Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.On the morning after the events last described, a rumour was spread over Lisbon that something dreadful had happened; and people met each other in the streets with alarmed and inquiring countenances. Some said the King had been assassinated; others that his carriage had been overturned, and that he had been killed by the shock; others that he had died of apoplexy; while others, again, affirmed that he was still alive. The greater number, however, fully believed that he had been assassinated, several declaring that they had been aroused from their sleep in the dead of night, and looking out of their window’s had perceived the dark figures of horsemen galloping along at a furious rate. By degrees, large crowds assembled in the neighbourhood of the palace, all anxious, from many different motives, to learn the truth; but the windows were kept closed, and not a person was seen to issue forth to give the information sought for.“I wonder who will be king now,” said a seller of lemonade, to a fisherman, who stood near him with large baskets of fish balanced at each end of a pole upon his shoulder. “Some say it will be Dom Pedro. I hope so; he encourages religion and processions, and they bring people abroad, and make them thirsty. Who’ll buy my cool lemonade?”“For my part, I care little: one king is as good as another,” answered the fisherman. “What difference can it make to us who sits upon the throne? I hear the Duke of Aveiro is a likely man, and he is a friend of the Jesuits, who patronise fasting and fish-eating, which is all I have to look after. Fresh fish! alive and jumping!” he cried in a loud drawling tone, and passed on.Men now inquired of each other who had committed the deed, if an assassination had been perpetrated; and several persons were seen moving among the crowds, spreading various reports. It was soon loudly declared that the Jesuits were the perpetrators of the outrage; while others whispered that the members of the Tavora family knew more about the affair than anybody else, for that their servants were the first to inform them that the King had been killed. Some, again, contradicted that report, declaring that one or two people had first heard of it when going, in the morning, to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro; and that Senhor Policarpio had not only affirmed that the King was dead, but that, if a certain noble Duke came to the throne, he would establish some more saints’ days, encourage the ceremonies of the Church, and bull-fights, with unprecedented magnificence; that he would abrogate all taxes, and increase the pomp of their processions.“The Duke will make an excellent king,” whispered many; “he is so religious and so generous.”The friends of the Tavoras, though they credited the report of the King’s assassination, stoutly denied that that noble family could be in any way implicated in so atrocious a crime. Unfortunately, however, for their assertions, a little humpbacked water-carrier declared that he knew every member of them perfectly well by sight, for that he had served the palace of the Marquis with water for many years, till it had been destroyed by the earthquake, and, while in the hall, had seen them go in and out a thousand times; and that he was confident he had seen young Jozé de Tavora, at day-break on that very morning, galloping towards Belem, from the upper part of Lisbon. This story gained rapid credence, and, as it spread from mouth to mouth, various additions were, of course, made to it; so that, before many minutes had passed, it was currently believed that the old Marquis of Tavora, with his two sons, had been encountered, with pistols in their hands, rushing from the spot where the King had been assassinated.On an occasion like the present, our friend Antonio, thesoi-disantcobbler, was certain not to be absent; and, unnoticed by any, in his working costume, he moved among the crowds, collecting the various reports with indefatigable industry; though, whenever he had an opportunity of putting in a word, he cautioned his hearers not to accuse any without clear evidence of their guilt, but that if the criminals were discovered, they would deserve condign punishment. Great, however, was the surprise of all, both the friends and enemies of the Tavoras, when the Prime Minister himself appeared at a window of the palace, and, lifting up his hand to impose silence, assured the populace that not only was the King alive, but that, as far as he could learn, no attempt whatever had been made against his august life; that the report had arisen, probably, owing to some words uttered by the postilion in his alarm, when the mules of his Majesty’s carriage had taken fright; that, owing to the latter circumstance, the carriage had been thrown on one side, by which his gracious Majesty had received a slight injury in the arm.“Long live the King!—viva, viva!” exclaimed the populace, on hearing this announcement; for they are ever ready to shout, it matters little to them for whom. The cry saluted the ears of the Duke of Aveiro, who, followed by Senhor Policarpio, rode up, with eager haste, the very first of the nobility, to make inquiries for his sovereign’s health. His cheek, perchance, turned a shade more pale, as he heard the cry; but, dashing onward, regardless of the collected rabble, he dismounted at the gate of the palace, desiring to be admitted to the presence of the King. The Prime Minister alone received him in the audience-chamber, and, with marked suavity and courtesy, assured him that the King could not then receive him, but would do so on the earliest occasion.“I came to offer my services to sally forth, with my attendants, in search of the vile perpetrators of the dreadful outrage committed against his Majesty,” said the Duke.“What! my lord Duke, do you give credence to the absurd story which has got about, that our beloved sovereign’s life has been attempted?” said the Minister, with a bland smile. “Calm your apprehensions: I trust so black a traitor does not exist in Portugal.”The Duke was completely deceived.“I indeed rejoice to hear that the report was unfounded, Senhor Carvalho,” he answered; “and pray inform me the first moment his Majesty is sufficiently recovered from his indisposition to receive me, for I long to throw myself at his feet, and express my deep loyalty and devotion.”As the Duke took his leave, and was retiring, the Minister muttered, gazing sternly after him, “So humble and loyal already, my lord Duke? Your pride shall yet be brought lower than you think of!”The nobility now flocked in numbers to the palace, some, perhaps, with a hope that the report might prove true, others with fears for the consequences, and, among them, the Marquis of Tavora drove up in his carriage. Carvalho received him with the most respectful courtesy, assuring him of the King’s regard; the frank expression of the Marquis’s countenance setting at fault the sagacity of the Minister, if he had entertained any suspicions of his loyalty.“Ah, my lord Marquis, it would be happy for other countries if they possessed no worse traitors than live in Portugal!” observed the Minister. “By-the-bye, you made an application to his Majesty for a ducal title, not long ago, and I heard the King regretting he had then refused you, but observing, that he now considered your services in India entitled you to the rank. He does not forget his friends.”“I am grateful for his Majesty’s recollection of my wishes. I shall esteem the honour greater as a gift from him,” answered the Marquis.“I shall have much pleasure in reporting what your Excellency says,” returned the Minister, as the Marquis, pleased with the idea of at length having his request acceded to, took his leave, with a less haughty air than was his custom.“If the report I have just heard, and my own suspicions, are correct, that man is an admirable hypocrite,” thought the Minister. “He will be a difficult person to deal with; but I think I have lulled his fears, if he entertained any.”“I regret that his Majesty cannot see you to-day, but you are one of the first he will receive,” said the Minister to the Marquis d’Alorna, who then entered. “I trust your lovely daughter is well, for whom both the King and Queen entertain the most respectful regard?”His hearer, who could not be otherwise than fully convinced of the truth of his words, answering briefly, retired.What golden opinions Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho that day won from all classes of men! It was one of difficulty, though of triumph, to him; for he felt that he was now fully establishing a power no future events could shake.He did not, however, use the same style of language towards all. When the King’s favourite, Marialva, appeared, he drew him aside.“I know, my dear Marquis, that you can thoroughly be trusted,” he said. “It behoves all true friends of our gracious sovereign’s to be prepared for his protection. He would see you, but it would excite jealousy in others. He has been wounded, though, under the grace of Heaven, not severely; and I leave you to judge whether by traitors or not. We must exert ourselves to discover and bring them to punishment, even if they are our brothers or dearest friends. Yet speak not your suspicions to any.”Marialva promised to follow Carvalho’s advice, and left him, with a conviction that he was the most sagacious of ministers, and the most attached servant of the King.At last the young Count d’Almeida appeared, to make the usual inquiries, and to express his sorrow at the King’s accident.“I am glad to see you again at Court, for you have been long a truant,” said Carvalho. “Should you wish for employment, I can now better fulfil the promise I made long ago, to give you some post worthy of your talents.”Luis expressed his gratitude and willingness to serve the state in any capacity for which he was fitted.“I am glad to hear you say so,” answered the Minister, adding, with emphasis, “We have need of honest men to guard the country, when treason stalks abroad with daring front. I trust never to have to number the Count d’Almeida among the traitors in Portugal.”Luis started, and his heart beat quick, as if with conscious guilt; for he remembered the scene, in which he had been an unwilling actor on the past night. For an instant it rushed across his mind that the Minister must have been aware of the meeting of the conspirators, and he trembled for the safety of them all. The dangerous position in which he himself also stood occurred to him; for, though feeling himself innocent of any evil intent, he well knew that, in the eye of the law, he was equally amenable to punishment for concealing the conspiracy. When the first reports reached him of the assassination of the King, the dreadful thought occurred to him, had any of those whom he had met in the vault of Malagrida been the perpetrators of the act?—he could not banish the suspicion that such might have been the case. He had quitted the ruin at an early hour, and there was then time for a horseman to reach the city before midnight, when, it was said, the event had taken place. Might not even suspicion alight on him, and on his young friend, of the Tavora family, too, who were already suspected,—at that very hour they were abroad, armed, and on horseback, perhaps passing near the spot? Would not his landlady, when she heard of the outrage, suspect that he was concerned in it? Should he be once apprehended and interrogated, what plausible reason could he possibly give for having made a secret expedition at night? If he said that he had gone at the request merely of his young friend, Jozé de Tavora, he would at once condemn both himself and all he had then met. Whichever way he looked at his case, it appeared desperate; and, for the first time in his life, that sinking, that paralysing sensation of fear, struck his heart,—not the fear of death, but of dishonour and disgrace,—of seeing his hitherto proud name branded as that of a traitor and assassin; and he shuddered as he thought that his life must end on the scaffold, amid the hootings and execrations of the populace, without the slightest means of vindicating his character from opprobrium. He knew Pedro was to be fully trusted, and he wished to beg his hostess not to mention to any one his having quitted home on that fatal night; but the request itself would seem to have been made from a consciousness of guilt, so he resolved not to speak to her on the subject.At one moment he thought of hastening to the Minister, who, having before expressed an interest in his affairs, would, he trusted, believe him, and of confessing that he had been abroad on that night on horseback, and that he had thought it wiser to say so, lest any unjust suspicions might be raised against him, resolving, at the same time, to endure every torture, and death itself, rather than betray any of those who had confided in his honour. Then it occurred to him, that the very confession itself, notwithstanding all his caution, might throw some suspicion on the young Tavora, and from him on his relations, so he quickly abandoned his purpose. Next he thought of instantly quitting the country, but then he should leave his character open to the mercy of any who might choose to blacken it; or should he not be able to effect his escape, (a difficult undertaking in those days, when every ship was searched before sailing,) the very attempt would offer a presumptive proof of his guilt. At last he came to the determination of braving the worst, and, buoyed up with the consciousness of innocence, trusting in Heaven’s protection, to repair at once to the palace, to make his personal inquiries as to the state of the King.What was his surprise and satisfaction, then, on approaching the neighbourhood, to hear that the reports were false, and that the King had met merely with a slight accident. His confidence being thus perfectly restored, he appeared before the Minister with a calm heart and clear brow; nor had he any cause to dread the consequences of his unfortunate expedition, till he heard the last words the latter uttered.Carvalho’s hawk-eyed glance marked the agitation Luis could not entirely conceal; a dark shade, like a cloud on the summer sky, passing across his brow; but his countenance again shone with deceitful smiles; for it was his purpose to lull in fancied security, not to alarm, the guilty ones. He had, throughout the day, marked, with unerring acuteness, every look, every variation of feature, of those with whom he had made a point of conversing when they visited the palace; and many, who fancied that they had outwitted him, had but the more completely betrayed themselves. He was still more courteous, and full of expressions of regard for Luis than at first; but from that moment he suspected him of being privy to the conspiracy; for that there was one against the King had not escaped his searching vigilance, from many facts which had come to his knowledge.As he contemplated the dreadful punishment which awaited the young Count, he felt a regret for his fate, slight and transient though it was, and one of the few, perhaps, which ever passed through his stern, unyielding heart; for Luis was akin to a dear friend, early lost, and long mourned; but he banished the weakness, and resolved to perform his duty.“I shall see you soon again, Count, when his Majesty has recovered, which I trust will be in a few days, when we will arrange about the post you are to fill,” he observed, as Luis took his leave, and he, with a bland smile, turned towards some of the other courtiers.As the Count d’Almeida was quitting the palace, he encountered in the passage his former and hated rival, the Count San Vincente. The two young nobles regarded each other, as they advanced, with fierce glances, when the latter, casting a look of scornful triumph at Luis, passed onward, almost brushing him with his sword. Luis, recollecting that he was within the precincts of the palace, was unable to take any notice of the intended insult, though he longed for a day of retribution, when he might avenge himself for the deep injuries he had received at the hands of the treacherous noble. Brooding over the feelings which the meeting with the Count had raised, he returned homeward, at the same time fully satisfied that he was free from any danger on account of his unfortunate excursion with Jozé de Tavora.Many days passed away, while many-tongued rumour was busy with spreading tales of various colours in all directions, blasting the characters of some of the highest and noblest in the land. Few, at length, there were who disbelieved that treason was on foot; the names of some were ascertained, it was said, without a doubt, and were whispered abroad in every circle, except where the true conspirators moved; for, as often happens, reports, whether true or scandalous, often reach last the ears of those most concerned. Thus, the Duke of Aveiro, whose wishes had, at all events, instigated the assassins to their deed of blood, appeared everywhere in public with an untroubled brow, and continued to be the most assiduous in his inquiries at the palace after the health of his Majesty.The King, however, still kept himself closely confined to his chamber, to which even the Queen was not admitted; the Minister, as before, receiving all guests with the most affable courtesy, seeming to take a delight in paying them attentions, and holding them in lengthened conversations. Many an eye sunk beneath his piercing glance, though a smile wreathed itself about his lips, and his voice was softly modulated, and many a heart trembled lest he should read its inmost thoughts. Two or three nobles, from whom, not suspecting them, he had less concealed his thoughts, passed their estates in trust into other hands, being suddenly seized with a strong desire to visit other lands; not even waiting for permission to leave the country. Those who did so, had full reason, shortly afterwards, to congratulate themselves on their caution. The flight of these gave security to others; the young Marquis of Tavora being advised to return to the city, and plead illness as an excuse for his short absence,—while his father rejoiced that he himself had not acted according to the counsels of his wife, lest suspicion might have fallen upon him.Among the visitors at the palace was our friend Gonçalo Christovaö, who had, a short time before, arrived in Lisbon. Senhor Carvalho welcomed him with even more than his usual courtesy, regretting that the King could not receive the petition, which he understood he had come to present from the city of Oporto; but assuring him, that he would use his utmost endeavours to abolish the grievances of which the inhabitants complained. He then took him aside.“I have a subject, Senhor Christovaö, which I have long wished to broach to you. It is to make a request, which I trust you will not deny me, for it will conduce to strengthen your family interests, and add honour to mine.”The high-born fidalgo gazed at the Minister with an air of surprise, wondering what he could possibly mean.“You have a fair daughter, full worthy of her high name,” continued the latter, “whom my son beheld when Lisbon was honoured by her presence.” The fidalgo started, and a frown gathered on his brow. “He has ever since pined to possess her; and, as I hear she is still not betrothed, I now ask her hand in marriage for him.”If a leper, or one of the vilest of the children of earth, had made the same request, the proud fidalgo could scarce have cast a look more full of indignant scorn towards him than he now threw at the powerful Minister, as, in a tone of mingled anger and disdain, he answered, “You strangely forget our relative positions, Senhor Carvalho; but know, senhor, that in my garden there is no room for oaks.” Alluding to his hereditary estate called the “Fair Garden,” and the name of Carvalho, which is the Portuguese for an oak.The Minister bowed, and returned a smile, which could scarce be called treacherous, if the fidalgo had not been too much excited by his indignation to observe the withering gleam which shot from the eyes of the man whose vengeance he had thus provoked, but the latter in no other way committed himself.“You indulge somewhat in pleasantry this morning, Senhor Christovaö,” he said, in a tranquil tone. “However, I conclude that you have good reasons for refusing my son’s suit, and I therefore withdraw it.”“You act wisely, senhor,” answered the fidalgo, still in an offended tone. “My daughter’s hand is not to be bought and sold, and of her own free-will she has dedicated it to the Church.”“The young lady has not professed yet?” asked Carvalho.“No, senhor; some months must yet elapse before she takes the final vows,” said the father.“It were better she abandoned her project,” observed the Minister. “It is one few young ladies so lovely as she is follow willingly; and remember, Senhor Christovaö, the King has determined to allow the inclinations of no lady of this realm to be forced in that respect—I must see to it.”“I require no one to dictate to me how I am to dispose of my daughter,” answered the fidalgo, haughtily.“Your pardon, my dear sir,” returned the Minister.“Present my duty to the King,” said the fidalgo, taking his leave.“I will not forget you, Senhor Christovaö,” said the Minister, bowing him out.“Haughty fool!” he muttered, as he returned to his seat. “Dearly shall you rue your insolence. Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho never forgets his friends or his foes.”Several weeks passed tranquilly away, so tranquilly that men began to suppose they had mistaken the character of the Prime Minister, and that, weary of bloodshed and severity, his government was to be henceforth one of mildness and conciliation. The larger number were loud in their praise of the great man; favours which had long been sought for were now granted, promises were made to others, even his former enemies appeared forgiven; the Duke of Aveiro, among others, requested leave to retire to his country seat at Azeitaö, and permission was instantly given him to do so. Some few suspected, it is true, that this mild behaviour was like the treacherous calm before the hurricane; but they were cautious, and uttered not their opinion.

On the morning after the events last described, a rumour was spread over Lisbon that something dreadful had happened; and people met each other in the streets with alarmed and inquiring countenances. Some said the King had been assassinated; others that his carriage had been overturned, and that he had been killed by the shock; others that he had died of apoplexy; while others, again, affirmed that he was still alive. The greater number, however, fully believed that he had been assassinated, several declaring that they had been aroused from their sleep in the dead of night, and looking out of their window’s had perceived the dark figures of horsemen galloping along at a furious rate. By degrees, large crowds assembled in the neighbourhood of the palace, all anxious, from many different motives, to learn the truth; but the windows were kept closed, and not a person was seen to issue forth to give the information sought for.

“I wonder who will be king now,” said a seller of lemonade, to a fisherman, who stood near him with large baskets of fish balanced at each end of a pole upon his shoulder. “Some say it will be Dom Pedro. I hope so; he encourages religion and processions, and they bring people abroad, and make them thirsty. Who’ll buy my cool lemonade?”

“For my part, I care little: one king is as good as another,” answered the fisherman. “What difference can it make to us who sits upon the throne? I hear the Duke of Aveiro is a likely man, and he is a friend of the Jesuits, who patronise fasting and fish-eating, which is all I have to look after. Fresh fish! alive and jumping!” he cried in a loud drawling tone, and passed on.

Men now inquired of each other who had committed the deed, if an assassination had been perpetrated; and several persons were seen moving among the crowds, spreading various reports. It was soon loudly declared that the Jesuits were the perpetrators of the outrage; while others whispered that the members of the Tavora family knew more about the affair than anybody else, for that their servants were the first to inform them that the King had been killed. Some, again, contradicted that report, declaring that one or two people had first heard of it when going, in the morning, to the Quinta of the Duke of Aveiro; and that Senhor Policarpio had not only affirmed that the King was dead, but that, if a certain noble Duke came to the throne, he would establish some more saints’ days, encourage the ceremonies of the Church, and bull-fights, with unprecedented magnificence; that he would abrogate all taxes, and increase the pomp of their processions.

“The Duke will make an excellent king,” whispered many; “he is so religious and so generous.”

The friends of the Tavoras, though they credited the report of the King’s assassination, stoutly denied that that noble family could be in any way implicated in so atrocious a crime. Unfortunately, however, for their assertions, a little humpbacked water-carrier declared that he knew every member of them perfectly well by sight, for that he had served the palace of the Marquis with water for many years, till it had been destroyed by the earthquake, and, while in the hall, had seen them go in and out a thousand times; and that he was confident he had seen young Jozé de Tavora, at day-break on that very morning, galloping towards Belem, from the upper part of Lisbon. This story gained rapid credence, and, as it spread from mouth to mouth, various additions were, of course, made to it; so that, before many minutes had passed, it was currently believed that the old Marquis of Tavora, with his two sons, had been encountered, with pistols in their hands, rushing from the spot where the King had been assassinated.

On an occasion like the present, our friend Antonio, thesoi-disantcobbler, was certain not to be absent; and, unnoticed by any, in his working costume, he moved among the crowds, collecting the various reports with indefatigable industry; though, whenever he had an opportunity of putting in a word, he cautioned his hearers not to accuse any without clear evidence of their guilt, but that if the criminals were discovered, they would deserve condign punishment. Great, however, was the surprise of all, both the friends and enemies of the Tavoras, when the Prime Minister himself appeared at a window of the palace, and, lifting up his hand to impose silence, assured the populace that not only was the King alive, but that, as far as he could learn, no attempt whatever had been made against his august life; that the report had arisen, probably, owing to some words uttered by the postilion in his alarm, when the mules of his Majesty’s carriage had taken fright; that, owing to the latter circumstance, the carriage had been thrown on one side, by which his gracious Majesty had received a slight injury in the arm.

“Long live the King!—viva, viva!” exclaimed the populace, on hearing this announcement; for they are ever ready to shout, it matters little to them for whom. The cry saluted the ears of the Duke of Aveiro, who, followed by Senhor Policarpio, rode up, with eager haste, the very first of the nobility, to make inquiries for his sovereign’s health. His cheek, perchance, turned a shade more pale, as he heard the cry; but, dashing onward, regardless of the collected rabble, he dismounted at the gate of the palace, desiring to be admitted to the presence of the King. The Prime Minister alone received him in the audience-chamber, and, with marked suavity and courtesy, assured him that the King could not then receive him, but would do so on the earliest occasion.

“I came to offer my services to sally forth, with my attendants, in search of the vile perpetrators of the dreadful outrage committed against his Majesty,” said the Duke.

“What! my lord Duke, do you give credence to the absurd story which has got about, that our beloved sovereign’s life has been attempted?” said the Minister, with a bland smile. “Calm your apprehensions: I trust so black a traitor does not exist in Portugal.”

The Duke was completely deceived.

“I indeed rejoice to hear that the report was unfounded, Senhor Carvalho,” he answered; “and pray inform me the first moment his Majesty is sufficiently recovered from his indisposition to receive me, for I long to throw myself at his feet, and express my deep loyalty and devotion.”

As the Duke took his leave, and was retiring, the Minister muttered, gazing sternly after him, “So humble and loyal already, my lord Duke? Your pride shall yet be brought lower than you think of!”

The nobility now flocked in numbers to the palace, some, perhaps, with a hope that the report might prove true, others with fears for the consequences, and, among them, the Marquis of Tavora drove up in his carriage. Carvalho received him with the most respectful courtesy, assuring him of the King’s regard; the frank expression of the Marquis’s countenance setting at fault the sagacity of the Minister, if he had entertained any suspicions of his loyalty.

“Ah, my lord Marquis, it would be happy for other countries if they possessed no worse traitors than live in Portugal!” observed the Minister. “By-the-bye, you made an application to his Majesty for a ducal title, not long ago, and I heard the King regretting he had then refused you, but observing, that he now considered your services in India entitled you to the rank. He does not forget his friends.”

“I am grateful for his Majesty’s recollection of my wishes. I shall esteem the honour greater as a gift from him,” answered the Marquis.

“I shall have much pleasure in reporting what your Excellency says,” returned the Minister, as the Marquis, pleased with the idea of at length having his request acceded to, took his leave, with a less haughty air than was his custom.

“If the report I have just heard, and my own suspicions, are correct, that man is an admirable hypocrite,” thought the Minister. “He will be a difficult person to deal with; but I think I have lulled his fears, if he entertained any.”

“I regret that his Majesty cannot see you to-day, but you are one of the first he will receive,” said the Minister to the Marquis d’Alorna, who then entered. “I trust your lovely daughter is well, for whom both the King and Queen entertain the most respectful regard?”

His hearer, who could not be otherwise than fully convinced of the truth of his words, answering briefly, retired.

What golden opinions Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho that day won from all classes of men! It was one of difficulty, though of triumph, to him; for he felt that he was now fully establishing a power no future events could shake.

He did not, however, use the same style of language towards all. When the King’s favourite, Marialva, appeared, he drew him aside.

“I know, my dear Marquis, that you can thoroughly be trusted,” he said. “It behoves all true friends of our gracious sovereign’s to be prepared for his protection. He would see you, but it would excite jealousy in others. He has been wounded, though, under the grace of Heaven, not severely; and I leave you to judge whether by traitors or not. We must exert ourselves to discover and bring them to punishment, even if they are our brothers or dearest friends. Yet speak not your suspicions to any.”

Marialva promised to follow Carvalho’s advice, and left him, with a conviction that he was the most sagacious of ministers, and the most attached servant of the King.

At last the young Count d’Almeida appeared, to make the usual inquiries, and to express his sorrow at the King’s accident.

“I am glad to see you again at Court, for you have been long a truant,” said Carvalho. “Should you wish for employment, I can now better fulfil the promise I made long ago, to give you some post worthy of your talents.”

Luis expressed his gratitude and willingness to serve the state in any capacity for which he was fitted.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” answered the Minister, adding, with emphasis, “We have need of honest men to guard the country, when treason stalks abroad with daring front. I trust never to have to number the Count d’Almeida among the traitors in Portugal.”

Luis started, and his heart beat quick, as if with conscious guilt; for he remembered the scene, in which he had been an unwilling actor on the past night. For an instant it rushed across his mind that the Minister must have been aware of the meeting of the conspirators, and he trembled for the safety of them all. The dangerous position in which he himself also stood occurred to him; for, though feeling himself innocent of any evil intent, he well knew that, in the eye of the law, he was equally amenable to punishment for concealing the conspiracy. When the first reports reached him of the assassination of the King, the dreadful thought occurred to him, had any of those whom he had met in the vault of Malagrida been the perpetrators of the act?—he could not banish the suspicion that such might have been the case. He had quitted the ruin at an early hour, and there was then time for a horseman to reach the city before midnight, when, it was said, the event had taken place. Might not even suspicion alight on him, and on his young friend, of the Tavora family, too, who were already suspected,—at that very hour they were abroad, armed, and on horseback, perhaps passing near the spot? Would not his landlady, when she heard of the outrage, suspect that he was concerned in it? Should he be once apprehended and interrogated, what plausible reason could he possibly give for having made a secret expedition at night? If he said that he had gone at the request merely of his young friend, Jozé de Tavora, he would at once condemn both himself and all he had then met. Whichever way he looked at his case, it appeared desperate; and, for the first time in his life, that sinking, that paralysing sensation of fear, struck his heart,—not the fear of death, but of dishonour and disgrace,—of seeing his hitherto proud name branded as that of a traitor and assassin; and he shuddered as he thought that his life must end on the scaffold, amid the hootings and execrations of the populace, without the slightest means of vindicating his character from opprobrium. He knew Pedro was to be fully trusted, and he wished to beg his hostess not to mention to any one his having quitted home on that fatal night; but the request itself would seem to have been made from a consciousness of guilt, so he resolved not to speak to her on the subject.

At one moment he thought of hastening to the Minister, who, having before expressed an interest in his affairs, would, he trusted, believe him, and of confessing that he had been abroad on that night on horseback, and that he had thought it wiser to say so, lest any unjust suspicions might be raised against him, resolving, at the same time, to endure every torture, and death itself, rather than betray any of those who had confided in his honour. Then it occurred to him, that the very confession itself, notwithstanding all his caution, might throw some suspicion on the young Tavora, and from him on his relations, so he quickly abandoned his purpose. Next he thought of instantly quitting the country, but then he should leave his character open to the mercy of any who might choose to blacken it; or should he not be able to effect his escape, (a difficult undertaking in those days, when every ship was searched before sailing,) the very attempt would offer a presumptive proof of his guilt. At last he came to the determination of braving the worst, and, buoyed up with the consciousness of innocence, trusting in Heaven’s protection, to repair at once to the palace, to make his personal inquiries as to the state of the King.

What was his surprise and satisfaction, then, on approaching the neighbourhood, to hear that the reports were false, and that the King had met merely with a slight accident. His confidence being thus perfectly restored, he appeared before the Minister with a calm heart and clear brow; nor had he any cause to dread the consequences of his unfortunate expedition, till he heard the last words the latter uttered.

Carvalho’s hawk-eyed glance marked the agitation Luis could not entirely conceal; a dark shade, like a cloud on the summer sky, passing across his brow; but his countenance again shone with deceitful smiles; for it was his purpose to lull in fancied security, not to alarm, the guilty ones. He had, throughout the day, marked, with unerring acuteness, every look, every variation of feature, of those with whom he had made a point of conversing when they visited the palace; and many, who fancied that they had outwitted him, had but the more completely betrayed themselves. He was still more courteous, and full of expressions of regard for Luis than at first; but from that moment he suspected him of being privy to the conspiracy; for that there was one against the King had not escaped his searching vigilance, from many facts which had come to his knowledge.

As he contemplated the dreadful punishment which awaited the young Count, he felt a regret for his fate, slight and transient though it was, and one of the few, perhaps, which ever passed through his stern, unyielding heart; for Luis was akin to a dear friend, early lost, and long mourned; but he banished the weakness, and resolved to perform his duty.

“I shall see you soon again, Count, when his Majesty has recovered, which I trust will be in a few days, when we will arrange about the post you are to fill,” he observed, as Luis took his leave, and he, with a bland smile, turned towards some of the other courtiers.

As the Count d’Almeida was quitting the palace, he encountered in the passage his former and hated rival, the Count San Vincente. The two young nobles regarded each other, as they advanced, with fierce glances, when the latter, casting a look of scornful triumph at Luis, passed onward, almost brushing him with his sword. Luis, recollecting that he was within the precincts of the palace, was unable to take any notice of the intended insult, though he longed for a day of retribution, when he might avenge himself for the deep injuries he had received at the hands of the treacherous noble. Brooding over the feelings which the meeting with the Count had raised, he returned homeward, at the same time fully satisfied that he was free from any danger on account of his unfortunate excursion with Jozé de Tavora.

Many days passed away, while many-tongued rumour was busy with spreading tales of various colours in all directions, blasting the characters of some of the highest and noblest in the land. Few, at length, there were who disbelieved that treason was on foot; the names of some were ascertained, it was said, without a doubt, and were whispered abroad in every circle, except where the true conspirators moved; for, as often happens, reports, whether true or scandalous, often reach last the ears of those most concerned. Thus, the Duke of Aveiro, whose wishes had, at all events, instigated the assassins to their deed of blood, appeared everywhere in public with an untroubled brow, and continued to be the most assiduous in his inquiries at the palace after the health of his Majesty.

The King, however, still kept himself closely confined to his chamber, to which even the Queen was not admitted; the Minister, as before, receiving all guests with the most affable courtesy, seeming to take a delight in paying them attentions, and holding them in lengthened conversations. Many an eye sunk beneath his piercing glance, though a smile wreathed itself about his lips, and his voice was softly modulated, and many a heart trembled lest he should read its inmost thoughts. Two or three nobles, from whom, not suspecting them, he had less concealed his thoughts, passed their estates in trust into other hands, being suddenly seized with a strong desire to visit other lands; not even waiting for permission to leave the country. Those who did so, had full reason, shortly afterwards, to congratulate themselves on their caution. The flight of these gave security to others; the young Marquis of Tavora being advised to return to the city, and plead illness as an excuse for his short absence,—while his father rejoiced that he himself had not acted according to the counsels of his wife, lest suspicion might have fallen upon him.

Among the visitors at the palace was our friend Gonçalo Christovaö, who had, a short time before, arrived in Lisbon. Senhor Carvalho welcomed him with even more than his usual courtesy, regretting that the King could not receive the petition, which he understood he had come to present from the city of Oporto; but assuring him, that he would use his utmost endeavours to abolish the grievances of which the inhabitants complained. He then took him aside.

“I have a subject, Senhor Christovaö, which I have long wished to broach to you. It is to make a request, which I trust you will not deny me, for it will conduce to strengthen your family interests, and add honour to mine.”

The high-born fidalgo gazed at the Minister with an air of surprise, wondering what he could possibly mean.

“You have a fair daughter, full worthy of her high name,” continued the latter, “whom my son beheld when Lisbon was honoured by her presence.” The fidalgo started, and a frown gathered on his brow. “He has ever since pined to possess her; and, as I hear she is still not betrothed, I now ask her hand in marriage for him.”

If a leper, or one of the vilest of the children of earth, had made the same request, the proud fidalgo could scarce have cast a look more full of indignant scorn towards him than he now threw at the powerful Minister, as, in a tone of mingled anger and disdain, he answered, “You strangely forget our relative positions, Senhor Carvalho; but know, senhor, that in my garden there is no room for oaks.” Alluding to his hereditary estate called the “Fair Garden,” and the name of Carvalho, which is the Portuguese for an oak.

The Minister bowed, and returned a smile, which could scarce be called treacherous, if the fidalgo had not been too much excited by his indignation to observe the withering gleam which shot from the eyes of the man whose vengeance he had thus provoked, but the latter in no other way committed himself.

“You indulge somewhat in pleasantry this morning, Senhor Christovaö,” he said, in a tranquil tone. “However, I conclude that you have good reasons for refusing my son’s suit, and I therefore withdraw it.”

“You act wisely, senhor,” answered the fidalgo, still in an offended tone. “My daughter’s hand is not to be bought and sold, and of her own free-will she has dedicated it to the Church.”

“The young lady has not professed yet?” asked Carvalho.

“No, senhor; some months must yet elapse before she takes the final vows,” said the father.

“It were better she abandoned her project,” observed the Minister. “It is one few young ladies so lovely as she is follow willingly; and remember, Senhor Christovaö, the King has determined to allow the inclinations of no lady of this realm to be forced in that respect—I must see to it.”

“I require no one to dictate to me how I am to dispose of my daughter,” answered the fidalgo, haughtily.

“Your pardon, my dear sir,” returned the Minister.

“Present my duty to the King,” said the fidalgo, taking his leave.

“I will not forget you, Senhor Christovaö,” said the Minister, bowing him out.

“Haughty fool!” he muttered, as he returned to his seat. “Dearly shall you rue your insolence. Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho never forgets his friends or his foes.”

Several weeks passed tranquilly away, so tranquilly that men began to suppose they had mistaken the character of the Prime Minister, and that, weary of bloodshed and severity, his government was to be henceforth one of mildness and conciliation. The larger number were loud in their praise of the great man; favours which had long been sought for were now granted, promises were made to others, even his former enemies appeared forgiven; the Duke of Aveiro, among others, requested leave to retire to his country seat at Azeitaö, and permission was instantly given him to do so. Some few suspected, it is true, that this mild behaviour was like the treacherous calm before the hurricane; but they were cautious, and uttered not their opinion.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.“O who would wish to be a King?” said the gallant King James of Scotland, when the fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain herd were shouting the name of Douglas; and we ask, Who would wish to be a Prime Minister? No one, surely, who has any regard for his own tranquillity or happiness; no one who cannot scorn the base revilings of the thankless crowd, in whose service he is exerting all the energies of a noble intellect, and wasting his health; no one who is not prepared to encounter the treachery of friends, and the hatred of enemies; who has not a heart of adamant and nerves of steel; unless he be a true patriot, andthenthe consciousness of rectitude and nobility of purpose will support him through all.A fair girl was leaning over a balcony in the residence of the Prime Minister of Portugal, inhaling the sweet odours which rose from the garden beneath. Her light hair, not yet brought under the slavish subjection of fashion, fell in long ringlets over her fair neck, while her laughing blue eye, and lips formed to smile, betokened her German extraction, for she was the daughter of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho and the Countess Daun; though neither in her gentle disposition, or her small and beautifully rounded figure, did she partake of her father’s qualities. She started, for a sigh was breathed near her, and she beheld a handsome youth by her side, gazing at her with a look of enraptured devotion. A blush mantled on her cheeks as she asked, “What brings you here, Senhor Alfonzo? I thought you were with my father at the palace.”“I am about to go thither, Donna Agnes,” answered the youth, “but I sought first to see you.”“Pardon me, senhor, I must not delay you,” said the young lady.“Lady, in mercy save me from destruction!” exclaimed the youth, in a tone which thrilled to her heart.“What mean you, Senhor Alfonzo? In what way can I aid you?” said the Minister’s daughter.“In your hands is my fate, either to leave me a wretch unworthy of existence, or to raise me from despair, and grant me bliss incomparable.”“I dare not, I must not, understand the meaning of your strange expressions,” said Donna Agnes, her hand, which rested on the balustrade, slightly trembling. “Let me entreat you, senhor, to leave me. I would not be the unhappy cause of your ruin.”“You, you alone, can be the cause of my salvation,” exclaimed the youth, with enthusiastic passion. “Donna Agnes, I love you.”“In mercy to yourself—to me, do not say so,” faltered the young lady.“My spirit would not rest, when I am in the grave, had I not declared the love I bear you,” exclaimed the Secretary.“Oh no, no; it must not be thus! Say you will not utter those words again, and I will endeavour to forget what you have said. You cannot know my father, if you think that he would let me listen to such declarations,” answered Donna Agnes.“I know him well—he has ever been my benefactor, and I would show my gratitude,” responded the youth.“Then, as you value his favour, do not renew this conversation. It has caused me much pain already,” said Donna Agnes.“I cannot longer conceal the consuming love I feel for you,” exclaimed the Secretary. “Can you, in return, hate me for it?”“Oh no, no,” responded Donna Agnes.“Will you, can you love me, then?” exclaimed the youth. “Will you grant me but one hope to endure existence?”The colour forsook the fair cheek of the Minister’s daughter; her bosom heaved, and her eyes sunk to the ground.“Oh leave me, leave me, Senhor Alfonzo!” she cried. “These words are cruelty to me and to yourself. It cannot be. My father esteems you, and confides in you; but, did he suspect what you have told me, his anger would be aroused to a pitch you little dream of, and of my hand he has already determined the disposal; but I shall ever regard you as a friend.”“Then were you free, you might, you would love me?” exclaimed the infatuated youth. “Donna Agnes, you do love me?—utter but the word, and no power shall tear you from me.”“This conduct is ungenerous, unworthy of you,” responded Donna Agnes. “I would not speak harshly to you; but you drive me to it. From henceforth, I must fly your presence. Again I ask you to leave me. I never can be yours.”“Then you have sealed my doom and your father’s,—his death be upon your head, cruel girl!” ejaculated the Secretary, as he rushed from the spot where they stood, and hastened to the royal palace.“Oh stay, stay!” cried the young lady, alarmed at his agitated look, and extraordinary violence; “what mean you?” but he was gone; and, placing her fair young face in her hands, she wept bitterly.Poor girl, she had never before been told by any one that she was beloved; and for two years past daily had she seen the young and handsome Secretary, who, grave and reserved as he was towards others, could teach his tongue to utter the softest eloquence to her; and when his eye met hers, his whole countenance would beam with animation,—yet she had performed her duty to her father, and promised to marry whoever he might select. He had made his choice, and she must abide by it.The Secretary hastened to the cabinet in the palace, where the Minister always employed him; but the latter had not arrived. He first opened some papers on which he was employed, and then examined every corner of the room with the utmost care. His naturally pallid cheek was more bloodless than usual; his hands trembled; his eyes cast furtive glances around, even though he had convinced himself no one was present. Every instant he started,—his knees knocked together; but still he went about the work he had vowed to perform: his determination was strong, though his frame was weak. A small ewer of water, with a tumbler, stood on a table, on one side of the closet. He eyed it for some time, with his hand grasping the back of a chair, to give himself support—his breath came and went quickly. At length he approached it—for an instant he bent over it—he drew from his bosom a small packet—he tore it open, and poured a powder it contained into the ewer, then, securing the empty paper beneath his dress, he waited another minute without moving. So pale was his cheek, so rigid did he stand, that he looked more like some statue of bronze or marble, than a living man. Again he started, and seizing the ewer, he poured some of its contents into the tumbler: the liquid was pure and sparkling as crystal. He heaved a deep, long-drawn sigh, and turned away; but there was a fascination in that fatal goblet! Again and again were his eyes attracted by it, till the orbs almost started from his head—his lips were parched—there was fire in his brain, yet his heart was as ice. The first fatal step was made! the rest was easy. He endeavoured to collect his thoughts—to grow calm, and reason with himself. What had he done? He had committed no crime,—no one had suffered by his hand,—he was not a murderer! Oh no. Then why this abject fear? He attempted to smile at his first sensations,—he recalled all the rules with which he had been taught to reason at college; all the later lessons he had received from the Father Jacinto, and he was successful. He sought to reason against conviction. The struggle was severe,—intellect (he called it) against conscience; and intellect was the victor! Yes, the victor! But how long would it remain so? He knew not what an active, harassing enemy was conscience,—how it seizes on its victim in the dead of night,—how it rushes on him, when laid prostrate by disease and sickness! Then which is the victor? Then does it take ample vengeance on intellect for its former defeat.The apt pupil of the Father Jacinto da Costa now seated himself calmly, to finish the copy of a despatch on which he had been employed. He then arose, and taking a key, which hung suspended from his neck, beneath his clothes, he approached the Minister’s private cabinet. He opened it, and searched carefully among the papers, endeavouring to replace each as he found them. At last he came to one, which he seized eagerly; and running his eye over it, he carried it to his desk, rapidly making extracts from it, and placed the paper which he had written in his bosom. With the one he had taken he returned to the cabinet, kneeling to restore it to the spot it had occupied, and to search for another. Deeply absorbed, his eye running over paper after paper, he heard not the door open. A hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he started, as if it had been a hand of fire, and, gazing upward, he beheld the stern features of the Minister! The paper he held dropped from his grasp,—despair was marked on every lineament of his countenance, and, trembling and pale, he would have sunk on the ground, but that an arm of iron upheld him.“Fool!” said the Minister. “Is it thus you return my confidence? Have you before betrayed the secrets of this cabinet? Speak! You answer not,—your silence is a confession of your guilt. Behold yon bright sun—’tis the last time its beams will glad your sight; for know, he who possesses the secrets of Carvalho must be surrounded by stronger walls than his own bosom affords; the deepest dungeon in the Jungueira will henceforward be your abode.” The Minister withdrew his hand.“Stir not,” he added, as he walked towards the door, to summon some attendants who were without. At first they did not hear his voice, and he was obliged to go to the end of the passage again to call them. They rushed up hastily, and followed Carvalho to the apartment. On entering, the young Secretary was discovered stretched on the ground in a swoon, it seemed, close to the open cabinet. They raised him up, and endeavoured to restore animation, while the Minister went to his desk, and wrote a few lines.“When he revives, bear him hence,” he said, “and deliver this paper to Senhor Fonseca;” and, without appearing to pay further attention to what was going forward, he continued writing.The endeavours of the attendants were soon successful, for the unhappy youth opened his eyes, gazing wildly at those surrounding him. “Water! water!” he murmured.One of the men, observing the ewer on the table, pouring out a tumbler-full, brought it to him, and placed it to his lips—he eagerly drank off the cooling draught. They threw some on his head, to cool his brow, and again gave him to drink. The water completely restored him, and, as they led him away, he ventured not to turn his eye towards the man he had deceived; but, as he passed the door, his glance fell on the fatal ewer. A thought like the vivid lightning, scorching all in its path, crossed his mind. Had he been given to drink of the poisoned water? Impossible! He felt no ill effects from it; but he dared not ask the question.That night the young Alfonzo, the highly endowed in mind and person, lay on a wretched pallet, chained, like a malefactor, to the humid stone-wall of a low dark dungeon beneath the castle of the Jungueira. Not a gleam of light, not a breath of pure air, entered his abode;thenit was that conscience triumphed over intellect. He thought of his days of childhood and innocence, before he had learned the rules of sophistry. His mother’s face appeared to him, smiling with love, but full of sadness. Suddenly it vanished, and one of dreadful scowling aspect took its place. He thought of the dark lessons he had received from his instructors, and he called on God to curse those who had blasted his heart with scorching words. The Father Jacinto, too, came before him, with a calm and benignant countenance, and voice of mellifluous softness. Suddenly he changed, and, in his stead, arose a vast serpent of glittering scaly sides, moist with slime, which coiled and twisted its enormous folds around him, hissing as it breathed forth a fiery breath upon his face. It seemed to bear him down, when the earth beneath him opened. “Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “I sink, I sink, I sink!”The next morning the gaoler entered the cell. The prisoner stirred not, nor answered to his call. He took his hand,—it struck a chill to his heart,—he held the lamp over him,—he was dead!One person only ever knew the cause of his death, and that very day he heard of it. “It were better so, as he had failed in his purpose,” he muttered. “He knew too many secrets of our order to be trusted. Had he been tortured, as he most assuredly would have been, he might have betrayed them. Requiescat in pace!”The master never again thought of the pupil till he lay on his own death-bed, with his flesh lacerated and his limbs broken by the wheel; but he felt not those pains; there was another far more acute within; conscience had re-asserted its sway, he remembered him he had betrayed, andhowhe had died. (Note).Note. The Father Jacinto was soon afterwards imprisoned and tortured. He died in confinement from the effects of his treatment, say the Jesuits.

“O who would wish to be a King?” said the gallant King James of Scotland, when the fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain herd were shouting the name of Douglas; and we ask, Who would wish to be a Prime Minister? No one, surely, who has any regard for his own tranquillity or happiness; no one who cannot scorn the base revilings of the thankless crowd, in whose service he is exerting all the energies of a noble intellect, and wasting his health; no one who is not prepared to encounter the treachery of friends, and the hatred of enemies; who has not a heart of adamant and nerves of steel; unless he be a true patriot, andthenthe consciousness of rectitude and nobility of purpose will support him through all.

A fair girl was leaning over a balcony in the residence of the Prime Minister of Portugal, inhaling the sweet odours which rose from the garden beneath. Her light hair, not yet brought under the slavish subjection of fashion, fell in long ringlets over her fair neck, while her laughing blue eye, and lips formed to smile, betokened her German extraction, for she was the daughter of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho and the Countess Daun; though neither in her gentle disposition, or her small and beautifully rounded figure, did she partake of her father’s qualities. She started, for a sigh was breathed near her, and she beheld a handsome youth by her side, gazing at her with a look of enraptured devotion. A blush mantled on her cheeks as she asked, “What brings you here, Senhor Alfonzo? I thought you were with my father at the palace.”

“I am about to go thither, Donna Agnes,” answered the youth, “but I sought first to see you.”

“Pardon me, senhor, I must not delay you,” said the young lady.

“Lady, in mercy save me from destruction!” exclaimed the youth, in a tone which thrilled to her heart.

“What mean you, Senhor Alfonzo? In what way can I aid you?” said the Minister’s daughter.

“In your hands is my fate, either to leave me a wretch unworthy of existence, or to raise me from despair, and grant me bliss incomparable.”

“I dare not, I must not, understand the meaning of your strange expressions,” said Donna Agnes, her hand, which rested on the balustrade, slightly trembling. “Let me entreat you, senhor, to leave me. I would not be the unhappy cause of your ruin.”

“You, you alone, can be the cause of my salvation,” exclaimed the youth, with enthusiastic passion. “Donna Agnes, I love you.”

“In mercy to yourself—to me, do not say so,” faltered the young lady.

“My spirit would not rest, when I am in the grave, had I not declared the love I bear you,” exclaimed the Secretary.

“Oh no, no; it must not be thus! Say you will not utter those words again, and I will endeavour to forget what you have said. You cannot know my father, if you think that he would let me listen to such declarations,” answered Donna Agnes.

“I know him well—he has ever been my benefactor, and I would show my gratitude,” responded the youth.

“Then, as you value his favour, do not renew this conversation. It has caused me much pain already,” said Donna Agnes.

“I cannot longer conceal the consuming love I feel for you,” exclaimed the Secretary. “Can you, in return, hate me for it?”

“Oh no, no,” responded Donna Agnes.

“Will you, can you love me, then?” exclaimed the youth. “Will you grant me but one hope to endure existence?”

The colour forsook the fair cheek of the Minister’s daughter; her bosom heaved, and her eyes sunk to the ground.

“Oh leave me, leave me, Senhor Alfonzo!” she cried. “These words are cruelty to me and to yourself. It cannot be. My father esteems you, and confides in you; but, did he suspect what you have told me, his anger would be aroused to a pitch you little dream of, and of my hand he has already determined the disposal; but I shall ever regard you as a friend.”

“Then were you free, you might, you would love me?” exclaimed the infatuated youth. “Donna Agnes, you do love me?—utter but the word, and no power shall tear you from me.”

“This conduct is ungenerous, unworthy of you,” responded Donna Agnes. “I would not speak harshly to you; but you drive me to it. From henceforth, I must fly your presence. Again I ask you to leave me. I never can be yours.”

“Then you have sealed my doom and your father’s,—his death be upon your head, cruel girl!” ejaculated the Secretary, as he rushed from the spot where they stood, and hastened to the royal palace.

“Oh stay, stay!” cried the young lady, alarmed at his agitated look, and extraordinary violence; “what mean you?” but he was gone; and, placing her fair young face in her hands, she wept bitterly.

Poor girl, she had never before been told by any one that she was beloved; and for two years past daily had she seen the young and handsome Secretary, who, grave and reserved as he was towards others, could teach his tongue to utter the softest eloquence to her; and when his eye met hers, his whole countenance would beam with animation,—yet she had performed her duty to her father, and promised to marry whoever he might select. He had made his choice, and she must abide by it.

The Secretary hastened to the cabinet in the palace, where the Minister always employed him; but the latter had not arrived. He first opened some papers on which he was employed, and then examined every corner of the room with the utmost care. His naturally pallid cheek was more bloodless than usual; his hands trembled; his eyes cast furtive glances around, even though he had convinced himself no one was present. Every instant he started,—his knees knocked together; but still he went about the work he had vowed to perform: his determination was strong, though his frame was weak. A small ewer of water, with a tumbler, stood on a table, on one side of the closet. He eyed it for some time, with his hand grasping the back of a chair, to give himself support—his breath came and went quickly. At length he approached it—for an instant he bent over it—he drew from his bosom a small packet—he tore it open, and poured a powder it contained into the ewer, then, securing the empty paper beneath his dress, he waited another minute without moving. So pale was his cheek, so rigid did he stand, that he looked more like some statue of bronze or marble, than a living man. Again he started, and seizing the ewer, he poured some of its contents into the tumbler: the liquid was pure and sparkling as crystal. He heaved a deep, long-drawn sigh, and turned away; but there was a fascination in that fatal goblet! Again and again were his eyes attracted by it, till the orbs almost started from his head—his lips were parched—there was fire in his brain, yet his heart was as ice. The first fatal step was made! the rest was easy. He endeavoured to collect his thoughts—to grow calm, and reason with himself. What had he done? He had committed no crime,—no one had suffered by his hand,—he was not a murderer! Oh no. Then why this abject fear? He attempted to smile at his first sensations,—he recalled all the rules with which he had been taught to reason at college; all the later lessons he had received from the Father Jacinto, and he was successful. He sought to reason against conviction. The struggle was severe,—intellect (he called it) against conscience; and intellect was the victor! Yes, the victor! But how long would it remain so? He knew not what an active, harassing enemy was conscience,—how it seizes on its victim in the dead of night,—how it rushes on him, when laid prostrate by disease and sickness! Then which is the victor? Then does it take ample vengeance on intellect for its former defeat.

The apt pupil of the Father Jacinto da Costa now seated himself calmly, to finish the copy of a despatch on which he had been employed. He then arose, and taking a key, which hung suspended from his neck, beneath his clothes, he approached the Minister’s private cabinet. He opened it, and searched carefully among the papers, endeavouring to replace each as he found them. At last he came to one, which he seized eagerly; and running his eye over it, he carried it to his desk, rapidly making extracts from it, and placed the paper which he had written in his bosom. With the one he had taken he returned to the cabinet, kneeling to restore it to the spot it had occupied, and to search for another. Deeply absorbed, his eye running over paper after paper, he heard not the door open. A hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he started, as if it had been a hand of fire, and, gazing upward, he beheld the stern features of the Minister! The paper he held dropped from his grasp,—despair was marked on every lineament of his countenance, and, trembling and pale, he would have sunk on the ground, but that an arm of iron upheld him.

“Fool!” said the Minister. “Is it thus you return my confidence? Have you before betrayed the secrets of this cabinet? Speak! You answer not,—your silence is a confession of your guilt. Behold yon bright sun—’tis the last time its beams will glad your sight; for know, he who possesses the secrets of Carvalho must be surrounded by stronger walls than his own bosom affords; the deepest dungeon in the Jungueira will henceforward be your abode.” The Minister withdrew his hand.

“Stir not,” he added, as he walked towards the door, to summon some attendants who were without. At first they did not hear his voice, and he was obliged to go to the end of the passage again to call them. They rushed up hastily, and followed Carvalho to the apartment. On entering, the young Secretary was discovered stretched on the ground in a swoon, it seemed, close to the open cabinet. They raised him up, and endeavoured to restore animation, while the Minister went to his desk, and wrote a few lines.

“When he revives, bear him hence,” he said, “and deliver this paper to Senhor Fonseca;” and, without appearing to pay further attention to what was going forward, he continued writing.

The endeavours of the attendants were soon successful, for the unhappy youth opened his eyes, gazing wildly at those surrounding him. “Water! water!” he murmured.

One of the men, observing the ewer on the table, pouring out a tumbler-full, brought it to him, and placed it to his lips—he eagerly drank off the cooling draught. They threw some on his head, to cool his brow, and again gave him to drink. The water completely restored him, and, as they led him away, he ventured not to turn his eye towards the man he had deceived; but, as he passed the door, his glance fell on the fatal ewer. A thought like the vivid lightning, scorching all in its path, crossed his mind. Had he been given to drink of the poisoned water? Impossible! He felt no ill effects from it; but he dared not ask the question.

That night the young Alfonzo, the highly endowed in mind and person, lay on a wretched pallet, chained, like a malefactor, to the humid stone-wall of a low dark dungeon beneath the castle of the Jungueira. Not a gleam of light, not a breath of pure air, entered his abode;thenit was that conscience triumphed over intellect. He thought of his days of childhood and innocence, before he had learned the rules of sophistry. His mother’s face appeared to him, smiling with love, but full of sadness. Suddenly it vanished, and one of dreadful scowling aspect took its place. He thought of the dark lessons he had received from his instructors, and he called on God to curse those who had blasted his heart with scorching words. The Father Jacinto, too, came before him, with a calm and benignant countenance, and voice of mellifluous softness. Suddenly he changed, and, in his stead, arose a vast serpent of glittering scaly sides, moist with slime, which coiled and twisted its enormous folds around him, hissing as it breathed forth a fiery breath upon his face. It seemed to bear him down, when the earth beneath him opened. “Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “I sink, I sink, I sink!”

The next morning the gaoler entered the cell. The prisoner stirred not, nor answered to his call. He took his hand,—it struck a chill to his heart,—he held the lamp over him,—he was dead!

One person only ever knew the cause of his death, and that very day he heard of it. “It were better so, as he had failed in his purpose,” he muttered. “He knew too many secrets of our order to be trusted. Had he been tortured, as he most assuredly would have been, he might have betrayed them. Requiescat in pace!”

The master never again thought of the pupil till he lay on his own death-bed, with his flesh lacerated and his limbs broken by the wheel; but he felt not those pains; there was another far more acute within; conscience had re-asserted its sway, he remembered him he had betrayed, andhowhe had died. (Note).

Note. The Father Jacinto was soon afterwards imprisoned and tortured. He died in confinement from the effects of his treatment, say the Jesuits.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.It was the middle of winter, but, notwithstanding the season of the year, the sun shone brightly forth, shedding a genial warmth upon the beggars and dogs who were basking beneath it in the streets of Lisbon. The former were stationed at the posts they had each appropriated, exhibiting every species of loathsome deformity, and imploring the charity of the passers-by in the name of Heaven, warning them of the opportunity afforded of bestowing alms for the benefit of their souls. The dogs were enjoying their time of rest, every now and then uttering a growl of defiance if any stranger encroached on their districts. The Galician water-carriers were filling their barrels at the fountains, laughing and joking among themselves, strangers as they were in the land, happy by nature, and independent of all the plots and conspiracies which agitated the natives. Some women were washing at the tanks, and striking the linen to rags against the stones, while they gaily sang in chorus; while others, sitting at the corners of the streets, were employed in roasting chestnuts in little earthen stoves, and calling on the passers to buy. Fishermen were selling the produce of their nets, or wild-fowl; country-women their poultry. Now a citizen might be seen closely muffled up in his large cloak, more to hide the dress beneath than to keep out the cold; then a gentleman would hasten along in his bag-wig, and sword by his side, long flowered waistcoat, and deep waisted coat, politely returning the salutations of all who bowed; indeed, all the world was abroad, a few in carriages or on horseback, but mostly on foot: it was not yet dinner time.Among the pedestrians was our old friend Antonio, the cobbler, who had long since given up his former occupation, and by many was supposed to live completely on his wits—not a bad compliment to them, however. His keen eye, as he walked along, observed all that was taking place around him. He saw a beggar walk merrily to his post, kicking a dog out of his way, and then ask alms in the character of a confirmed cripple. He laughed—he was fond of laughing, somewhat bitterly oftentimes.“There are a good many knaves in the world,” he muttered, “of all classes, from the lordly traitor, who would barter his country’s honour and safety for gold to supply his extravagance, to this loathsome wretch in rags and tatters.”He next observed a boy stealing a coin from a blind man’s hat placed before him, when the seeming blind man, dealing a heavy blow, struck the youthful vagabond to the ground.“Ay, we can see sharply enough when our own interests are attacked, and fight hard to defend them,” said the Cobbler, as he walked on. “That young rogue has learned a useful lesson, he will make sure that a man is blind before he tries to pilfer his property.”Antonio passed through several streets, till he came to an open place. There a crowd was collected round a man perched on a high stool, who was selling nostrums, and making the people laugh by his wit and jokes: a real object of pity lay at a doorway, half dead with starvation and disease. A rich man passed by, looking coldly on the wretched beggar, turning aside, and refused his earnest appeal for a copper to relieve his hunger; but when he came within hearing of the quack, he stopped to listen; when the latter, uttering one of his best jokes, and paying him a well-timed compliment, he threw the knave a crown, and, laughing, passed on.“Such is the way of the world,” thought the Cobbler. “The impudent charlatan succeeds and grows rich, while the honest and humble poor man is left to starve. The foolish rogues are soon hung; ’tis the cunning ones who live and thrive. Bah! it makes me sick to think of it. What fools men are! they will often confide in a plausible knave, when blunt honesty is kicked out of doors.”The Cobbler saw much more in his walk, on which he made his observations. He did not seem to have a very good opinion of the world he lived in. Whether he thought worse of people than they deserved we cannot pretend to say.He now left the city behind, and, passing through the suburbs of Belem, directed his course to the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He came under a garden-wall, in which was a window, and out of the window a pair of sparkling black eyes were gazing. He kissed his own hand, for he could not reach that of the lady, and she kissed hers in return; so he went and stood as near her as he could get.“Oh! my pretty Margarida, how I love you!” he began. At which words, the eyes sparkled even more brightly than before. “I have many wishes, and the first is, that I was on the other side of the wall.”“Hush! senhor, you must not say that; at least, not so loudly,” softly murmured Margarida; “some one will hear you, for people are passing constantly this way; but the window is not so very high from the ground.”“Ah, dear one! I could leap up in a moment, if you do not run away,” said the gallant Cobbler.“Oh! no, no, senhor! some one would see you to a certainty, while it is light,” answered the coy Senhora Margarida.“I have many things to say to you, pretty one. When will you like to hear them?” asked Antonio.“Cannot you say them now, senhor?”“Some one will hear me, you know. Wait till the evening, and then nobody will see me jump in at the window. Remember to leave it open.”“I will forget to shut it,” innocently answered Margarida. “But tell me, senhor, are you really a fidalgo?”“I will tell you all about it, with my other secrets, when I come at night. Remember to forget to shut the window; and do not forget to come yourself, Adeos for the present, my pretty charmer! I see some one coming.” And Antonio walked away, humming a tune, while the pair of black eyes disappeared from the garden window.If the Portuguese are fonder of one employment than of another, it is looking out of window; they all do it, from the highest to the lowest. There is so little mental or bodily exertion required for it; and there is always something moving in the streets, either men, dogs, or rats. Even watching a pig will afford amusement; and anything is preferable to reading, working, or thinking; therefore they always have looked out of windows, and always will, till their taste improves. Antonio proceeded on till he came to the side of the river, where he sat himself down on the bank, to wait till the evening, and to meditate. He thought a great deal, light-hearted and merry as he seemed, often very gravely, sometimes fiercely, as he remembered the foul wrongs and insults the race to which he belonged had for centuries endured, and for which treatment their cruel tyrants had sought every excuse which cunning hypocrisy, or the fiercest bigotry, could invent, claiming ever the authority of God for their cursed deeds. “Miscreants!” he muttered, “where in the Christian’s gospel can they find permission for the rapine, murders, and cruelties, with which their souls have been stained since the triumph of their faith? Fools! who practise not what they preach, and yet expect to be believed.” He would then think on for some time, and, giving a deep-drawn sigh, would conclude with the oft-repeated apophthegm, “What cannot be cured must be endured;” he then, growing calmer, would turn to other subjects. “Yet,” he continued, soliloquising, “it is a hard office to bide this life of concealment, of deceit, and treachery; but it must be endured till my object is accomplished. The time draws near, happily, when my toils may be at an end; and then, if faith can be placed in the word of man, I shall reap the rich reward of all. Can I confide in him? Yes, ’tis his interest to fulfil his promise. There is one thing troubles me more than all the rest; how some men would laugh to hear me, if I confessed it! My pretty Margarida! Now that girl is fully persuaded I love her to desperation; and, assuredly, I have done my utmost to make her believe so, to learn, through her, the secrets of the Tavora family. They little think how closely the meshes of the net are drawn around them, to enclose them ere long, and drag them to shore, as yonder fishermen are now doing with their prey.” As he thought this, he was watching a party of fishermen hauling in their seine. “I must try and make amends to Margarida, poor girl! I feel an interest in her. I did not think she would so soon learn to love me. I was not born to be that cursed wretch who would win a maiden’s affections for the base, cowardly satisfaction of tampering with them, and then deserting her. I leave such work to the wealthy and high-born. May they reap their reward!”The sun was now setting over the mouth of the Tagus, casting a broad, glowing line of fire upon the smooth bosom of the stream, and tinging the tower of Belem, the gothic spires of the church, and the hills beyond, with its ruddy hue. Antonio rose, for he calculated that it would be dark by the time he reached the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He met but few people on the way, nor were any near when, without much difficulty, he clambered in at the window in the garden-wall, which Margarida had, according to her promise, left unbolted.It was now as dark as it was likely to be in a star-light night. Antonio carefully shut to the window, and looked around, but Margarida was nowhere to be seen. He softly called her name, but she did not answer. He then observed a building, which appeared to be a summer-house, at the end of a walk. “Ah! she will probably go there to look for me; and if any one by chance comes into the garden, I shall not be exposed to view as I am here.” He accordingly advanced towards it, but when he arrived there, he found the door closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He just then heard a step at a distance. He listened attentively; it was too heavy for the elastic little feet of his mistress. It approached nearer, and in the direction of the spot where he stood. “I must find some place to hide in, or I shall be caught,” he muttered.At the back of the summer-house there were some shrubs growing closely together, a window overlooking them, which spot Antonio, as he looked about, selected to conceal himself till the person who was coming near had retired. He shrunk down on the ground, under the walls of the building; and he had scarcely done so, when a person, applying the key to the door, entered. Striking a light, the man lit a lamp on the table, in the centre of the apartment, which, from the noise he made, he appeared to be placing in order. After having performed this office, he again opened the door, when, at that instant, Antonio heard a light step coming along the path, and which he fancied he could recognise as Margarida’s. Of this he was soon convinced, by hearing a voice, which he knew to be hers, exclaim—“Oh! Senhor Ferreira, is that you? You quite frighten me! What are you doing?”“Let me rather ask you what you are doing here at this hour of the evening, Senhora Margarida,” was the answer.“I came out to pick some flowers for my mistress, which I forgot to do in the day-time, so, if you are gallant, you will come and assist me,” said Senhora Margarida.“An odd time, to pick flowers in the dark,” answered the man-servant; “but I cannot assist you now; I must return to the house.”“Many thanks for your gallantry, Senhor Ferreira,” she responded, as he turned away; “I dare say I shall find enough myself;” and she stooped over the flower-beds, as if in search of flowers.Antonio guardedly peeped out of his concealment, and seeing his mistress alone, “Hist, Margarida, hist!” he whispered. “Come beneath the shade of the summer-house; that prying servant will be less likely to observe us.”“Oh, Senhor Antonio, I am so glad to have found you, for when I passed by I found the window closed, and I was afraid you might not have got in,” said Margarida.They sat themselves down on a stone bench placed against the side of the building. Antonio, while declaring his affection for the young lady, some of which he had really begun to feel, at the same time managed to draw from her various pieces of information he was anxious to gain. A few minutes had thus passed rapidly away, when the sound of approaching footsteps was again heard.“For the love of Heaven, conceal yourself,” exclaimed Margarida, jumping up and seizing a bunch of flowers, with which she had wisely provided herself previously to coming into the garden. “They will see you, if you attempt to reach the window. Down behind the summer-house. ’Tis the young Marquis and some visitors. I must away.” And she tripped along the walk towards the house. “Who goes there?” exclaimed a stern voice, as she passed the party by a different though parallel pathway.“I have been gathering flowers, Senhor Duque—see, here they are,” answered Margarida, quickly.“Gathering flowers at this time of night, indeed! Say rather, looking for a lover, senhora,” exclaimed the voice; “think you we can distinguish them in this light? Go, Manoel, and watch her safely into the house—we must have no prying eyes and listening ears to what we are about.”Manoel being despatched to follow Margarida until he saw her out of their way, the party advanced and entered the summer-house, where, fresh lamps being lit, they took their seats round the table which the servant had arranged.Antonio, in the mean time, unable to escape, was obliged to resume his position among the bushes, expecting every instant that the party would search round the building, and feeling confident from what he had learnt from Margarida of their proceedings, that he should fall an instant sacrifice to their fears. He was somewhat relieved when he heard their feet on the floor of the summer-house, and their voices speaking in tones which showed that they had no suspicion of the presence of a spy upon their actions.After waiting some time, the persons within the summer-house having become highly excited in their discussion, whatever it was, Antonio thought he might venture to move his position, so as to gain a view of what was going forward. The shutters of the window, which looked over the shrubbery in which he was concealed, were left partially open, so that by carefully lifting his head among the branches of the evergreens, he was able to see clearly into the room without incurring any risk of being himself observed.At one end of the table, sat, or rather now stood, the Duke of Aveiro, who was, with vehement gestures, addressing the party: on each side were various members and connexions of the Tavora family, among them being the young Marquis and his brother, the Conde d’Atouquia, the old Marchioness, and the Jesuit Malagrida.“Ah! ah! thou old hypocrite,” muttered Antonio, as he observed the last-mentioned personage. “Wherever thou art there is sure to be mischief brewing; but I have thee now, if I mistake not;” and, like an Indian warrior approaching his foes, he crept close to the window, placing himself behind the shutter, so that, although he could hear more clearly, he was less able to distinguish what was taking place, till he discovered a broad chink, and, by putting his eye to it, he had complete command of the greater part of the room.“The very persons who met at the Jesuit’s vault down the river,” he thought to himself, “when they all fancied themselves so secure and unobserved; as did yon mad priest deem himself hidden from the searching eye of the Minister: yet, forsooth, he made a capital bait to catch others. Ah! I am glad to find my young friend the Conde d’Almeida is not among them, and he has certainly not fled the country, for I saw him this very morning.”We do not intend to give the whole particulars of the conversation which Antonio overheard; suffice it to say, that he heard enough to prove that a dangerous and powerful conspiracy existed to overthrow the power of the Minister; and more, that one had existed to destroy the sovereign, fomented and encouraged by some of those now present, if indeed the actual would-have-been assassins were not among them. Antonio noted well every word they uttered, every gesture they made, words sufficient to bring the speakers, as they themselves well knew, to the scaffold, had they deemed that an ear was listening to them; but, infatuated as they were, they triumphed in fancied security, calling on Heaven to aid them in their wickedness. Now some were seen to draw their swords, and to kiss the blades, as they ratified some dreadful oath; others grasped their fire-arms, and vowed to use them to better effect than before; when Malagrida stood up and blessed the assembled conspirators and their cause.Some movement now taking place among them, Antonio, fearful lest his face might be perceived through the casement, stole back to his leafy shelter; and fortunate was it for him that he did so, for some one, perceiving that the shutter was unclosed, sent Manoel round to fasten it. Antonio held his breath, hiding his face beneath his cloak, for the man’s feet almost touched his as he passed; and had not the eyes of the latter been dazzled by the light within, he could not have avoided perceiving him; as it was, the man performed his orders, and quickly returned to hear what his superiors were saying. Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and Antonio heard the party hurrying from the building towards the house. He waited some further time, with eager anxiety to bear the important information, for which he had so long toiled, to his employer, till the sound of voices and footsteps had died away. He listened attentively—not a sound was heard. He started from his lair towards the garden window, which afforded the easiest means of escape; for, if found in the grounds after what had occurred, he well knew he must expect nothing short of death from the conspirators. As he gained the front of the summer-house, what was his horror to perceive two men standing beneath the porch before it, so earnestly engaged in a whispered conversation, that they did not perceive him! He stepped back cautiously a couple of paces, so as to be out of their sight, but was afraid to retreat further, lest he might attract their notice. The movement was not, however, entirely unremarked.“Did you not hear a noise, Senhor Policarpio?” said one of the persons.“Stay! listen, Manoel. I hear nothing. Oh, it was but the wind rustling the leaves,” answered Senhor Policarpio, and they continued the subject of their discussion, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish what they said.Antonio waited, intending to dodge round to the back of the summer-house as soon as Policarpio and his companion moved, when the sound of their footsteps would conceal his own. He wished they would hasten, for he longed to be off, to give the information he had gained; but minute after minute passed by, and still they continued in the same place. His impatience prompted him to make a bold push for the window, but his prudence withheld him. At last they moved away, taking the walk leading past the window, and he slid behind the summer-house; but what was his vexation to hear them stop at the only outlet for escape that he was aware of, one of the men exclaiming, “Curses on this window, ’tis the second time it has blown open to-night; I will secure the bolts well this time;” then followed a noise as if the bolts were driven down by a stone.The footsteps of the men receding, he again advanced from his hiding-place, and, seeing no one, hurried to the window. It was securely closed. He tried to force up the bolts, but they resisted his efforts. He then groped about for the stone which had served the purpose of a hammer to the others, and, after some time, having discovered it, he attempted to drive up the bolts. He knocked away till one only remained to set him at liberty, when suddenly a gleam of light fell on the shutter before him, and, turning his head, to his dismay, he beheld the two persons who he thought had entered the house hurrying towards him. Not a moment was to be lost, if he would escape with his life. He knocked away at the bolt, but it had been driven deep down.“Death to the cursed spy!” shouted the voice of Senhor Policarpio, as he rushed forward, with his sword gleaming in his hand. The threat did not the less cause Antonio to endeavour to loosen the obstinate bolt. The point of the sword was within a few paces of him, when the bolt gave way. He threw open the shutter, and leaped on the window-sill. Policarpio made a thrust with his rapier at him; but, jumping fearlessly down, he alighted safely on the ground. Stopping not to see if any followed, and diving among the narrow lanes in the neighbourhood, he was soon safe from pursuit.

It was the middle of winter, but, notwithstanding the season of the year, the sun shone brightly forth, shedding a genial warmth upon the beggars and dogs who were basking beneath it in the streets of Lisbon. The former were stationed at the posts they had each appropriated, exhibiting every species of loathsome deformity, and imploring the charity of the passers-by in the name of Heaven, warning them of the opportunity afforded of bestowing alms for the benefit of their souls. The dogs were enjoying their time of rest, every now and then uttering a growl of defiance if any stranger encroached on their districts. The Galician water-carriers were filling their barrels at the fountains, laughing and joking among themselves, strangers as they were in the land, happy by nature, and independent of all the plots and conspiracies which agitated the natives. Some women were washing at the tanks, and striking the linen to rags against the stones, while they gaily sang in chorus; while others, sitting at the corners of the streets, were employed in roasting chestnuts in little earthen stoves, and calling on the passers to buy. Fishermen were selling the produce of their nets, or wild-fowl; country-women their poultry. Now a citizen might be seen closely muffled up in his large cloak, more to hide the dress beneath than to keep out the cold; then a gentleman would hasten along in his bag-wig, and sword by his side, long flowered waistcoat, and deep waisted coat, politely returning the salutations of all who bowed; indeed, all the world was abroad, a few in carriages or on horseback, but mostly on foot: it was not yet dinner time.

Among the pedestrians was our old friend Antonio, the cobbler, who had long since given up his former occupation, and by many was supposed to live completely on his wits—not a bad compliment to them, however. His keen eye, as he walked along, observed all that was taking place around him. He saw a beggar walk merrily to his post, kicking a dog out of his way, and then ask alms in the character of a confirmed cripple. He laughed—he was fond of laughing, somewhat bitterly oftentimes.

“There are a good many knaves in the world,” he muttered, “of all classes, from the lordly traitor, who would barter his country’s honour and safety for gold to supply his extravagance, to this loathsome wretch in rags and tatters.”

He next observed a boy stealing a coin from a blind man’s hat placed before him, when the seeming blind man, dealing a heavy blow, struck the youthful vagabond to the ground.

“Ay, we can see sharply enough when our own interests are attacked, and fight hard to defend them,” said the Cobbler, as he walked on. “That young rogue has learned a useful lesson, he will make sure that a man is blind before he tries to pilfer his property.”

Antonio passed through several streets, till he came to an open place. There a crowd was collected round a man perched on a high stool, who was selling nostrums, and making the people laugh by his wit and jokes: a real object of pity lay at a doorway, half dead with starvation and disease. A rich man passed by, looking coldly on the wretched beggar, turning aside, and refused his earnest appeal for a copper to relieve his hunger; but when he came within hearing of the quack, he stopped to listen; when the latter, uttering one of his best jokes, and paying him a well-timed compliment, he threw the knave a crown, and, laughing, passed on.

“Such is the way of the world,” thought the Cobbler. “The impudent charlatan succeeds and grows rich, while the honest and humble poor man is left to starve. The foolish rogues are soon hung; ’tis the cunning ones who live and thrive. Bah! it makes me sick to think of it. What fools men are! they will often confide in a plausible knave, when blunt honesty is kicked out of doors.”

The Cobbler saw much more in his walk, on which he made his observations. He did not seem to have a very good opinion of the world he lived in. Whether he thought worse of people than they deserved we cannot pretend to say.

He now left the city behind, and, passing through the suburbs of Belem, directed his course to the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He came under a garden-wall, in which was a window, and out of the window a pair of sparkling black eyes were gazing. He kissed his own hand, for he could not reach that of the lady, and she kissed hers in return; so he went and stood as near her as he could get.

“Oh! my pretty Margarida, how I love you!” he began. At which words, the eyes sparkled even more brightly than before. “I have many wishes, and the first is, that I was on the other side of the wall.”

“Hush! senhor, you must not say that; at least, not so loudly,” softly murmured Margarida; “some one will hear you, for people are passing constantly this way; but the window is not so very high from the ground.”

“Ah, dear one! I could leap up in a moment, if you do not run away,” said the gallant Cobbler.

“Oh! no, no, senhor! some one would see you to a certainty, while it is light,” answered the coy Senhora Margarida.

“I have many things to say to you, pretty one. When will you like to hear them?” asked Antonio.

“Cannot you say them now, senhor?”

“Some one will hear me, you know. Wait till the evening, and then nobody will see me jump in at the window. Remember to leave it open.”

“I will forget to shut it,” innocently answered Margarida. “But tell me, senhor, are you really a fidalgo?”

“I will tell you all about it, with my other secrets, when I come at night. Remember to forget to shut the window; and do not forget to come yourself, Adeos for the present, my pretty charmer! I see some one coming.” And Antonio walked away, humming a tune, while the pair of black eyes disappeared from the garden window.

If the Portuguese are fonder of one employment than of another, it is looking out of window; they all do it, from the highest to the lowest. There is so little mental or bodily exertion required for it; and there is always something moving in the streets, either men, dogs, or rats. Even watching a pig will afford amusement; and anything is preferable to reading, working, or thinking; therefore they always have looked out of windows, and always will, till their taste improves. Antonio proceeded on till he came to the side of the river, where he sat himself down on the bank, to wait till the evening, and to meditate. He thought a great deal, light-hearted and merry as he seemed, often very gravely, sometimes fiercely, as he remembered the foul wrongs and insults the race to which he belonged had for centuries endured, and for which treatment their cruel tyrants had sought every excuse which cunning hypocrisy, or the fiercest bigotry, could invent, claiming ever the authority of God for their cursed deeds. “Miscreants!” he muttered, “where in the Christian’s gospel can they find permission for the rapine, murders, and cruelties, with which their souls have been stained since the triumph of their faith? Fools! who practise not what they preach, and yet expect to be believed.” He would then think on for some time, and, giving a deep-drawn sigh, would conclude with the oft-repeated apophthegm, “What cannot be cured must be endured;” he then, growing calmer, would turn to other subjects. “Yet,” he continued, soliloquising, “it is a hard office to bide this life of concealment, of deceit, and treachery; but it must be endured till my object is accomplished. The time draws near, happily, when my toils may be at an end; and then, if faith can be placed in the word of man, I shall reap the rich reward of all. Can I confide in him? Yes, ’tis his interest to fulfil his promise. There is one thing troubles me more than all the rest; how some men would laugh to hear me, if I confessed it! My pretty Margarida! Now that girl is fully persuaded I love her to desperation; and, assuredly, I have done my utmost to make her believe so, to learn, through her, the secrets of the Tavora family. They little think how closely the meshes of the net are drawn around them, to enclose them ere long, and drag them to shore, as yonder fishermen are now doing with their prey.” As he thought this, he was watching a party of fishermen hauling in their seine. “I must try and make amends to Margarida, poor girl! I feel an interest in her. I did not think she would so soon learn to love me. I was not born to be that cursed wretch who would win a maiden’s affections for the base, cowardly satisfaction of tampering with them, and then deserting her. I leave such work to the wealthy and high-born. May they reap their reward!”

The sun was now setting over the mouth of the Tagus, casting a broad, glowing line of fire upon the smooth bosom of the stream, and tinging the tower of Belem, the gothic spires of the church, and the hills beyond, with its ruddy hue. Antonio rose, for he calculated that it would be dark by the time he reached the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He met but few people on the way, nor were any near when, without much difficulty, he clambered in at the window in the garden-wall, which Margarida had, according to her promise, left unbolted.

It was now as dark as it was likely to be in a star-light night. Antonio carefully shut to the window, and looked around, but Margarida was nowhere to be seen. He softly called her name, but she did not answer. He then observed a building, which appeared to be a summer-house, at the end of a walk. “Ah! she will probably go there to look for me; and if any one by chance comes into the garden, I shall not be exposed to view as I am here.” He accordingly advanced towards it, but when he arrived there, he found the door closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He just then heard a step at a distance. He listened attentively; it was too heavy for the elastic little feet of his mistress. It approached nearer, and in the direction of the spot where he stood. “I must find some place to hide in, or I shall be caught,” he muttered.

At the back of the summer-house there were some shrubs growing closely together, a window overlooking them, which spot Antonio, as he looked about, selected to conceal himself till the person who was coming near had retired. He shrunk down on the ground, under the walls of the building; and he had scarcely done so, when a person, applying the key to the door, entered. Striking a light, the man lit a lamp on the table, in the centre of the apartment, which, from the noise he made, he appeared to be placing in order. After having performed this office, he again opened the door, when, at that instant, Antonio heard a light step coming along the path, and which he fancied he could recognise as Margarida’s. Of this he was soon convinced, by hearing a voice, which he knew to be hers, exclaim—

“Oh! Senhor Ferreira, is that you? You quite frighten me! What are you doing?”

“Let me rather ask you what you are doing here at this hour of the evening, Senhora Margarida,” was the answer.

“I came out to pick some flowers for my mistress, which I forgot to do in the day-time, so, if you are gallant, you will come and assist me,” said Senhora Margarida.

“An odd time, to pick flowers in the dark,” answered the man-servant; “but I cannot assist you now; I must return to the house.”

“Many thanks for your gallantry, Senhor Ferreira,” she responded, as he turned away; “I dare say I shall find enough myself;” and she stooped over the flower-beds, as if in search of flowers.

Antonio guardedly peeped out of his concealment, and seeing his mistress alone, “Hist, Margarida, hist!” he whispered. “Come beneath the shade of the summer-house; that prying servant will be less likely to observe us.”

“Oh, Senhor Antonio, I am so glad to have found you, for when I passed by I found the window closed, and I was afraid you might not have got in,” said Margarida.

They sat themselves down on a stone bench placed against the side of the building. Antonio, while declaring his affection for the young lady, some of which he had really begun to feel, at the same time managed to draw from her various pieces of information he was anxious to gain. A few minutes had thus passed rapidly away, when the sound of approaching footsteps was again heard.

“For the love of Heaven, conceal yourself,” exclaimed Margarida, jumping up and seizing a bunch of flowers, with which she had wisely provided herself previously to coming into the garden. “They will see you, if you attempt to reach the window. Down behind the summer-house. ’Tis the young Marquis and some visitors. I must away.” And she tripped along the walk towards the house. “Who goes there?” exclaimed a stern voice, as she passed the party by a different though parallel pathway.

“I have been gathering flowers, Senhor Duque—see, here they are,” answered Margarida, quickly.

“Gathering flowers at this time of night, indeed! Say rather, looking for a lover, senhora,” exclaimed the voice; “think you we can distinguish them in this light? Go, Manoel, and watch her safely into the house—we must have no prying eyes and listening ears to what we are about.”

Manoel being despatched to follow Margarida until he saw her out of their way, the party advanced and entered the summer-house, where, fresh lamps being lit, they took their seats round the table which the servant had arranged.

Antonio, in the mean time, unable to escape, was obliged to resume his position among the bushes, expecting every instant that the party would search round the building, and feeling confident from what he had learnt from Margarida of their proceedings, that he should fall an instant sacrifice to their fears. He was somewhat relieved when he heard their feet on the floor of the summer-house, and their voices speaking in tones which showed that they had no suspicion of the presence of a spy upon their actions.

After waiting some time, the persons within the summer-house having become highly excited in their discussion, whatever it was, Antonio thought he might venture to move his position, so as to gain a view of what was going forward. The shutters of the window, which looked over the shrubbery in which he was concealed, were left partially open, so that by carefully lifting his head among the branches of the evergreens, he was able to see clearly into the room without incurring any risk of being himself observed.

At one end of the table, sat, or rather now stood, the Duke of Aveiro, who was, with vehement gestures, addressing the party: on each side were various members and connexions of the Tavora family, among them being the young Marquis and his brother, the Conde d’Atouquia, the old Marchioness, and the Jesuit Malagrida.

“Ah! ah! thou old hypocrite,” muttered Antonio, as he observed the last-mentioned personage. “Wherever thou art there is sure to be mischief brewing; but I have thee now, if I mistake not;” and, like an Indian warrior approaching his foes, he crept close to the window, placing himself behind the shutter, so that, although he could hear more clearly, he was less able to distinguish what was taking place, till he discovered a broad chink, and, by putting his eye to it, he had complete command of the greater part of the room.

“The very persons who met at the Jesuit’s vault down the river,” he thought to himself, “when they all fancied themselves so secure and unobserved; as did yon mad priest deem himself hidden from the searching eye of the Minister: yet, forsooth, he made a capital bait to catch others. Ah! I am glad to find my young friend the Conde d’Almeida is not among them, and he has certainly not fled the country, for I saw him this very morning.”

We do not intend to give the whole particulars of the conversation which Antonio overheard; suffice it to say, that he heard enough to prove that a dangerous and powerful conspiracy existed to overthrow the power of the Minister; and more, that one had existed to destroy the sovereign, fomented and encouraged by some of those now present, if indeed the actual would-have-been assassins were not among them. Antonio noted well every word they uttered, every gesture they made, words sufficient to bring the speakers, as they themselves well knew, to the scaffold, had they deemed that an ear was listening to them; but, infatuated as they were, they triumphed in fancied security, calling on Heaven to aid them in their wickedness. Now some were seen to draw their swords, and to kiss the blades, as they ratified some dreadful oath; others grasped their fire-arms, and vowed to use them to better effect than before; when Malagrida stood up and blessed the assembled conspirators and their cause.

Some movement now taking place among them, Antonio, fearful lest his face might be perceived through the casement, stole back to his leafy shelter; and fortunate was it for him that he did so, for some one, perceiving that the shutter was unclosed, sent Manoel round to fasten it. Antonio held his breath, hiding his face beneath his cloak, for the man’s feet almost touched his as he passed; and had not the eyes of the latter been dazzled by the light within, he could not have avoided perceiving him; as it was, the man performed his orders, and quickly returned to hear what his superiors were saying. Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and Antonio heard the party hurrying from the building towards the house. He waited some further time, with eager anxiety to bear the important information, for which he had so long toiled, to his employer, till the sound of voices and footsteps had died away. He listened attentively—not a sound was heard. He started from his lair towards the garden window, which afforded the easiest means of escape; for, if found in the grounds after what had occurred, he well knew he must expect nothing short of death from the conspirators. As he gained the front of the summer-house, what was his horror to perceive two men standing beneath the porch before it, so earnestly engaged in a whispered conversation, that they did not perceive him! He stepped back cautiously a couple of paces, so as to be out of their sight, but was afraid to retreat further, lest he might attract their notice. The movement was not, however, entirely unremarked.

“Did you not hear a noise, Senhor Policarpio?” said one of the persons.

“Stay! listen, Manoel. I hear nothing. Oh, it was but the wind rustling the leaves,” answered Senhor Policarpio, and they continued the subject of their discussion, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish what they said.

Antonio waited, intending to dodge round to the back of the summer-house as soon as Policarpio and his companion moved, when the sound of their footsteps would conceal his own. He wished they would hasten, for he longed to be off, to give the information he had gained; but minute after minute passed by, and still they continued in the same place. His impatience prompted him to make a bold push for the window, but his prudence withheld him. At last they moved away, taking the walk leading past the window, and he slid behind the summer-house; but what was his vexation to hear them stop at the only outlet for escape that he was aware of, one of the men exclaiming, “Curses on this window, ’tis the second time it has blown open to-night; I will secure the bolts well this time;” then followed a noise as if the bolts were driven down by a stone.

The footsteps of the men receding, he again advanced from his hiding-place, and, seeing no one, hurried to the window. It was securely closed. He tried to force up the bolts, but they resisted his efforts. He then groped about for the stone which had served the purpose of a hammer to the others, and, after some time, having discovered it, he attempted to drive up the bolts. He knocked away till one only remained to set him at liberty, when suddenly a gleam of light fell on the shutter before him, and, turning his head, to his dismay, he beheld the two persons who he thought had entered the house hurrying towards him. Not a moment was to be lost, if he would escape with his life. He knocked away at the bolt, but it had been driven deep down.

“Death to the cursed spy!” shouted the voice of Senhor Policarpio, as he rushed forward, with his sword gleaming in his hand. The threat did not the less cause Antonio to endeavour to loosen the obstinate bolt. The point of the sword was within a few paces of him, when the bolt gave way. He threw open the shutter, and leaped on the window-sill. Policarpio made a thrust with his rapier at him; but, jumping fearlessly down, he alighted safely on the ground. Stopping not to see if any followed, and diving among the narrow lanes in the neighbourhood, he was soon safe from pursuit.

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