Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.The Prime Minister was seated in the private council chamber of the King, to which we have frequently before introduced our readers. A lamp stood on the table, throwing its light on numerous packets of papers strewed around, and on the sheet on which he was earnestly employed in writing.Who would, we again ask, seek to occupy such a post as he filled? What can make a man sacrifice his health, his strength, peace, happiness, and safety,—to toil for hours while others sleep,—to bear the abuse of his adversaries, the revilings of the mob, the obstinacy of coadjutors, and the caprices of the Monarch,—but ambition? The ambition of some leads them to noble ends; for others, it wins but the hatred of mankind. It is ambition which excites the warrior to deeds of heroism,—the merchant to gain wealth,—the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, to win fame; and it is ambition which causes us to spend day after day, secluded in our study, employed on this work—the ambition of gaining the approbation of our countrymen.Carvalho wrote on, unmindful of the lateness of the hour, when he heard a knock at the door, and, ordering the person who knocked to enter, a page appeared, informing him that one waited without who sought an audience on some important matter, which would admit of no delay.“Let him be admitted,” said the Minister; and before a minute had elapsed, Antonio stood before him. The attendants who had conducted him thither, to guard against treachery, were ordered forthwith to retire.“What information do you bring me, my friend?” inquired the Minister.“That which you have long sought, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio.“Ah! let me hear it without delay,” said Carvalho, eagerly.“I have learned the whole of the plot against the lives of your Excellency and his Majesty, and discovered many of those engaged in it;” and he gave an exact account of all which had taken place in the summer-house, and the names of the persons assembled there, of which the Minister took notes as he proceeded in his description.“Now, then, ye haughty nobles, I have ye within my power!” exclaimed Carvalho, exultingly. “Sooner will the vulture abandon his prey than I will allow you to escape my grasp! Friend, you have well won any reward you may please to ask,—the treasury shall supply you—”“Stay, your Excellency,” interrupted Antonio. “I before said, I serve you not for money. I am, as you well know, of the race of Abraham; but I am not, therefore, of necessity, mercenary. Think you that any gold you can bestow could repay me for all I have endured to serve you,—for the degradation, the toil, the dangers I have undergone,—the deceit, the disguises, the watchfulness I have practised, for many years past, because you assured me you could find no other to do the work you required, in whom you could confide? Think you that it was for gold I abandoned my home and my kindred, to mingle with the most base and vile on earth, to curb their passions, and to guide them according to your will?—that for this I introduced myself into the palaces of the rich and powerful, to learn their secrets, and to act as a spy on their actions? No! your Excellency has known me long, and knows me better. What I ask, you have power to grant. I demand freedom for my people! We have in all things conformed to the customs of those among whom we dwell; to their religion, in every outward observance, which is all you can require; we pay tithes to your priests; we give alms to the poor; our manners, our language, have become the same; we obey the King and the law; and yet have we not been allowed to enjoy the rights of citizenship in the land which we enrich by our industry and our commerce. A mark has been set upon us; and wherever we move, still is the stigma of being New Christians attached to us. I demand, then, as my reward, that you should abolish that invidious distinction, and that, from henceforth, if we conform to the worship of your Church, we may likewise enjoy all the privileges of the other subjects of his Majesty.”“Your demands, my friend, are somewhat extravagant,” returned the Minister, taken rather by surprise by Antonio’s unexpected harangue; “but I will consult his Majesty on the subject, and be guided by his decision: if unfavourable to your wishes, you must make some other request. You know well that, of myself, I have no power to grant this one.”“Pardon me, your Excellency, I know well the power, both to will and act, rests with you, and you alone,” answered Antonio, vehemently. “And this is the only reward which I seek, or will receive. If you grant it me not, my labour has indeed been labour in vain.”Carvalho was secretly pleased with the disinterested, and, more than that, the dauntless spirit of the speaker, so like his own, and perhaps also with the confidence he placed in his power to fulfil his wishes. The measure was, indeed, one he had before contemplated, and which he was anxious to bring about, though he was too good a diplomatist to acknowledge his intentions, or to commit himself by making any definite promise to perform what he might afterwards have reason to wish left undone; he therefore gave Antonio a vague answer to his petition.“The matter you propose, my good friend, is one of vast importance, which will require mature deliberation before I can give you any hopes favourable to your wishes; but, believe me, I will do my utmost to gain that justice for your people which has so long been denied them: in the mean time, you may perform for me many more important services; for to crush this vile conspiracy at present demands all my attention.”“I would willingly serve your Excellency and the state yet another year, to gain justice for my people,” answered Antonio. “In your word have I trusted, and in that do I still trust. Has your Excellency any further commands?”“None, my friend; for this night you may retire. Call here to-morrow morning, and I shall claim your services.”As the door closed upon Antonio, the Minister, securing most of his papers in the bureau, took in his hand the notes he had made from Antonio’s information, and, late as was the hour, repaired to the chamber of the King.Joseph was about to retire to his couch when the Minister entered: his cheek was thinner and paler even than usual, from sickness and confinement, though he moved his arms without difficulty, as if perfectly recovered from the wounds he had received. Re-seating himself in a large, high-backed arm-chair, before a table on which his supper had been spread, he desired, in rather a querulous tone, to be informed why business was thus brought before him.“It is a matter of the utmost importance, which will admit of no delay, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “I have, at length, the strongest evidence of who were the perpetrators of the sacrilegious outrage against your Majesty.”The King’s tone and manner instantly changed. “Ah! and you can prevent any like attempt for the future, my good friend,” he answered eagerly. “Let me hear the particulars.”On this the Minister laid before him several papers, with the notes he had taken of Antonio’s account, and a long list of the persons he had cause to suspect; many of whom Antonio had also mentioned. As the King read on, Carvalho leaned over him, making his observations on the different points of the case.“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Joseph, his voice trembling with agitation as his eye glanced down the long list of names. “Here are many of the most powerful and wealthy nobles of my land. It is impossible that they can all be traitors. Some of them I have ever deemed the most loyal and obedient of my subjects.”“Still greater, therefore, is their treachery, Sire; and greater must be their punishment,” returned Carvalho, firmly.“But what cause can they have to seek my death?” said the King. “Have they not already all they can desire? Do they not enjoy the highest rank, and fill all the posts of honour I have to give?”“As their ambition and pride are boundless, they would create yet higher ones,” answered Carvalho. “If your Majesty would again enjoy security and repose, these guilty persons, without distinction of their rank or station, must suffer the penalty of their crimes.”“Alas! I fear it must be so,” said the King, hesitatingly; “but I had never supposed my nobles could have been guilty of so great a crime. Surely the assassins must have been villains of a lower order. Aveiro, the Tavoras, never could have done the deed.”“There are strong proofs of their guilt; and on their trial there will yet appear stronger,” answered the Minister. “On my head be their blood, if they be innocent. I must request your Majesty to sign these warrants for their apprehension, and I will issue them when I see a favourable opportunity. We must proceed with caution, for they have a powerful party in their favour. Unless this is done, I cannot, Sire, answer from day to day for the security of your life or crown.”The King unwillingly took the blank warrants which the Minister had brought, and signing them, returned them to him, as he wrote on each the name of some person from the list before him.“According to the information I receive, I may have occasion to apprehend some of these criminals before your Majesty rises to-morrow morning; but perhaps it may be advisable to allow some days further to elapse, that any others who are engaged in the conspiracy may further commit themselves,” observed Carvalho, collecting the warrants.“You have on your list the name of the Marquis of Tavora; but he is not mentioned as having been present at any of the meetings with the others,” said the King.“But most of his family were, Sire,” returned the Minister. “They must inevitably suffer, as being the most guilty; and he must not be allowed to escape, lest he endeavour to avenge their deaths. He, also, in the eye of the law, is equally criminal, for he might have prevented their guilt; and the safety of the state demands his punishment.”“Be cautious that none but the guilty suffer,” said the King.“That shall be my care, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “Your Majesty’s sacred life has been, and will be still, in jeopardy, if their punishment is not severe; but I will make their fate such a lesson to others, that, from thenceforth, treason shall be unknown in the land; and these proud fidalgos shall no longer insult your Majesty with their haughty bearing. Have I, Sire, your full authority to act as I deem requisite on this momentous occasion?”“You have, you have, my friend,” answered the King. “Your judgment is always right.”“Then, haughty fidalgos, you are mine own,” muttered the Minister, as he retired from the presence of the King.The meanest subject in those realms slept more calmly that night than did King Joseph and his Prime Minister.

The Prime Minister was seated in the private council chamber of the King, to which we have frequently before introduced our readers. A lamp stood on the table, throwing its light on numerous packets of papers strewed around, and on the sheet on which he was earnestly employed in writing.

Who would, we again ask, seek to occupy such a post as he filled? What can make a man sacrifice his health, his strength, peace, happiness, and safety,—to toil for hours while others sleep,—to bear the abuse of his adversaries, the revilings of the mob, the obstinacy of coadjutors, and the caprices of the Monarch,—but ambition? The ambition of some leads them to noble ends; for others, it wins but the hatred of mankind. It is ambition which excites the warrior to deeds of heroism,—the merchant to gain wealth,—the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, to win fame; and it is ambition which causes us to spend day after day, secluded in our study, employed on this work—the ambition of gaining the approbation of our countrymen.

Carvalho wrote on, unmindful of the lateness of the hour, when he heard a knock at the door, and, ordering the person who knocked to enter, a page appeared, informing him that one waited without who sought an audience on some important matter, which would admit of no delay.

“Let him be admitted,” said the Minister; and before a minute had elapsed, Antonio stood before him. The attendants who had conducted him thither, to guard against treachery, were ordered forthwith to retire.

“What information do you bring me, my friend?” inquired the Minister.

“That which you have long sought, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio.

“Ah! let me hear it without delay,” said Carvalho, eagerly.

“I have learned the whole of the plot against the lives of your Excellency and his Majesty, and discovered many of those engaged in it;” and he gave an exact account of all which had taken place in the summer-house, and the names of the persons assembled there, of which the Minister took notes as he proceeded in his description.

“Now, then, ye haughty nobles, I have ye within my power!” exclaimed Carvalho, exultingly. “Sooner will the vulture abandon his prey than I will allow you to escape my grasp! Friend, you have well won any reward you may please to ask,—the treasury shall supply you—”

“Stay, your Excellency,” interrupted Antonio. “I before said, I serve you not for money. I am, as you well know, of the race of Abraham; but I am not, therefore, of necessity, mercenary. Think you that any gold you can bestow could repay me for all I have endured to serve you,—for the degradation, the toil, the dangers I have undergone,—the deceit, the disguises, the watchfulness I have practised, for many years past, because you assured me you could find no other to do the work you required, in whom you could confide? Think you that it was for gold I abandoned my home and my kindred, to mingle with the most base and vile on earth, to curb their passions, and to guide them according to your will?—that for this I introduced myself into the palaces of the rich and powerful, to learn their secrets, and to act as a spy on their actions? No! your Excellency has known me long, and knows me better. What I ask, you have power to grant. I demand freedom for my people! We have in all things conformed to the customs of those among whom we dwell; to their religion, in every outward observance, which is all you can require; we pay tithes to your priests; we give alms to the poor; our manners, our language, have become the same; we obey the King and the law; and yet have we not been allowed to enjoy the rights of citizenship in the land which we enrich by our industry and our commerce. A mark has been set upon us; and wherever we move, still is the stigma of being New Christians attached to us. I demand, then, as my reward, that you should abolish that invidious distinction, and that, from henceforth, if we conform to the worship of your Church, we may likewise enjoy all the privileges of the other subjects of his Majesty.”

“Your demands, my friend, are somewhat extravagant,” returned the Minister, taken rather by surprise by Antonio’s unexpected harangue; “but I will consult his Majesty on the subject, and be guided by his decision: if unfavourable to your wishes, you must make some other request. You know well that, of myself, I have no power to grant this one.”

“Pardon me, your Excellency, I know well the power, both to will and act, rests with you, and you alone,” answered Antonio, vehemently. “And this is the only reward which I seek, or will receive. If you grant it me not, my labour has indeed been labour in vain.”

Carvalho was secretly pleased with the disinterested, and, more than that, the dauntless spirit of the speaker, so like his own, and perhaps also with the confidence he placed in his power to fulfil his wishes. The measure was, indeed, one he had before contemplated, and which he was anxious to bring about, though he was too good a diplomatist to acknowledge his intentions, or to commit himself by making any definite promise to perform what he might afterwards have reason to wish left undone; he therefore gave Antonio a vague answer to his petition.

“The matter you propose, my good friend, is one of vast importance, which will require mature deliberation before I can give you any hopes favourable to your wishes; but, believe me, I will do my utmost to gain that justice for your people which has so long been denied them: in the mean time, you may perform for me many more important services; for to crush this vile conspiracy at present demands all my attention.”

“I would willingly serve your Excellency and the state yet another year, to gain justice for my people,” answered Antonio. “In your word have I trusted, and in that do I still trust. Has your Excellency any further commands?”

“None, my friend; for this night you may retire. Call here to-morrow morning, and I shall claim your services.”

As the door closed upon Antonio, the Minister, securing most of his papers in the bureau, took in his hand the notes he had made from Antonio’s information, and, late as was the hour, repaired to the chamber of the King.

Joseph was about to retire to his couch when the Minister entered: his cheek was thinner and paler even than usual, from sickness and confinement, though he moved his arms without difficulty, as if perfectly recovered from the wounds he had received. Re-seating himself in a large, high-backed arm-chair, before a table on which his supper had been spread, he desired, in rather a querulous tone, to be informed why business was thus brought before him.

“It is a matter of the utmost importance, which will admit of no delay, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “I have, at length, the strongest evidence of who were the perpetrators of the sacrilegious outrage against your Majesty.”

The King’s tone and manner instantly changed. “Ah! and you can prevent any like attempt for the future, my good friend,” he answered eagerly. “Let me hear the particulars.”

On this the Minister laid before him several papers, with the notes he had taken of Antonio’s account, and a long list of the persons he had cause to suspect; many of whom Antonio had also mentioned. As the King read on, Carvalho leaned over him, making his observations on the different points of the case.

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Joseph, his voice trembling with agitation as his eye glanced down the long list of names. “Here are many of the most powerful and wealthy nobles of my land. It is impossible that they can all be traitors. Some of them I have ever deemed the most loyal and obedient of my subjects.”

“Still greater, therefore, is their treachery, Sire; and greater must be their punishment,” returned Carvalho, firmly.

“But what cause can they have to seek my death?” said the King. “Have they not already all they can desire? Do they not enjoy the highest rank, and fill all the posts of honour I have to give?”

“As their ambition and pride are boundless, they would create yet higher ones,” answered Carvalho. “If your Majesty would again enjoy security and repose, these guilty persons, without distinction of their rank or station, must suffer the penalty of their crimes.”

“Alas! I fear it must be so,” said the King, hesitatingly; “but I had never supposed my nobles could have been guilty of so great a crime. Surely the assassins must have been villains of a lower order. Aveiro, the Tavoras, never could have done the deed.”

“There are strong proofs of their guilt; and on their trial there will yet appear stronger,” answered the Minister. “On my head be their blood, if they be innocent. I must request your Majesty to sign these warrants for their apprehension, and I will issue them when I see a favourable opportunity. We must proceed with caution, for they have a powerful party in their favour. Unless this is done, I cannot, Sire, answer from day to day for the security of your life or crown.”

The King unwillingly took the blank warrants which the Minister had brought, and signing them, returned them to him, as he wrote on each the name of some person from the list before him.

“According to the information I receive, I may have occasion to apprehend some of these criminals before your Majesty rises to-morrow morning; but perhaps it may be advisable to allow some days further to elapse, that any others who are engaged in the conspiracy may further commit themselves,” observed Carvalho, collecting the warrants.

“You have on your list the name of the Marquis of Tavora; but he is not mentioned as having been present at any of the meetings with the others,” said the King.

“But most of his family were, Sire,” returned the Minister. “They must inevitably suffer, as being the most guilty; and he must not be allowed to escape, lest he endeavour to avenge their deaths. He, also, in the eye of the law, is equally criminal, for he might have prevented their guilt; and the safety of the state demands his punishment.”

“Be cautious that none but the guilty suffer,” said the King.

“That shall be my care, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “Your Majesty’s sacred life has been, and will be still, in jeopardy, if their punishment is not severe; but I will make their fate such a lesson to others, that, from thenceforth, treason shall be unknown in the land; and these proud fidalgos shall no longer insult your Majesty with their haughty bearing. Have I, Sire, your full authority to act as I deem requisite on this momentous occasion?”

“You have, you have, my friend,” answered the King. “Your judgment is always right.”

“Then, haughty fidalgos, you are mine own,” muttered the Minister, as he retired from the presence of the King.

The meanest subject in those realms slept more calmly that night than did King Joseph and his Prime Minister.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.The young Count d’Almeida had, since his arrival in Lisbon, been leading a life of complete retirement, at the quiet abode Pedro had selected for him. He had withdrawn himself from the society of the Tavoras, even from that of young Jozé de Tavora, whom he could not entirely forgive for the deceit he had practised on him, in leading him into the meeting of the conspirators on the fatal night of the attempted assassination of the King. He could not banish from his mind the suspicion that some of the persons he had there met were, in some way or other, connected with that diabolical outrage; and he felt assured, from knowing the character of the Minister, that it would not, as people supposed, be overlooked; so that, notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity which reigned in the city, the culprits would, sooner or later, be discovered. Of his own safety, though innocent of any criminal design, he was not at all satisfied; and each day that he rose he felt might be the last without the walls of a prison.His friend, Captain Pinto, was at sea in the frigate he now commanded; and she was not, it was said, expected in the Tagus for some time.When he inquired for Senhor Mendez, he was informed that, as soon as his health had been restored, he had sailed for England, nor did any one know when he was likely to return; so that Luis found himself deprived of the advice of the two persons in whom he could most confide. For his cousin, the Father Jacinto, he had long conceived the most complete distrust; and had not, therefore, even informed him of his return to Lisbon, nor did he believe the holy Jesuit was aware of the circumstance.Our fair readers will naturally inquire if he had forgotten Donna Clara. He would have been unworthy of the pen of an historian if such could have been possible. He loved her as devotedly as before their separation, even though the last glow of hope was almost extinguished in his heart; but the spark still existed, for the fatal vow had not yet been pronounced, which, like death, must tear her from him for ever, and, till then, he would hope on: his love, he felt, could end but in his grave.After some months of quietude, Lisbon was aroused from a lethargy (into which she was, in those days, rather more apt to fall than at present, when, every six months or so, she undergoes the excitement of a revolution) by the marriage of the eldest daughter of the Prime Minister with the Count Sampayo, to celebrate which important event preparations on a grand scale were made throughout the city. The King, who had not yet appeared in public, would, it was said, give a grand ball at the palace, to which all the first fidalgos were invited; and the foreigners had also issued invitations for a magnificent fête, which they purposed giving on the occasion, at their own ballroom, which might vie with any other in the kingdom.The fidalgos, unsuspicious of danger, flocked into Lisbon from all parts of the country; some really anxious to pay their respects to their sovereign, and perhaps their court to his Minister; others, from very different motives, afraid of absenting themselves.The Count d’Almeida had determined, on this occasion, to enter for the first time into society, since the death of his father. Late in the day, he rode out into the country, as was his usual custom; and, after proceeding some distance, he observed a large body of cavalry advancing rapidly towards the city. To avoid them, he turned his horse into a cross road, which led him into another highway, when he found himself in the rear of a regiment of infantry. By making a still larger circuit he hoped to escape the annoyance of having to pass them; but, to his surprise, he again encountered another body of troops.At last, he determined to return homeward, wondering for what purpose the garrison of Lisbon was thus so suddenly increased; and, as he approached the barriers, he found each avenue to the city strongly guarded; he being allowed to enter, but several persons, who seemed anxious to go out, were detained without receiving any explanation.We often blame ourselves that ideas should not have occurred to us, when after circumstances have proved the great advantage we might have derived from them; and so Luis had cause to think before he closed his eyes in sleep on that eventful night. He arrived at his solitary home without meeting any one from whom to inquire the cause of the sudden movement of the troops. While dressing for the fête, he inquired of Pedro if he had heard anything on the subject; but the latter, whose mind was full of the magnificence of the preparations, could only inform him that it was reported, a few more military had marched into the city to attend a review which the King was to hold on the following day.Satisfied with this answer, Luis drove down to the palace, in front of which a large body of guards were drawn up, while carriages in great numbers were thronging to the spot. As he entered the hall of the palace, his eyes were dazzled by the brilliant illumination which met his view from hundreds of lights suspended from the roof, and above the broad staircase in front, glancing on the polished arms of the guards, who filled every part except a narrow passage for the guests between them. A military band, stationed on each side, was playing some loud and martial airs, which drowned the voices of any who attempted to speak. Luis passed on, and had reached the foot of the stairs, when two officers stepped forward.“The Senhor Conde d’Almeida,” said one, politely bowing.“The same,” answered Luis.“You will please step this way, senhor, by the order of the King,” returned the officer, opening a door on one side, through which Luis was obliged to pass, and which was closed directly after them. His attendants then conducted him down a long passage, which appeared truly gloomy after the blaze of light he had quitted, and to his inquiries as to where they were going, they held an ominous silence. He could not but feel alarmed at the extraordinary circumstance, though he had but short time for reflection, before he reached the opposite side of the palace, when his former conductors delivered him into the custody of two others, who seemed prepared to expect him.“What is the meaning of this, senhores?” he asked.“You are our prisoner, Senhor Conde, by order of the King,” answered one of his new guards. “Please to accompany us, a carriage awaits you.”The men placing themselves one on each side of him, so that escape was impossible, led him down a flight of steps to a small door, on the outside of which more soldiers were stationed, and where a coach was in waiting. The soldiers then formed round the coach, keeping all spectators at a distance, while his guards desired him to enter it, seating themselves, with drawn weapons, opposite to him. The coach then drove quickly away, while another appeared to take its place.“Ah!” thought Luis, “I am, alas! not the only wretch who will this night be deprived of liberty.”He was anxious to learn of his attendants whither they were conducting him, but the only answer he could draw from them was far from satisfactory.“Silence, senhor,” said one. “Our orders are to treat you with every respect but, if you attempt to speak, or to cry out for assistance, we are to run our swords into your body.”After this, he deemed it the more prudent plan to keep silence, lest they might think it necessary to obey their orders to the letter.As he was driven along through the dark and narrow streets, he knew not whither, without the remotest chance of escape, his meditations were melancholy in the extreme. He could not doubt that he was going to that dismal bourne from which so many travellers never return—a dungeon, or from which, too probably, he might be led forth but to the scaffold. After driving for a considerable distance, he again ventured to ask his destination, but a gruff “Silence, senhor! remember!” was the only answer he received. At length the carriage stopped. He heard the heavy sound of bolts being withdrawn, and chains dropped, when the mules again moved onwards a few paces. He could hear the gates, through which he had passed, again close with a loud grating and clanging noise, which struck a chill to his heart, and he was presently afterwards desired to alight. As he stepped from the vehicle, he looked round him, to endeavour to discover to what place he had been conveyed, and, by the glare of a torch which one of the under-gaolers held, it seemed to him that he was in a small court-yard, surrounded by lofty walls, and in front of a small door thickly studded with iron bolts. His attention was, however, quickly directed to other subjects, by the door opening, and the appearance of a personage who announced himself as the Governor of the prison, and to whom, with the most polite bows, his former attendants now delivered him. He was a small man, habited in a complete costume of black, with a placid expression of countenance, and a mild, conciliating tone of voice, more suited to a physician than the keeper of a prison, it appeared, on the first glance, as many of those unfortunate persons who came under his government supposed; but, on a further acquaintance, a most ominous gleam was observed to shoot from his cold grey eye, when the smile which usually played round his lips would vanish, and a frown, in spite of himself, would gather on his brow, betokening too clearly his real character.The Governor’s first address was cordial in the extreme, though Luis would willingly have dispensed with his hospitality.“You are welcome, Senhor d’Almeida, to my abode, and all which it contains is at your service,” he began. “I see you still wear your sword. I beg your pardon, but I must request you to deliver it up to me. None here wear arms but the guards, nor will you need it for your protection. We take very good care of our guests.”Luis, as he was desired, unbuckled his sword, and, without speaking, delivered it into the hands of the Governor.“Thank you, Senhor Conde,” continued the latter personage. “It is a pretty weapon, and I will take the greatest care of it for you. I will now, by your leave, conduct you to your apartment. It is rather small, and somewhat damp; but, to say the truth, we have but little room to spare, for we are likely to be crowded soon, and you will have plenty of companions. However, I am of a hospitable disposition, and I like to see my mansion full; yet I know not if you will be able to enjoy much of each other’s society, for our rules are rather severe in that respect.”While the Governor was thus running on, he was conducting Luis through several arched passages, a man preceding them with a lantern, while four others followed close after, armed with drawn swords, as a slight hint to the prisoner that his only course must be obedience to orders. They then descended a flight of stone steps to regions where, it seemed, the light of day could never penetrate, so damp and chill struck the air they breathed.“We lodge you on the ground-floor, Senhor Conde,” observed the facetious Governor. “It has its advantages and disadvantages. You will find some amusement in hunting the rats and toads, which are said to be rather numerous, though I confess that, in winter, the climate does not agree with some constitutions—perhaps it may with yours. Oh, here we are.”Producing a large bunch of keys, he ordered one of the men to unlock a door, before which they stood.“Enter, Senhor Conde. You will not find many luxuries, and, as for conveniences, I must supply those you require.”Luis felt it was useless striving against fate, so he unresistingly walked into what was, in truth, a wretched dungeon, with little more than sufficient height to stand upright, and about eight feet square. It contained a pallet, destitute of any bedding, a single chair, and a rough deal table, with a pitcher to hold water. The only means of ventilation was through a narrow aperture, sloping upward, far too small to allow a human body to pass, even had it not been closely barred both inside and out.“I have other guests to attend on, Senhor Conde, so I must beg you to excuse my rudeness in quitting you so soon,” said the Governor, as one of the under-gaolers lighted a small lamp which stood on the table, while the others withdrew. “I will send you such bedding as I can procure. However, for your consolation, I can assure you that some of your friends will be worse lodged to-night than you are. I wish you farewell, senhor!”And, before Luis had time to make any answer to these rather doubtful expressions, the polite Governor had disappeared, and, the door being closed, barred, and bolted, he found himself alone, and a state prisoner. We need not describe how he felt. Most people, in a like situation, would have felt the same—deprived of liberty, which, with the greater number of men, next to life, is dearer than all else. To some, life, without it, is valueless, and eagerly do they look forward to the moment when, released from all mortal bonds, their fetterless souls may range through the boundless regions of a happier world, in wondering admiration of the mighty works of their Creator. Such has been the dream of many a hapless prisoner, for many years doomed to pine on in gloom and wretchedness, waiting, in anxious expectation, for the time of his emancipation, which, day after day, has been cruelly deferred, till hope and consciousness have together fled.As the sound of the falling bolts struck his ear, Luis stood for some minutes gazing at the iron door, like one transfixed. He then took several rapid steps the length of his narrow prison, and, at last, throwing himself on the chair, and drawing his cloak, which he had fortunately retained, around him—for his gala costume was but ill-suited to protect him against the cold and dampness of the season—he gave way to bitter and hopeless thought.The predictions of the Governor were but too correct. During the greater part of the night, Luis could plainly hear the arrival of carriage after carriage. Then came the sound of many feet, the barring and bolting of doors, the fall of chains, and all the accompanying noises to be expected in a prison. After about an hour, his own door opened, when he observed a guard of soldiers drawn up in front, and two attendants entered, with a mattress and coverlids, which they threw on the bedstead, placing some coarse bread and fish before him on the table; and then, without uttering a syllable, they again withdrew.In the mean time, the gaieties in the city continued unabated, though all people felt a more than usual degree of restraint on their spirits in the palace. To the great displeasure of many, the King did not make his appearance. Indeed, some suspected he had never intended to do so, though his Minister took upon himself to perform the necessary honours, and, moving among the crowd, he allowed no one of importance to pass without a word or so of compliment. One witty nobleman, indeed, whispered to another,—“If King Joseph is dead, King Sebastian has come to life again!” Before many days were over, he had cause to repent his words. Several persons who were expected by their friends did not make their appearance, though it was affirmed some were even seen on their way thither.“Where is the Conde d’Atouquia?” asked the young Count Villela. “He owes me two hundred crowns; the dice were unfortunate to him, but I wish to give him his revenge, or I may, perhaps, double the sum.”“He followed me through the hall of the passage, but I saw no more of him,” was the answer.It was an admirable device of the Minister’s to prevent a disturbance, had he dreaded one; for all those whom he had reason to suspect were, like Luis, requested to walk on one side, when they were quietly apprehended, and driven off to prison, without any of their friends suspecting what had become of them.The residences of the various members of the Tavora family were surrounded by troops, so that none could escape. The old Marchioness was one of the first seized. She had retired to her chamber, where her attendants were unrobing her, when a party of men burst into the palace and, without ceremony, entering her room, the chief of the police commanded her to accompany them without delay. Allowing her scarcely time to resume her gown, she was hurried to a carriage in waiting for her, and, without permitting her to communicate with any one, was driven to the Convent of Grillos, at some little distance from Lisbon. This convent was one belonging to the most rigid of all the monastic orders in Portugal; and tales were told of the deeds done within its walls, which make one shudder at their bare recital. It possessed damp and gloomy passages, and subterraneous chambers, into which the light of day never penetrated. The only garment which the hapless recluses wore was one of the coarsest cloth; their food, which they ate off plates of rough earthenware, was vegetables, without salt; and the singing of hymns, and the monotonous service of the Church, was their only employment. In this lugubrious retreat every warm affection of the heart was chilled—the thoughts of all its inmates were sad and mournful; for no one would have willingly entered it, unless impelled by the remorse of conscience, for some heavy crime, in hopes of gaining forgiveness from Heaven, by penance and fasting. The unfortunate Donna Leonora was committed to the charge of the Lady Abbess of this establishment, with strict orders to allow her no possible chance of escape, to ensure which a guard was also stationed outside the building. Here she was left, after being informed that every member of her family was likewise imprisoned.When the officers sent to apprehend the Marquis arrived at his palace, they found that he had quitted home, and was supposed to be at the house of his sister, the Countess of —, whither they immediately proceeded. He was engaged in conversation with that lady, when a servant entered, with alarm on his countenance, to inform him that some persons were inquiring for him below, who were evidently emissaries of the Minister.“Oh! do not venture down, then,” exclaimed the Countess. “Conceal yourself here till you can fly elsewhere for safety; for, depend on it, the Minister contemplates some injury to you.”“I feel myself guiltless of any crime against the state, and fear not his malice,” replied the Marquis. “I will see what the persons require, and return to you directly.”“Oh, in mercy, do not go, my brother,” reiterated the Countess, endeavouring to detain him. “I have lately had sad forebodings that some danger was impending over you, and now, alas! they are about to be fulfilled.”The Marquis having with difficulty, for the moment, calmed his sister’s fears, proceeded down stairs, when, no sooner had he reached the hall, than he was surrounded by armed men, the leader of whom peremptorily demanded his sword.“I shall give that to no one but my sovereign, to whom I shall this instant go, to learn the cause of this insolent outrage,” answered the Marquis, endeavouring to pass on. “Let my carriage be brought to the door this instant.”“My orders are peremptory,” returned the officer. “I must conduct you forthwith to prison.”“To prison!” said the Marquis, starting, “of what crime am I accused?”“Of high treason,” answered the officer. “Thus much I am permitted to inform you; the other members of your family are already in custody, and I am ordered to conduct your Excellency to the same prison—this is my warrant;” and he presented a paper, which the Marquis took, glancing his eye over it.“I see it possesses his Majesty’s signature, and that I never disobey,” he answered. “Do your duty, senhor; I am ready to accompany you; but I should first wish to change my dress at my own palace.”“I have no power to permit it: your Excellency must repair forthwith to the prison.”The Marquis, without deigning further reply, stepped at once into his carriage, which, surrounded by a body of cavalry, drove quickly away. It stopped at length before a building lately repaired by orders of the Minister,—no one had been able to understand for what purpose; where, before the earthquake, wild beasts had been confined, as objects of curiosity; but at the time of that event it had been thought necessary to destroy them, for fear of their getting loose. He was here unceremoniously ordered to alight, and conducted, between guards, into the interior, where a person who acted as governor of the new prison—a creature of the Minister—led the way, without speaking, to a cell, the last occupant of which had been an untamed lion. It contained no other furniture than such as had served the wild beast of the forest, a bundle of straw scattered on one side forming the only couch. Into this place the unhappy nobleman was thrust, the door was closed upon him, and he was left to ruminate on the cause of his apprehension, and the probable fate he might expect, judging from the barbarous treatment he now experienced.

The young Count d’Almeida had, since his arrival in Lisbon, been leading a life of complete retirement, at the quiet abode Pedro had selected for him. He had withdrawn himself from the society of the Tavoras, even from that of young Jozé de Tavora, whom he could not entirely forgive for the deceit he had practised on him, in leading him into the meeting of the conspirators on the fatal night of the attempted assassination of the King. He could not banish from his mind the suspicion that some of the persons he had there met were, in some way or other, connected with that diabolical outrage; and he felt assured, from knowing the character of the Minister, that it would not, as people supposed, be overlooked; so that, notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity which reigned in the city, the culprits would, sooner or later, be discovered. Of his own safety, though innocent of any criminal design, he was not at all satisfied; and each day that he rose he felt might be the last without the walls of a prison.

His friend, Captain Pinto, was at sea in the frigate he now commanded; and she was not, it was said, expected in the Tagus for some time.

When he inquired for Senhor Mendez, he was informed that, as soon as his health had been restored, he had sailed for England, nor did any one know when he was likely to return; so that Luis found himself deprived of the advice of the two persons in whom he could most confide. For his cousin, the Father Jacinto, he had long conceived the most complete distrust; and had not, therefore, even informed him of his return to Lisbon, nor did he believe the holy Jesuit was aware of the circumstance.

Our fair readers will naturally inquire if he had forgotten Donna Clara. He would have been unworthy of the pen of an historian if such could have been possible. He loved her as devotedly as before their separation, even though the last glow of hope was almost extinguished in his heart; but the spark still existed, for the fatal vow had not yet been pronounced, which, like death, must tear her from him for ever, and, till then, he would hope on: his love, he felt, could end but in his grave.

After some months of quietude, Lisbon was aroused from a lethargy (into which she was, in those days, rather more apt to fall than at present, when, every six months or so, she undergoes the excitement of a revolution) by the marriage of the eldest daughter of the Prime Minister with the Count Sampayo, to celebrate which important event preparations on a grand scale were made throughout the city. The King, who had not yet appeared in public, would, it was said, give a grand ball at the palace, to which all the first fidalgos were invited; and the foreigners had also issued invitations for a magnificent fête, which they purposed giving on the occasion, at their own ballroom, which might vie with any other in the kingdom.

The fidalgos, unsuspicious of danger, flocked into Lisbon from all parts of the country; some really anxious to pay their respects to their sovereign, and perhaps their court to his Minister; others, from very different motives, afraid of absenting themselves.

The Count d’Almeida had determined, on this occasion, to enter for the first time into society, since the death of his father. Late in the day, he rode out into the country, as was his usual custom; and, after proceeding some distance, he observed a large body of cavalry advancing rapidly towards the city. To avoid them, he turned his horse into a cross road, which led him into another highway, when he found himself in the rear of a regiment of infantry. By making a still larger circuit he hoped to escape the annoyance of having to pass them; but, to his surprise, he again encountered another body of troops.

At last, he determined to return homeward, wondering for what purpose the garrison of Lisbon was thus so suddenly increased; and, as he approached the barriers, he found each avenue to the city strongly guarded; he being allowed to enter, but several persons, who seemed anxious to go out, were detained without receiving any explanation.

We often blame ourselves that ideas should not have occurred to us, when after circumstances have proved the great advantage we might have derived from them; and so Luis had cause to think before he closed his eyes in sleep on that eventful night. He arrived at his solitary home without meeting any one from whom to inquire the cause of the sudden movement of the troops. While dressing for the fête, he inquired of Pedro if he had heard anything on the subject; but the latter, whose mind was full of the magnificence of the preparations, could only inform him that it was reported, a few more military had marched into the city to attend a review which the King was to hold on the following day.

Satisfied with this answer, Luis drove down to the palace, in front of which a large body of guards were drawn up, while carriages in great numbers were thronging to the spot. As he entered the hall of the palace, his eyes were dazzled by the brilliant illumination which met his view from hundreds of lights suspended from the roof, and above the broad staircase in front, glancing on the polished arms of the guards, who filled every part except a narrow passage for the guests between them. A military band, stationed on each side, was playing some loud and martial airs, which drowned the voices of any who attempted to speak. Luis passed on, and had reached the foot of the stairs, when two officers stepped forward.

“The Senhor Conde d’Almeida,” said one, politely bowing.

“The same,” answered Luis.

“You will please step this way, senhor, by the order of the King,” returned the officer, opening a door on one side, through which Luis was obliged to pass, and which was closed directly after them. His attendants then conducted him down a long passage, which appeared truly gloomy after the blaze of light he had quitted, and to his inquiries as to where they were going, they held an ominous silence. He could not but feel alarmed at the extraordinary circumstance, though he had but short time for reflection, before he reached the opposite side of the palace, when his former conductors delivered him into the custody of two others, who seemed prepared to expect him.

“What is the meaning of this, senhores?” he asked.

“You are our prisoner, Senhor Conde, by order of the King,” answered one of his new guards. “Please to accompany us, a carriage awaits you.”

The men placing themselves one on each side of him, so that escape was impossible, led him down a flight of steps to a small door, on the outside of which more soldiers were stationed, and where a coach was in waiting. The soldiers then formed round the coach, keeping all spectators at a distance, while his guards desired him to enter it, seating themselves, with drawn weapons, opposite to him. The coach then drove quickly away, while another appeared to take its place.

“Ah!” thought Luis, “I am, alas! not the only wretch who will this night be deprived of liberty.”

He was anxious to learn of his attendants whither they were conducting him, but the only answer he could draw from them was far from satisfactory.

“Silence, senhor,” said one. “Our orders are to treat you with every respect but, if you attempt to speak, or to cry out for assistance, we are to run our swords into your body.”

After this, he deemed it the more prudent plan to keep silence, lest they might think it necessary to obey their orders to the letter.

As he was driven along through the dark and narrow streets, he knew not whither, without the remotest chance of escape, his meditations were melancholy in the extreme. He could not doubt that he was going to that dismal bourne from which so many travellers never return—a dungeon, or from which, too probably, he might be led forth but to the scaffold. After driving for a considerable distance, he again ventured to ask his destination, but a gruff “Silence, senhor! remember!” was the only answer he received. At length the carriage stopped. He heard the heavy sound of bolts being withdrawn, and chains dropped, when the mules again moved onwards a few paces. He could hear the gates, through which he had passed, again close with a loud grating and clanging noise, which struck a chill to his heart, and he was presently afterwards desired to alight. As he stepped from the vehicle, he looked round him, to endeavour to discover to what place he had been conveyed, and, by the glare of a torch which one of the under-gaolers held, it seemed to him that he was in a small court-yard, surrounded by lofty walls, and in front of a small door thickly studded with iron bolts. His attention was, however, quickly directed to other subjects, by the door opening, and the appearance of a personage who announced himself as the Governor of the prison, and to whom, with the most polite bows, his former attendants now delivered him. He was a small man, habited in a complete costume of black, with a placid expression of countenance, and a mild, conciliating tone of voice, more suited to a physician than the keeper of a prison, it appeared, on the first glance, as many of those unfortunate persons who came under his government supposed; but, on a further acquaintance, a most ominous gleam was observed to shoot from his cold grey eye, when the smile which usually played round his lips would vanish, and a frown, in spite of himself, would gather on his brow, betokening too clearly his real character.

The Governor’s first address was cordial in the extreme, though Luis would willingly have dispensed with his hospitality.

“You are welcome, Senhor d’Almeida, to my abode, and all which it contains is at your service,” he began. “I see you still wear your sword. I beg your pardon, but I must request you to deliver it up to me. None here wear arms but the guards, nor will you need it for your protection. We take very good care of our guests.”

Luis, as he was desired, unbuckled his sword, and, without speaking, delivered it into the hands of the Governor.

“Thank you, Senhor Conde,” continued the latter personage. “It is a pretty weapon, and I will take the greatest care of it for you. I will now, by your leave, conduct you to your apartment. It is rather small, and somewhat damp; but, to say the truth, we have but little room to spare, for we are likely to be crowded soon, and you will have plenty of companions. However, I am of a hospitable disposition, and I like to see my mansion full; yet I know not if you will be able to enjoy much of each other’s society, for our rules are rather severe in that respect.”

While the Governor was thus running on, he was conducting Luis through several arched passages, a man preceding them with a lantern, while four others followed close after, armed with drawn swords, as a slight hint to the prisoner that his only course must be obedience to orders. They then descended a flight of stone steps to regions where, it seemed, the light of day could never penetrate, so damp and chill struck the air they breathed.

“We lodge you on the ground-floor, Senhor Conde,” observed the facetious Governor. “It has its advantages and disadvantages. You will find some amusement in hunting the rats and toads, which are said to be rather numerous, though I confess that, in winter, the climate does not agree with some constitutions—perhaps it may with yours. Oh, here we are.”

Producing a large bunch of keys, he ordered one of the men to unlock a door, before which they stood.

“Enter, Senhor Conde. You will not find many luxuries, and, as for conveniences, I must supply those you require.”

Luis felt it was useless striving against fate, so he unresistingly walked into what was, in truth, a wretched dungeon, with little more than sufficient height to stand upright, and about eight feet square. It contained a pallet, destitute of any bedding, a single chair, and a rough deal table, with a pitcher to hold water. The only means of ventilation was through a narrow aperture, sloping upward, far too small to allow a human body to pass, even had it not been closely barred both inside and out.

“I have other guests to attend on, Senhor Conde, so I must beg you to excuse my rudeness in quitting you so soon,” said the Governor, as one of the under-gaolers lighted a small lamp which stood on the table, while the others withdrew. “I will send you such bedding as I can procure. However, for your consolation, I can assure you that some of your friends will be worse lodged to-night than you are. I wish you farewell, senhor!”

And, before Luis had time to make any answer to these rather doubtful expressions, the polite Governor had disappeared, and, the door being closed, barred, and bolted, he found himself alone, and a state prisoner. We need not describe how he felt. Most people, in a like situation, would have felt the same—deprived of liberty, which, with the greater number of men, next to life, is dearer than all else. To some, life, without it, is valueless, and eagerly do they look forward to the moment when, released from all mortal bonds, their fetterless souls may range through the boundless regions of a happier world, in wondering admiration of the mighty works of their Creator. Such has been the dream of many a hapless prisoner, for many years doomed to pine on in gloom and wretchedness, waiting, in anxious expectation, for the time of his emancipation, which, day after day, has been cruelly deferred, till hope and consciousness have together fled.

As the sound of the falling bolts struck his ear, Luis stood for some minutes gazing at the iron door, like one transfixed. He then took several rapid steps the length of his narrow prison, and, at last, throwing himself on the chair, and drawing his cloak, which he had fortunately retained, around him—for his gala costume was but ill-suited to protect him against the cold and dampness of the season—he gave way to bitter and hopeless thought.

The predictions of the Governor were but too correct. During the greater part of the night, Luis could plainly hear the arrival of carriage after carriage. Then came the sound of many feet, the barring and bolting of doors, the fall of chains, and all the accompanying noises to be expected in a prison. After about an hour, his own door opened, when he observed a guard of soldiers drawn up in front, and two attendants entered, with a mattress and coverlids, which they threw on the bedstead, placing some coarse bread and fish before him on the table; and then, without uttering a syllable, they again withdrew.

In the mean time, the gaieties in the city continued unabated, though all people felt a more than usual degree of restraint on their spirits in the palace. To the great displeasure of many, the King did not make his appearance. Indeed, some suspected he had never intended to do so, though his Minister took upon himself to perform the necessary honours, and, moving among the crowd, he allowed no one of importance to pass without a word or so of compliment. One witty nobleman, indeed, whispered to another,—“If King Joseph is dead, King Sebastian has come to life again!” Before many days were over, he had cause to repent his words. Several persons who were expected by their friends did not make their appearance, though it was affirmed some were even seen on their way thither.

“Where is the Conde d’Atouquia?” asked the young Count Villela. “He owes me two hundred crowns; the dice were unfortunate to him, but I wish to give him his revenge, or I may, perhaps, double the sum.”

“He followed me through the hall of the passage, but I saw no more of him,” was the answer.

It was an admirable device of the Minister’s to prevent a disturbance, had he dreaded one; for all those whom he had reason to suspect were, like Luis, requested to walk on one side, when they were quietly apprehended, and driven off to prison, without any of their friends suspecting what had become of them.

The residences of the various members of the Tavora family were surrounded by troops, so that none could escape. The old Marchioness was one of the first seized. She had retired to her chamber, where her attendants were unrobing her, when a party of men burst into the palace and, without ceremony, entering her room, the chief of the police commanded her to accompany them without delay. Allowing her scarcely time to resume her gown, she was hurried to a carriage in waiting for her, and, without permitting her to communicate with any one, was driven to the Convent of Grillos, at some little distance from Lisbon. This convent was one belonging to the most rigid of all the monastic orders in Portugal; and tales were told of the deeds done within its walls, which make one shudder at their bare recital. It possessed damp and gloomy passages, and subterraneous chambers, into which the light of day never penetrated. The only garment which the hapless recluses wore was one of the coarsest cloth; their food, which they ate off plates of rough earthenware, was vegetables, without salt; and the singing of hymns, and the monotonous service of the Church, was their only employment. In this lugubrious retreat every warm affection of the heart was chilled—the thoughts of all its inmates were sad and mournful; for no one would have willingly entered it, unless impelled by the remorse of conscience, for some heavy crime, in hopes of gaining forgiveness from Heaven, by penance and fasting. The unfortunate Donna Leonora was committed to the charge of the Lady Abbess of this establishment, with strict orders to allow her no possible chance of escape, to ensure which a guard was also stationed outside the building. Here she was left, after being informed that every member of her family was likewise imprisoned.

When the officers sent to apprehend the Marquis arrived at his palace, they found that he had quitted home, and was supposed to be at the house of his sister, the Countess of —, whither they immediately proceeded. He was engaged in conversation with that lady, when a servant entered, with alarm on his countenance, to inform him that some persons were inquiring for him below, who were evidently emissaries of the Minister.

“Oh! do not venture down, then,” exclaimed the Countess. “Conceal yourself here till you can fly elsewhere for safety; for, depend on it, the Minister contemplates some injury to you.”

“I feel myself guiltless of any crime against the state, and fear not his malice,” replied the Marquis. “I will see what the persons require, and return to you directly.”

“Oh, in mercy, do not go, my brother,” reiterated the Countess, endeavouring to detain him. “I have lately had sad forebodings that some danger was impending over you, and now, alas! they are about to be fulfilled.”

The Marquis having with difficulty, for the moment, calmed his sister’s fears, proceeded down stairs, when, no sooner had he reached the hall, than he was surrounded by armed men, the leader of whom peremptorily demanded his sword.

“I shall give that to no one but my sovereign, to whom I shall this instant go, to learn the cause of this insolent outrage,” answered the Marquis, endeavouring to pass on. “Let my carriage be brought to the door this instant.”

“My orders are peremptory,” returned the officer. “I must conduct you forthwith to prison.”

“To prison!” said the Marquis, starting, “of what crime am I accused?”

“Of high treason,” answered the officer. “Thus much I am permitted to inform you; the other members of your family are already in custody, and I am ordered to conduct your Excellency to the same prison—this is my warrant;” and he presented a paper, which the Marquis took, glancing his eye over it.

“I see it possesses his Majesty’s signature, and that I never disobey,” he answered. “Do your duty, senhor; I am ready to accompany you; but I should first wish to change my dress at my own palace.”

“I have no power to permit it: your Excellency must repair forthwith to the prison.”

The Marquis, without deigning further reply, stepped at once into his carriage, which, surrounded by a body of cavalry, drove quickly away. It stopped at length before a building lately repaired by orders of the Minister,—no one had been able to understand for what purpose; where, before the earthquake, wild beasts had been confined, as objects of curiosity; but at the time of that event it had been thought necessary to destroy them, for fear of their getting loose. He was here unceremoniously ordered to alight, and conducted, between guards, into the interior, where a person who acted as governor of the new prison—a creature of the Minister—led the way, without speaking, to a cell, the last occupant of which had been an untamed lion. It contained no other furniture than such as had served the wild beast of the forest, a bundle of straw scattered on one side forming the only couch. Into this place the unhappy nobleman was thrust, the door was closed upon him, and he was left to ruminate on the cause of his apprehension, and the probable fate he might expect, judging from the barbarous treatment he now experienced.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.Our history carries us once more to the country-house of the Duke of Aveiro at Azeitaö, where the noble owner had arrived the morning after the family meeting at the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora, of which Antonio had so unexpectedly become a witness. The Duke, who was supposed to be still in the country at that time, had secretly visited Lisbon for the occasion, where he had now left his confidant, Senhor Policarpio, to watch the progress of events, and to give him timely notice of what was taking place. So confident was he of the success of their plans, and of the Minister’s entire want of suspicion that he was in any way connected with the attempt on the life of the King, that he would listen to none of the warnings which some of his more sagacious friends had lately sent him. One contained but the following lines:—“Beware of the tiger and the lion!—if, perchance, you fall into their den, they will devour you.” Another letter was rather more explicit:—“I fear that our meeting will be rather more numerous than it ought to be. A secret is out when many people know it, and on these occasions a man requires three heads under his cap.”These letters arrived by the post, and had the infatuated Duke examined them well, he would have discovered that the seals had been previously broken. After reading them, he threw them aside, with an exclamation of disdain. “My worthy friend truly seems to have a mighty fear of this Sebastiaö Jozé; but we will soon show him which is the tiger to be dreaded,” he observed.The very day previous to the apprehension of the Marquis of Tavora and his family, the Duke received notice from a friend that a vessel was prepared, and would sail that evening, recommending him to escape in time from the storm which was then brewing; but, with the most extraordinary infatuation, he refused to take advantage of the offer, declaring his conviction that no injury could possibly be done him. His Duchess, in whom he had not ventured to confide, and who had long suffered from dreadful suspicions that he was implicated in the conspiracy, in vain also urged him to fly the country.“What! fair lady, and quit these realms which may soon be my own?” he answered. “No!—I put more confidence in the prophecies of the holy Father Malagrida than to do so—his promises will not fail me.”His friend set sail without him, and escaped. We shall see how far Malagrida’s words were made good. Yet, reader, condemn not the mad Jesuit alone; there are many of his class, in the present day, who would equally lead their deluded followers to destruction, did they not, fortunately for themselves, live in happier times, and under a more enlightened government, without having their own wisdom, we suspect, to thank for their safety.The Duke had just risen, and was seated, in his morning-gown, in the room he usually inhabited, when his son, the young Marquis of Gouvea, entered, with a gun in his hand, equipped for a shooting expedition. The youth was in high spirits at the thoughts of his day’s sport; and the father, with his many faults, was proud of his noble boy, and blessed him as he parted from him.Scarcely had the young Marquis quitted the house, when Senhor Policarpio, with disordered dress, and covered with dust, rushed into the presence of his master. “Fly, my lord!” he exclaimed,—“we are betrayed, and all is discovered! There is not a moment to lose: the Marquis of Tavora and all his family were apprehended last night, and the moment I heard of it I hurried off here to warn you of your danger.”“Whither can I fly?” exclaimed the Duke. “It is useless; besides, no one will dare to injure me. Even that bold plebeian, Sebastiaö Jozé, would not venture so far.”“Pardon me, your Excellency, then,” answered Policarpio; “I feel very certain that he will venture to hang me, if he can catch me, so I must take care of my own life.” And, without waiting to hear anything his master might wish to say further, he hurried from the apartment.His first care was to go to his own room, and to collect in a bag all the money he had hoarded up. He then threw off the garments he wore, and dressed himself in some ragged ones, which he had brought under his cloak. The latter garment served to conceal his new costume, as, seizing his bag of coin, he hastened from the house, unnoticed by any one. He took the least frequented way across the estate, stopping every now and then to listen and to look around, lest any guards might be approaching. He then, after quitting his master’s property, hurried across the country, and halted not for many miles, till he arrived in the centre of a pine-forest, through which ran a clear and tranquil brook. Having looked carefully around, he sat himself down on the bank, and, drawing a knife from his pocket, he deliberately cut off every particle of his hair, throwing it, as he did so, into the water. His next operation was to scratch the entire surface of his face and neck, and the greater part of his legs and hands, with his knife, rubbing them over at the same time with an ointment he had provided. With this application the skin became swollen and discoloured to a frightful degree, so that, after a few minutes had passed, it would have been utterly impossible, even for the most intimate acquaintance, to have recognised him. He next tore and dirtied still more the garments he wore, and, cutting a rough staff from a branch of a fallen tree, he left the spot with the exact appearance of a loathsome and wandering beggar. For many years was that wretched figure seen roaming from spot to spot, expecting every instant to be recognised, daring to confide in no one, without a friend in the world, conscience-stricken and miserable, yet clinging to life—no one suspecting that beneath those rags was hidden the atrocious criminal, Joseph Policarpio.We must now return to the Duke of Aveiro. For some time he would not believe the account Policarpio had given him; but sat waiting, every instant expecting his return, to give him further information, when his servant, Manoel Ferreira (who, at the particular desire of Policarpio, had, for obvious reasons, transferred his services from the Marquis to him), rushed into the room with the information, that an officer of justice, and a considerable body of armed men, were approaching the house.He now, for the first time, showed some symptoms of comprehending his danger; and, when his Duchess, entering the apartment, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to fly, he no longer hesitated to comply with her urgent prayer. He hastened to the window, which commanded a view of the entrance to the grounds, and there, at a few paces off only, he beheld a body of cavalry, advancing rapidly up the avenue. He stood for a moment, irresolute what course to pursue.“Come, my lord, we must not stay here to be taken like rats in a trap,” exclaimed Manoel, whose impatience had become excessive. “We have yet time to escape into the woods, where we may remain concealed till we learn the worst that is likely to happen to us.”“Oh! follow Manoel’s advice,” added the Duchess. “I will stay, and endeavour to delay the police.”“Close every door and window in the house,” she cried to the other servants, who crowded in to learn what was the matter. “Haste, haste! not a moment is to be lost—your master’s life depends on your alacrity. We may hold out for some time, before they suspect we are deceiving them.”While the servants hurried off to obey her orders, she took her husband’s hand, and led him to a small door, at the back of the building, whence he might escape across a field, into the woods which surrounded the Quinta. She here resigned him to Manoel; for so completely had terror now mastered him, that he seemed incapable of guiding his own steps, while she retired to an upper window to watch his progress.The Duchess gazed anxiously from the window. She saw her husband pass through the garden, without being observed; and he had already crossed more than half way the field which separated it from the wood, when the tramp of horses sounded in the paved court, in front of the building. No one yet followed him. A loud knocking was now heard at the hall-door, and a voice, in an authoritative tone, demanded admittance in the King’s name. She longed to watch, until he was in comparative safety; yet she feared, lest the servants, becoming alarmed, might open the door to his pursuers, when his capture must be inevitable; for, exposed to view, as he now was, from every upper window at the back of the house, they could scarcely avoid seeing him, as they hurried through the rooms in search of him. Casting a last glance in the direction he was pursuing, she hastened down stairs, where she found most of the servants collected in the hall, consulting as to the prudence of admitting the emissaries of justice. The blows on the door were repeated with greater violence; the old major-domo, trembling with alarm, had his hand on a bolt, about to withdraw it.“Would you murder your master?” she exclaimed, seizing the old man’s arm. “If you are men, protect him to the last; I will be answerable to these people for all that may happen.”With prayers and commands, she then persuaded the domestics to retire to the upper part of the house, whither she followed them; and, throwing open a window, she inquired, in a calm voice, the object of the visit of the military.“We come to demand the body of Don Jozé de Mascarenhas, Duke of Aveiro,” answered the Desembargador, the officer of justice, who had charge of the party. “If he does not forthwith deliver himself up to our lawful authority, we shall instantly proceed to force open the door.”“Let me first see the warrant for his apprehension, and I will then obey your commands, if I find you speak the truth,” returned the Duchess, anxious by any excuse to gain time.“That cannot be,” answered the officer. “Either at once open the door, or we must find some other means to make an entrance.”“Do so at your peril,” said the Duchess, firmly. “The Duke does not feel disposed to allow any stranger to enter his house; but, if you will wait, I will go and consult his wishes with regard to our proceedings;” and, closing the window, she hurried away to the back of the house, leaving her enemies under the belief that the Duke was still within.The servants were running backwards and forwards, wringing their hands, and sobbing with alarm, as they entreated her to allow them to throw open the door. Again insisting on their obeying her orders, she looked forth towards the wood.“Oh! Heaven protect him!” she exclaimed, as she saw the Duke and his attendant, still at some short distance from the wood. “In two minutes more he will be hidden from their view.”Scarcely had the Duchess uttered these words, when again the loud blows on the door resounded through the house. Again they were repeated; a crashing noise, as of wood rent asunder, was heard. The women shrieked, and fled in all directions to hide themselves, followed by the men-servants, except a page of the Duke’s, who, seizing a sword, seemed determined to defend his mistress from insult. The door was thrown down, the tramp of feet echoed through the hall, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, but the Duchess heeded them not; her gaze was fixed on her lord. A few paces more and the trees would have concealed him, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and several men rushed in. She could endure no longer, and uttering a cry of despair, she sank, fainting, on the ground. The page in vain attempted to prevent the soldiers from approaching the window; he was soon disarmed and bound, when, at that moment, the officer of justice entering, his keen eye caught sight of the persons of the fugitives in the distance. He at once guessing who they were, and the reason of the Duchess’s refusal to admit the party, despatched some of his followers in pursuit.The Duke’s courage had revived on finding that no one followed, and he was congratulating himself on his chance of escape, when, as he and Manoel had just entered the wood, the latter, turning a glance towards the house, beheld, to his dismay, several persons emerging from the garden.“On, on, my lord! we are pursued!” he exclaimed.“Then all is lost!” cried the Duke, abandoning himself to despair.“Not so, your Excellency. By plunging deeper into the wood, we may find some spot where, throwing ourselves on the ground, we may remain concealed till the soldiers have passed by,” the servant answered.The Duke caught at the idea as a drowning man will at a straw; and, his courage once more reviving, they ran forward among the trees, completely screened from the view of those who were on the other side of the field. They ran for life and liberty, straining every nerve, and exerting every faculty, to escape, while their pursuers were urged on in the chase by the hopes of the reward they expected to receive, and the excitement of hunting a fellow-creature. We leave the case to moral philosophers to determine which have the most powerful incentive, the hunted, or the blood-hounds thirsting for their blood; though we should be inclined to award it to the latter. The first can but, at the worst, be captured and slain, while the hunters may gloat over their prey, and talk in after times of the deeds they have done.The Duke and his servant now reached a deep dell, to cross which was absolutely necessary; yet, on mounting on the opposite side, they must be exposed to observation.“We are lost!” cried the Duke again.“No, no, your Excellency,” returned Manoel. “Quick! quick! it may prove our salvation. See those piles of wood heaped up at the bottom, which the wood-cutters have left, we may crawl beneath some of them, and the soldiers will, probably, in their haste, not think of stopping to search for us.”This being the only feasible plan, they hurried down the bank towards the piles of wood. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, just entering the forest, as they reached their place of refuge. A quantity of branches and brushwood had been cut down, and lay scattered about. These they hastily collected together against the piles of newly-cut wood, when, an instant before the foremost pursuer had reached the summit of the bank, they crept beneath the heap. Onward came the hunters in full cry. They rushed down the glen.“He has gained the opposite bank,” cried one.“Yes, I just now caught sight of his dress among the trees,” shouted another.“Hurra for the reward of the lucky one who captures him!” echoed several.“Courage, comrades! Onward, on!”The Duke trembled with alarm, as these sounds reached his ear. The tramp of feet was heard hurrying close by the place of their concealment—they passed—they mounted the bank,—their voices grew less distinct, and at greater distances from each other, as if they had extended their line. Gradually the noises altogether ceased, and the Duke and his companion breathed more freely. Manoel ventured to look out, and, as far as he could see, no one appeared.“What shall we now do, my good Manoel?” asked his master.“We must remain quietly here till the night,” was the answer; “we may then with some degree of safety be able to reach the interior of the country before the morning breaks; but never must we allow ourselves to be discovered by daylight on the road.”“This is a very uneasy posture I am in,” observed the Duke.“It is better than your Excellency would enjoy on the scaffold,” pithily answered the servant; and the master made no further complaints. “Hark! what sound is that? Footsteps approach—silence, for our lives!” whispered Manoel.When the Desembargador had despatched the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives, he had also ordered the Notary, Senhor de Leiro, to accompany them, an office that respectable personage was not very well qualified to perform, seeing that, although his fingers, from constant practice, were active and pliant, his legs, as for many years they had never moved faster than a sedate walk, were very far from being so. He had also read that the van of an advancing army was a far more dangerous post than the rear; and, as it was said that the terrible Duke had fired at the King, he felt that he would make very little ceremony in shooting him outright; he therefore allowed the fighting party to precede him, while he advanced in a more dignified way in the same direction. By the time, however, that he reached the side of the dell, the soldiers had already run completely out of sight. He sighed as he thought of the toil before him; but his duty peremptorily called on him to proceed; or it might have been that he dreaded the loss of his situation if he neglected it; so he managed to reach the bottom of the glen, and to scramble again up the opposite side. Here, however, fatigue overpowered him, and he was obliged to seat himself down on the bank to rest. While there, hoping that the soldiers would quickly return with the prisoners, and thus save him further exertion, and, bemoaning his hard fate, he observed a heap of dried boughs at the bottom of the glen begin to move, and a man’s head protrude beyond it.“Ah!” he thought, “that head belongs to one of the criminals, to a certainty. Now, if I were a strong man, I would capture him myself; but as I am not, I had better not attempt it, for he may think fit to give me a quietus instead.”The Notary having come to this judicious resolution, kept a vigilant watch on the heap of branches, in the hopes that some one would pass that way to afford him assistance in capturing the prey; nor had he long to wait before chance led a farmer and his servant to cross the wood at no great distance from where he sat. On his beckoning to them, they immediately came up to him; when, in a few words, he explained that he was on the watch for an atrocious criminal, and promised them a reward if they would assist in capturing him. They immediately assented, when they all three set forward towards the spot where the wretched Duke was concealed.“Seize the traitor, alive or dead!” exclaimed Senhor de Leiro, in a loud voice, as he pointed to the underwood.On hearing these words, Manoel, finding further concealment was hopeless, sprang up, determined to make one struggle for life, the Duke following his example, with the intention of flying. The appearance of two desperate men somewhat staggered the valour of the Notary, particularly when Manoel, rushing towards him, seized the sword from his side, and would have run him through with his own weapon, when a cry from the Duke drew off his attention for the moment. On turning round, he beheld his master dragged away by the farmer and his servant.“Release him, villains!” he cried; “he is the Duke of Aveiro!”“We know that well enough,” answered the farmer. “He shot at our gracious King!”Manoel was about to avenge his master, or endeavour to release him, when the shouts of the soldiers, returning through the wood, struck his ear. He now saw that all further attempts to save the Duke would be hopeless; so, abandoning him to his fate, he rushed past the Notary, who tried to impede him, and sought his own safety in flight. He was still in sight when the soldiers appeared on the top of the bank, and the Notary, pointing in the direction of the fugitive, some set off in pursuit, while others hastened forward to secure the greater prize.The unfortunate Duke was dragged back to his mansion, and, without being allowed even to alter his dress, or to see his Duchess, he was hurried into a carriage, waiting ready in the court-yard to receive him. Just as he was driven off, he saw his young son brought in, vainly struggling in the grasp of the rude soldiers who held him.No sooner had the Duke disappeared, than the Duchess was led down stairs, and desired to enter her own carriage, which was now brought round to the door. Almost fainting with grief and terror—for she had beheld her husband a prisoner, and her fears pictured his too probable fate—she requested that her son might accompany her; but this was peremptorily refused. She then entreated that she might be allowed to see him.“Such cannot be, madam,” answered the Desembargador. “My orders are explicit to allow no communication between the prisoners. Your destination is the Convent of the Grillos; the young Marquis must accompany me.” Without waiting to hear the answer of the unhappy lady, he ordered the driver to proceed.A third carriage was in attendance to convey the young Marquis to the prison intended for him. He was now brought out of the house in the custody of some soldiers. The news of his parent’s apprehension had come on him like a thunderbolt; but he neither shed a tear, nor uttered a complaint. On being informed that he must quit his home, he insisted on being allowed to prepare for his journey: this was refused him. He then desired to return to his room, to procure some money and necessaries.“No, senhor,” answered the Desembargador, “you will require no money where you are going, and all necessaries will be supplied you. Come, quick, young sir; I am hurried.”“You seem to have the power to enforce your commands, so I must obey,” said the young noble, haughtily, as he stepped into the carriage. Looking from the window, to take a last farewell of the house, destined, poor youth, never to be his own, he saw, to his sorrow, the servant Manoel dragged forward bleeding, with his hands bound, and, with his father’s page, thrown into a cart, which had been provided for the occasion. All the other men-servants were, likewise, carried as prisoners to Lisbon, while the officers of the crown took possession of the house.The Desembargador then took his seat by the side of the young Marquis, and, as they drove towards Lisbon, he endeavoured, by a variety of questions, to gain as much information from him as possible respecting the Duke’s movements; but the son was on his guard, and refused firmly to answer a word. He was then offered his liberty, if he would agree to assume the cowl of a monk.“No,” he answered, boldly, “I was born to be a noble of Portugal; and never will I consent to become a lazy monk. Lead me to prison: I am innocent, and fear you not.”“We shall see, young sir, if in a few days you do not change your tone,” said the Desembargador, as the carriage stopped before the gloomy walls of the Jungueira.“Never!” answered the young Marquis, firmly: nor could the dungeon into which he was thrown, and the barbarous treatment he received, compel him to change his determination.Much of the above description we have extracted from a manuscript work written by the unfortunate Marquis d’Alorna, who was confined for many years in the Jungueira.

Our history carries us once more to the country-house of the Duke of Aveiro at Azeitaö, where the noble owner had arrived the morning after the family meeting at the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora, of which Antonio had so unexpectedly become a witness. The Duke, who was supposed to be still in the country at that time, had secretly visited Lisbon for the occasion, where he had now left his confidant, Senhor Policarpio, to watch the progress of events, and to give him timely notice of what was taking place. So confident was he of the success of their plans, and of the Minister’s entire want of suspicion that he was in any way connected with the attempt on the life of the King, that he would listen to none of the warnings which some of his more sagacious friends had lately sent him. One contained but the following lines:—“Beware of the tiger and the lion!—if, perchance, you fall into their den, they will devour you.” Another letter was rather more explicit:—“I fear that our meeting will be rather more numerous than it ought to be. A secret is out when many people know it, and on these occasions a man requires three heads under his cap.”

These letters arrived by the post, and had the infatuated Duke examined them well, he would have discovered that the seals had been previously broken. After reading them, he threw them aside, with an exclamation of disdain. “My worthy friend truly seems to have a mighty fear of this Sebastiaö Jozé; but we will soon show him which is the tiger to be dreaded,” he observed.

The very day previous to the apprehension of the Marquis of Tavora and his family, the Duke received notice from a friend that a vessel was prepared, and would sail that evening, recommending him to escape in time from the storm which was then brewing; but, with the most extraordinary infatuation, he refused to take advantage of the offer, declaring his conviction that no injury could possibly be done him. His Duchess, in whom he had not ventured to confide, and who had long suffered from dreadful suspicions that he was implicated in the conspiracy, in vain also urged him to fly the country.

“What! fair lady, and quit these realms which may soon be my own?” he answered. “No!—I put more confidence in the prophecies of the holy Father Malagrida than to do so—his promises will not fail me.”

His friend set sail without him, and escaped. We shall see how far Malagrida’s words were made good. Yet, reader, condemn not the mad Jesuit alone; there are many of his class, in the present day, who would equally lead their deluded followers to destruction, did they not, fortunately for themselves, live in happier times, and under a more enlightened government, without having their own wisdom, we suspect, to thank for their safety.

The Duke had just risen, and was seated, in his morning-gown, in the room he usually inhabited, when his son, the young Marquis of Gouvea, entered, with a gun in his hand, equipped for a shooting expedition. The youth was in high spirits at the thoughts of his day’s sport; and the father, with his many faults, was proud of his noble boy, and blessed him as he parted from him.

Scarcely had the young Marquis quitted the house, when Senhor Policarpio, with disordered dress, and covered with dust, rushed into the presence of his master. “Fly, my lord!” he exclaimed,—“we are betrayed, and all is discovered! There is not a moment to lose: the Marquis of Tavora and all his family were apprehended last night, and the moment I heard of it I hurried off here to warn you of your danger.”

“Whither can I fly?” exclaimed the Duke. “It is useless; besides, no one will dare to injure me. Even that bold plebeian, Sebastiaö Jozé, would not venture so far.”

“Pardon me, your Excellency, then,” answered Policarpio; “I feel very certain that he will venture to hang me, if he can catch me, so I must take care of my own life.” And, without waiting to hear anything his master might wish to say further, he hurried from the apartment.

His first care was to go to his own room, and to collect in a bag all the money he had hoarded up. He then threw off the garments he wore, and dressed himself in some ragged ones, which he had brought under his cloak. The latter garment served to conceal his new costume, as, seizing his bag of coin, he hastened from the house, unnoticed by any one. He took the least frequented way across the estate, stopping every now and then to listen and to look around, lest any guards might be approaching. He then, after quitting his master’s property, hurried across the country, and halted not for many miles, till he arrived in the centre of a pine-forest, through which ran a clear and tranquil brook. Having looked carefully around, he sat himself down on the bank, and, drawing a knife from his pocket, he deliberately cut off every particle of his hair, throwing it, as he did so, into the water. His next operation was to scratch the entire surface of his face and neck, and the greater part of his legs and hands, with his knife, rubbing them over at the same time with an ointment he had provided. With this application the skin became swollen and discoloured to a frightful degree, so that, after a few minutes had passed, it would have been utterly impossible, even for the most intimate acquaintance, to have recognised him. He next tore and dirtied still more the garments he wore, and, cutting a rough staff from a branch of a fallen tree, he left the spot with the exact appearance of a loathsome and wandering beggar. For many years was that wretched figure seen roaming from spot to spot, expecting every instant to be recognised, daring to confide in no one, without a friend in the world, conscience-stricken and miserable, yet clinging to life—no one suspecting that beneath those rags was hidden the atrocious criminal, Joseph Policarpio.

We must now return to the Duke of Aveiro. For some time he would not believe the account Policarpio had given him; but sat waiting, every instant expecting his return, to give him further information, when his servant, Manoel Ferreira (who, at the particular desire of Policarpio, had, for obvious reasons, transferred his services from the Marquis to him), rushed into the room with the information, that an officer of justice, and a considerable body of armed men, were approaching the house.

He now, for the first time, showed some symptoms of comprehending his danger; and, when his Duchess, entering the apartment, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to fly, he no longer hesitated to comply with her urgent prayer. He hastened to the window, which commanded a view of the entrance to the grounds, and there, at a few paces off only, he beheld a body of cavalry, advancing rapidly up the avenue. He stood for a moment, irresolute what course to pursue.

“Come, my lord, we must not stay here to be taken like rats in a trap,” exclaimed Manoel, whose impatience had become excessive. “We have yet time to escape into the woods, where we may remain concealed till we learn the worst that is likely to happen to us.”

“Oh! follow Manoel’s advice,” added the Duchess. “I will stay, and endeavour to delay the police.”

“Close every door and window in the house,” she cried to the other servants, who crowded in to learn what was the matter. “Haste, haste! not a moment is to be lost—your master’s life depends on your alacrity. We may hold out for some time, before they suspect we are deceiving them.”

While the servants hurried off to obey her orders, she took her husband’s hand, and led him to a small door, at the back of the building, whence he might escape across a field, into the woods which surrounded the Quinta. She here resigned him to Manoel; for so completely had terror now mastered him, that he seemed incapable of guiding his own steps, while she retired to an upper window to watch his progress.

The Duchess gazed anxiously from the window. She saw her husband pass through the garden, without being observed; and he had already crossed more than half way the field which separated it from the wood, when the tramp of horses sounded in the paved court, in front of the building. No one yet followed him. A loud knocking was now heard at the hall-door, and a voice, in an authoritative tone, demanded admittance in the King’s name. She longed to watch, until he was in comparative safety; yet she feared, lest the servants, becoming alarmed, might open the door to his pursuers, when his capture must be inevitable; for, exposed to view, as he now was, from every upper window at the back of the house, they could scarcely avoid seeing him, as they hurried through the rooms in search of him. Casting a last glance in the direction he was pursuing, she hastened down stairs, where she found most of the servants collected in the hall, consulting as to the prudence of admitting the emissaries of justice. The blows on the door were repeated with greater violence; the old major-domo, trembling with alarm, had his hand on a bolt, about to withdraw it.

“Would you murder your master?” she exclaimed, seizing the old man’s arm. “If you are men, protect him to the last; I will be answerable to these people for all that may happen.”

With prayers and commands, she then persuaded the domestics to retire to the upper part of the house, whither she followed them; and, throwing open a window, she inquired, in a calm voice, the object of the visit of the military.

“We come to demand the body of Don Jozé de Mascarenhas, Duke of Aveiro,” answered the Desembargador, the officer of justice, who had charge of the party. “If he does not forthwith deliver himself up to our lawful authority, we shall instantly proceed to force open the door.”

“Let me first see the warrant for his apprehension, and I will then obey your commands, if I find you speak the truth,” returned the Duchess, anxious by any excuse to gain time.

“That cannot be,” answered the officer. “Either at once open the door, or we must find some other means to make an entrance.”

“Do so at your peril,” said the Duchess, firmly. “The Duke does not feel disposed to allow any stranger to enter his house; but, if you will wait, I will go and consult his wishes with regard to our proceedings;” and, closing the window, she hurried away to the back of the house, leaving her enemies under the belief that the Duke was still within.

The servants were running backwards and forwards, wringing their hands, and sobbing with alarm, as they entreated her to allow them to throw open the door. Again insisting on their obeying her orders, she looked forth towards the wood.

“Oh! Heaven protect him!” she exclaimed, as she saw the Duke and his attendant, still at some short distance from the wood. “In two minutes more he will be hidden from their view.”

Scarcely had the Duchess uttered these words, when again the loud blows on the door resounded through the house. Again they were repeated; a crashing noise, as of wood rent asunder, was heard. The women shrieked, and fled in all directions to hide themselves, followed by the men-servants, except a page of the Duke’s, who, seizing a sword, seemed determined to defend his mistress from insult. The door was thrown down, the tramp of feet echoed through the hall, heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, but the Duchess heeded them not; her gaze was fixed on her lord. A few paces more and the trees would have concealed him, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and several men rushed in. She could endure no longer, and uttering a cry of despair, she sank, fainting, on the ground. The page in vain attempted to prevent the soldiers from approaching the window; he was soon disarmed and bound, when, at that moment, the officer of justice entering, his keen eye caught sight of the persons of the fugitives in the distance. He at once guessing who they were, and the reason of the Duchess’s refusal to admit the party, despatched some of his followers in pursuit.

The Duke’s courage had revived on finding that no one followed, and he was congratulating himself on his chance of escape, when, as he and Manoel had just entered the wood, the latter, turning a glance towards the house, beheld, to his dismay, several persons emerging from the garden.

“On, on, my lord! we are pursued!” he exclaimed.

“Then all is lost!” cried the Duke, abandoning himself to despair.

“Not so, your Excellency. By plunging deeper into the wood, we may find some spot where, throwing ourselves on the ground, we may remain concealed till the soldiers have passed by,” the servant answered.

The Duke caught at the idea as a drowning man will at a straw; and, his courage once more reviving, they ran forward among the trees, completely screened from the view of those who were on the other side of the field. They ran for life and liberty, straining every nerve, and exerting every faculty, to escape, while their pursuers were urged on in the chase by the hopes of the reward they expected to receive, and the excitement of hunting a fellow-creature. We leave the case to moral philosophers to determine which have the most powerful incentive, the hunted, or the blood-hounds thirsting for their blood; though we should be inclined to award it to the latter. The first can but, at the worst, be captured and slain, while the hunters may gloat over their prey, and talk in after times of the deeds they have done.

The Duke and his servant now reached a deep dell, to cross which was absolutely necessary; yet, on mounting on the opposite side, they must be exposed to observation.

“We are lost!” cried the Duke again.

“No, no, your Excellency,” returned Manoel. “Quick! quick! it may prove our salvation. See those piles of wood heaped up at the bottom, which the wood-cutters have left, we may crawl beneath some of them, and the soldiers will, probably, in their haste, not think of stopping to search for us.”

This being the only feasible plan, they hurried down the bank towards the piles of wood. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, just entering the forest, as they reached their place of refuge. A quantity of branches and brushwood had been cut down, and lay scattered about. These they hastily collected together against the piles of newly-cut wood, when, an instant before the foremost pursuer had reached the summit of the bank, they crept beneath the heap. Onward came the hunters in full cry. They rushed down the glen.

“He has gained the opposite bank,” cried one.

“Yes, I just now caught sight of his dress among the trees,” shouted another.

“Hurra for the reward of the lucky one who captures him!” echoed several.

“Courage, comrades! Onward, on!”

The Duke trembled with alarm, as these sounds reached his ear. The tramp of feet was heard hurrying close by the place of their concealment—they passed—they mounted the bank,—their voices grew less distinct, and at greater distances from each other, as if they had extended their line. Gradually the noises altogether ceased, and the Duke and his companion breathed more freely. Manoel ventured to look out, and, as far as he could see, no one appeared.

“What shall we now do, my good Manoel?” asked his master.

“We must remain quietly here till the night,” was the answer; “we may then with some degree of safety be able to reach the interior of the country before the morning breaks; but never must we allow ourselves to be discovered by daylight on the road.”

“This is a very uneasy posture I am in,” observed the Duke.

“It is better than your Excellency would enjoy on the scaffold,” pithily answered the servant; and the master made no further complaints. “Hark! what sound is that? Footsteps approach—silence, for our lives!” whispered Manoel.

When the Desembargador had despatched the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives, he had also ordered the Notary, Senhor de Leiro, to accompany them, an office that respectable personage was not very well qualified to perform, seeing that, although his fingers, from constant practice, were active and pliant, his legs, as for many years they had never moved faster than a sedate walk, were very far from being so. He had also read that the van of an advancing army was a far more dangerous post than the rear; and, as it was said that the terrible Duke had fired at the King, he felt that he would make very little ceremony in shooting him outright; he therefore allowed the fighting party to precede him, while he advanced in a more dignified way in the same direction. By the time, however, that he reached the side of the dell, the soldiers had already run completely out of sight. He sighed as he thought of the toil before him; but his duty peremptorily called on him to proceed; or it might have been that he dreaded the loss of his situation if he neglected it; so he managed to reach the bottom of the glen, and to scramble again up the opposite side. Here, however, fatigue overpowered him, and he was obliged to seat himself down on the bank to rest. While there, hoping that the soldiers would quickly return with the prisoners, and thus save him further exertion, and, bemoaning his hard fate, he observed a heap of dried boughs at the bottom of the glen begin to move, and a man’s head protrude beyond it.

“Ah!” he thought, “that head belongs to one of the criminals, to a certainty. Now, if I were a strong man, I would capture him myself; but as I am not, I had better not attempt it, for he may think fit to give me a quietus instead.”

The Notary having come to this judicious resolution, kept a vigilant watch on the heap of branches, in the hopes that some one would pass that way to afford him assistance in capturing the prey; nor had he long to wait before chance led a farmer and his servant to cross the wood at no great distance from where he sat. On his beckoning to them, they immediately came up to him; when, in a few words, he explained that he was on the watch for an atrocious criminal, and promised them a reward if they would assist in capturing him. They immediately assented, when they all three set forward towards the spot where the wretched Duke was concealed.

“Seize the traitor, alive or dead!” exclaimed Senhor de Leiro, in a loud voice, as he pointed to the underwood.

On hearing these words, Manoel, finding further concealment was hopeless, sprang up, determined to make one struggle for life, the Duke following his example, with the intention of flying. The appearance of two desperate men somewhat staggered the valour of the Notary, particularly when Manoel, rushing towards him, seized the sword from his side, and would have run him through with his own weapon, when a cry from the Duke drew off his attention for the moment. On turning round, he beheld his master dragged away by the farmer and his servant.

“Release him, villains!” he cried; “he is the Duke of Aveiro!”

“We know that well enough,” answered the farmer. “He shot at our gracious King!”

Manoel was about to avenge his master, or endeavour to release him, when the shouts of the soldiers, returning through the wood, struck his ear. He now saw that all further attempts to save the Duke would be hopeless; so, abandoning him to his fate, he rushed past the Notary, who tried to impede him, and sought his own safety in flight. He was still in sight when the soldiers appeared on the top of the bank, and the Notary, pointing in the direction of the fugitive, some set off in pursuit, while others hastened forward to secure the greater prize.

The unfortunate Duke was dragged back to his mansion, and, without being allowed even to alter his dress, or to see his Duchess, he was hurried into a carriage, waiting ready in the court-yard to receive him. Just as he was driven off, he saw his young son brought in, vainly struggling in the grasp of the rude soldiers who held him.

No sooner had the Duke disappeared, than the Duchess was led down stairs, and desired to enter her own carriage, which was now brought round to the door. Almost fainting with grief and terror—for she had beheld her husband a prisoner, and her fears pictured his too probable fate—she requested that her son might accompany her; but this was peremptorily refused. She then entreated that she might be allowed to see him.

“Such cannot be, madam,” answered the Desembargador. “My orders are explicit to allow no communication between the prisoners. Your destination is the Convent of the Grillos; the young Marquis must accompany me.” Without waiting to hear the answer of the unhappy lady, he ordered the driver to proceed.

A third carriage was in attendance to convey the young Marquis to the prison intended for him. He was now brought out of the house in the custody of some soldiers. The news of his parent’s apprehension had come on him like a thunderbolt; but he neither shed a tear, nor uttered a complaint. On being informed that he must quit his home, he insisted on being allowed to prepare for his journey: this was refused him. He then desired to return to his room, to procure some money and necessaries.

“No, senhor,” answered the Desembargador, “you will require no money where you are going, and all necessaries will be supplied you. Come, quick, young sir; I am hurried.”

“You seem to have the power to enforce your commands, so I must obey,” said the young noble, haughtily, as he stepped into the carriage. Looking from the window, to take a last farewell of the house, destined, poor youth, never to be his own, he saw, to his sorrow, the servant Manoel dragged forward bleeding, with his hands bound, and, with his father’s page, thrown into a cart, which had been provided for the occasion. All the other men-servants were, likewise, carried as prisoners to Lisbon, while the officers of the crown took possession of the house.

The Desembargador then took his seat by the side of the young Marquis, and, as they drove towards Lisbon, he endeavoured, by a variety of questions, to gain as much information from him as possible respecting the Duke’s movements; but the son was on his guard, and refused firmly to answer a word. He was then offered his liberty, if he would agree to assume the cowl of a monk.

“No,” he answered, boldly, “I was born to be a noble of Portugal; and never will I consent to become a lazy monk. Lead me to prison: I am innocent, and fear you not.”

“We shall see, young sir, if in a few days you do not change your tone,” said the Desembargador, as the carriage stopped before the gloomy walls of the Jungueira.

“Never!” answered the young Marquis, firmly: nor could the dungeon into which he was thrown, and the barbarous treatment he received, compel him to change his determination.

Much of the above description we have extracted from a manuscript work written by the unfortunate Marquis d’Alorna, who was confined for many years in the Jungueira.

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