat, and you shall answer for it with your life!”These words, in tones of high indignation, suddenly interrupted the brothers’ colloquy.“How now? Young gentlemen, remember where you are?” said Enrique, advancing, and confronting with his stately presence Hartsed and Alvarez, who, with flashing eyes, and hands on their sword-hilts, had been so carried away by their dispute as to forget entirely the royal presence.Alvarez collected himself at once, bowed, and drew back; but Harry cried out, fiercely, “My lord, I care not where I am! Dom Alvarez has insulted me foully, and I defy him to repeat his base slander!”“The cause of your dispute, sir,” said the prince, “can be of no moment to me, unless it were confided to me in a more suitable manner. Such violence argues ill for your cause, be it what it may.”The prince was himself very sore-hearted, and Harry had committed a great breach of propriety; but he felt himself deeply injured, and flung away without a word. Alvarez followed him into the court outside, and then the two young men turned and faced each other, and Alvarez spoke.“I believe you to have been cognisant of the treason of your friend, the miscreant priest, Martin.”“Speak at your peril,” shouted Harry, “or I will go back and before all the princes give you the lie!”“As you will, señor. I will not yield the Lady Eleanor to a traitor, nor see my prince’s confidence abused by a foreigner.”“Foreigner!” cried Harry. “No one but a rascallyforeignerwould utter such an insult. Draw, and defend yourself!”Alvarez was not slow to answer this demand, but the clash of arms in the palace precincts soon collected an indignant crowd, and among them Sir Walter Northberry.“Now, Master Hartsed,” he cried, wrathfully, “brawling in the palace court. What means all this? Put up your swords this moment, gentlemen—for shame?”“Master Hartsed challenged me and gave me the lie,” said Alvarez.“Dom Alvarez insulted me and called me traitor,” cried Harry.“This is not the first time that I have heard this wrangling,” said Sir Walter. “Señor Dom Alvarez, it would be well if you would explain your charge against a member of my household. And you, Harry, be silent until I question you.”Trembling with indignation, Harry put a great force upon himself and remained silent; while Alvarez bowed, and looking at Sir Walter with his dark, flashing eyes, said—“Sir, I had not meant in any way to make public my suspicions, but Master Hartsed’s violence towards me, in especial after the honour which you this morning have done me, obliges me to speak.”Sir Walter bowed, and Alvarez continued—“Perceiving some slight tokens of favour which the lady whom I am unworthy to name had the grace to bestow on me, Master Hartsed lost patience and demanded how I dared to address Mistress Northberry.”“That is false?” cried Harry, “you lie in your teeth!”“Master Harry, will you be silent at my desire?” said Northberry, sternly, “and hear Dom Alvarez to the end!”“I,” said Dom Alvarez, “was fain to tell him, that I marvelled how the friend and defender of the traitor Martin, whose name was on all men’s lips, should dare to raise his eyes to an honourable lady. Upon which he threatened, and finally drew upon me.”“And on what grounds, Señor Dom Alvarez, do you accuse Master Hartsed of cognisance of this foul treason?”“Master Hartsed,” said Alvarez, “was ever in the company of the traitor, he has denied the possibility of his treason, and still calls him hisfriend. He must choose, I think, between this friend and loyal gentlemen.”“Into my house he comes not if he takes the traitor’s name on his lips,” said Northberry. “Now, Master Harry, what have you to say?”“Nothing, before those who call me traitor,” said Harry, with some dignity; then his anger getting the better of him he exclaimed—“Dom Alvarez knows best whether it was not he who threatened to interruptmysuit with his foul slander.”“Your suit, ha, ha!” said Sir Walter, roughly, “’tis the first I have heard of it. Now, to put an end to this folly, I will tell you, sir, that I have betrothed my daughter to Señor Dom Alvarez de Pereira. Nor do you make a fit return for my hospitality by raising your eyes to her. And this matter of your intimacy with the traitor priest must be looked to. Not that I hold you guilty of his treason, but it misbecomes you even to name his name.”Those present noticed, that instead of violent self-defence Harry Hartsed received this speech in silence, only turning very pale as he bowed stiffly to Sir Walter and walked away by himself.
“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”
“But whispering tongues may poison truth.”
Spite of sadness of heart and severe retrenchments, a certain number of court ceremonials were inevitable, particularly when the convocation of the States-General had filled Lisbon with the Portuguese nobility and great ecclesiastics.
Nella did not love pomp and state; she had been accustomed to a life of great freedom and simplicity, and, spite of some girlish pleasure in the handsome dresses provided for her by her father, she found it unspeakably wearisome to stand behind Queen Leonor for hours while she held receptions. One of these took place as soon as the offer of a ransom for Dom Fernando had been decided on, and the whole company were full of the subject, discussing the wrongs and rights of it at every moment when speech was possible. But besides the main question, there was a strong undercurrent of suspicion and indignation against the supposed sharers of Brother Martin’s treason. A great many people who had followed the apostate priest and had admired his preaching were loud in abuse of him, and repeated more than one saying whichnowappeared to them suspicious. Harry Hartsed, from a mixture of obstinacy and dislike to join in an outcry on an absent man who could not defend himself, declared that there was no proof against Brother Martin, and that he had always heard him express the most loyal sentiments. He was fresh from rather a sharp discussion on these points when the queen’s movements made it possible to approach Nella, who looked very handsome, her fair skin set off by her green and silver dress, and her golden head towering above the other ladies. She smiled when she saw Harry, as if his presence was a pleasing variety.
“Well sir,” she said, in English, “these court receptions may be mighty fine for you, who have your tongue free to talk, but I find it dull enough to stand speechless for hours.”
“Speak now, then, fair mistress,” said Harry, smiling; “and let me catch your words as they fall. Or would you prefer to listen while I tell you that I have but lived through the hours till I could reach your side?”
“No,” said Nella, pouting. “Why, have you grown into a courtier too?”
“And do you really wish yourself back again at Northberry?”
“Ay, that I do! Indeed, Harry,” said Nella, with a sudden change to earnestness that reminded him of her childish days, “sometimes I think that I do not love my good father nearly enough; for I cannot help wishing to go back again to Devon, though since Adela and Walter Coplestone have married and left the old manor it has been solitary enough.”
“I shall not be able to go back to Devon till I have seen war enough make my fortune,” said Harry; “nor do I wish to go—now,” he added, meaningly.
Nella blushed a little and cast down her eyes, and as she raised them they met those of Alvarez, fixed on her with an expression of such passionate jealousy that her heart gave a frightened throb. How she wished that she had never teased Harry by encouraging his rival—for as such she began to recognise Alvarez; and though she scarcely realised that Harry wished her to be more to him than his old playmate, he had always been jealous of interference, and the feelings of Alvarez were unmistakable. The latter, too, was by far the best match, and Nella had a frightened conviction that her father would favour this suit whenever it was formally offered. She was glad when the queen signed to her to attend her, so that further speech was impossible.
While this little scene was passing a dance had been going forward—one of those stately and ceremonious exercises which were limited to a few couples at a time, whose graceful movements afforded a spectacle for the rest of the company.
Dom Pedro had led out Queen Leonor; and the king excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, sat down a little apart, watching the dancers with sad, unseeing eyes. Presently Enrique came up and joined him.
“I have a petition to present to you, my brother,” he said.
“What is it, then?” asked Duarte; “what is it you wish?”
“Will you give me leave to go with the envoys who offer the Moors this ransom? Who could plead as I? And at least I should see my Fernando once more.”
“I cannot refuse you,” said Duarte; “but, Enrique, my mind misgives me. I would not be too long without your counsel.”
“Mycounsel!” said Enrique, bitterly; “take any counsel rather than mine.”
Duarte smiled.
“Your presence, then,” he said. “But I think it is well that you should go, though I have little hope, Enrique, in my heart—”
“Dare to utter such a threat, and you shall answer for it with your life!”
These words, in tones of high indignation, suddenly interrupted the brothers’ colloquy.
“How now? Young gentlemen, remember where you are?” said Enrique, advancing, and confronting with his stately presence Hartsed and Alvarez, who, with flashing eyes, and hands on their sword-hilts, had been so carried away by their dispute as to forget entirely the royal presence.
Alvarez collected himself at once, bowed, and drew back; but Harry cried out, fiercely, “My lord, I care not where I am! Dom Alvarez has insulted me foully, and I defy him to repeat his base slander!”
“The cause of your dispute, sir,” said the prince, “can be of no moment to me, unless it were confided to me in a more suitable manner. Such violence argues ill for your cause, be it what it may.”
The prince was himself very sore-hearted, and Harry had committed a great breach of propriety; but he felt himself deeply injured, and flung away without a word. Alvarez followed him into the court outside, and then the two young men turned and faced each other, and Alvarez spoke.
“I believe you to have been cognisant of the treason of your friend, the miscreant priest, Martin.”
“Speak at your peril,” shouted Harry, “or I will go back and before all the princes give you the lie!”
“As you will, señor. I will not yield the Lady Eleanor to a traitor, nor see my prince’s confidence abused by a foreigner.”
“Foreigner!” cried Harry. “No one but a rascallyforeignerwould utter such an insult. Draw, and defend yourself!”
Alvarez was not slow to answer this demand, but the clash of arms in the palace precincts soon collected an indignant crowd, and among them Sir Walter Northberry.
“Now, Master Hartsed,” he cried, wrathfully, “brawling in the palace court. What means all this? Put up your swords this moment, gentlemen—for shame?”
“Master Hartsed challenged me and gave me the lie,” said Alvarez.
“Dom Alvarez insulted me and called me traitor,” cried Harry.
“This is not the first time that I have heard this wrangling,” said Sir Walter. “Señor Dom Alvarez, it would be well if you would explain your charge against a member of my household. And you, Harry, be silent until I question you.”
Trembling with indignation, Harry put a great force upon himself and remained silent; while Alvarez bowed, and looking at Sir Walter with his dark, flashing eyes, said—
“Sir, I had not meant in any way to make public my suspicions, but Master Hartsed’s violence towards me, in especial after the honour which you this morning have done me, obliges me to speak.”
Sir Walter bowed, and Alvarez continued—“Perceiving some slight tokens of favour which the lady whom I am unworthy to name had the grace to bestow on me, Master Hartsed lost patience and demanded how I dared to address Mistress Northberry.”
“That is false?” cried Harry, “you lie in your teeth!”
“Master Harry, will you be silent at my desire?” said Northberry, sternly, “and hear Dom Alvarez to the end!”
“I,” said Dom Alvarez, “was fain to tell him, that I marvelled how the friend and defender of the traitor Martin, whose name was on all men’s lips, should dare to raise his eyes to an honourable lady. Upon which he threatened, and finally drew upon me.”
“And on what grounds, Señor Dom Alvarez, do you accuse Master Hartsed of cognisance of this foul treason?”
“Master Hartsed,” said Alvarez, “was ever in the company of the traitor, he has denied the possibility of his treason, and still calls him hisfriend. He must choose, I think, between this friend and loyal gentlemen.”
“Into my house he comes not if he takes the traitor’s name on his lips,” said Northberry. “Now, Master Harry, what have you to say?”
“Nothing, before those who call me traitor,” said Harry, with some dignity; then his anger getting the better of him he exclaimed—“Dom Alvarez knows best whether it was not he who threatened to interruptmysuit with his foul slander.”
“Your suit, ha, ha!” said Sir Walter, roughly, “’tis the first I have heard of it. Now, to put an end to this folly, I will tell you, sir, that I have betrothed my daughter to Señor Dom Alvarez de Pereira. Nor do you make a fit return for my hospitality by raising your eyes to her. And this matter of your intimacy with the traitor priest must be looked to. Not that I hold you guilty of his treason, but it misbecomes you even to name his name.”
Those present noticed, that instead of violent self-defence Harry Hartsed received this speech in silence, only turning very pale as he bowed stiffly to Sir Walter and walked away by himself.
Chapter Eighteen.At Abzella.“My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run.”Many miles inland, out of sight of the blue sea, on the other side of which was home and freedom, the Portuguese captains waited at Arzella for the news of their deliverance. They had been hurried away from Tangier almost immediately after the Portuguese had embarked, and though no positive cruelties were inflicted on them, the Moorish promises of courteous treatment did not prevent their escort from making their journey as wretched as they could. Intentional forgetfulness of needful comforts, rude jests, over-haste, and much ill-temper, tried the hot spirits of the Portuguese nobles sorely, and they were less wretched now that they remained under the charge of Zala-ben-Zala, and were allowed a certain amount of freedom and solitude, during which they could solace themselves with speculations as to the turn events were taking in Portugal, and how soon Ceuta would be handed over to the Moors. The prince never joined in these discussions, and when they were urged upon him would reply gravely—“As God wills;” though he sometimes endeavoured to pass the time by tales of the old Crusaders, of the sufferings they endured, and of the support which was granted to them. And once, when some of the younger nobles repeated to him the insulting language used towards them by their jailers, he pointed to a gang of slaves who were toiling over some of the fortifications of Arzella.“So suffer our fellow-Christians,” he said.“They are not peers of Portugal,” said the young man, sullenly.“Stripes wound and blows hurt, be they who they may,” said Fernando. “We can but endure; but oh, my friends,” he added with tears in his eyes, “would that I were alone to suffer!”“Alas, sir!” cried the young man, yielding, “it is your indignities that cut us the most.”It was after some weeks of dreary waiting that the prisoners became aware that envoys had arrived from Portugal and had been brought under a safe-conduct to Arzella, where Zala-ben-Zala was to discuss with them the terms of their deliverance, and one day the prince was summoned alone to meet them.Fernando turned as he left his companions and said, in a tone of peculiar earnestness—“My friends, remember, were we free, we would all give our lives to save Ceuta to the Church of Christ.”Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor’s palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death.“You are at liberty to speak with one another,” said Zala-ben-Zala. “Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness.”“I speak the mind of the council of Portugal,” said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: “Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me,” he said.Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other’s face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom.“Come,” he said, “tell me your errand.”“They will not yield the fortress,” said Enrique. “They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none.”“As God wills,” said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique’s hand.“My most dear brother, Pedro and João would have freed you; but I—that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life—not for the Church, but for selfish power, andI—I lent my voice to theirs.”“I, too, have thought much on it,” said Fernando, steadily; “of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it.”“What, they ill-use you?”“Nay—you see I am well. And I think of those unhappy ones whose fate hangs on mine. And I thank the merciful Saviour, who lays not the choice on me, but gives me the easier way of submission, and permits my poor life to be a defence to a fortress of Christendom as in no other way it could be. The wish of my heart is given,—may I but tread, in the footsteps of those blessed ones who have endured worse sufferings in the same cause, on honour which myself little deserved?”Fernando smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Enrique felt that the confusion of good and bad motives, the doubtful self-denial, and still more doubtful justice, that led to the retention of Ceuta, were lifted by his brother’s faith and love into the instrument of a holy martyrdom.“So,” continued Fernando, “bid Duarte not to grieve, for if I suffer, it is no more than I have deserved, and to suffer, even without choice, for such an end, is too great honour.”“Duarte is sick with the care and weight of decision,” said Enrique sadly.“Ah, could I but see him?” said Fernando, suddenly faltering; then, with renewed firmness, “But it cannot be. And you, my Enrique, how changed your face is. You must turn your thoughts again to Sagres and the adventures of your mariners. That is the appointed way in which you must serve. We still work together.”“And if—if the council and the king resolve to yield Ceuta?”“Why then—God’s will be done!” said Fernando, “and we may yet clasp hands again. Meanwhile some soul is passing away with the holy rites of the Church, some babe receives Christian baptism—who else were cast into outer darkness. But see; the governor interrupts us.”“Prince Fernando,” said Zala-ben-Zala, “I trust your entreaties have induced the Duke of Viseo to endeavour to change the mind of the king.”“The King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily, “must act as he thinks well. I have made no entreaties, and shall make none.”“Know you what you say!” thundered out Zala-ben-Zala, suddenly changing his tone. “Think you that henceforth your life will be easy, as it has been! Shall the forsworn hostage be treated as a king’s son? No! Our prisoner no longer—you are our slave; and when next King Duarte sends envoys, let them see their prince of the blood—their Grand-Master—tending the horses of his Moorish masters as a slave—I say—in fetters and in rags?”“The princes of Portugal do not yield to threats,” said Fernando, calmly.“I am but a mouthpiece,” said Enrique, as steadily as he could.“Go home and tell what you have seen,” said the Moor, roughly.The coarse threats stood the two princes in good stead, for their pride nerved them to a firm and silent farewell, though Enrique’s heart was ready to break as he passed out of the hall with the officers who accompanied him, and left Fernando standing alone among his captors.A short while afterwards, as the Portuguese nobles were eagerly watching for the prince’s return, or for a summons to join him, their prison was suddenly entered by a party of Moorish soldiers.“Now, Christian dogs, our turn has come,” roughly shouted the foremost; and seizing on the Portuguese nearest to him he tore off his velvet mantle, flung it aside, and forced him down while he fastened fetters on his wrists. Resistance was vain, and with blows and curses the whole party, the old priest included, were loaded with chains, and dragged through the streets to the courtyard of the governor’s palace.There stood their beloved prince in a rough dress of common serge, fetters similar to their own on his wrists, and his chained hands on the rein of Zala-ben-Zala’s beautiful Arab horse. He stood with his head up and his lip curled, with a sort of still disdain. At that moment the Portuguese envoys, with Dom Enrique at their head, passed with their guards through the court, and Zala-ben-Zala advanced to mount his horse with a rude gesture to the prince who held it.Fernando bowed with knightly courtesy, and, advancing, held his stirrup, as if it were a graceful service rendered by a younger to an elder noble; then looked up and smiled in his brother’s face.
“My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run.”
“My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run.”
Many miles inland, out of sight of the blue sea, on the other side of which was home and freedom, the Portuguese captains waited at Arzella for the news of their deliverance. They had been hurried away from Tangier almost immediately after the Portuguese had embarked, and though no positive cruelties were inflicted on them, the Moorish promises of courteous treatment did not prevent their escort from making their journey as wretched as they could. Intentional forgetfulness of needful comforts, rude jests, over-haste, and much ill-temper, tried the hot spirits of the Portuguese nobles sorely, and they were less wretched now that they remained under the charge of Zala-ben-Zala, and were allowed a certain amount of freedom and solitude, during which they could solace themselves with speculations as to the turn events were taking in Portugal, and how soon Ceuta would be handed over to the Moors. The prince never joined in these discussions, and when they were urged upon him would reply gravely—“As God wills;” though he sometimes endeavoured to pass the time by tales of the old Crusaders, of the sufferings they endured, and of the support which was granted to them. And once, when some of the younger nobles repeated to him the insulting language used towards them by their jailers, he pointed to a gang of slaves who were toiling over some of the fortifications of Arzella.
“So suffer our fellow-Christians,” he said.
“They are not peers of Portugal,” said the young man, sullenly.
“Stripes wound and blows hurt, be they who they may,” said Fernando. “We can but endure; but oh, my friends,” he added with tears in his eyes, “would that I were alone to suffer!”
“Alas, sir!” cried the young man, yielding, “it is your indignities that cut us the most.”
It was after some weeks of dreary waiting that the prisoners became aware that envoys had arrived from Portugal and had been brought under a safe-conduct to Arzella, where Zala-ben-Zala was to discuss with them the terms of their deliverance, and one day the prince was summoned alone to meet them.
Fernando turned as he left his companions and said, in a tone of peculiar earnestness—
“My friends, remember, were we free, we would all give our lives to save Ceuta to the Church of Christ.”
Fernando was conducted from the fortress where he had been lodged across the town of Arzella to the governor’s palace, and ushered with much state and ceremony into the great hall, where stood Zala-ben-Zala, surrounded by a crowd of Moorish nobles and officers in their splendid dresses of state; opposite them a few Portuguese in full armour, and in front Dom Enrique himself, also armed, his dark surcoat giving additional dignity to his great height and stately presence, he was bareheaded, and as pale as death.
“You are at liberty to speak with one another,” said Zala-ben-Zala. “Maybe the interview may change the mind of your highness.”
“I speak the mind of the council of Portugal,” said Enrique, in a voice of deep sadness. Then he stretched out his arms: “Oh, my Fernando, the choice was not for me,” he said.
Fernando held him fast for a moment, all the surroundings forgotten; and then they sat down together on a great divan and looked into each other’s face, and Fernando knew that Enrique had not brought his freedom.
“Come,” he said, “tell me your errand.”
“They will not yield the fortress,” said Enrique. “They offer any ransom, and the Moors accept none.”
“As God wills,” said Fernando, but he tightened his grasp of Enrique’s hand.
“My most dear brother, Pedro and João would have freed you; but I—that Christian town; and now I see the council risks your life—not for the Church, but for selfish power, andI—I lent my voice to theirs.”
“I, too, have thought much on it,” said Fernando, steadily; “of the obligations of the treaty, however ill our enemies have kept the lesser provisions of it.”
“What, they ill-use you?”
“Nay—you see I am well. And I think of those unhappy ones whose fate hangs on mine. And I thank the merciful Saviour, who lays not the choice on me, but gives me the easier way of submission, and permits my poor life to be a defence to a fortress of Christendom as in no other way it could be. The wish of my heart is given,—may I but tread, in the footsteps of those blessed ones who have endured worse sufferings in the same cause, on honour which myself little deserved?”
Fernando smiled as he spoke, and for a moment Enrique felt that the confusion of good and bad motives, the doubtful self-denial, and still more doubtful justice, that led to the retention of Ceuta, were lifted by his brother’s faith and love into the instrument of a holy martyrdom.
“So,” continued Fernando, “bid Duarte not to grieve, for if I suffer, it is no more than I have deserved, and to suffer, even without choice, for such an end, is too great honour.”
“Duarte is sick with the care and weight of decision,” said Enrique sadly.
“Ah, could I but see him?” said Fernando, suddenly faltering; then, with renewed firmness, “But it cannot be. And you, my Enrique, how changed your face is. You must turn your thoughts again to Sagres and the adventures of your mariners. That is the appointed way in which you must serve. We still work together.”
“And if—if the council and the king resolve to yield Ceuta?”
“Why then—God’s will be done!” said Fernando, “and we may yet clasp hands again. Meanwhile some soul is passing away with the holy rites of the Church, some babe receives Christian baptism—who else were cast into outer darkness. But see; the governor interrupts us.”
“Prince Fernando,” said Zala-ben-Zala, “I trust your entreaties have induced the Duke of Viseo to endeavour to change the mind of the king.”
“The King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily, “must act as he thinks well. I have made no entreaties, and shall make none.”
“Know you what you say!” thundered out Zala-ben-Zala, suddenly changing his tone. “Think you that henceforth your life will be easy, as it has been! Shall the forsworn hostage be treated as a king’s son? No! Our prisoner no longer—you are our slave; and when next King Duarte sends envoys, let them see their prince of the blood—their Grand-Master—tending the horses of his Moorish masters as a slave—I say—in fetters and in rags?”
“The princes of Portugal do not yield to threats,” said Fernando, calmly.
“I am but a mouthpiece,” said Enrique, as steadily as he could.
“Go home and tell what you have seen,” said the Moor, roughly.
The coarse threats stood the two princes in good stead, for their pride nerved them to a firm and silent farewell, though Enrique’s heart was ready to break as he passed out of the hall with the officers who accompanied him, and left Fernando standing alone among his captors.
A short while afterwards, as the Portuguese nobles were eagerly watching for the prince’s return, or for a summons to join him, their prison was suddenly entered by a party of Moorish soldiers.
“Now, Christian dogs, our turn has come,” roughly shouted the foremost; and seizing on the Portuguese nearest to him he tore off his velvet mantle, flung it aside, and forced him down while he fastened fetters on his wrists. Resistance was vain, and with blows and curses the whole party, the old priest included, were loaded with chains, and dragged through the streets to the courtyard of the governor’s palace.
There stood their beloved prince in a rough dress of common serge, fetters similar to their own on his wrists, and his chained hands on the rein of Zala-ben-Zala’s beautiful Arab horse. He stood with his head up and his lip curled, with a sort of still disdain. At that moment the Portuguese envoys, with Dom Enrique at their head, passed with their guards through the court, and Zala-ben-Zala advanced to mount his horse with a rude gesture to the prince who held it.
Fernando bowed with knightly courtesy, and, advancing, held his stirrup, as if it were a graceful service rendered by a younger to an elder noble; then looked up and smiled in his brother’s face.
Chapter Nineteen.Times out of Joint.“Commingled with the gloom of imminent warThe shadow of his loss drew like eclipse,Darkening the world.”Nella Northberry was standing alone by the fountain in the hall of her father’s house. The oranges were ripe on the trees, their sweet blossom was passed, and she herself looked pale, sad, and sullen. She had scarcely known what made her heart so heavy when her father had told her that she was to regard Dom Alvarez as her betrothed suitor, receiving her girlish expressions of unwillingness with entire indifference. Spirited as Nella was, it could not occur to her to resist her father’s will, or think of disposing of herself in marriage; she knew that it was impossible, and the girls of her day had generally too little intercourse with the world before marriage to feel aggrieved at their absence of choice. Nella’s life had not passed quite in accordance with established rules hitherto, and the fetters galled her.She stood looking down into the clear waters of the fountain, her tall slim figure drooping a little with unwonted sadness, and her thoughts straying tenderly back to England—England, which she should never see again now. She thought of the grey convent, the wide woodlands now painted with russet and gold, the fresh autumnal breezes, the cheerful barking of the dogs at the old Manor house door; and her heart went out to it all with a passionate yearning that brought the hot tears to her eyes.“If Catalina were here, perhaps Dom Alvarez would have likedherbest,” she thought, “and I might have gone home again.” And with this strange reason for missing her lost sister, the tears came faster, and she pressed her hands over her eyes.“Nella?” suddenly said a voice beside her, “does your father tell me true? Are you indeed betrothed to Dom Alvarez?”Nella looked up with a start, for beside her stood Harry Hartsed, with a pale face and heavy eyes, as if he had passed a sleepless night.“Oh, yes, Harry, it is true!” said Nella.She turned her head away and cried bitterly, while Harry was dumb for a moment; for if she had told him that she was married already, there would hardly have been a greater barrier between them.It did not occur to Harry to ask her if she loved Dom Alvarez; but he said, passionately—“I had hoped one day to go back to the old Devon tower, which must come to me; and though I never could have made you a great lady, Nell, you should never have been vexed or crossed, and have had your will always.”“Oh, hush! hush!” said Nella, “hush!”“Tell me one thing,” said Harry; “Dom Alvarez accuses me of a share in the treason that rained my beloved prince. Do you believethatof your old playmate!”Nella turned round, her blue eyes flashing through their tears.“I would as soon believe it of myself,” she said.“Then I care for no one,” cried Harry; “and when my prince comes home, he will see me righted.”Perhaps it was as well for Nella that her father at this moment came out of the inner room. She ran up to him, and grasped his hand.“Father, Harry is no traitor! How dared Dom Alvarez utter such a falsehood!”“Leave me to settle that matter, my daughter,” said Sir Walter, sternly, “and go you within. What have you to do with the disputes of these gentlemen? Your country-breeding makes you too forward, and too free of tongue.”Nella blushed deeply, and withdrew; but as she curtsied to her father, she looked for a moment at Harry, and said quickly—“I shall never believe it!”In all ages of the world, it is hard for women to sit at home and wonder how matters are going in the world without, and Nella had no chance of asking a question as she prepared for her first interview with her suitor. She was very unhappy, and knew too well that she would not have been so had Harry Hartsed been in Alvarez’s place; but she submitted to her unusually splendid toilet with a sense that she was submitting to the inevitable. Only she felt as if the blue brocade weighed down her young limbs till there was no life left in them, and as if the strings of pearls were burning their way into her brain.She waited long after she was dressed, growing more and more weary, till she began to wonder at the delay. Perhaps Dom Alvarez would not come to-day after all.At last, hearing sounds without, she sent one of her maids to inquire if her father had returned, and in a moment Sir Walter came into the room.“Alas! my daughter!” he said, “better a widow’s coif than all this bravery! Young Hartsed, whom I renounce for ever, has foully slain Alvarez!”“How?” said Nella, in a tone of utter amaze.“He attacked and challenged him in the public street; they fought, and Alvarez is wounded well-nigh to death; while Hartsed is put in ward during the king’s pleasure. Now we see his treason plain enough—he sought to be rid of the witness of it.”“Do not all men fight those who call them traitor?” said Nella, in a low clear voice.“Your lady is distracted with the fatal news,” said Sir Walter, hastily; “she knows not what she is saying. See to her, ladies, I have no time to spare.”With desperate hands Nella unfastened the jewels from her hair, and helped to cast aside her gay attire; then she sent all the ladies away, and alone awaited further tidings.These were not long in coming. Dom Alvarez was severely wounded, but it was thought that he would recover in time; and after a very hasty inquiry into the matter, the king sentenced Hartsed to banishment from Lisbon. It was ill for them all that his strength was failing under sorrow and suspense, and that Dom Enrique had started on his unhappy embassage to Arzella.As it was not thought suitable for Nella to visit the court during the severe illness of her betrothed, she was not aware of the king’s increasing indisposition, and was not present at Dom Enrique’s sad return, yet she dimly hoped that he might take up the cause of his brother’s favourite. But the news he brought stirred up the whole nation to a pitch of fury, and preparations for a renewal of the war were begun on a much larger scale, and with lavish expenditure. The pride of Portugal was touched to the quick, and the king reduced his private expenses, and gave all he could save to the common object. The winter and spring passed in arming and planning the campaign. Nella’s affairs were in abeyance. Harry Hartsed was gone, no one knew whither; and Dom Alvarez, on recovering from his wound, left Lisbon for change of air, and was to join the army with Sir Walter. All the talk was of hope and revenge, only the king’s face was unchangeably sorrowful.One evening, shortly before the expedition was to start, Duarte was lying on a couch in his private room, resting from the fatigue of a long day in council. Beside him sat Enrique, who, with João, was to command the army, Dom Pedro being needed at home in the king’s weak state.“Enrique,” said Duarte, breaking a long silence, “ere we part, I would tell you my mind on certain matters.”“I will never cross your will again, my brother,” said Enrique, humbly.“I have thought much and long,” said Duarte, with his grave gentleness. “This war is good,—justified by the conduct of the Moors to our beloved one. But, if it fails, I have written in my will that Ceuta must be ceded to them, and, to my thinking, it was our duty to have abided by our word. I was slow plainly to see this, but in this long sickness my eyes have grown clearer. Our Blessed Lord knows the souls in Ceuta which are His own, and would guard them through the fiery persecution which the failure of our arms would have brought on them. Maybe He would have allowed us to deliver them from it. It shows the faith of the blessed Cross in a poor light to the heathen when Christian men break plighted faith. And yet, Enrique, though as I lie here on soft cushions, with all things easy round me, I seem verily to feelhisrough usage, tastehishard fare, it goes harder with me to pluck that jewel out of my father’s crown, and give it back to the darkness whence he won it, than to see my Fernando win a martyr’s crown.”“I shall never raise my voice against your will,” said Enrique. “Daily, with prayer and penance, I entreat that Ceuta and Fernando both may yet be saved to us. If Ceuta goes, there is nothing for me who lost it but to vow myself to a life of penitence, and till Fernando is safe, there is no joy on earth for me.”“Take heart, my Enrique,” said Duarte, tenderly. “If you have risked Ceuta, you have won wide lands to Portugal and to the Church; and remember, it is to you and Pedro I confide my son.”“Alas, Duarte, there would be no hope for church or country without you at the helm.”“As God wills,” said Duarte, and words and tone vividly brought Fernando before Enrique’s mind.And before many days were over the stroke fell; and, as some say, of an attack of the plague, which he was too weak to resist, as others tell, of the long strain of grief and responsibility, the just and gentle Duarte died, of whom all agree that he never uttered a harsh word, nor committed an unrighteous action.“A selfless man and stainless gentleman,Who reverenced his conscience as his king.”He died, and with his life all the preparations for war fell to pieces, and came to an end. Portugal was plunged into a wild chaos of dispute and mis-government; the three remaining princes passed out of the clear following of clear aims that had marked their youth, into the wretched conflict, half-good, half-evil, of hand-to-hand fighting, with the necessities of every-day, till they hardly knew for what they were striving. There were miserable differences and cabals between the widowed Queen and Dom Pedro, who yet strove to act honourably by her; wild, mad accusations against these loving brothers of having poisoned Duarte, for whom either of them would gladly have died, a world of wrong and worry, from which they could not escape.With the rights and wrongs of that unhappy story, a sadder one perhaps than the fatal siege of Tangier, we have now no concern; but some strange change must have passed over the mind of the nation, for no other effort was ever made to rescue Fernando. To all seeming, his country forgot him, as Harry Hartsed was forgotten. But Enrique, when in the intervals of his wretched life at court he went to gaze over the wide Atlantic, and plan how to penetrate its mysteries, prayed for the unknown suffering of his beloved brother, while Nella Northberry added to her prayers the name of another loved and lost one.
“Commingled with the gloom of imminent warThe shadow of his loss drew like eclipse,Darkening the world.”
“Commingled with the gloom of imminent warThe shadow of his loss drew like eclipse,Darkening the world.”
Nella Northberry was standing alone by the fountain in the hall of her father’s house. The oranges were ripe on the trees, their sweet blossom was passed, and she herself looked pale, sad, and sullen. She had scarcely known what made her heart so heavy when her father had told her that she was to regard Dom Alvarez as her betrothed suitor, receiving her girlish expressions of unwillingness with entire indifference. Spirited as Nella was, it could not occur to her to resist her father’s will, or think of disposing of herself in marriage; she knew that it was impossible, and the girls of her day had generally too little intercourse with the world before marriage to feel aggrieved at their absence of choice. Nella’s life had not passed quite in accordance with established rules hitherto, and the fetters galled her.
She stood looking down into the clear waters of the fountain, her tall slim figure drooping a little with unwonted sadness, and her thoughts straying tenderly back to England—England, which she should never see again now. She thought of the grey convent, the wide woodlands now painted with russet and gold, the fresh autumnal breezes, the cheerful barking of the dogs at the old Manor house door; and her heart went out to it all with a passionate yearning that brought the hot tears to her eyes.
“If Catalina were here, perhaps Dom Alvarez would have likedherbest,” she thought, “and I might have gone home again.” And with this strange reason for missing her lost sister, the tears came faster, and she pressed her hands over her eyes.
“Nella?” suddenly said a voice beside her, “does your father tell me true? Are you indeed betrothed to Dom Alvarez?”
Nella looked up with a start, for beside her stood Harry Hartsed, with a pale face and heavy eyes, as if he had passed a sleepless night.
“Oh, yes, Harry, it is true!” said Nella.
She turned her head away and cried bitterly, while Harry was dumb for a moment; for if she had told him that she was married already, there would hardly have been a greater barrier between them.
It did not occur to Harry to ask her if she loved Dom Alvarez; but he said, passionately—
“I had hoped one day to go back to the old Devon tower, which must come to me; and though I never could have made you a great lady, Nell, you should never have been vexed or crossed, and have had your will always.”
“Oh, hush! hush!” said Nella, “hush!”
“Tell me one thing,” said Harry; “Dom Alvarez accuses me of a share in the treason that rained my beloved prince. Do you believethatof your old playmate!”
Nella turned round, her blue eyes flashing through their tears.
“I would as soon believe it of myself,” she said.
“Then I care for no one,” cried Harry; “and when my prince comes home, he will see me righted.”
Perhaps it was as well for Nella that her father at this moment came out of the inner room. She ran up to him, and grasped his hand.
“Father, Harry is no traitor! How dared Dom Alvarez utter such a falsehood!”
“Leave me to settle that matter, my daughter,” said Sir Walter, sternly, “and go you within. What have you to do with the disputes of these gentlemen? Your country-breeding makes you too forward, and too free of tongue.”
Nella blushed deeply, and withdrew; but as she curtsied to her father, she looked for a moment at Harry, and said quickly—
“I shall never believe it!”
In all ages of the world, it is hard for women to sit at home and wonder how matters are going in the world without, and Nella had no chance of asking a question as she prepared for her first interview with her suitor. She was very unhappy, and knew too well that she would not have been so had Harry Hartsed been in Alvarez’s place; but she submitted to her unusually splendid toilet with a sense that she was submitting to the inevitable. Only she felt as if the blue brocade weighed down her young limbs till there was no life left in them, and as if the strings of pearls were burning their way into her brain.
She waited long after she was dressed, growing more and more weary, till she began to wonder at the delay. Perhaps Dom Alvarez would not come to-day after all.
At last, hearing sounds without, she sent one of her maids to inquire if her father had returned, and in a moment Sir Walter came into the room.
“Alas! my daughter!” he said, “better a widow’s coif than all this bravery! Young Hartsed, whom I renounce for ever, has foully slain Alvarez!”
“How?” said Nella, in a tone of utter amaze.
“He attacked and challenged him in the public street; they fought, and Alvarez is wounded well-nigh to death; while Hartsed is put in ward during the king’s pleasure. Now we see his treason plain enough—he sought to be rid of the witness of it.”
“Do not all men fight those who call them traitor?” said Nella, in a low clear voice.
“Your lady is distracted with the fatal news,” said Sir Walter, hastily; “she knows not what she is saying. See to her, ladies, I have no time to spare.”
With desperate hands Nella unfastened the jewels from her hair, and helped to cast aside her gay attire; then she sent all the ladies away, and alone awaited further tidings.
These were not long in coming. Dom Alvarez was severely wounded, but it was thought that he would recover in time; and after a very hasty inquiry into the matter, the king sentenced Hartsed to banishment from Lisbon. It was ill for them all that his strength was failing under sorrow and suspense, and that Dom Enrique had started on his unhappy embassage to Arzella.
As it was not thought suitable for Nella to visit the court during the severe illness of her betrothed, she was not aware of the king’s increasing indisposition, and was not present at Dom Enrique’s sad return, yet she dimly hoped that he might take up the cause of his brother’s favourite. But the news he brought stirred up the whole nation to a pitch of fury, and preparations for a renewal of the war were begun on a much larger scale, and with lavish expenditure. The pride of Portugal was touched to the quick, and the king reduced his private expenses, and gave all he could save to the common object. The winter and spring passed in arming and planning the campaign. Nella’s affairs were in abeyance. Harry Hartsed was gone, no one knew whither; and Dom Alvarez, on recovering from his wound, left Lisbon for change of air, and was to join the army with Sir Walter. All the talk was of hope and revenge, only the king’s face was unchangeably sorrowful.
One evening, shortly before the expedition was to start, Duarte was lying on a couch in his private room, resting from the fatigue of a long day in council. Beside him sat Enrique, who, with João, was to command the army, Dom Pedro being needed at home in the king’s weak state.
“Enrique,” said Duarte, breaking a long silence, “ere we part, I would tell you my mind on certain matters.”
“I will never cross your will again, my brother,” said Enrique, humbly.
“I have thought much and long,” said Duarte, with his grave gentleness. “This war is good,—justified by the conduct of the Moors to our beloved one. But, if it fails, I have written in my will that Ceuta must be ceded to them, and, to my thinking, it was our duty to have abided by our word. I was slow plainly to see this, but in this long sickness my eyes have grown clearer. Our Blessed Lord knows the souls in Ceuta which are His own, and would guard them through the fiery persecution which the failure of our arms would have brought on them. Maybe He would have allowed us to deliver them from it. It shows the faith of the blessed Cross in a poor light to the heathen when Christian men break plighted faith. And yet, Enrique, though as I lie here on soft cushions, with all things easy round me, I seem verily to feelhisrough usage, tastehishard fare, it goes harder with me to pluck that jewel out of my father’s crown, and give it back to the darkness whence he won it, than to see my Fernando win a martyr’s crown.”
“I shall never raise my voice against your will,” said Enrique. “Daily, with prayer and penance, I entreat that Ceuta and Fernando both may yet be saved to us. If Ceuta goes, there is nothing for me who lost it but to vow myself to a life of penitence, and till Fernando is safe, there is no joy on earth for me.”
“Take heart, my Enrique,” said Duarte, tenderly. “If you have risked Ceuta, you have won wide lands to Portugal and to the Church; and remember, it is to you and Pedro I confide my son.”
“Alas, Duarte, there would be no hope for church or country without you at the helm.”
“As God wills,” said Duarte, and words and tone vividly brought Fernando before Enrique’s mind.
And before many days were over the stroke fell; and, as some say, of an attack of the plague, which he was too weak to resist, as others tell, of the long strain of grief and responsibility, the just and gentle Duarte died, of whom all agree that he never uttered a harsh word, nor committed an unrighteous action.
“A selfless man and stainless gentleman,Who reverenced his conscience as his king.”
“A selfless man and stainless gentleman,Who reverenced his conscience as his king.”
He died, and with his life all the preparations for war fell to pieces, and came to an end. Portugal was plunged into a wild chaos of dispute and mis-government; the three remaining princes passed out of the clear following of clear aims that had marked their youth, into the wretched conflict, half-good, half-evil, of hand-to-hand fighting, with the necessities of every-day, till they hardly knew for what they were striving. There were miserable differences and cabals between the widowed Queen and Dom Pedro, who yet strove to act honourably by her; wild, mad accusations against these loving brothers of having poisoned Duarte, for whom either of them would gladly have died, a world of wrong and worry, from which they could not escape.
With the rights and wrongs of that unhappy story, a sadder one perhaps than the fatal siege of Tangier, we have now no concern; but some strange change must have passed over the mind of the nation, for no other effort was ever made to rescue Fernando. To all seeming, his country forgot him, as Harry Hartsed was forgotten. But Enrique, when in the intervals of his wretched life at court he went to gaze over the wide Atlantic, and plan how to penetrate its mysteries, prayed for the unknown suffering of his beloved brother, while Nella Northberry added to her prayers the name of another loved and lost one.