Chapter Twenty.Darkness.“For there is no way out of pain and trouble but only to endure them.”A party of travellers had come to a halt in the shade of a clump of trees, which pleasantly varied the monotony of the rough, sandy plains, covered with long grass, through which the road lay between Arzella and Fez. A weary journey, under the blasting winds and blazing sun of a North-African May. The sun was sinking now, and the wind was calm, and the Moorish cavalry, with their white turbans, flashing weapons, and beautiful steeds, brought to a halt on the small spot of grass, stood out picturesque and bright under the dear, rosy sky, a subject for a picture; the foil to these splendid soldiers being the coarsely-clad prisoners, or perhaps slaves. Prisoners, for how could they escape from their well-mounted guards? Slaves, for they ran hither and thither, fetching and carrying, rubbing down the horses, and bringing them water from a spring at hand, their steps, if lagging, hastened often by blows, and their answers, if sullen, met by rough jests or curses. And very various was their demeanour. Some fierce, and evidently stung to the quick, glanced up at their tyrants with muttered curses, and eyes of wrath and scorn; some sulkily did as little as they could; some stumbled through their work in utter weariness and pain, others hurried over it with officious readiness, humbled into an effort to avoid offending their terrible masters. It is not noble blood alone that can give a man patience, dignity, and courage, when called to lead the life of a slave.One there was who, a little apart from the rest, was tending a splendid charger, black as jet, and with large, gentle eyes. The beautiful creature stood patient and still, as slowly, as if from fatigue and weakness, but with no apparent reluctance, and with more than one gentle word and caress, his delicate-handed attendant washed the sand from his hoofs, and gave him food and drink. As the prisoner turned somewhat feebly to lift a heavy skin of water, one of his fellow-slaves flung down his own burden, and, lifting the skin, held it to him on his knee, kissing the hand that took it.“My lord, my lord, to see you serving that accursed brute?”“Nay, my friend; thanks for your help; but do not call the good horse names. My brother, the king, has none such in his stable. I think I have something of his love for noble horses,” said Fernando, with a smile. “But finish your own task, Manoel, or Moussa-ben-Hadad will give you the rough words you like so little.”“No matter, if I can aid your highness.”“I have finished,” said the prince; “and our hour of rest is coming.”As he spoke, a tall Moor came up and struck young Manoel a rough blow, bidding him not to linger, but to bring him the water for his horse at once. Fernando did not interfere; perhaps experience had taught him that it was useless; but his brow contracted, and he bit his lip hard.A little later, and while the Moors were taking their evening meal, the Christians, with whom of course they might not eat, sat together apart, eating the coarse black bread provided for them. It was their most peaceful moment, for they could then talk freely with each other.The prince was one of the last to join them, and as he came up slowly and wearily, several sprang up to meet him, trying to form a couch for him with their rough garments, and offering to bathe his feet, which were bruised and dusty.Fernando accepted their services gently and gratefully, asking them how they had fared during the day.“As ill as usual, my lord,” said one sulkily; “and small prospect of anything better at Fez. But the infidel dogs might beat my brains out ere I would consent to fawn and crouch and feign compliance, as Dom Francisco did but now. I scorn it!”“Scorn will not give us a better supper than black bread; see, here are dates, to flavour it,” said Dom Francisco, while the first speaker, an older man, snatched the gift from his hand and flung it away; and there was a disproportionate outcry of annoyance and vexation. Worn-out nerves and tempers were easily raffled, and the men who had resigned themselves to lose their freedom could ill bear the loss of a handful of dates.“Ah, hush, my friends,” said Fernando; “worse than blows without are quarrels within.”“Now, now, my sons,” said Father José, who had come up unperceived, “that was ill done. Now, if my lord of Viseo will not fling them away, here are oranges and a piece of dried goat’s flesh, given me by that lad in a green caftan, who has, methinks, a less hard heart than the rest. And it has struck me, my children,” proceeded the good father, “that the blessed Paul and Silas would not have converted their jailer had they bickered with each other, or grumbled at the prison fare, instead of singing Psalms in the darkness of the night. Wherefore, as singing causes the Moslems to blaspheme, I propose, while we divide the goat’s flesh, to recite a portion of the Psalter.”Father José was a powerful though elderly man, and as he had never been accustomed to a luxurious life, he was able to endure the privations and hardships of his captivity better than most. He was good-tempered, too, and cheerful, and was without the heart ache that almost all the others carried about with them for near and dear ones, lost, it seemed, for ever. And, more than all, his faith was strong and clear, and a real support to the failing hearts of others.Fernando’s weak health caused him to suffer far more physically than any of his companions: he had been very ill at Arzella, and was even now hardly able to bear the fatigue of each day’s journey. Nor did the blood either of Avis or Plantagenet run so tamely as to make insults easy of endurance; he pined for his brothers, and felt every trouble of his comrades as if it were his own. But then, too, he was able to feel the comfort of their love and devotion. As he lay on the ground, too weary to eat or take much share in the conversation, his face, worn as it was, had not its old restless look, and his eyes as they watched the sunset, were full of peace. It was not only that he had lost the sense of an unfulfilled desire; not only that he felt that his sufferingsdidserve the cause that he loved so well; better still than this, the passionate will that could see but one way of serving had learnt to submit at last, till he could take each trial patiently as it came from the Hand that sent it, and—completest victory of all—accept also each alleviation. The evening air and the fair landscape, the interval of rest and quiet, were really soothing to him, and there was something in this peacefulness which drew all his comrades to his side, each with his tale of trouble, or with the offer of some little service as comforting to himself as to the prince.“We are still together,” was a consolation even in the midst of their suffering.Alas! it was soon the only one left them. Too soon they looked back on that hard journey as a period of comparative happiness. When they reached Fez their masters changed. Whether the sea-port towns had been considered as too unsafe in case of a siege, or whether the African Moors had been enraged by the strong representations of the Moorish king of Granada—that, under all the circumstances, the heavy ransom ought to have been accepted,—Zala-ben-Zala sent his prisoners into the domains of Abdallah, the young king of Fez, whose prime minister was named Lazurac, and was one of the most savage monsters of history.The unhappy prisoners were driven, with stripes and curses, through the streets of Fez, the dark-faced Moors flinging rude words, and even stones, at them as they passed.“Onebore His Cross through a raging multitude, and for us!” said Fernando to Manoel, who was near him; but as he spoke they came close under the frowning towers of the Darsena, a kind of castle, which guarded the town. Here they hoped at least for rest and shelter; and it was with almost a sense of relief that they were driven through the gates and into the inclosure of the castle, and on—through a long passage, down—down a sort of rough slope, through some great doors, which were locked and barred behind them, leaving them, in an utter blank of darkness, they knew not where.Utter darkness—not a ray of light penetrated their prison. As they sank down, wearied, they could not see each other; when they put out their hands they could feel nothing near; all was silent and black as the grave.“Let us pray,” said Father José, and began, “Out of the deep have I called unto Thee, O Lord.”It was the deep indeed—the very depth of misery; and as they began to recover from the fainting weariness of their terrible march the horror of the darkness struck them more forcibly, and they were afraid to move, lest they should lose each other in unknown depths, till Fernando proposed that the least exhausted should try in a body to reach the wall of their prison, but never going beyond easy recall from himself and one or two others, who were completely spent.They found that their dungeon was of considerable extent, but they were afraid then to penetrate all across it. It was damp, too, and bitterly cold, and no provision of food or drink seemed to have been made for them. It seemed like the intentional ending of their sorrows; and numb, stupefied, and utterly hopeless, they crowded together on the cold floor of their dungeon, unknowing whether minutes, hours, or days passed over them, till suddenly their door was opened, and a man with a basket and a dim lantern in his hand was allowed to enter.“Prisoners,” he said, in broken Portuguese, “I am a Majorcan merchant, and am allowed to sell bread to the prisoners.”“For the love of Heaven, a light,” cried Manoel, “that we may see our misery.”The merchant came towards them, and turned his flickering light on the face of Fernando, who lay, almost senseless, in Father José’s arms.“We have no money to buy of you, good friend,” said the priest; “but if of your charity you could give us a drop of wine for our dear Lord—”The Majorcan knelt down, put his lamp into the hand of Manoel, and pouring out a little wine, held it to the prince’s lips; and as it touched them he opened his eyes and looked round, as if bewildered. The merchant had a good grave face, and, when they repeated that they could not buy of him, he smiled and said, “Still, he came there to trade with prisoners,” and put his provisions down beside them; and he also left them the means of making a light; but this he advised them to use secretly and at rare intervals, as for that he had no leave. He showed them the extent of their prison, and left them two or three sheepskins to form a bed. Whether at this time Lazurac really cared if his prisoners perished or not, or whether he intended to force the prince into entreating his brother to deliver him at any cost, certain it is that the few visits of this good Samaritan were all that kept hope, nay, life itself, in the wretched prisoners. The hopeless darkness, the terrible inaction, and the damp, dark atmosphere, broke down both health and spirits. Some, to add to the misery, were seized with fever, and lost their senses, raving wildly; and though Fernando was saved from this, he was never able to raise himself from the ground, and suffered terribly from pain and weakness. But through the three long months of that terrible trial he never uttered a complaint, save of his companions’ sufferings; and little as he could do for them, there was an influence of peace in the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice. There were times when, treated like brutes as they were, the animal nature awoke within them, and they were ready to tear each other to pieces in the bitterness of their despairing fury; other times, when they sought a kind of relief in wild ribald jests, and many long intervals of sulky, faithless despair; when even Father José’s prayers and encouragements were unavailing. Then the voice that was always gentle, the words that were always pure, the faith that saw beyond the dungeon walls, would woo them to a better mind; and the love they bore him helped them to hold to the love of God; and when, now and again, by the faint light of their little lamp, Father José took of the good Majorcan’s bread and wine, and celebrated the Holy Eucharist, as long ago it had been celebrated by martyrs and confessors in dens and caves of the earth, they felt the power of that Holy Presence, and attained to something of the martyr’s spirit as well as the martyr’s fate.
“For there is no way out of pain and trouble but only to endure them.”
“For there is no way out of pain and trouble but only to endure them.”
A party of travellers had come to a halt in the shade of a clump of trees, which pleasantly varied the monotony of the rough, sandy plains, covered with long grass, through which the road lay between Arzella and Fez. A weary journey, under the blasting winds and blazing sun of a North-African May. The sun was sinking now, and the wind was calm, and the Moorish cavalry, with their white turbans, flashing weapons, and beautiful steeds, brought to a halt on the small spot of grass, stood out picturesque and bright under the dear, rosy sky, a subject for a picture; the foil to these splendid soldiers being the coarsely-clad prisoners, or perhaps slaves. Prisoners, for how could they escape from their well-mounted guards? Slaves, for they ran hither and thither, fetching and carrying, rubbing down the horses, and bringing them water from a spring at hand, their steps, if lagging, hastened often by blows, and their answers, if sullen, met by rough jests or curses. And very various was their demeanour. Some fierce, and evidently stung to the quick, glanced up at their tyrants with muttered curses, and eyes of wrath and scorn; some sulkily did as little as they could; some stumbled through their work in utter weariness and pain, others hurried over it with officious readiness, humbled into an effort to avoid offending their terrible masters. It is not noble blood alone that can give a man patience, dignity, and courage, when called to lead the life of a slave.
One there was who, a little apart from the rest, was tending a splendid charger, black as jet, and with large, gentle eyes. The beautiful creature stood patient and still, as slowly, as if from fatigue and weakness, but with no apparent reluctance, and with more than one gentle word and caress, his delicate-handed attendant washed the sand from his hoofs, and gave him food and drink. As the prisoner turned somewhat feebly to lift a heavy skin of water, one of his fellow-slaves flung down his own burden, and, lifting the skin, held it to him on his knee, kissing the hand that took it.
“My lord, my lord, to see you serving that accursed brute?”
“Nay, my friend; thanks for your help; but do not call the good horse names. My brother, the king, has none such in his stable. I think I have something of his love for noble horses,” said Fernando, with a smile. “But finish your own task, Manoel, or Moussa-ben-Hadad will give you the rough words you like so little.”
“No matter, if I can aid your highness.”
“I have finished,” said the prince; “and our hour of rest is coming.”
As he spoke, a tall Moor came up and struck young Manoel a rough blow, bidding him not to linger, but to bring him the water for his horse at once. Fernando did not interfere; perhaps experience had taught him that it was useless; but his brow contracted, and he bit his lip hard.
A little later, and while the Moors were taking their evening meal, the Christians, with whom of course they might not eat, sat together apart, eating the coarse black bread provided for them. It was their most peaceful moment, for they could then talk freely with each other.
The prince was one of the last to join them, and as he came up slowly and wearily, several sprang up to meet him, trying to form a couch for him with their rough garments, and offering to bathe his feet, which were bruised and dusty.
Fernando accepted their services gently and gratefully, asking them how they had fared during the day.
“As ill as usual, my lord,” said one sulkily; “and small prospect of anything better at Fez. But the infidel dogs might beat my brains out ere I would consent to fawn and crouch and feign compliance, as Dom Francisco did but now. I scorn it!”
“Scorn will not give us a better supper than black bread; see, here are dates, to flavour it,” said Dom Francisco, while the first speaker, an older man, snatched the gift from his hand and flung it away; and there was a disproportionate outcry of annoyance and vexation. Worn-out nerves and tempers were easily raffled, and the men who had resigned themselves to lose their freedom could ill bear the loss of a handful of dates.
“Ah, hush, my friends,” said Fernando; “worse than blows without are quarrels within.”
“Now, now, my sons,” said Father José, who had come up unperceived, “that was ill done. Now, if my lord of Viseo will not fling them away, here are oranges and a piece of dried goat’s flesh, given me by that lad in a green caftan, who has, methinks, a less hard heart than the rest. And it has struck me, my children,” proceeded the good father, “that the blessed Paul and Silas would not have converted their jailer had they bickered with each other, or grumbled at the prison fare, instead of singing Psalms in the darkness of the night. Wherefore, as singing causes the Moslems to blaspheme, I propose, while we divide the goat’s flesh, to recite a portion of the Psalter.”
Father José was a powerful though elderly man, and as he had never been accustomed to a luxurious life, he was able to endure the privations and hardships of his captivity better than most. He was good-tempered, too, and cheerful, and was without the heart ache that almost all the others carried about with them for near and dear ones, lost, it seemed, for ever. And, more than all, his faith was strong and clear, and a real support to the failing hearts of others.
Fernando’s weak health caused him to suffer far more physically than any of his companions: he had been very ill at Arzella, and was even now hardly able to bear the fatigue of each day’s journey. Nor did the blood either of Avis or Plantagenet run so tamely as to make insults easy of endurance; he pined for his brothers, and felt every trouble of his comrades as if it were his own. But then, too, he was able to feel the comfort of their love and devotion. As he lay on the ground, too weary to eat or take much share in the conversation, his face, worn as it was, had not its old restless look, and his eyes as they watched the sunset, were full of peace. It was not only that he had lost the sense of an unfulfilled desire; not only that he felt that his sufferingsdidserve the cause that he loved so well; better still than this, the passionate will that could see but one way of serving had learnt to submit at last, till he could take each trial patiently as it came from the Hand that sent it, and—completest victory of all—accept also each alleviation. The evening air and the fair landscape, the interval of rest and quiet, were really soothing to him, and there was something in this peacefulness which drew all his comrades to his side, each with his tale of trouble, or with the offer of some little service as comforting to himself as to the prince.
“We are still together,” was a consolation even in the midst of their suffering.
Alas! it was soon the only one left them. Too soon they looked back on that hard journey as a period of comparative happiness. When they reached Fez their masters changed. Whether the sea-port towns had been considered as too unsafe in case of a siege, or whether the African Moors had been enraged by the strong representations of the Moorish king of Granada—that, under all the circumstances, the heavy ransom ought to have been accepted,—Zala-ben-Zala sent his prisoners into the domains of Abdallah, the young king of Fez, whose prime minister was named Lazurac, and was one of the most savage monsters of history.
The unhappy prisoners were driven, with stripes and curses, through the streets of Fez, the dark-faced Moors flinging rude words, and even stones, at them as they passed.
“Onebore His Cross through a raging multitude, and for us!” said Fernando to Manoel, who was near him; but as he spoke they came close under the frowning towers of the Darsena, a kind of castle, which guarded the town. Here they hoped at least for rest and shelter; and it was with almost a sense of relief that they were driven through the gates and into the inclosure of the castle, and on—through a long passage, down—down a sort of rough slope, through some great doors, which were locked and barred behind them, leaving them, in an utter blank of darkness, they knew not where.
Utter darkness—not a ray of light penetrated their prison. As they sank down, wearied, they could not see each other; when they put out their hands they could feel nothing near; all was silent and black as the grave.
“Let us pray,” said Father José, and began, “Out of the deep have I called unto Thee, O Lord.”
It was the deep indeed—the very depth of misery; and as they began to recover from the fainting weariness of their terrible march the horror of the darkness struck them more forcibly, and they were afraid to move, lest they should lose each other in unknown depths, till Fernando proposed that the least exhausted should try in a body to reach the wall of their prison, but never going beyond easy recall from himself and one or two others, who were completely spent.
They found that their dungeon was of considerable extent, but they were afraid then to penetrate all across it. It was damp, too, and bitterly cold, and no provision of food or drink seemed to have been made for them. It seemed like the intentional ending of their sorrows; and numb, stupefied, and utterly hopeless, they crowded together on the cold floor of their dungeon, unknowing whether minutes, hours, or days passed over them, till suddenly their door was opened, and a man with a basket and a dim lantern in his hand was allowed to enter.
“Prisoners,” he said, in broken Portuguese, “I am a Majorcan merchant, and am allowed to sell bread to the prisoners.”
“For the love of Heaven, a light,” cried Manoel, “that we may see our misery.”
The merchant came towards them, and turned his flickering light on the face of Fernando, who lay, almost senseless, in Father José’s arms.
“We have no money to buy of you, good friend,” said the priest; “but if of your charity you could give us a drop of wine for our dear Lord—”
The Majorcan knelt down, put his lamp into the hand of Manoel, and pouring out a little wine, held it to the prince’s lips; and as it touched them he opened his eyes and looked round, as if bewildered. The merchant had a good grave face, and, when they repeated that they could not buy of him, he smiled and said, “Still, he came there to trade with prisoners,” and put his provisions down beside them; and he also left them the means of making a light; but this he advised them to use secretly and at rare intervals, as for that he had no leave. He showed them the extent of their prison, and left them two or three sheepskins to form a bed. Whether at this time Lazurac really cared if his prisoners perished or not, or whether he intended to force the prince into entreating his brother to deliver him at any cost, certain it is that the few visits of this good Samaritan were all that kept hope, nay, life itself, in the wretched prisoners. The hopeless darkness, the terrible inaction, and the damp, dark atmosphere, broke down both health and spirits. Some, to add to the misery, were seized with fever, and lost their senses, raving wildly; and though Fernando was saved from this, he was never able to raise himself from the ground, and suffered terribly from pain and weakness. But through the three long months of that terrible trial he never uttered a complaint, save of his companions’ sufferings; and little as he could do for them, there was an influence of peace in the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice. There were times when, treated like brutes as they were, the animal nature awoke within them, and they were ready to tear each other to pieces in the bitterness of their despairing fury; other times, when they sought a kind of relief in wild ribald jests, and many long intervals of sulky, faithless despair; when even Father José’s prayers and encouragements were unavailing. Then the voice that was always gentle, the words that were always pure, the faith that saw beyond the dungeon walls, would woo them to a better mind; and the love they bore him helped them to hold to the love of God; and when, now and again, by the faint light of their little lamp, Father José took of the good Majorcan’s bread and wine, and celebrated the Holy Eucharist, as long ago it had been celebrated by martyrs and confessors in dens and caves of the earth, they felt the power of that Holy Presence, and attained to something of the martyr’s spirit as well as the martyr’s fate.
Chapter Twenty One.The Feast of Flowers.“Go, bring me showers of roses—bring.”Flowers—flowers everywhere; one blaze of colour through the royal gardens of Fez. Was not the young King Abdallah about to marry the Princess Hinda, daughter of a neighbouring potentate, and had he not vowed that since she loved flowers better than anything in the world, flowers she should have, specimens of every flower in his dominions! Lazurac might rule over people and prisoners as he would, but he must provide flowers for his boy sovereign, and workmen to plant, deck, and wreathe his gardens within the space of a few hours with every flower under heaven. Round every column and arch were twined ropes of roses, oleanders, and arums, in limitless profusion. Crowds of girls tied the wreaths, while the slaves brought them by hundreds and festooned them from tree to tree. And so, because hands were short, or perhaps to insult them still further, the Portuguese prisoners were released from their dungeon and brought out once more into the light of day, to hang up rose-wreaths for the king’sfête.But although food had been given them and somewhat more decent clothes, and they had been allowed to wash off their prison-stains before meeting the eyes of their fellows, they sat blinking at the light and staring at each other, feeling as if they were the ghosts of the men who three months before had entered that gloomy dungeon, so terrible had been its effect on them. As the slave-drivers perceived that even the strongest of them were really incapable of any active exertion, they were desired to sort the great heaps of flowers that had been thrown down in a shady spot, “and to feast their eyes on their master’s magnificence.” Soon they were told their work would be daily in the royal gardens.At another time all would have chafed bitterly at so effeminate an occupation; but now air, light, and employment of any sort were so enchanting to them that these bearded European nobles picked away contentedly at the flowers, and Father José sorted the red roses from the white with positive pleasure, while young Manoel, who had failed much of late, fell asleep with a smile on his face; and Fernando, twining the flowers round his fingers, told how his mother, Queen Philippa, had described to him and to João how the maidens of England would deck a pole with flowers and dance round it on the first of May.Suddenly rushing out towards them from an inner court, laughing and chattering, their veils pulled carelessly half over their faces, came a party of young girls.“More flowers—flowers! Slaves, bring them hither!” cried the foremost, imperatively; then as the prisoners rose to comply, she recoiled with a scream at the ghastly figures that sat among the gorgeous summer flowers.“Make your obeisance to me,” said a Moor, coming up, as he struck Fernando across the shoulders with his staff; while Manoel, weak as he was, sprang at him like a wild cat.“Ho, fetters here!—Villains, you resist?”“No no!” cried the lady. “They cannot work so fast in fetters. The princesses want flowers—more flowers;” and the girls flew back to their garden, followed by some of the Portuguese.The seclusion of the Moorish women was not so complete as to forbid occasional intercourse with the other sex, slaves especially; and presently the foremost girl came scudding back again to where Fernando lay, holding something in both her hands.“Poor Christian,” she said, “here is some milk for you. Muley is cruel to strike you. Shall I ask Princess Hinda to beg the king to cut his head off?”Fernando had acquired enough of the Moorish language to understand her, and negatived this alarming proposal decidedly, while he thanked her for the milk, saying—“I would not be so discourteous, lady, as to sit in your presence, but that I cannot rise.”“I suppose that is because they ill-use you,” she said, sorrowfully. “Look,” taking a heap of flowers and laying them beside him, “now Muley will think you have sorted those. What do they call you?”“Selim,” said Fernando; for though it was well known who he was, like all the rest he had a slave’s name.“Perhaps you will work for my princess,” said the girl; “she will be kind to you.”“Leila, Leila?” cried a voice, and, snatching up a handful of flowers, she ran off in haste.The preparations were soon made, and thefêteproceeded, like a dream of Eastern splendour and profusion. Thousands of lamps, as the twilight fell, shone among the flowers. The slave-girls danced wonderful and graceful figures before the guests, and the Portuguese prisoners, with other slaves, held long garlands in a circle to enclose a space for the dancers, their pale, haggard faces showing in strange contrast to their surroundings. Zala-ben-Zala was the chief of the guests. As he walked round to survey the dancing, he paused opposite to Fernando and addressed him—“So, slave?” he said, scornfully, “how like you this work? Is this fit service for a Prince of Portugal?”“No,” said Fernando; “nor fit treatment for a hostage, nor even for a prisoner of war, if so you choose to regard me.”“Will you now write and urge on your brother to deliver you—that loving brother who has let you pine in a dungeon rather than yield a fortress for your sake?”“I will urge nothing on the King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily; “nor are the sufferings you choose to inflict on me worthy to change the policy of a nation.”“You know not yet what those sufferings may be.”“Well,” said the prince, calmly, “the worse they are, the sooner they will end in death, when your power ceases. You fear not death, Zala-ben-Zala, neither do I.”“There are those here that will break your proud spirit yet,” said the Moor fiercely, as he went on.But the prince’s words had not been altogether without effect. If he died from the cruelties practised on him, the power of his captors was over, and their last chance of winning Ceuta was gone. Therefore it became their aim to make his life as wretched and degrading as it could be, but still a life possible to live; and none of the party could have borne many more days in their terrible dungeon. A wretched lodging was assigned to them in Fez, their food was of the coarsest bread, their clothes of undressed sheepskins, and all day they toiled as common labourers in the royal gardens, with multitudes of other slaves, Christians of all nations, degraded by their miseries till their Christianity and even their manhood was forgotten; while, mingled with them, were dark-skinned natives from other parts of Africa, ignorant heathens.Miserable as this life was, in that beautiful climate it was so great an improvement on the Darsena, that the poor prisoners, except Manoel, regained much of their health and strength, and Fernando was usually able to get through the amount of toil required of him, and even not seldom to help his unhappy comrades. For the only use he made of the consideration, which, as far as they dared, all the other slaves showed him, was to persuade them to live peacefully with each other, to bear each other’s heavy burdens, and not, as some of the poor wretches were apt to do, curry favour with their masters by complaining of each other. When they saw Fernando endure blows and curses for neglected work rather than betray the weakness of those who worked with him, they were ready to listen to the words he spoke to them of One Who also had endured insult and cruelty, and Who was with them through all their weary days, and the first gleam of hope came to many of them from his voice and smile.One day Fernando, with several others, had been carrying stones and earth for an embankment near the ladies’ garden. Father José at some little distance was sturdily heaping up the burdens brought by the rest, murmuring Psalms to himself the while, Manoel slowly helping him. The times were good, for the mildest of their overseers was in charge of them, and they had passed the whole day without a blow to hurry their footsteps.Presently Fernando beheld, leaning over the garden-wall, the same maiden who had given him the milk.“Selim,” she called, and Fernando put down his load of stones and came towards her.“What is your will, lady?” he said, with an involuntary smile at the fair, childish face before him.“My little green parrot has flown away over the wall; it is there by your working place; I want it back.”Fernando bowed, and returning, caught the parrot with so much ease as to surprise him, and brought it back to its mistress.“It is safe, lady,” he said.“I am not a lady, I am a slave too,” said the girl, fixing her eyes upon him.“But your fetters are but chains of roses,” said the prince.“Tell me,” she said, “which of the Portuguese prisoners is Dom Fernando?”“He speaks to you now,” said Fernando, a little surprised at her accurate repetition of his title.Leila, for she it was, coloured deeply, a whole world of memories waking in her. She put her hand to her bosom and drew out a little ornament, which she laid on the wall before the prince. It was a gold cross set with jewels, and Fernando recognised it at once.“You are Catalina Northberry,” he exclaimed, and at the sound of the name so long unheard, the slave girl burst into tears.“Oh, I had forgotten—I had forgotten,” she cried. “But after the flower feast I heard the king tell how the Prince of Portugal was now his slave. And I can remember the fountain, and my lord Dom Fernando, who gave us the crosses, and Nella—Nella—a little girl like me.”“It is true, Señorita,” said Fernando; “long have they wept for you.”“Hush! I am called. I will speak again with you,” cried Catalina, running away hastily, while Fernando hurried back, lest his absence should be found out, rejoicing at the discovery; for surely he could manage that some intimation might reach Lisbon of Catalina’s existence. Certainly if deliverance ever came for himself and his friends she might be included in it.
“Go, bring me showers of roses—bring.”
“Go, bring me showers of roses—bring.”
Flowers—flowers everywhere; one blaze of colour through the royal gardens of Fez. Was not the young King Abdallah about to marry the Princess Hinda, daughter of a neighbouring potentate, and had he not vowed that since she loved flowers better than anything in the world, flowers she should have, specimens of every flower in his dominions! Lazurac might rule over people and prisoners as he would, but he must provide flowers for his boy sovereign, and workmen to plant, deck, and wreathe his gardens within the space of a few hours with every flower under heaven. Round every column and arch were twined ropes of roses, oleanders, and arums, in limitless profusion. Crowds of girls tied the wreaths, while the slaves brought them by hundreds and festooned them from tree to tree. And so, because hands were short, or perhaps to insult them still further, the Portuguese prisoners were released from their dungeon and brought out once more into the light of day, to hang up rose-wreaths for the king’sfête.
But although food had been given them and somewhat more decent clothes, and they had been allowed to wash off their prison-stains before meeting the eyes of their fellows, they sat blinking at the light and staring at each other, feeling as if they were the ghosts of the men who three months before had entered that gloomy dungeon, so terrible had been its effect on them. As the slave-drivers perceived that even the strongest of them were really incapable of any active exertion, they were desired to sort the great heaps of flowers that had been thrown down in a shady spot, “and to feast their eyes on their master’s magnificence.” Soon they were told their work would be daily in the royal gardens.
At another time all would have chafed bitterly at so effeminate an occupation; but now air, light, and employment of any sort were so enchanting to them that these bearded European nobles picked away contentedly at the flowers, and Father José sorted the red roses from the white with positive pleasure, while young Manoel, who had failed much of late, fell asleep with a smile on his face; and Fernando, twining the flowers round his fingers, told how his mother, Queen Philippa, had described to him and to João how the maidens of England would deck a pole with flowers and dance round it on the first of May.
Suddenly rushing out towards them from an inner court, laughing and chattering, their veils pulled carelessly half over their faces, came a party of young girls.
“More flowers—flowers! Slaves, bring them hither!” cried the foremost, imperatively; then as the prisoners rose to comply, she recoiled with a scream at the ghastly figures that sat among the gorgeous summer flowers.
“Make your obeisance to me,” said a Moor, coming up, as he struck Fernando across the shoulders with his staff; while Manoel, weak as he was, sprang at him like a wild cat.
“Ho, fetters here!—Villains, you resist?”
“No no!” cried the lady. “They cannot work so fast in fetters. The princesses want flowers—more flowers;” and the girls flew back to their garden, followed by some of the Portuguese.
The seclusion of the Moorish women was not so complete as to forbid occasional intercourse with the other sex, slaves especially; and presently the foremost girl came scudding back again to where Fernando lay, holding something in both her hands.
“Poor Christian,” she said, “here is some milk for you. Muley is cruel to strike you. Shall I ask Princess Hinda to beg the king to cut his head off?”
Fernando had acquired enough of the Moorish language to understand her, and negatived this alarming proposal decidedly, while he thanked her for the milk, saying—
“I would not be so discourteous, lady, as to sit in your presence, but that I cannot rise.”
“I suppose that is because they ill-use you,” she said, sorrowfully. “Look,” taking a heap of flowers and laying them beside him, “now Muley will think you have sorted those. What do they call you?”
“Selim,” said Fernando; for though it was well known who he was, like all the rest he had a slave’s name.
“Perhaps you will work for my princess,” said the girl; “she will be kind to you.”
“Leila, Leila?” cried a voice, and, snatching up a handful of flowers, she ran off in haste.
The preparations were soon made, and thefêteproceeded, like a dream of Eastern splendour and profusion. Thousands of lamps, as the twilight fell, shone among the flowers. The slave-girls danced wonderful and graceful figures before the guests, and the Portuguese prisoners, with other slaves, held long garlands in a circle to enclose a space for the dancers, their pale, haggard faces showing in strange contrast to their surroundings. Zala-ben-Zala was the chief of the guests. As he walked round to survey the dancing, he paused opposite to Fernando and addressed him—
“So, slave?” he said, scornfully, “how like you this work? Is this fit service for a Prince of Portugal?”
“No,” said Fernando; “nor fit treatment for a hostage, nor even for a prisoner of war, if so you choose to regard me.”
“Will you now write and urge on your brother to deliver you—that loving brother who has let you pine in a dungeon rather than yield a fortress for your sake?”
“I will urge nothing on the King of Portugal,” said Fernando, steadily; “nor are the sufferings you choose to inflict on me worthy to change the policy of a nation.”
“You know not yet what those sufferings may be.”
“Well,” said the prince, calmly, “the worse they are, the sooner they will end in death, when your power ceases. You fear not death, Zala-ben-Zala, neither do I.”
“There are those here that will break your proud spirit yet,” said the Moor fiercely, as he went on.
But the prince’s words had not been altogether without effect. If he died from the cruelties practised on him, the power of his captors was over, and their last chance of winning Ceuta was gone. Therefore it became their aim to make his life as wretched and degrading as it could be, but still a life possible to live; and none of the party could have borne many more days in their terrible dungeon. A wretched lodging was assigned to them in Fez, their food was of the coarsest bread, their clothes of undressed sheepskins, and all day they toiled as common labourers in the royal gardens, with multitudes of other slaves, Christians of all nations, degraded by their miseries till their Christianity and even their manhood was forgotten; while, mingled with them, were dark-skinned natives from other parts of Africa, ignorant heathens.
Miserable as this life was, in that beautiful climate it was so great an improvement on the Darsena, that the poor prisoners, except Manoel, regained much of their health and strength, and Fernando was usually able to get through the amount of toil required of him, and even not seldom to help his unhappy comrades. For the only use he made of the consideration, which, as far as they dared, all the other slaves showed him, was to persuade them to live peacefully with each other, to bear each other’s heavy burdens, and not, as some of the poor wretches were apt to do, curry favour with their masters by complaining of each other. When they saw Fernando endure blows and curses for neglected work rather than betray the weakness of those who worked with him, they were ready to listen to the words he spoke to them of One Who also had endured insult and cruelty, and Who was with them through all their weary days, and the first gleam of hope came to many of them from his voice and smile.
One day Fernando, with several others, had been carrying stones and earth for an embankment near the ladies’ garden. Father José at some little distance was sturdily heaping up the burdens brought by the rest, murmuring Psalms to himself the while, Manoel slowly helping him. The times were good, for the mildest of their overseers was in charge of them, and they had passed the whole day without a blow to hurry their footsteps.
Presently Fernando beheld, leaning over the garden-wall, the same maiden who had given him the milk.
“Selim,” she called, and Fernando put down his load of stones and came towards her.
“What is your will, lady?” he said, with an involuntary smile at the fair, childish face before him.
“My little green parrot has flown away over the wall; it is there by your working place; I want it back.”
Fernando bowed, and returning, caught the parrot with so much ease as to surprise him, and brought it back to its mistress.
“It is safe, lady,” he said.
“I am not a lady, I am a slave too,” said the girl, fixing her eyes upon him.
“But your fetters are but chains of roses,” said the prince.
“Tell me,” she said, “which of the Portuguese prisoners is Dom Fernando?”
“He speaks to you now,” said Fernando, a little surprised at her accurate repetition of his title.
Leila, for she it was, coloured deeply, a whole world of memories waking in her. She put her hand to her bosom and drew out a little ornament, which she laid on the wall before the prince. It was a gold cross set with jewels, and Fernando recognised it at once.
“You are Catalina Northberry,” he exclaimed, and at the sound of the name so long unheard, the slave girl burst into tears.
“Oh, I had forgotten—I had forgotten,” she cried. “But after the flower feast I heard the king tell how the Prince of Portugal was now his slave. And I can remember the fountain, and my lord Dom Fernando, who gave us the crosses, and Nella—Nella—a little girl like me.”
“It is true, Señorita,” said Fernando; “long have they wept for you.”
“Hush! I am called. I will speak again with you,” cried Catalina, running away hastily, while Fernando hurried back, lest his absence should be found out, rejoicing at the discovery; for surely he could manage that some intimation might reach Lisbon of Catalina’s existence. Certainly if deliverance ever came for himself and his friends she might be included in it.
Chapter Twenty Two.News From Home.“And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”The days passed on until October. Fernando saw no more of Catalina, though he still laboured in her neighbourhood; and no incidents broke his life of toil, till one day the Portuguese were sent for to the presence of the prime minister. It was part of the humiliation laid upon him that he was now and then, forced to appear in the midst of the splendid court in his slave’s dress, his hands stained with toil and fettered, as they always were, except when actually engaged in working. But spite of all this, and though his stiff limbs moved slowly and feebly, there was no air of embarrassment, no consciousness of degradation. He walked up the great hall, and looked Lazurac firmly in the face, bowing to him with the courtesy of a superior, neither shrinking nor defiant.Lazurac burst out in sudden accents of fury.“Now, slave,” he cried; “now you are wholly in our power. What is to prevent us from flaying you alive, beating you to death, in revenge for the perfidy of your countrymen? And now no fleets will sail to deliver you; we need fear no more from the vengeance of Portugal.”“And why?” said Fernando, as soon as Lazurac paused.The Moor came and stood over him, his dark face convulsed with rage, a strange contrast, with his splendid dress and infuriated aspect, to his prisoner, whose clear calm eyes were raised to his without fear or falter.“Because the king, your brother, has died while shilly-shallying over his intentions of freeing you. Here is the news of his death, and no word of keeping the treaty. Ha! I have moved you now!”For Fernando staggered, and would have fallen but for Lazurac’s rough grasp.“My brother—my brother!” was all he could utter.“Ay, there is a letter for you also; but the news is enough for you, rest content.”“I pray you give me the letter?” said Fernando, faintly.Lazurac laughed scornfully.“Have you no mercy—no pity?” cried Fernando. “Offer me any insult you will, butgiveme the letter?”It was the first time his calm dignity had been moved to intreaty or anger; but now he flashed out suddenly—“You do not dare to withhold it from me? Nay, nay, I would not anger you; only give me the letter?”Lazurac drew out the letter, with Enrique’s writing above the great black seal on the cover, and held it before his eyes.“Kneel to me then; kneel to your master, and beg him of his favour to grant you your boon.”Fernando drew himself up for a moment, while the other Portuguese rushed forward and threw themselves on their knees.“Give us the letter,” they cried; “but spare this insult to our prince.”“Rise, friends,” said Fernando, who had regained his self-control. “The shame lies not with me; and to my Master I kneel;” and he knelt, and for a moment raised his eyes to Heaven.Lazurac flung him the letter, with a sense of gratified spite and hatred, and the prisoners were suffered to withdraw. What mattered the scene that had passed to Fernando; what mattered insult and hardship, compared to the sorrow and anguish of heart of reading of the beloved brother’s illness and death! Tears such as all his suffering had never wrong from him flowed fast as he read, and for the first time he was unable to comfort and support his followers, who all knew that a much blacker cloud had fallen on them, and that their chances of deliverance were lessened by this blow.“My son,” said Father José, tenderly, “our beloved king suffered much grief and anxiety. We may think of him now in the rest of Paradise.”“Grief and anxiety which I helped to cause,” sighed Fernando. “Doubtless it is well; but now, submission is hard.”And when the prince was thus cast down, the spirits of the whole party failed utterly, and one after another fell into disgrace with their tyrants, and suffered accordingly. At last, after a second night of tears and anguish, Fernando regained the mastery over himself, and before they started on their day of toil he called his friends around him, and thus spoke—“My friends, I think we must put hope away. It was my dear brother’s earnest wish to free us by ransom, by force, or even by the yielding of the Christian city, for which, for my part, I think our poor lives were a bad exchange. But what he could not do, our bereaved country in its hour of trial will fail to accomplish. So pardon me my share in your sorrows, my rashness first, and now that I cannot bring myself to beg our freedom at the price they ask. Could I but bear it all—could I but make in our own land such a home and rest as you deserve! But there remaineth a rest for us all, where my brother is gone before. So let us pray, my friends, that the will of the Lord may be perfectly fulfilled in us; let us in utter submission find peace at last. For there is an end to our trial, and a home from which we shall not be shut out.”And so Fernando wholly, and the others as far as they might, gave up the restless hope of freedom, and set themselves to bear the suffering of each day as it passed, not looking to the morrow. And so there came to them in the midst of their toiling, driven lives, some still and peaceful moments, some inward consolations that carried them through.Their lives were very monotonous, chiefly varied by the sickness of one or other, often of Fernando himself, which held them solitary prisoners in the miserable, airless lodging where they dwelt, or by a different overlooker at their toil, or a change in the part of the gardens where they pursued it. Now and then, too, they saw their old friend the Majorcan merchant, who brought them little comforts; on which occasions Fernando’s appetite was often found to fail, and he would beg some other to take his share.They had very little opportunity of intercourse with the other slaves, by whom a chance word or look from Fernando was highly valued; but since the Moors were not all fiends incarnate, Fernando’s faultless life and ready performance of all that was allotted to him won him some favour from his masters, and with some of them a little courteous intercourse. Their lot, with its toil, squalor, and hardship, was bad indeed, but endurable when not made worse by wilful cruelties.Soon after the news of the king’s death, Fernando and Manoel, alone of their party, were digging out the ground for some new fountains in the ladies’ garden. Their overseer was a certain Hassan, the mildest of his race, and he was superintending the other prisoners at a little distance, sitting cross-legged on a bank, smoking his hookah.Princess Zarah and her maidens were seated at some distance, watching the alterations. Manoel worked slowly, and paused often for breath.“Rest, now,” said the prince, “there is nothing to do here but what I can finish easily.”“I would gladly save your highness from doing one stroke of it,” said Manoel, wearily; “but sometimes I think, sir, my sorrows are nearly over.”“If so, dear lad,” said Fernando, with a smile, “the rest of us might envy you; sorely, as I, at least, should miss your face.”“But for you, my lord, I could not have held out so long,” said Manoel, as, weak and faint, he sank down on the ground. The prince raised him in his arms, and looked round for help.“Princess! princess!” said Leila, who was stringing beads for her mistress, “one of the slaves is fainting.”“It was very stupid of Hassan not to send men who can do their work. He should whip them when they are idle,” said Zarah, indolently.“Oh, princess! let me take him water; he will die!” cried Leila.“If you like,” said Zarah, putting a sweetmeat between her lips.Leila seized a jar of water, and some fruit and bread, and came towards the prisoners. She looked frightened and shy; but held out the jar of water to Fernando, who bathed Manoel’s face with it.“He does not revive,” said the girl.“Yes! his eyes open!—Manoel, dear friend!”But as Fernando looked in his face, he saw that the last hour was come, and Father José far away on the other side of the gardens. He laid Manoel down, with his head on a heap of turf, and kneeling beside him, made the sign of the cross over him, and repeated the Pater Noster, while a smile of peace passed over the face of the dying boy.Beside them knelt Leila, brought there by her sweet impulse of pity. She clasped the cross still hanging within her dress, and the long-forgotten words of the prayer taught in her childhood rose to her lips. The words were hardly said, Fernando bent down to kiss Manoel’s brow, when the end came, and with a long, gasping sigh,oneprisoner was free.“Heis at rest,” said Fernando, in thankful accents, though his lips quivered as he thought how much he should miss the special love which this poor boy had borne him.Leila stood trembling beside him, hardly knowing that she looked on death, and Hassan, seeing something amiss, came hurrying down to them, and not unkindly summoned some of the other Portuguese to bear away their comrade, allowing Fernando to follow, while he called other slaves to finish their work.Leila was surrounded by her companions, who pressed her with a thousand frivolous questions, more amused at the exciting incident than horrified at it.Leila shrank away from them, and as soon as she found herself alone, sat down under a tree and tried to think—tried to remember.Long ago a strange pang had shot through her, when she had recognised in the toiling slaves her fellow-Christians. And the sight of Fernando had awakened in her a whole world of recollections; had made her suddenly feel, as well as know, that she was not of kin to the soft luxurious life around her—her kindred were these wretched toiling slaves—her faith should be their faith—in their sorrows she, too, ought to suffer.Leila could not have clearly explained this to herself; she could only feel the strong impulse that twice had carried her to the aid of a Christian slave in distress. And now an odd sort of instinctive respect for the prince, who had been the hero of her babyhood, rose up in her mind. She had been taught but little religion to put in the place of the forgotten faith she had learnt with her sister so long ago; and the only result of being a Christian that could occur to her was miserable slavery. A great terror came over her, she tried to wake as from a dream, and ran back hurriedly to her companions.
“And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
“And the days darken round me, and the years,Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
The days passed on until October. Fernando saw no more of Catalina, though he still laboured in her neighbourhood; and no incidents broke his life of toil, till one day the Portuguese were sent for to the presence of the prime minister. It was part of the humiliation laid upon him that he was now and then, forced to appear in the midst of the splendid court in his slave’s dress, his hands stained with toil and fettered, as they always were, except when actually engaged in working. But spite of all this, and though his stiff limbs moved slowly and feebly, there was no air of embarrassment, no consciousness of degradation. He walked up the great hall, and looked Lazurac firmly in the face, bowing to him with the courtesy of a superior, neither shrinking nor defiant.
Lazurac burst out in sudden accents of fury.
“Now, slave,” he cried; “now you are wholly in our power. What is to prevent us from flaying you alive, beating you to death, in revenge for the perfidy of your countrymen? And now no fleets will sail to deliver you; we need fear no more from the vengeance of Portugal.”
“And why?” said Fernando, as soon as Lazurac paused.
The Moor came and stood over him, his dark face convulsed with rage, a strange contrast, with his splendid dress and infuriated aspect, to his prisoner, whose clear calm eyes were raised to his without fear or falter.
“Because the king, your brother, has died while shilly-shallying over his intentions of freeing you. Here is the news of his death, and no word of keeping the treaty. Ha! I have moved you now!”
For Fernando staggered, and would have fallen but for Lazurac’s rough grasp.
“My brother—my brother!” was all he could utter.
“Ay, there is a letter for you also; but the news is enough for you, rest content.”
“I pray you give me the letter?” said Fernando, faintly.
Lazurac laughed scornfully.
“Have you no mercy—no pity?” cried Fernando. “Offer me any insult you will, butgiveme the letter?”
It was the first time his calm dignity had been moved to intreaty or anger; but now he flashed out suddenly—
“You do not dare to withhold it from me? Nay, nay, I would not anger you; only give me the letter?”
Lazurac drew out the letter, with Enrique’s writing above the great black seal on the cover, and held it before his eyes.
“Kneel to me then; kneel to your master, and beg him of his favour to grant you your boon.”
Fernando drew himself up for a moment, while the other Portuguese rushed forward and threw themselves on their knees.
“Give us the letter,” they cried; “but spare this insult to our prince.”
“Rise, friends,” said Fernando, who had regained his self-control. “The shame lies not with me; and to my Master I kneel;” and he knelt, and for a moment raised his eyes to Heaven.
Lazurac flung him the letter, with a sense of gratified spite and hatred, and the prisoners were suffered to withdraw. What mattered the scene that had passed to Fernando; what mattered insult and hardship, compared to the sorrow and anguish of heart of reading of the beloved brother’s illness and death! Tears such as all his suffering had never wrong from him flowed fast as he read, and for the first time he was unable to comfort and support his followers, who all knew that a much blacker cloud had fallen on them, and that their chances of deliverance were lessened by this blow.
“My son,” said Father José, tenderly, “our beloved king suffered much grief and anxiety. We may think of him now in the rest of Paradise.”
“Grief and anxiety which I helped to cause,” sighed Fernando. “Doubtless it is well; but now, submission is hard.”
And when the prince was thus cast down, the spirits of the whole party failed utterly, and one after another fell into disgrace with their tyrants, and suffered accordingly. At last, after a second night of tears and anguish, Fernando regained the mastery over himself, and before they started on their day of toil he called his friends around him, and thus spoke—
“My friends, I think we must put hope away. It was my dear brother’s earnest wish to free us by ransom, by force, or even by the yielding of the Christian city, for which, for my part, I think our poor lives were a bad exchange. But what he could not do, our bereaved country in its hour of trial will fail to accomplish. So pardon me my share in your sorrows, my rashness first, and now that I cannot bring myself to beg our freedom at the price they ask. Could I but bear it all—could I but make in our own land such a home and rest as you deserve! But there remaineth a rest for us all, where my brother is gone before. So let us pray, my friends, that the will of the Lord may be perfectly fulfilled in us; let us in utter submission find peace at last. For there is an end to our trial, and a home from which we shall not be shut out.”
And so Fernando wholly, and the others as far as they might, gave up the restless hope of freedom, and set themselves to bear the suffering of each day as it passed, not looking to the morrow. And so there came to them in the midst of their toiling, driven lives, some still and peaceful moments, some inward consolations that carried them through.
Their lives were very monotonous, chiefly varied by the sickness of one or other, often of Fernando himself, which held them solitary prisoners in the miserable, airless lodging where they dwelt, or by a different overlooker at their toil, or a change in the part of the gardens where they pursued it. Now and then, too, they saw their old friend the Majorcan merchant, who brought them little comforts; on which occasions Fernando’s appetite was often found to fail, and he would beg some other to take his share.
They had very little opportunity of intercourse with the other slaves, by whom a chance word or look from Fernando was highly valued; but since the Moors were not all fiends incarnate, Fernando’s faultless life and ready performance of all that was allotted to him won him some favour from his masters, and with some of them a little courteous intercourse. Their lot, with its toil, squalor, and hardship, was bad indeed, but endurable when not made worse by wilful cruelties.
Soon after the news of the king’s death, Fernando and Manoel, alone of their party, were digging out the ground for some new fountains in the ladies’ garden. Their overseer was a certain Hassan, the mildest of his race, and he was superintending the other prisoners at a little distance, sitting cross-legged on a bank, smoking his hookah.
Princess Zarah and her maidens were seated at some distance, watching the alterations. Manoel worked slowly, and paused often for breath.
“Rest, now,” said the prince, “there is nothing to do here but what I can finish easily.”
“I would gladly save your highness from doing one stroke of it,” said Manoel, wearily; “but sometimes I think, sir, my sorrows are nearly over.”
“If so, dear lad,” said Fernando, with a smile, “the rest of us might envy you; sorely, as I, at least, should miss your face.”
“But for you, my lord, I could not have held out so long,” said Manoel, as, weak and faint, he sank down on the ground. The prince raised him in his arms, and looked round for help.
“Princess! princess!” said Leila, who was stringing beads for her mistress, “one of the slaves is fainting.”
“It was very stupid of Hassan not to send men who can do their work. He should whip them when they are idle,” said Zarah, indolently.
“Oh, princess! let me take him water; he will die!” cried Leila.
“If you like,” said Zarah, putting a sweetmeat between her lips.
Leila seized a jar of water, and some fruit and bread, and came towards the prisoners. She looked frightened and shy; but held out the jar of water to Fernando, who bathed Manoel’s face with it.
“He does not revive,” said the girl.
“Yes! his eyes open!—Manoel, dear friend!”
But as Fernando looked in his face, he saw that the last hour was come, and Father José far away on the other side of the gardens. He laid Manoel down, with his head on a heap of turf, and kneeling beside him, made the sign of the cross over him, and repeated the Pater Noster, while a smile of peace passed over the face of the dying boy.
Beside them knelt Leila, brought there by her sweet impulse of pity. She clasped the cross still hanging within her dress, and the long-forgotten words of the prayer taught in her childhood rose to her lips. The words were hardly said, Fernando bent down to kiss Manoel’s brow, when the end came, and with a long, gasping sigh,oneprisoner was free.
“Heis at rest,” said Fernando, in thankful accents, though his lips quivered as he thought how much he should miss the special love which this poor boy had borne him.
Leila stood trembling beside him, hardly knowing that she looked on death, and Hassan, seeing something amiss, came hurrying down to them, and not unkindly summoned some of the other Portuguese to bear away their comrade, allowing Fernando to follow, while he called other slaves to finish their work.
Leila was surrounded by her companions, who pressed her with a thousand frivolous questions, more amused at the exciting incident than horrified at it.
Leila shrank away from them, and as soon as she found herself alone, sat down under a tree and tried to think—tried to remember.
Long ago a strange pang had shot through her, when she had recognised in the toiling slaves her fellow-Christians. And the sight of Fernando had awakened in her a whole world of recollections; had made her suddenly feel, as well as know, that she was not of kin to the soft luxurious life around her—her kindred were these wretched toiling slaves—her faith should be their faith—in their sorrows she, too, ought to suffer.
Leila could not have clearly explained this to herself; she could only feel the strong impulse that twice had carried her to the aid of a Christian slave in distress. And now an odd sort of instinctive respect for the prince, who had been the hero of her babyhood, rose up in her mind. She had been taught but little religion to put in the place of the forgotten faith she had learnt with her sister so long ago; and the only result of being a Christian that could occur to her was miserable slavery. A great terror came over her, she tried to wake as from a dream, and ran back hurriedly to her companions.
Chapter Twenty Three.Loving Service.“Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;A free and quiet mind doth takeThese for a hermitage.”The streets of Fez presented often a motley mixture of passengers—merchants and traders of all nations mingling with the Moorish inhabitants and with the numerous slaves.One morning, bright with all the glory of a southern spring, a tall young man, sunburnt, and carrying a merchant’s pack, was standing in one of the chief streets watching the passers-by. First was a dark Ethiopian, heavily fettered; then several of the lower-class Moors themselves; then a pair of slender, long-limbed Italians, trudging wearily beneath a burden too heavy for them. The trader accosted them—“Can you direct me to the lodging assigned to the Portuguese prisoners? I would speak, if permitted, with the Prince Dom Fernando.”“Softly, Signor,” said the Italian; “it is not so we obtain speech with friends. There is the lodging for your compatriots; but all day they toil in the royal gardens.”“That wretched hovel?” ejaculated the stranger.“Ay, and now I recollect one of the Portuguese told me sadly, but now, that their prince was sick, so he will be within. Maybe a bribe to their warder will gain you an entrance.”Like one in a dream, the young man moved towards the entrance of the low stone building which his acquaintance had indicated, and accosted a Moor who stood before the door.“I am servant to Paolo, a Majorcan merchant,” he said, “who is permitted to visit the prisoners. Will the King of his grace permit me entrance?” and he dropped a purse into the warder’s hand as he spoke.“Well, may be, if you leave your pack behind you. Who knows what it may contain?”“Willingly, so I may take these few dried fruits to my compatriots.”The warder sullenly unlocked the door, and ushered the young merchant into a small low room, with no furniture save a few sheepskins thrown on the floor. On one of these, in a corner, lay a figure, worn and wasted, and dressed in a torn and ragged coat of the commonest serge. His eyes were closed as if asleep, and only the delicate outline of the features, and the fair hair, still tended more or less carefully, bore any resemblance to the Infante Fernando.“Wake!—rouse up!” said the Moor with a rough push. “House up, slave!—here’s a visitor for you.”The prisoner opened his large blue eyes and looked up languidly.“Just a draught of water,” he said, faintly, “for my lips are parched with this fever.”“My prince!—oh, my prince! My lord, my lord!—oh, wretched day, that I should see this! Curses on the ruffians. Oh, my dear master!” and down dropped the young merchant on his knees, sobbing, and covering the prince’s hand with kisses.“What!—Harry Hartsed! Not a prisoner too?”“No, no! Alas, alas!”“Hush!” said Fernando. “Come, good Moussa, thou knowest I am to be trusted. Withdraw but for a few minutes.”“Well—’tisn’t much harm can be done. I’ll get you that draught of water, since a tamer set of birds I never had in cage.” And locking the door behind him, Moussa went out.“That man is often kind to us,” said Fernando; “but oh, Master Hartsed, what brings you here?”“I come—I have sought your highness for months—that a word from you might right me. But oh! what are my wrongs to this? Oh, my lord! let me but share your prison, that I may wait on you and tend you. Alas, alas!”“Nay, nay,” said Fernando, “I have no lack of loving tendance, and to-morrow I hope to be at my work again, for this is but a passing sickness, and at night my poor friends return to me. But when were you at Lisbon? My brothers!—oh, Harry, you come from home?” and the gentle eyes grew wistful, and filled with tears.“I come not now from Lisbon,” said Harry, “and I know not what is now passing there. My lord, when you were sick formerly, you would sometimes rest on my arm—so—”“Thanks—thanks!”The poor prince closed his eyes; the familiar voice and touch, unknown for so long, brought back a dream of home. Could he but sleep so, and know no waking in his dreary prison! It almost seemed for a moment as if, when his eyes opened, he should see Enrique leaning over him, and hear his loving greeting. Ah, never—never! till they met in Paradise! With a great effort he roused himself, for time was passing.“But these wrongs of which you speak?”Harry was silent. The boiling indignation in which he had quitted Lisbon, the rage and hate that had proved his own undoing, sank away ashamed; and it was very meekly that at length he told his tale—told of the false accusation, the quarrel with Alvarez, the anger of Sir Walter, the hasty banishment, adding, as he had never done before—“My lord, had I been patient, it might have been otherwise with me.”“Ah, dear friend, there is no remedy but patience for all the evils brought on us by our own rash folly. Repentance and patience. But now, have you tablets?”“Yes, my lord.”“Then—your arm again for a moment, and I will Write—for Moussa will soon return.” So saying the prince wrote—“I, Fernando of Avis, declare that Harry Hartsed was my most faithful friend and servant, and that no charge of treason can be proved against him, and I beg my dear brother, Dom Enrique, to look once more into the matter.”“Go, Harry,” said the prince, “at once to my brother. And now I have a matter to tell you. I have found Catalina Northberry, Sir Walter’s lost child.”“My lord! Where?”“Here, in the royal palace of Fez. She is the slave of the Princess Zarah; but happy and tenderly nurtured. Alas! I know not whether escape is possible for her; but she knows her name and has a kind heart. I dare not write of her; but you might, through Paolo, obtain speech with her, and take welcome news to Sir Walter,” said Fernando, concluding with a smile.Harry looked as if he could hardly believe in so startling a coincidence.“But oh, my dear lord! your sufferings—this wretched place.”“I can but thank our blessed Saviour, and those holy saints who have followed in His steps, for the grace that has been given me so to meditate on their examples, and to remember their far greater sufferings, as to bear with somewhat less repiningmyshare in the blessed cross. For what is it thatIshould bear rough words, or now and then a blow, when for my sake the Lord Himself was mocked and scourged?”“And oh,” thought Harry, with bent head, “what is it then thatIshould be misjudged?”“And yet,” said Fernando, “since our dear Lord knows how weak I am, and how hard it is to hold a firm heart amid slavery and cruelty, and without those whom I love, He holds me up with such a frequent consciousness of His presence, and such a blessed sense of His goodness, as is better than freedom and friends; so weep not, dear Harry, and bid my Enrique not to weep for one who has blessings of which he is all unworthy.”Harry could only bend down and kiss the wasted hands that held his.“My lord, I have sinned in my fierce anger,” he said; “I see it, now I know what my prince has to bear.”“You did always know, Harry, what was borne by the Prince of Peace,” said Fernando. “But here is Moussa; maybe we shall meet again in the royal gardens; if so, pay me no respect—treat me as a slave.”Moussa here entered with a skin of water, with which he permitted Harry to bathe the prince’s face and hands before quitting him, as he lay grateful and smiling, with a word of thanks to Moussa for his kindness.When Harry found himself in the free air again, he staggered as if he would faint, and, hardly recovering, hurried away out of the streets of the town into a quiet spot, where he threw himself down on the ground, able to think of nothing but of the condition in which he had found the prince. When he quitted Lisbon, full of resentment and anger, he had at once resolved to seek the prince in his imprisonment, and obtain some evidence from him of his innocence. He was far too proud to go back to England with a dishonoured name, and though he believed Nella lost to him for ever, he could not bear to think that she should be taught to disbelieve in him. He was too angry to consider that his violent quarrel with Alvarez, rather than the vague charge against him, had been the cause of his banishment. After a long series of adventures, and some hardship and difficulty, he finally encountered the good Paolo, who undertook to obtain him speech of the prince, and provided the bribe for the warder. But not all the merchant’s descriptions had prepared Harry for what he saw, and he could not recover from the impression. He hung about the place where the slaves were employed, and obtained speech of one or two of the Portuguese, who were all eager to hear a word from home. They were all more patient than the other poor slaves, and had evidently learnt something from the example of the prince, who after a day or two appeared again among them, working feebly at his humble toil; a sight that nearly drove Harry crazy.
“Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;A free and quiet mind doth takeThese for a hermitage.”
“Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;A free and quiet mind doth takeThese for a hermitage.”
The streets of Fez presented often a motley mixture of passengers—merchants and traders of all nations mingling with the Moorish inhabitants and with the numerous slaves.
One morning, bright with all the glory of a southern spring, a tall young man, sunburnt, and carrying a merchant’s pack, was standing in one of the chief streets watching the passers-by. First was a dark Ethiopian, heavily fettered; then several of the lower-class Moors themselves; then a pair of slender, long-limbed Italians, trudging wearily beneath a burden too heavy for them. The trader accosted them—
“Can you direct me to the lodging assigned to the Portuguese prisoners? I would speak, if permitted, with the Prince Dom Fernando.”
“Softly, Signor,” said the Italian; “it is not so we obtain speech with friends. There is the lodging for your compatriots; but all day they toil in the royal gardens.”
“That wretched hovel?” ejaculated the stranger.
“Ay, and now I recollect one of the Portuguese told me sadly, but now, that their prince was sick, so he will be within. Maybe a bribe to their warder will gain you an entrance.”
Like one in a dream, the young man moved towards the entrance of the low stone building which his acquaintance had indicated, and accosted a Moor who stood before the door.
“I am servant to Paolo, a Majorcan merchant,” he said, “who is permitted to visit the prisoners. Will the King of his grace permit me entrance?” and he dropped a purse into the warder’s hand as he spoke.
“Well, may be, if you leave your pack behind you. Who knows what it may contain?”
“Willingly, so I may take these few dried fruits to my compatriots.”
The warder sullenly unlocked the door, and ushered the young merchant into a small low room, with no furniture save a few sheepskins thrown on the floor. On one of these, in a corner, lay a figure, worn and wasted, and dressed in a torn and ragged coat of the commonest serge. His eyes were closed as if asleep, and only the delicate outline of the features, and the fair hair, still tended more or less carefully, bore any resemblance to the Infante Fernando.
“Wake!—rouse up!” said the Moor with a rough push. “House up, slave!—here’s a visitor for you.”
The prisoner opened his large blue eyes and looked up languidly.
“Just a draught of water,” he said, faintly, “for my lips are parched with this fever.”
“My prince!—oh, my prince! My lord, my lord!—oh, wretched day, that I should see this! Curses on the ruffians. Oh, my dear master!” and down dropped the young merchant on his knees, sobbing, and covering the prince’s hand with kisses.
“What!—Harry Hartsed! Not a prisoner too?”
“No, no! Alas, alas!”
“Hush!” said Fernando. “Come, good Moussa, thou knowest I am to be trusted. Withdraw but for a few minutes.”
“Well—’tisn’t much harm can be done. I’ll get you that draught of water, since a tamer set of birds I never had in cage.” And locking the door behind him, Moussa went out.
“That man is often kind to us,” said Fernando; “but oh, Master Hartsed, what brings you here?”
“I come—I have sought your highness for months—that a word from you might right me. But oh! what are my wrongs to this? Oh, my lord! let me but share your prison, that I may wait on you and tend you. Alas, alas!”
“Nay, nay,” said Fernando, “I have no lack of loving tendance, and to-morrow I hope to be at my work again, for this is but a passing sickness, and at night my poor friends return to me. But when were you at Lisbon? My brothers!—oh, Harry, you come from home?” and the gentle eyes grew wistful, and filled with tears.
“I come not now from Lisbon,” said Harry, “and I know not what is now passing there. My lord, when you were sick formerly, you would sometimes rest on my arm—so—”
“Thanks—thanks!”
The poor prince closed his eyes; the familiar voice and touch, unknown for so long, brought back a dream of home. Could he but sleep so, and know no waking in his dreary prison! It almost seemed for a moment as if, when his eyes opened, he should see Enrique leaning over him, and hear his loving greeting. Ah, never—never! till they met in Paradise! With a great effort he roused himself, for time was passing.
“But these wrongs of which you speak?”
Harry was silent. The boiling indignation in which he had quitted Lisbon, the rage and hate that had proved his own undoing, sank away ashamed; and it was very meekly that at length he told his tale—told of the false accusation, the quarrel with Alvarez, the anger of Sir Walter, the hasty banishment, adding, as he had never done before—
“My lord, had I been patient, it might have been otherwise with me.”
“Ah, dear friend, there is no remedy but patience for all the evils brought on us by our own rash folly. Repentance and patience. But now, have you tablets?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then—your arm again for a moment, and I will Write—for Moussa will soon return.” So saying the prince wrote—
“I, Fernando of Avis, declare that Harry Hartsed was my most faithful friend and servant, and that no charge of treason can be proved against him, and I beg my dear brother, Dom Enrique, to look once more into the matter.”
“Go, Harry,” said the prince, “at once to my brother. And now I have a matter to tell you. I have found Catalina Northberry, Sir Walter’s lost child.”
“My lord! Where?”
“Here, in the royal palace of Fez. She is the slave of the Princess Zarah; but happy and tenderly nurtured. Alas! I know not whether escape is possible for her; but she knows her name and has a kind heart. I dare not write of her; but you might, through Paolo, obtain speech with her, and take welcome news to Sir Walter,” said Fernando, concluding with a smile.
Harry looked as if he could hardly believe in so startling a coincidence.
“But oh, my dear lord! your sufferings—this wretched place.”
“I can but thank our blessed Saviour, and those holy saints who have followed in His steps, for the grace that has been given me so to meditate on their examples, and to remember their far greater sufferings, as to bear with somewhat less repiningmyshare in the blessed cross. For what is it thatIshould bear rough words, or now and then a blow, when for my sake the Lord Himself was mocked and scourged?”
“And oh,” thought Harry, with bent head, “what is it then thatIshould be misjudged?”
“And yet,” said Fernando, “since our dear Lord knows how weak I am, and how hard it is to hold a firm heart amid slavery and cruelty, and without those whom I love, He holds me up with such a frequent consciousness of His presence, and such a blessed sense of His goodness, as is better than freedom and friends; so weep not, dear Harry, and bid my Enrique not to weep for one who has blessings of which he is all unworthy.”
Harry could only bend down and kiss the wasted hands that held his.
“My lord, I have sinned in my fierce anger,” he said; “I see it, now I know what my prince has to bear.”
“You did always know, Harry, what was borne by the Prince of Peace,” said Fernando. “But here is Moussa; maybe we shall meet again in the royal gardens; if so, pay me no respect—treat me as a slave.”
Moussa here entered with a skin of water, with which he permitted Harry to bathe the prince’s face and hands before quitting him, as he lay grateful and smiling, with a word of thanks to Moussa for his kindness.
When Harry found himself in the free air again, he staggered as if he would faint, and, hardly recovering, hurried away out of the streets of the town into a quiet spot, where he threw himself down on the ground, able to think of nothing but of the condition in which he had found the prince. When he quitted Lisbon, full of resentment and anger, he had at once resolved to seek the prince in his imprisonment, and obtain some evidence from him of his innocence. He was far too proud to go back to England with a dishonoured name, and though he believed Nella lost to him for ever, he could not bear to think that she should be taught to disbelieve in him. He was too angry to consider that his violent quarrel with Alvarez, rather than the vague charge against him, had been the cause of his banishment. After a long series of adventures, and some hardship and difficulty, he finally encountered the good Paolo, who undertook to obtain him speech of the prince, and provided the bribe for the warder. But not all the merchant’s descriptions had prepared Harry for what he saw, and he could not recover from the impression. He hung about the place where the slaves were employed, and obtained speech of one or two of the Portuguese, who were all eager to hear a word from home. They were all more patient than the other poor slaves, and had evidently learnt something from the example of the prince, who after a day or two appeared again among them, working feebly at his humble toil; a sight that nearly drove Harry crazy.
Chapter Twenty Four.Restored.“Laila rushed betweenTo save—.She met the blow, and sank into his arms.”Thalaba.Meanwhile Leila mused much over the death of Manoel. The dim visions of her childhood were too far away to be attractive. Even Nella, though a tender thought to her, was vague compared to the maidens by whose side she had played for years. The notion of a father was utterly strange to her—too strange to be attractive. She loved the princess, who had been on the whole kind to her, with the devotion of a loving nature; and she shrank timidly from the unknown world without the palace walls.“To be a Christian” hardly came before her in the light of an obligation; she knew nothing of Christianity but a few words of prayer, which she did not understand, and the sign of the cross, made instinctively, to which she could scarcely attach a meaning. She was frightened by the call to become something so new and strange. Her feelings were dormant and uncultivated. She was happy enough; why should she change?Then there rose up before her the one figure who had come to her out of the mists of darkness, the enslaved prince.Herfriends oppressedhim, and she thought with a shudder of the ill-treatment she had witnessed. If she was a Christian too, was it not a shame to lie there on her soft couch, to eat sweetmeats, and play with flowers, while he suffered such cruel pangs! Strange contradiction!—it was not freedom, a father or a sister’s love, that made her feel that she was a Christian, but the stripes and the fetters of her fellow-slave.Still this was but a feeling; and this poor child was no heroine, no deliverer of her race, but a little soft, spoiled, tender creature, who had lived all her days on sweetmeats and caresses.But a great desire possessed her to hear what the prince would say to her about that unknown world of which she had been lately thinking; and with a view to getting an interview with him, she set herself to watch the slaves as closely as possible. She soon perceived that it was a bad time for the Portuguese. The mild Hassan had been succeeded by an overseer named Jussuf, whose cruelties were frightful, and the poor prisoners could do nothing so as to escape his blows.One day, as she stood by the garden-wall watching, with a fascination that grew every moment more painful and more intense, Fernando detached himself a little from the others, and, unobserved for a moment, rested the heavy load under which he staggered against the wall. The little gate was unfastened, for some work had been going on within; and, with sudden courage, Leila, pulling her veil over her face, pushed it open, and touched the prince’s arm.“They are not looking. Come inside and rest,” she said.Fernando was almost fainting; he yielded unthinkingly, and putting down his burden of heavy stones, dropped down on the grass.“Oh, you will die, as the other slave did,” cried Leila, in terror.“No, lady,” said Fernando, recovering himself; “this rest has revived me. I have sought to speak with you to tell you that I have been enabled to send home a message to your father, telling him of your safety; and I doubt not that he will find means to offer such a ransom as may restore you to your friends.”Leila trembled.“My lord,” she said, “I am afraid to be a Christian.”“Ah, do not think,” said Fernando, “that the cross would bring on you such suffering as you see in these poor slaves; or, if so, it is in the service of a Master Who endured infinitely more for His followers.”“Like you,” said Leila.“Nay,” said Fernando, “yet if I could reach that likeness—”The prince had risen to his feet, and stood leaning against the gateway. Leila sat on the grass. She had pushed aside her veil, and was looking up at him with her clear blue eyes shining through half-shed tears. Suddenly Jussuf’s heavy hand fell on Fernando’s shoulder, striking him down to the ground again.“Dog of a Christian!—what do you here?” he cried, striking blow after blow.With a sudden impulse Leila rushed forward, and threw herself on her knees beside them.“I too am a Christian!” she cried, and before Jussuf could stay his hand, the heavy blow intended for his victim, fell on Leila’s head, and stretched her senseless on the grass.“Coward and villain!” cried the prince, all his knightly manhood roused, as with sudden strength he sprang up, and for once returned the blow.All passed in a moment. Leila’s screams had brought both the other women and the slaves and overseers without to the spot, and Fernando’s hands were pinioned, and he was dragged away before he had time to see whether Leila’s senses returned to her. He bitterly blamed himself for having yielded to her proposal, for the incident brought far severer restrictions on himself and his companions, and he feared much suffering on the poor maiden herself; and many were the prayers he offered that she who had been impelled to so brave a confession might not be forced into denying the Faith which she scarcely knew, and that this tender, innocent child might not have to endure such suffering as tried the uttermost strength of grown men. Leila, when she revived from the stunning blow, was dizzy and faint; but when her princess questioned her, she answered boldly, that she knew the slave Selim to be the Prince of Portugal, and that she herself was a Christian lady—she could not bear to see him beaten.Whereat the princess angrily reminded Leila that she too was but a slave, and sentenced her to a whipping—not very severe—for her disobedience and folly. Leilawasa slave, and she took the stripes as her due, and cried at their smart, then kissed her mistress’s hand, and begged for pardon; and the princess indolently forgave her, and bade her go and work at her cushion.“But do not weep,” said she, “for Ayesha is growing prettier than you, and if you cannot laugh and sing to amuse me, I shall let Jussuf marry you as he wishes. I told him you entertained me, and I would not spare you.”“Oh, princess!” cried Leila in an agony, “I love you; let me stay with you.”“Well, sing then, and learn some pretty dances; you are tiresome when you cry.”But Leila’s efforts failed to please. She was no longer a little soulless plaything. Thoughts of her distant home, of her prince’s sufferings, yearnings after that unknown Saviour, Whom he followed, filled her heart, and her eyes grew absent and her lips sad. She fretted, and her feet were less light, her voice less ringing.“I shall let Jussuf have her,” thought Zarah; “they are not so pretty and amusing as they grow older. Ayesha is only fourteen.”In the meantime Harry Hartsed left Fez in company with Paolo, and before many weeks were over found himself on the stormy promontory of Sagres, telling his tale to Dom Enrique himself.There Enrique had retired, and amid plans for navigation, observations of the heavens, and constant efforts to improve the mathematical instruments with which they were carried out, endeavoured to forget the distracting disputes between Dom Pedro’s party and that of the queen. Nevertheless he was never deaf to the call of duty, and succeeded on the whole in keeping unimpaired both his brotherly love and his loyalty to his young nephew, through all the petty spite and false accusation of that miserable time.He listened with great attention to Harry’s story, and then said—“I think, Master Hartsed, that in the soreness of our hearts we neglected to inquire sufficiently into the vague story that so angered you. But it is ended; for a wretched soldier not long since made confession that he, and he only, was aware of the traitor’s intention on that fatal night, and being sentry, permitted him to pass the outpost. But I will come with you to Sir Walter Northberry and confirm this tale.”“I thank you, my lord. Dom Alvarez is doubtless—is doubtless—”“Dom Alvarez and Sir Walter are no longer friends, since Dom Alvarez, with his family, has joined the party of the queen. Sir Walter is one of those who wish for my brother’s regency. His betrothal therefore is at an end.”“Oh, my lord, I never hoped—I never dreamed of hearing this,” cried Harry so ecstatically, that a smile broke over the prince’s grave face.“Well, Master Hartsed, you shall come with me to Lisbon. I offer you again a place in my household, and doubtless Sir Walter will understand how matters have sped, especially when you bring him such good news.”“My lord, I can never thank you.”“I ask but this, this precious writing,” said Enrique, sorrowfully, as he laid his hand on the tablet.“Oh, my lord, is there no hope of a deliverance? I would give the last drop of my blood to save him!”Enrique shook his head.“Sometimes,” he answered, “I am thankful that he does not know the intrigues and the meannesses that have kept him where he is, and all the light of my life with him. Well,” added the prince, as if to himself, “he is winning a martyr’s crown, and I must do that work in the world to which I am called. But you love him.”And with a smile of exceeding sweetness Enrique rose and held out his hand to Harry, as if that love was to be a bond between them.He kept his word. When they came to Lisbon, he took on himself to tell Sir Walter how completely he considered Master Hartsed’s character to be cleared from the doubt cast on it. He showed Fernando’s precious writing, and prepared the father for the revelation of Catalina’s existence.And so it came to pass that one day Nella was called away from her embroidery, and found herself once more in the presence of her old friend, and heard that he had found her lost sister.Nella had passed but a dreary time of late; but she was of a hopeful nature, and certainly had found it hard to regret the quarrels that parted her from her unwelcome suitor. She had learned too, by the endurance of a real grief and loss, to be more patient of the rubs and the dullnesses of daily life, just as Harry had learned patience by the sight of suffering so far exceeding his own.Both were changed from the impetuous boy and wilful girl, who had laughed and disputed little more than a year ago. But their hearts were unchanged towards each other, and Dom Enrique’s influence soon induced Sir Walter to consent to a union which ensured his daughter’s happiness and gained a faithful adherent to the Regent’s cause.But first there was great joy at hearing of Catalina’s safety, and Dom Enrique aided Sir Walter in offering a ransom large enough to insure her freedom, and it was sent to Fez by trusty messengers. It came at the right time; Leila had been bidden to consider herself the promised bride of the terrible Jussuf, and all her tears and intreaties had availed nothing.The princess was tired of her, and when a sum of money large enough to purchase a ruby on which she had set her fancy was offered, Jussuf having at the same time fallen into disgrace for neglecting some trifling order, Leila, with hardly a farewell, scared and half reluctant, was handed over to the unknown Christians who were to conduct her to Lisbon.She was passive in the bewilderment of change and novelty; her few words of Portuguese failed her utterly; her father’s welcoming kiss made her tremble and hide her face; and though she returned Nella’s embraces, and smiled when her sister dressed her in clothes like her own, and called her Kate, it was with a bewildered surprise.Dom Enrique asked to see her, knowing enough of the Moorish tongue to question her as to all she could tell of his dear brother; and when she saw him she threw herself at his feet and kissed his hand, with an abandonment unlike indeed to Nella’s stately greeting.But Enrique won from her the story of the blow she had borne for Fernando’s sake, and thenceforth she was to him an object of entire admiration and reverence.In order that she might learn the duties of her religion and accustom herself a little to the life of a Christian lady, she was sent to a convent, and there she was far more at home than in her father’s house, learned to speak Portuguese slowly and with difficulty, and practised with great docility all the observances required of her.The nuns would fain have kept so apt a pupil altogether, and Catalina was not unwilling: the outer world was too strange to be a happy one.But she went home on the occasion of her sister’s marriage, and there her beauty, equal to Nella’s, and the soft gentleness that distinguished her manner from the bride’s gayer, franker air, attracted the notice of Nella’s old suitor, Dom Alvarez, whose friendship, in some new turn of court intrigue, was now sought again by Sir Walter.Here was Nella’s face, without Nella’s untamable English spirit, and the young Portuguese thought the face none the less fair for the deficiency. He asked Catalina in marriage, being assured, he said, that she was a good Christian and a gentle lady; and Sir Walter, glad to be quit of this perplexing maiden, at once agreed.Catalina showed no unwillingness, and perhaps her gentle passiveness agreed better with Portuguese notions than ever Nella’s lively will could have done. She was loving and dutiful, and in the love of her children she was happy, knowing little and caring less for the political ambitions and intrigues which formed her husband’s life, simply believing that his part must be the right one.Eleanor Hartsed looked differently on life, and perhaps her clear and steadfast nature helped to point the right path to her husband in the troublous days in which their lot was cast, for Harry was too much attached to Dom Enrique to desert his adopted country, and the great prince never ceased to mark with a peculiar favour those who had been among the last to love and serve his beloved brother.But Catalina never forgot to pray for the captive prince who had taught her what it was to be a Christian; and Harry Hartsed, amid civil strife and political passion, cherished to his dying day the precious memory of having seen in the very flesh the “patience of the saints.”
“Laila rushed betweenTo save—.She met the blow, and sank into his arms.”Thalaba.
“Laila rushed betweenTo save—.She met the blow, and sank into his arms.”Thalaba.
Meanwhile Leila mused much over the death of Manoel. The dim visions of her childhood were too far away to be attractive. Even Nella, though a tender thought to her, was vague compared to the maidens by whose side she had played for years. The notion of a father was utterly strange to her—too strange to be attractive. She loved the princess, who had been on the whole kind to her, with the devotion of a loving nature; and she shrank timidly from the unknown world without the palace walls.
“To be a Christian” hardly came before her in the light of an obligation; she knew nothing of Christianity but a few words of prayer, which she did not understand, and the sign of the cross, made instinctively, to which she could scarcely attach a meaning. She was frightened by the call to become something so new and strange. Her feelings were dormant and uncultivated. She was happy enough; why should she change?
Then there rose up before her the one figure who had come to her out of the mists of darkness, the enslaved prince.Herfriends oppressedhim, and she thought with a shudder of the ill-treatment she had witnessed. If she was a Christian too, was it not a shame to lie there on her soft couch, to eat sweetmeats, and play with flowers, while he suffered such cruel pangs! Strange contradiction!—it was not freedom, a father or a sister’s love, that made her feel that she was a Christian, but the stripes and the fetters of her fellow-slave.
Still this was but a feeling; and this poor child was no heroine, no deliverer of her race, but a little soft, spoiled, tender creature, who had lived all her days on sweetmeats and caresses.
But a great desire possessed her to hear what the prince would say to her about that unknown world of which she had been lately thinking; and with a view to getting an interview with him, she set herself to watch the slaves as closely as possible. She soon perceived that it was a bad time for the Portuguese. The mild Hassan had been succeeded by an overseer named Jussuf, whose cruelties were frightful, and the poor prisoners could do nothing so as to escape his blows.
One day, as she stood by the garden-wall watching, with a fascination that grew every moment more painful and more intense, Fernando detached himself a little from the others, and, unobserved for a moment, rested the heavy load under which he staggered against the wall. The little gate was unfastened, for some work had been going on within; and, with sudden courage, Leila, pulling her veil over her face, pushed it open, and touched the prince’s arm.
“They are not looking. Come inside and rest,” she said.
Fernando was almost fainting; he yielded unthinkingly, and putting down his burden of heavy stones, dropped down on the grass.
“Oh, you will die, as the other slave did,” cried Leila, in terror.
“No, lady,” said Fernando, recovering himself; “this rest has revived me. I have sought to speak with you to tell you that I have been enabled to send home a message to your father, telling him of your safety; and I doubt not that he will find means to offer such a ransom as may restore you to your friends.”
Leila trembled.
“My lord,” she said, “I am afraid to be a Christian.”
“Ah, do not think,” said Fernando, “that the cross would bring on you such suffering as you see in these poor slaves; or, if so, it is in the service of a Master Who endured infinitely more for His followers.”
“Like you,” said Leila.
“Nay,” said Fernando, “yet if I could reach that likeness—”
The prince had risen to his feet, and stood leaning against the gateway. Leila sat on the grass. She had pushed aside her veil, and was looking up at him with her clear blue eyes shining through half-shed tears. Suddenly Jussuf’s heavy hand fell on Fernando’s shoulder, striking him down to the ground again.
“Dog of a Christian!—what do you here?” he cried, striking blow after blow.
With a sudden impulse Leila rushed forward, and threw herself on her knees beside them.
“I too am a Christian!” she cried, and before Jussuf could stay his hand, the heavy blow intended for his victim, fell on Leila’s head, and stretched her senseless on the grass.
“Coward and villain!” cried the prince, all his knightly manhood roused, as with sudden strength he sprang up, and for once returned the blow.
All passed in a moment. Leila’s screams had brought both the other women and the slaves and overseers without to the spot, and Fernando’s hands were pinioned, and he was dragged away before he had time to see whether Leila’s senses returned to her. He bitterly blamed himself for having yielded to her proposal, for the incident brought far severer restrictions on himself and his companions, and he feared much suffering on the poor maiden herself; and many were the prayers he offered that she who had been impelled to so brave a confession might not be forced into denying the Faith which she scarcely knew, and that this tender, innocent child might not have to endure such suffering as tried the uttermost strength of grown men. Leila, when she revived from the stunning blow, was dizzy and faint; but when her princess questioned her, she answered boldly, that she knew the slave Selim to be the Prince of Portugal, and that she herself was a Christian lady—she could not bear to see him beaten.
Whereat the princess angrily reminded Leila that she too was but a slave, and sentenced her to a whipping—not very severe—for her disobedience and folly. Leilawasa slave, and she took the stripes as her due, and cried at their smart, then kissed her mistress’s hand, and begged for pardon; and the princess indolently forgave her, and bade her go and work at her cushion.
“But do not weep,” said she, “for Ayesha is growing prettier than you, and if you cannot laugh and sing to amuse me, I shall let Jussuf marry you as he wishes. I told him you entertained me, and I would not spare you.”
“Oh, princess!” cried Leila in an agony, “I love you; let me stay with you.”
“Well, sing then, and learn some pretty dances; you are tiresome when you cry.”
But Leila’s efforts failed to please. She was no longer a little soulless plaything. Thoughts of her distant home, of her prince’s sufferings, yearnings after that unknown Saviour, Whom he followed, filled her heart, and her eyes grew absent and her lips sad. She fretted, and her feet were less light, her voice less ringing.
“I shall let Jussuf have her,” thought Zarah; “they are not so pretty and amusing as they grow older. Ayesha is only fourteen.”
In the meantime Harry Hartsed left Fez in company with Paolo, and before many weeks were over found himself on the stormy promontory of Sagres, telling his tale to Dom Enrique himself.
There Enrique had retired, and amid plans for navigation, observations of the heavens, and constant efforts to improve the mathematical instruments with which they were carried out, endeavoured to forget the distracting disputes between Dom Pedro’s party and that of the queen. Nevertheless he was never deaf to the call of duty, and succeeded on the whole in keeping unimpaired both his brotherly love and his loyalty to his young nephew, through all the petty spite and false accusation of that miserable time.
He listened with great attention to Harry’s story, and then said—
“I think, Master Hartsed, that in the soreness of our hearts we neglected to inquire sufficiently into the vague story that so angered you. But it is ended; for a wretched soldier not long since made confession that he, and he only, was aware of the traitor’s intention on that fatal night, and being sentry, permitted him to pass the outpost. But I will come with you to Sir Walter Northberry and confirm this tale.”
“I thank you, my lord. Dom Alvarez is doubtless—is doubtless—”
“Dom Alvarez and Sir Walter are no longer friends, since Dom Alvarez, with his family, has joined the party of the queen. Sir Walter is one of those who wish for my brother’s regency. His betrothal therefore is at an end.”
“Oh, my lord, I never hoped—I never dreamed of hearing this,” cried Harry so ecstatically, that a smile broke over the prince’s grave face.
“Well, Master Hartsed, you shall come with me to Lisbon. I offer you again a place in my household, and doubtless Sir Walter will understand how matters have sped, especially when you bring him such good news.”
“My lord, I can never thank you.”
“I ask but this, this precious writing,” said Enrique, sorrowfully, as he laid his hand on the tablet.
“Oh, my lord, is there no hope of a deliverance? I would give the last drop of my blood to save him!”
Enrique shook his head.
“Sometimes,” he answered, “I am thankful that he does not know the intrigues and the meannesses that have kept him where he is, and all the light of my life with him. Well,” added the prince, as if to himself, “he is winning a martyr’s crown, and I must do that work in the world to which I am called. But you love him.”
And with a smile of exceeding sweetness Enrique rose and held out his hand to Harry, as if that love was to be a bond between them.
He kept his word. When they came to Lisbon, he took on himself to tell Sir Walter how completely he considered Master Hartsed’s character to be cleared from the doubt cast on it. He showed Fernando’s precious writing, and prepared the father for the revelation of Catalina’s existence.
And so it came to pass that one day Nella was called away from her embroidery, and found herself once more in the presence of her old friend, and heard that he had found her lost sister.
Nella had passed but a dreary time of late; but she was of a hopeful nature, and certainly had found it hard to regret the quarrels that parted her from her unwelcome suitor. She had learned too, by the endurance of a real grief and loss, to be more patient of the rubs and the dullnesses of daily life, just as Harry had learned patience by the sight of suffering so far exceeding his own.
Both were changed from the impetuous boy and wilful girl, who had laughed and disputed little more than a year ago. But their hearts were unchanged towards each other, and Dom Enrique’s influence soon induced Sir Walter to consent to a union which ensured his daughter’s happiness and gained a faithful adherent to the Regent’s cause.
But first there was great joy at hearing of Catalina’s safety, and Dom Enrique aided Sir Walter in offering a ransom large enough to insure her freedom, and it was sent to Fez by trusty messengers. It came at the right time; Leila had been bidden to consider herself the promised bride of the terrible Jussuf, and all her tears and intreaties had availed nothing.
The princess was tired of her, and when a sum of money large enough to purchase a ruby on which she had set her fancy was offered, Jussuf having at the same time fallen into disgrace for neglecting some trifling order, Leila, with hardly a farewell, scared and half reluctant, was handed over to the unknown Christians who were to conduct her to Lisbon.
She was passive in the bewilderment of change and novelty; her few words of Portuguese failed her utterly; her father’s welcoming kiss made her tremble and hide her face; and though she returned Nella’s embraces, and smiled when her sister dressed her in clothes like her own, and called her Kate, it was with a bewildered surprise.
Dom Enrique asked to see her, knowing enough of the Moorish tongue to question her as to all she could tell of his dear brother; and when she saw him she threw herself at his feet and kissed his hand, with an abandonment unlike indeed to Nella’s stately greeting.
But Enrique won from her the story of the blow she had borne for Fernando’s sake, and thenceforth she was to him an object of entire admiration and reverence.
In order that she might learn the duties of her religion and accustom herself a little to the life of a Christian lady, she was sent to a convent, and there she was far more at home than in her father’s house, learned to speak Portuguese slowly and with difficulty, and practised with great docility all the observances required of her.
The nuns would fain have kept so apt a pupil altogether, and Catalina was not unwilling: the outer world was too strange to be a happy one.
But she went home on the occasion of her sister’s marriage, and there her beauty, equal to Nella’s, and the soft gentleness that distinguished her manner from the bride’s gayer, franker air, attracted the notice of Nella’s old suitor, Dom Alvarez, whose friendship, in some new turn of court intrigue, was now sought again by Sir Walter.
Here was Nella’s face, without Nella’s untamable English spirit, and the young Portuguese thought the face none the less fair for the deficiency. He asked Catalina in marriage, being assured, he said, that she was a good Christian and a gentle lady; and Sir Walter, glad to be quit of this perplexing maiden, at once agreed.
Catalina showed no unwillingness, and perhaps her gentle passiveness agreed better with Portuguese notions than ever Nella’s lively will could have done. She was loving and dutiful, and in the love of her children she was happy, knowing little and caring less for the political ambitions and intrigues which formed her husband’s life, simply believing that his part must be the right one.
Eleanor Hartsed looked differently on life, and perhaps her clear and steadfast nature helped to point the right path to her husband in the troublous days in which their lot was cast, for Harry was too much attached to Dom Enrique to desert his adopted country, and the great prince never ceased to mark with a peculiar favour those who had been among the last to love and serve his beloved brother.
But Catalina never forgot to pray for the captive prince who had taught her what it was to be a Christian; and Harry Hartsed, amid civil strife and political passion, cherished to his dying day the precious memory of having seen in the very flesh the “patience of the saints.”