Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.How bright and fair are the hopes of youth, like the early flowers of spring; but how soon, alas! do they, too, wither and decay, beneath the first scorching blast of summer. Poor Donna Clara awoke, the morning after the events we have described in the previous chapter, with a weight at her young heart such as she had never before experienced. A short month ago, the world promised naught but happiness, and now every feeling of joy lay crushed and blighted. Old Gertrudes attended her loved mistress with looks of sorrow, while the business of the toilette was proceeding; and no sooner had she dismissed her Abigails, than she urged her to confide to her bosom all the causes of her grief. She was in no way restrained in her abuse of the Count, describing his character very much in its true light; but her observations, far from relieving Clara’s mind, only increased her fears for the safety of Don Luis.When the old lady heard that her fate was to be settled that very day, her tears flowed fast, as she embraced her affectionately: “I will not have my child torn from me to be shut up in a convent, where I cannot attend on her,” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe my mistress, your lady mother, who has gone to heaven, ever wished you to go into one at all. I never heard her say so, and there’s nobody but the Senhor Confessor who ever did; so I see no reason why you should be forced to do what you do not like. If you were to marry some young fidalgo whom you loved, it would be very different, and all natural; because I might then accompany and take care of you; but this I am determined shall not be, let that stern friar say and do what he will. I don’t care for him; for I know more about him than he is aware of, clever as he thinks himself.”The old lady had got thus far in her tirade, when a knocking was heard at the door, and the deep voice of Father Alfonzo demanded admittance, which Clara could not refuse. He entered with a slow step, and a solemn look; and after seating himself by the side of the fair girl, ordered Senhor a Gertrudes to withdraw. She looked as if she would very much like to disobey; but there was no help for it. “I have matter of importance to communicate to my young penitent, which no ears but hers must hear;” so the old nurse, casting a warning glance towards Donna Clara, quitted the room.“My daughter,” began the Friar, “this day you are to make your selection, either to wed the Count or to assume the veil. Now, I would not bias your choice; but I consider it my duty to inform you of certain things which have come to my knowledge, which will have great effect on your future happiness,—but on one condition, that you reveal them to no one; this swear to me, and I will speak them.”Clara took the oath as the Friar directed; for why should she refuse to do that which her confessor asked?“Know, then, my daughter, that the man whom your father and brother desire you towed is a dark and blood-stained murderer!” and the friar poured into the ear of the gentle girl a tale of horror, which made her cheek grow pale, and her frame tremble with fear. “But remember,” he continued, “that you have sworn to reveal this tale to no one, not even to your parent, or dearest friend.”“I will not forget my oath; for my lips could not even utter the dreadful tale,” cried the agitated girl.“’Tis well, then: you renounce all intention of wedding this Count?” said the Friar.“Oh yes, yes, I would die sooner!” returned Clara.“You have a far happier alternative in store for you, my daughter,” said the Friar: “a life of sanctity and devotion; in which you will be free from the cares and troubles of the world; and in the daily communion of pious and humble women, whose every action is guided by religious and learned priests, you will soon forget all the frivolities and vanities of the society you quit.”“I will submit to the will of Heaven,” answered the gentle Clara, in a faint voice.“Such a temper is highly commendable, my daughter,” returned the Friar. “You must prepare to enter, in a few days, the holy retreat selected for you, while, in the mean time, I will make arrangements with the Lady Abbess for your reception. I now go to seek your father, to communicate your pious determination.”“Oh no, let me speak to my father,” cried Clara, eagerly. “I would rather that he should hear from my lips that I cannot wed the Count: he may—” and she hesitated, recollecting herself.“As you will,” said the Friar, looking at her suspiciously; “but remember your oath, and dread the punishment of Heaven.”A dreadful doubt crossed her mind: had the Friar any sinister motive for deceiving her?The Friar rose without again addressing her, and quitted her chamber. He sought the fidalgo, and, notwithstanding Clara’s request, he informed him of her determination. “Your daughter seems bent on disobeying your wishes, senhor,” he said. “Though I have exerted my humble endeavours to persuade her to follow them, and have placed the character of the young Count in as favourable a point of view as possible, she has a foolish and invincible repugnance to him; however, perhaps a father’s persuasions may have more effect than mine; but should you not succeed, be firm, and remember your oath, or dread the vengeance of Heaven!” and the Friar turned aside his head, to hide the dark smile which lighted up his features.The fidalgo parted from his confessor, and hastened to his daughter’s chamber. Clara had sunk on her knees before the little altar and crucifix on one side of her room, to seek aid from Heaven to support that misery which it seemed cruel man had conspired to cause. She rose as she heard her father’s footsteps approaching: she had not wept, her grief was too bitter, too hopeless, for tears to give relief; and with apparent calmness she met him as he entered. But already had the blight fallen on that fair brow; the soft lustre of her eyes had been extinguished; the rose had fled her cheeks, and no more did the accustomed smile dwell on those sweet lips. The fidalgo could not fail to see the change; but he made no remark: his thoughts were busy with the arrangement on which he had determined. He loved his daughter much, but his pride was dearer to him than aught else, and for that must every consideration be sacrificed: all peace on earth, all hopes of heaven, must bow before that cursed, blood-stained idol of his soul!“Clara,” he said, as he led her to a seat, “this day the Count will come to receive the answer to his suit. He loves you, my child, for he has often assured me of it. He appears, in every way, such a husband as I should desire for you; and I feel perfectly satisfied with the selection I have made: you will, therefore, I trust, offer no further opposition to my wishes, though Father Alfonzo tells me you have yet some maidenly scruples about accepting one whom you fancy you cannot love.”“I must not for a moment longer allow you to remain in uncertainty, my father,” cried Donna Clara. “I cannot wed the Count. I dreaded him at first, though, by your desire, I sought to conquer my repugnance; but now—oh! spare me, my father, spare me! retract your stern decree—I never can be his!”“Is such your firm resolve, Clara?” asked her father. “Remember the alternative.”“It is, my father; for you know him not!” she exclaimed, as she cast herself kneeling at his feet, while she clasped his hand and gazed into his countenance. “But you will not be so cruel, so unlike yourself, as to compel me to embrace a life for which I have no calling. Father, oh hear me! I love another, fondly, devotedly,—one whom you cannot disapprove,—one who merits your esteem and gratitude. I knew it not before, or I would have told you; I knew not that he loved me; but now that I feel assured of his love, I would not wed another to gain the crown of Portugal! Frown not thus on your child, my father; I have not loved unworthily; he is noble, brave, and good,—he will himself come to urge his suit.”“Who is the person who has dared to win my daughter’s affections without my permission?” exclaimed the Fidalgo, interrupting her. “Speak, child!”“Don Luis d’Almeida,” answered Clara, firmly.“Clara, you have deceived me,” said her father. “Has this conduct been worthy of a high-born maiden, to receive the addresses of one, whoever he may be, without your father’s permission? But the crime will bring its own punishment. Yet how can it be so? You could have seen him but once, and how know you that he loves you?”“I saw him again, here, on the evening when he came to tell me that he had recovered the casket with my mother’s jewels; and he promised to return this morning to deliver them,” said Clara.“I will receive him, and thank him for his courtesy,” returned the Fidalgo, coldly. “I have nothing for which to blame him; and, under other circumstances, I might have consented to his suit, though his poverty is an objection. But it is now too late; my honour is pledged to the Count, and I must fulfil my contract, provided he is worthy of you; nor has he given me any cause to suppose to the contrary.”A gleam of hope shot across the bosom of his daughter, as she exclaimed, “Oh! my father, he is,”—but, like the dark thunder cloud, the remembrance of her oath again rushed on her mind, and obscured the feeling.At that moment one of her attendants entered, to announce that the Count was waiting below.“Once more, Clara, I ask you, will you receive the Count?” demanded the Fidalgo, sternly.“Father, I cannot!” gasped forth his unhappy child. “At least, spare me the horror of meeting him. In everything else I will obey you, but in this I cannot. I will sacrifice all my hopes in life to save your honour; I will give up the world, and the happiness I thought to find in it. I will quit life itself, and oh, gladly! but I cannot wed the Count.”“Clara, you have chosen your lot,” exclaimed the Fidalgo, raising her, and placing her on a seat, when he moved towards the door. “I will dismiss the Count at your desire, but I have one only course to pursue, which you have already consented to follow. Prepare to quit me for ever!”With these words the proud fidalgo left his gentle daughter.The Conde San Vincente was furious when he heard from Gonçalo Christovaö that his suit was finally rejected, and he demanded that the fidalgo should fulfil his promise in consigning his daughter to a convent, rather than that any other should gain the prize which was not to be his. He concealed, however, the fierce rage which burnt within his bosom at the disappointment of his wishes, and with a show of haughty courtesy took his leave of the fidalgo.Clara anxiously waited all day, in the hopes of hearing that Don Luis had called, and of receiving the casket he had promised to bring. She knew it was wrong to wish it; but she trusted that Gertrudes would contrive to enable her to meet him; but the day passed away, and she heard not of him, nor could her nurse gain her any information.We cannot dwell on her grief and wretchedness. Poor girl! she was but one of the many victims to pride, bigotry, and designing hypocrisy. Several days passed away, the friar visiting her constantly, and dwelling strongly on her mother’s dying vow, when she had devoted her to the Church; so that, heart-broken and despairing, she agreed to obey her father’s commands.Yet, young and innocent as she was, and free from all sort of guile herself, there was something in the manner and the conversation of the friar which raised horrid doubts in her mind as to the purity of his motives. He did not shock her ear by a word which could be repeated to his discredit; he did not propose aught unbecoming her maiden modesty to listen to, but he insinuated that a conventual life was not of that ascetic nature she had supposed; that pleasures, of which custom forbade the enjoyment in society, might be tasted within the precincts of those seemingly gloomy walls; and that the fair brides of Heaven were not entirely secluded from all intercourse with lovers of a more earthly mould.Though she could not understand his discourse, for a virtuous and youthful mind cannot comprehend the extent of villainy of which man is capable, yet how gladly would she have escaped from the life to which she was doomed! But she had promised her father to enter it, and he insisted on her fulfilling that promise; for he believed the Count upright and honourable; yet a word from her would convince him of the contrary—would show him that he had been vilely imposed on; and, by his own acknowledgment, he would yield to her wishes, and she might be happy with the man she loved: but that word her oath forbade her to pronounce. She knew the Count to be a murderer and a dark ruffian, but she could not breathe this knowledge into mortal ear, though her own happiness or life depended on it: hers was indeed a cruel fate.Her father kept much aloof from her; for he could not bear to meet the eye of his child. He, too, looked pale and wretched; for there was a worm at his heart gnawing at his more tender affections, which his pride endeavoured in vain to crush. Her brother never came near her; he chose to be offended at her rejection of his friend, and when the old marchioness saw her, she scolded her half the time for refusing the Count, and the rest she spent in praising the holiness and pure joys of a conventual existence. Poor Gertrudes was most completely at fault: she had trusted too much to her sagacity and acuteness, and had been foiled at every point; so she spent the day and the greater part of the night in weeping by the side of her young mistress.At length the day arrived on which Clara was to quit her father’s care, and to take up her abode within the walls of the convent.The convent selected for her was that of Santa Clara, her patron saint, the abbess of which was a relative of Father Alfonzo, a woman of noble family, and many connexions among the high dignitaries of the Church, by whose exertions she had been raised to her present dignity, more than by any peculiar claims to sanctity which she could boast of. In early youth she had been very beautiful; indeed she yet retained many of her former attractions, still having a right to claim the privilege of being considered young. She had assumed the veil from conviction certainly, but it was from the conviction that it would free her from the restraint and formality of a home governed by an austere father, and a bigoted, tyrannical mother; it was also a sure way to save a fame against which the breath of scandal had dared to whisper. Nor was she disappointed in the liberty she expected to enjoy; a devoted admirer she possessed before she entered, having no occasion to die of grief at her loss.Such was the Mother superior to whose spiritual direction a young and innocent girl was to be confided. Accompanied by the father confessor and the old marchioness, Clara was driven to the convent. On one side of the building stood the church, an edifice of magnificent proportions, elegant architecture, and richly ornamented. The convent itself formed the corner of a square; the high walls of the garden belonging to it making up the remainder.In front of the great entrance was a courtyard, into which the carriage drove; when, the gates being thrown open, the almost fainting girl was led within her prison walls, and conducted to the community room, where the Mother superior and several of the professed nuns were waiting to receive their new sister, of whose coming they had been forewarned. They received the old marchioness and her young charge with every sign of respect, conducting them to seats, and placing themselves in a row before them, while Father Alfonzo carried on a rapid conversation with the sisters, answering a variety of questions regarding the events which were occurring in the city; any fresh piece of scandal, or witty story, affording great amusement to the assembled party.At length, the more immediate object of the visit was referred to. “I fear me that our new sister and namesake of our holy patroness is alarmed at finding herself among so many strangers,” said the Abbess; “but we will soon teach her to forget the vanities of the world she is about to quit, in the contemplation of the sacred mysteries of our religion.” A faint smile crossed the features of the Abbess as she spoke.Poor Clara was too full of grief to answer, her struggling tears choking her utterance; but she felt that she was sacrificing herself at the shrine of filial obedience, and she endeavoured to find composure in the thought. She had recovered sufficiently to bid farewell with tolerable propriety to the old marchioness, who, after some further conversation, retired, accompanied by the friar, and she was left alone with those who were destined to be her future companions while life lasted, a period which she prayed and felt might be short. The sisters crowded round her, and assured her that she would be very happy, endeavouring by every means in their power to cheer her drooping spirits; but their efforts were ineffectual, for there was that sickness at her heart which death alone could end. They led her unresistingly over the building, showing her their cells, which were fitted up with more taste and luxury than could have been expected; then to the novices’ apartments, where she was to take up her residence, till, at the end of the year, her profession was made, and she had assumed the black veil, the sign of her irrevocable vow. As they approached that part of the building, ringing peals of laughter broke on her ear, and she was welcomed by a crowd of young and smiling faces, who seemed little oppressed by gloom or despondency. After being introduced to them, she was conducted through the chapel and choir, and from thence to partake of some refreshment in the refectory; but she turned aside her head with loathing at the very thought of food; and the sisters, seeing that their endeavours to amuse her were vain, showed her the apartment allotted to her as a postulant of the order, and left her to her own reflections.With her, religion was more of the spirit and principle, than of doctrine, or from education; and she ever flew to her Creator, to offer up thanksgivings for blessings, and for strength to bear afflictions, though till now she had scarce known them.The evening sun was streaming through the open casement, throwing a bright refulgence around her seraphic countenance, as, with her hands clasped, she knelt before the altar which adorned her chamber, pouring out her soul in prayer, and beseeching forgiveness for her transgressions.According to the custom of the order, it was some weeks before the new postulant was required to keep strictly the rules of the noviciate; during which time she was expected to become familiarised to the routine of the day, the different forms to be observed, and the duties of the choir; but everything was carefully avoided that could in any way annoy the young novice, or give her cause to be disgusted with her future life. The character of the innocent Clara was at once read by the Lady Abbess; indeed, Father Alfonzo had described it to her as he understood it, so that the secrets of the prison-house were with vigilant care excluded from her view.Now Heaven forgive us, if we have the slightest thought of easting unjust odium on institutions now happily banished from the greater part of Europe, nor can we do aught but praise that admirable society of the Soeurs de Charité, founded on those great principles which the impersonification of Love and Charity taught to mankind,—a society worthy to have been planned in the gentle breast of woman, the very essence of all that is lovely and tender in human nature,—like an angel of light to a spirit of darkness, when contrasted with the foul and terrible Inquisition,—and blessed must they be who belong to it.

How bright and fair are the hopes of youth, like the early flowers of spring; but how soon, alas! do they, too, wither and decay, beneath the first scorching blast of summer. Poor Donna Clara awoke, the morning after the events we have described in the previous chapter, with a weight at her young heart such as she had never before experienced. A short month ago, the world promised naught but happiness, and now every feeling of joy lay crushed and blighted. Old Gertrudes attended her loved mistress with looks of sorrow, while the business of the toilette was proceeding; and no sooner had she dismissed her Abigails, than she urged her to confide to her bosom all the causes of her grief. She was in no way restrained in her abuse of the Count, describing his character very much in its true light; but her observations, far from relieving Clara’s mind, only increased her fears for the safety of Don Luis.

When the old lady heard that her fate was to be settled that very day, her tears flowed fast, as she embraced her affectionately: “I will not have my child torn from me to be shut up in a convent, where I cannot attend on her,” she exclaimed. “I don’t believe my mistress, your lady mother, who has gone to heaven, ever wished you to go into one at all. I never heard her say so, and there’s nobody but the Senhor Confessor who ever did; so I see no reason why you should be forced to do what you do not like. If you were to marry some young fidalgo whom you loved, it would be very different, and all natural; because I might then accompany and take care of you; but this I am determined shall not be, let that stern friar say and do what he will. I don’t care for him; for I know more about him than he is aware of, clever as he thinks himself.”

The old lady had got thus far in her tirade, when a knocking was heard at the door, and the deep voice of Father Alfonzo demanded admittance, which Clara could not refuse. He entered with a slow step, and a solemn look; and after seating himself by the side of the fair girl, ordered Senhor a Gertrudes to withdraw. She looked as if she would very much like to disobey; but there was no help for it. “I have matter of importance to communicate to my young penitent, which no ears but hers must hear;” so the old nurse, casting a warning glance towards Donna Clara, quitted the room.

“My daughter,” began the Friar, “this day you are to make your selection, either to wed the Count or to assume the veil. Now, I would not bias your choice; but I consider it my duty to inform you of certain things which have come to my knowledge, which will have great effect on your future happiness,—but on one condition, that you reveal them to no one; this swear to me, and I will speak them.”

Clara took the oath as the Friar directed; for why should she refuse to do that which her confessor asked?

“Know, then, my daughter, that the man whom your father and brother desire you towed is a dark and blood-stained murderer!” and the friar poured into the ear of the gentle girl a tale of horror, which made her cheek grow pale, and her frame tremble with fear. “But remember,” he continued, “that you have sworn to reveal this tale to no one, not even to your parent, or dearest friend.”

“I will not forget my oath; for my lips could not even utter the dreadful tale,” cried the agitated girl.

“’Tis well, then: you renounce all intention of wedding this Count?” said the Friar.

“Oh yes, yes, I would die sooner!” returned Clara.

“You have a far happier alternative in store for you, my daughter,” said the Friar: “a life of sanctity and devotion; in which you will be free from the cares and troubles of the world; and in the daily communion of pious and humble women, whose every action is guided by religious and learned priests, you will soon forget all the frivolities and vanities of the society you quit.”

“I will submit to the will of Heaven,” answered the gentle Clara, in a faint voice.

“Such a temper is highly commendable, my daughter,” returned the Friar. “You must prepare to enter, in a few days, the holy retreat selected for you, while, in the mean time, I will make arrangements with the Lady Abbess for your reception. I now go to seek your father, to communicate your pious determination.”

“Oh no, let me speak to my father,” cried Clara, eagerly. “I would rather that he should hear from my lips that I cannot wed the Count: he may—” and she hesitated, recollecting herself.

“As you will,” said the Friar, looking at her suspiciously; “but remember your oath, and dread the punishment of Heaven.”

A dreadful doubt crossed her mind: had the Friar any sinister motive for deceiving her?

The Friar rose without again addressing her, and quitted her chamber. He sought the fidalgo, and, notwithstanding Clara’s request, he informed him of her determination. “Your daughter seems bent on disobeying your wishes, senhor,” he said. “Though I have exerted my humble endeavours to persuade her to follow them, and have placed the character of the young Count in as favourable a point of view as possible, she has a foolish and invincible repugnance to him; however, perhaps a father’s persuasions may have more effect than mine; but should you not succeed, be firm, and remember your oath, or dread the vengeance of Heaven!” and the Friar turned aside his head, to hide the dark smile which lighted up his features.

The fidalgo parted from his confessor, and hastened to his daughter’s chamber. Clara had sunk on her knees before the little altar and crucifix on one side of her room, to seek aid from Heaven to support that misery which it seemed cruel man had conspired to cause. She rose as she heard her father’s footsteps approaching: she had not wept, her grief was too bitter, too hopeless, for tears to give relief; and with apparent calmness she met him as he entered. But already had the blight fallen on that fair brow; the soft lustre of her eyes had been extinguished; the rose had fled her cheeks, and no more did the accustomed smile dwell on those sweet lips. The fidalgo could not fail to see the change; but he made no remark: his thoughts were busy with the arrangement on which he had determined. He loved his daughter much, but his pride was dearer to him than aught else, and for that must every consideration be sacrificed: all peace on earth, all hopes of heaven, must bow before that cursed, blood-stained idol of his soul!

“Clara,” he said, as he led her to a seat, “this day the Count will come to receive the answer to his suit. He loves you, my child, for he has often assured me of it. He appears, in every way, such a husband as I should desire for you; and I feel perfectly satisfied with the selection I have made: you will, therefore, I trust, offer no further opposition to my wishes, though Father Alfonzo tells me you have yet some maidenly scruples about accepting one whom you fancy you cannot love.”

“I must not for a moment longer allow you to remain in uncertainty, my father,” cried Donna Clara. “I cannot wed the Count. I dreaded him at first, though, by your desire, I sought to conquer my repugnance; but now—oh! spare me, my father, spare me! retract your stern decree—I never can be his!”

“Is such your firm resolve, Clara?” asked her father. “Remember the alternative.”

“It is, my father; for you know him not!” she exclaimed, as she cast herself kneeling at his feet, while she clasped his hand and gazed into his countenance. “But you will not be so cruel, so unlike yourself, as to compel me to embrace a life for which I have no calling. Father, oh hear me! I love another, fondly, devotedly,—one whom you cannot disapprove,—one who merits your esteem and gratitude. I knew it not before, or I would have told you; I knew not that he loved me; but now that I feel assured of his love, I would not wed another to gain the crown of Portugal! Frown not thus on your child, my father; I have not loved unworthily; he is noble, brave, and good,—he will himself come to urge his suit.”

“Who is the person who has dared to win my daughter’s affections without my permission?” exclaimed the Fidalgo, interrupting her. “Speak, child!”

“Don Luis d’Almeida,” answered Clara, firmly.

“Clara, you have deceived me,” said her father. “Has this conduct been worthy of a high-born maiden, to receive the addresses of one, whoever he may be, without your father’s permission? But the crime will bring its own punishment. Yet how can it be so? You could have seen him but once, and how know you that he loves you?”

“I saw him again, here, on the evening when he came to tell me that he had recovered the casket with my mother’s jewels; and he promised to return this morning to deliver them,” said Clara.

“I will receive him, and thank him for his courtesy,” returned the Fidalgo, coldly. “I have nothing for which to blame him; and, under other circumstances, I might have consented to his suit, though his poverty is an objection. But it is now too late; my honour is pledged to the Count, and I must fulfil my contract, provided he is worthy of you; nor has he given me any cause to suppose to the contrary.”

A gleam of hope shot across the bosom of his daughter, as she exclaimed, “Oh! my father, he is,”—but, like the dark thunder cloud, the remembrance of her oath again rushed on her mind, and obscured the feeling.

At that moment one of her attendants entered, to announce that the Count was waiting below.

“Once more, Clara, I ask you, will you receive the Count?” demanded the Fidalgo, sternly.

“Father, I cannot!” gasped forth his unhappy child. “At least, spare me the horror of meeting him. In everything else I will obey you, but in this I cannot. I will sacrifice all my hopes in life to save your honour; I will give up the world, and the happiness I thought to find in it. I will quit life itself, and oh, gladly! but I cannot wed the Count.”

“Clara, you have chosen your lot,” exclaimed the Fidalgo, raising her, and placing her on a seat, when he moved towards the door. “I will dismiss the Count at your desire, but I have one only course to pursue, which you have already consented to follow. Prepare to quit me for ever!”

With these words the proud fidalgo left his gentle daughter.

The Conde San Vincente was furious when he heard from Gonçalo Christovaö that his suit was finally rejected, and he demanded that the fidalgo should fulfil his promise in consigning his daughter to a convent, rather than that any other should gain the prize which was not to be his. He concealed, however, the fierce rage which burnt within his bosom at the disappointment of his wishes, and with a show of haughty courtesy took his leave of the fidalgo.

Clara anxiously waited all day, in the hopes of hearing that Don Luis had called, and of receiving the casket he had promised to bring. She knew it was wrong to wish it; but she trusted that Gertrudes would contrive to enable her to meet him; but the day passed away, and she heard not of him, nor could her nurse gain her any information.

We cannot dwell on her grief and wretchedness. Poor girl! she was but one of the many victims to pride, bigotry, and designing hypocrisy. Several days passed away, the friar visiting her constantly, and dwelling strongly on her mother’s dying vow, when she had devoted her to the Church; so that, heart-broken and despairing, she agreed to obey her father’s commands.

Yet, young and innocent as she was, and free from all sort of guile herself, there was something in the manner and the conversation of the friar which raised horrid doubts in her mind as to the purity of his motives. He did not shock her ear by a word which could be repeated to his discredit; he did not propose aught unbecoming her maiden modesty to listen to, but he insinuated that a conventual life was not of that ascetic nature she had supposed; that pleasures, of which custom forbade the enjoyment in society, might be tasted within the precincts of those seemingly gloomy walls; and that the fair brides of Heaven were not entirely secluded from all intercourse with lovers of a more earthly mould.

Though she could not understand his discourse, for a virtuous and youthful mind cannot comprehend the extent of villainy of which man is capable, yet how gladly would she have escaped from the life to which she was doomed! But she had promised her father to enter it, and he insisted on her fulfilling that promise; for he believed the Count upright and honourable; yet a word from her would convince him of the contrary—would show him that he had been vilely imposed on; and, by his own acknowledgment, he would yield to her wishes, and she might be happy with the man she loved: but that word her oath forbade her to pronounce. She knew the Count to be a murderer and a dark ruffian, but she could not breathe this knowledge into mortal ear, though her own happiness or life depended on it: hers was indeed a cruel fate.

Her father kept much aloof from her; for he could not bear to meet the eye of his child. He, too, looked pale and wretched; for there was a worm at his heart gnawing at his more tender affections, which his pride endeavoured in vain to crush. Her brother never came near her; he chose to be offended at her rejection of his friend, and when the old marchioness saw her, she scolded her half the time for refusing the Count, and the rest she spent in praising the holiness and pure joys of a conventual existence. Poor Gertrudes was most completely at fault: she had trusted too much to her sagacity and acuteness, and had been foiled at every point; so she spent the day and the greater part of the night in weeping by the side of her young mistress.

At length the day arrived on which Clara was to quit her father’s care, and to take up her abode within the walls of the convent.

The convent selected for her was that of Santa Clara, her patron saint, the abbess of which was a relative of Father Alfonzo, a woman of noble family, and many connexions among the high dignitaries of the Church, by whose exertions she had been raised to her present dignity, more than by any peculiar claims to sanctity which she could boast of. In early youth she had been very beautiful; indeed she yet retained many of her former attractions, still having a right to claim the privilege of being considered young. She had assumed the veil from conviction certainly, but it was from the conviction that it would free her from the restraint and formality of a home governed by an austere father, and a bigoted, tyrannical mother; it was also a sure way to save a fame against which the breath of scandal had dared to whisper. Nor was she disappointed in the liberty she expected to enjoy; a devoted admirer she possessed before she entered, having no occasion to die of grief at her loss.

Such was the Mother superior to whose spiritual direction a young and innocent girl was to be confided. Accompanied by the father confessor and the old marchioness, Clara was driven to the convent. On one side of the building stood the church, an edifice of magnificent proportions, elegant architecture, and richly ornamented. The convent itself formed the corner of a square; the high walls of the garden belonging to it making up the remainder.

In front of the great entrance was a courtyard, into which the carriage drove; when, the gates being thrown open, the almost fainting girl was led within her prison walls, and conducted to the community room, where the Mother superior and several of the professed nuns were waiting to receive their new sister, of whose coming they had been forewarned. They received the old marchioness and her young charge with every sign of respect, conducting them to seats, and placing themselves in a row before them, while Father Alfonzo carried on a rapid conversation with the sisters, answering a variety of questions regarding the events which were occurring in the city; any fresh piece of scandal, or witty story, affording great amusement to the assembled party.

At length, the more immediate object of the visit was referred to. “I fear me that our new sister and namesake of our holy patroness is alarmed at finding herself among so many strangers,” said the Abbess; “but we will soon teach her to forget the vanities of the world she is about to quit, in the contemplation of the sacred mysteries of our religion.” A faint smile crossed the features of the Abbess as she spoke.

Poor Clara was too full of grief to answer, her struggling tears choking her utterance; but she felt that she was sacrificing herself at the shrine of filial obedience, and she endeavoured to find composure in the thought. She had recovered sufficiently to bid farewell with tolerable propriety to the old marchioness, who, after some further conversation, retired, accompanied by the friar, and she was left alone with those who were destined to be her future companions while life lasted, a period which she prayed and felt might be short. The sisters crowded round her, and assured her that she would be very happy, endeavouring by every means in their power to cheer her drooping spirits; but their efforts were ineffectual, for there was that sickness at her heart which death alone could end. They led her unresistingly over the building, showing her their cells, which were fitted up with more taste and luxury than could have been expected; then to the novices’ apartments, where she was to take up her residence, till, at the end of the year, her profession was made, and she had assumed the black veil, the sign of her irrevocable vow. As they approached that part of the building, ringing peals of laughter broke on her ear, and she was welcomed by a crowd of young and smiling faces, who seemed little oppressed by gloom or despondency. After being introduced to them, she was conducted through the chapel and choir, and from thence to partake of some refreshment in the refectory; but she turned aside her head with loathing at the very thought of food; and the sisters, seeing that their endeavours to amuse her were vain, showed her the apartment allotted to her as a postulant of the order, and left her to her own reflections.

With her, religion was more of the spirit and principle, than of doctrine, or from education; and she ever flew to her Creator, to offer up thanksgivings for blessings, and for strength to bear afflictions, though till now she had scarce known them.

The evening sun was streaming through the open casement, throwing a bright refulgence around her seraphic countenance, as, with her hands clasped, she knelt before the altar which adorned her chamber, pouring out her soul in prayer, and beseeching forgiveness for her transgressions.

According to the custom of the order, it was some weeks before the new postulant was required to keep strictly the rules of the noviciate; during which time she was expected to become familiarised to the routine of the day, the different forms to be observed, and the duties of the choir; but everything was carefully avoided that could in any way annoy the young novice, or give her cause to be disgusted with her future life. The character of the innocent Clara was at once read by the Lady Abbess; indeed, Father Alfonzo had described it to her as he understood it, so that the secrets of the prison-house were with vigilant care excluded from her view.

Now Heaven forgive us, if we have the slightest thought of easting unjust odium on institutions now happily banished from the greater part of Europe, nor can we do aught but praise that admirable society of the Soeurs de Charité, founded on those great principles which the impersonification of Love and Charity taught to mankind,—a society worthy to have been planned in the gentle breast of woman, the very essence of all that is lovely and tender in human nature,—like an angel of light to a spirit of darkness, when contrasted with the foul and terrible Inquisition,—and blessed must they be who belong to it.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.We have just discovered that we have been committing a very grave error during the previous part of this work, in writing very long chapters, but it is one which we have resolved forthwith to avoid, and can fortunately do so far more easily than most others into which we are apt to fall. We always ourselves object to long chapters, because subjects and events are too much confused by being run together in them, and as we suspect that most of our fair readers dislike them, we would not willingly tire out their patience.When Don Luis quitted the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, he hastened homeward, his heart throbbing with deeper and more ardent love than he had ever felt for Donna Theresa, but far more full, also, of anxious doubts and fears.On entering the house, he found Captain Pinto awaiting his return. His friend gazed at him for a moment, and then broke forth into a fit of laughter. Now, Captain Pinto was a very amiable, kind-hearted man; but, as Burke observes, that as we constantly dwell on the misfortunes and miseries of our fellow-creatures, we must consequently take a pleasure in contemplating them, so he seemed to find much amusement in the forlorn appearance of the young fidalgo.“What! has another fair lady been unkind? have Cupid’s shafts again struck the wrong object?” he exclaimed, as Luis threw himself into a seat. “Come, rouse up, my friend; ’tis the fortune of war we are all exposed to, so you must try once more, and the third will be the successful shot, depend on it. I dare say this fair Dulcinea del Toboso, whom your lance so gallantly rescued from the power of the brigands, was, after all, not worthy of your devoted affections. You saw her but once, I think; and I will answer for it no woman has power in that time to cause a man a moment’s uneasiness, if he will but think of her calmly and dispassionately.”“In mercy cease your bantering, my good friend,” exclaimed Luis; “you mistake altogether the case. I love, and, I am proud to say, am beloved in return by the most charming of her sex; but she has been betrothed, against her will, to another, or the alternative is offered her of entering a convent; and I fear her father is a man of that inflexible temper, that nothing will make him alter his determination.”“What! the thrice-told tale again?” said the Captain, still smiling: “it sounds badly. If she is to marry somebody else, ’tis plain you cannot have her; and if she is to be shut up in a convent, she is equally lost to a man of your honour.”“But I cannot, I will not allow her to be sacrificed,” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Can you not advise me, my friend?”“I never even heard of the lady till to-day,” answered Captain Pinto, “so I cannot pretend to say; but, from my knowledge of women in general, dear charming creatures as they are, I should advise you to fall in love with somebody else, and I dare say the lady will soon recover also from her fit: they generally do.”“You know not what love is, when you speak thus,” cried Luis. “I see that you are in no humour to enter into my feelings, so I will not trouble you with them. I must wait till to-morrow to see her father, and beseech him to favour my suit.”“The wisest plan you can pursue; and if your fortune is larger than your rival’s, the chances are that you are successful; if not, I can give you but small hopes. He, of course, is an affectionate father, and considers his daughter’s happiness—of which he must be a better judge than she can possibly be—depends upon the settlement each candidate has to offer. However, in the mean time, come with me to pay our promised visit to Senhor Mendez, as he will be expecting us.”In those days people met in society at a very early hour, considerably before the present dinner-time in England, so that the night was not far advanced when Luis and his friend again left the house, having, fortunately, taken the precaution of ordering Pedro to accompany them with a torch, and well armed in case of being attacked. Just as the door was carefully closed behind them by old Lucas, Luis observed some dark figures, wrapped in cloaks, standing on the opposite side of the street; but, supposing them to be casual passers by, he took no further notice of them, nor did they make any advance towards his party. We have before described the disordered state of the streets in Lisbon; for, though there were some military police, they committed more robberies than they prevented, stopping every single passenger to beg of him, and, if they were refused, they seldom failed to take what they required by force. Our friends, however, promised, by their appearance, to make too strong a resistance, to tempt either their attacks, or those of the professional marauders who were abroad; though had they encountered any party of the young nobles who delighted to perambulate the streets in search of adventures, they might have been insulted, to draw them into a conflict; their chief danger, therefore, was from the unsavoury showers which fell, at very frequent intervals, from the windows of the houses, and from the troops of fierce gaunt dogs who howled at them, as, in passing, they disturbed them from their loathsome repast. Rats, also, of enormous size, would constantly cross their path, seemingly in good fellowship with the dogs, and perfectly fearless of the human beings: woe to the unfortunate wretch who should fall, faint or wounded, on the ground!—he would instantly fall a prey to these savage vermin.The way to the house where they expected to find Senhor Mendez was long, and, as may, from the above description, be supposed, by no means agreeable; nor were they able to hold much conversation, from the necessity both of picking their path, and of keeping on the watch against any sudden attack either from man or beast.“I must warn you,” said Captain Pinto, as they approached the house, “that our friend is still suffering from illness: his wounds were more severe than we suspected, and I much fear his days on earth are numbered.”There were many questions, much unbarring and drawing of bolts, before the people inside the house would open the door to Captain Pinto’s summons; for the Portuguese will allow a person to run the chance of being murdered, or to stand shivering in a shower of rain, till they can assure themselves of his name and quality, as we have found to our cost. At length an old lady appeared, with a maid-servant behind her, holding a candle, and, after they had entered, again carefully closed the door. She shook her head, in answer to the captain’s inquiries for her guest. “He is very bad, very bad, indeed,” she said. “I fear he must soon be sacramentado, or he will depart without the consolations of religion.”When a person is given over by the doctors, a priest is summoned from the nearest church, who comes bearing the holy sacrament under a canopy, accompanied by choristers, and a person ringing a bell, who loudly chant at the door of the room in which the person is dying, or supposed to be so; the very noise and ceremony, however, frequently contributing to extinguish the flickering spark of life. The old lady, desiring Pedro to sit down in the passage to chew the cud of reflection till her return, in which he seemed much inclined to draw her young attendant to aid him, led the captain and Luis upstairs, and, opening a door, announced their arrival to her invalid guest.Senhor Mendez raised himself from his couch, and gazed anxiously at Luis, as he entered. “This is kind of you, though what I expected you would do, my young friend,” he said, faintly, “when you were told of my illness. Words of thanks to you, Captain Pinto, are valueless, when compared to what I owe you.”Don Luis expressed his sincere regret at finding him yet so far from recovered. He smiled faintly as he answered, “I fear it is the nearest approach I shall make to recovery in this world, yet the great hope of reviving in a far purer existence sustains my oft drooping spirits; but I fain would tarry longer here, for I have much to do which I would not willingly leave undone. Captain Pinto is my executor, it may, perchance, be but of a pauper’s fortune, and at present I owe everything to him. He, like the good Samaritan whom the priests tell us of, has sheltered and fed the houseless and poverty-stricken wanderer. Remember my words, Don Luis, for they are not spoken idly. Truly does he follow the first great rule of charity; and, though it has become a principle of his existence, I am not the less thankful to him.”“Do not speak thus of me, my friend,” interrupted the generous sailor. “I am but acting towards you as you would have done by me.”Luis, with much hesitation, begged to be allowed to afford his aid, if possible.“I feel confident that you would,” returned Senhor Mendez. “But Captain Pinto acts the part of a brother towards me, and what is of nearer kindred? so that I cannot deprive him of the privilege he claims.”Their conversation was long and interesting. The sick man made minute inquiries respecting the Count d’Almeida, and seemed grieved on hearing that he would not return to Lisbon. He advised Luis to cultivate the friendship of the Minister, and spoke with a tone of satisfaction, on hearing that he had offered to befriend him. He warned him not to fall into the vices of the fidalgos, and to shun their bigotry, and overbearing, illiberal conduct. Indeed, he showed himself to be a person far in advance of the generality of his countrymen with regard to his opinions. He informed Luis, also, that he was in daily expectation of receiving accounts from England of the safety of the fortune he had transmitted there from India. The conversation seemed to have revived him; and when Luis, having promised again to call on him, quitted him with the captain, they both felt stronger hopes of his recovery than when they first entered.

We have just discovered that we have been committing a very grave error during the previous part of this work, in writing very long chapters, but it is one which we have resolved forthwith to avoid, and can fortunately do so far more easily than most others into which we are apt to fall. We always ourselves object to long chapters, because subjects and events are too much confused by being run together in them, and as we suspect that most of our fair readers dislike them, we would not willingly tire out their patience.

When Don Luis quitted the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda, he hastened homeward, his heart throbbing with deeper and more ardent love than he had ever felt for Donna Theresa, but far more full, also, of anxious doubts and fears.

On entering the house, he found Captain Pinto awaiting his return. His friend gazed at him for a moment, and then broke forth into a fit of laughter. Now, Captain Pinto was a very amiable, kind-hearted man; but, as Burke observes, that as we constantly dwell on the misfortunes and miseries of our fellow-creatures, we must consequently take a pleasure in contemplating them, so he seemed to find much amusement in the forlorn appearance of the young fidalgo.

“What! has another fair lady been unkind? have Cupid’s shafts again struck the wrong object?” he exclaimed, as Luis threw himself into a seat. “Come, rouse up, my friend; ’tis the fortune of war we are all exposed to, so you must try once more, and the third will be the successful shot, depend on it. I dare say this fair Dulcinea del Toboso, whom your lance so gallantly rescued from the power of the brigands, was, after all, not worthy of your devoted affections. You saw her but once, I think; and I will answer for it no woman has power in that time to cause a man a moment’s uneasiness, if he will but think of her calmly and dispassionately.”

“In mercy cease your bantering, my good friend,” exclaimed Luis; “you mistake altogether the case. I love, and, I am proud to say, am beloved in return by the most charming of her sex; but she has been betrothed, against her will, to another, or the alternative is offered her of entering a convent; and I fear her father is a man of that inflexible temper, that nothing will make him alter his determination.”

“What! the thrice-told tale again?” said the Captain, still smiling: “it sounds badly. If she is to marry somebody else, ’tis plain you cannot have her; and if she is to be shut up in a convent, she is equally lost to a man of your honour.”

“But I cannot, I will not allow her to be sacrificed,” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Can you not advise me, my friend?”

“I never even heard of the lady till to-day,” answered Captain Pinto, “so I cannot pretend to say; but, from my knowledge of women in general, dear charming creatures as they are, I should advise you to fall in love with somebody else, and I dare say the lady will soon recover also from her fit: they generally do.”

“You know not what love is, when you speak thus,” cried Luis. “I see that you are in no humour to enter into my feelings, so I will not trouble you with them. I must wait till to-morrow to see her father, and beseech him to favour my suit.”

“The wisest plan you can pursue; and if your fortune is larger than your rival’s, the chances are that you are successful; if not, I can give you but small hopes. He, of course, is an affectionate father, and considers his daughter’s happiness—of which he must be a better judge than she can possibly be—depends upon the settlement each candidate has to offer. However, in the mean time, come with me to pay our promised visit to Senhor Mendez, as he will be expecting us.”

In those days people met in society at a very early hour, considerably before the present dinner-time in England, so that the night was not far advanced when Luis and his friend again left the house, having, fortunately, taken the precaution of ordering Pedro to accompany them with a torch, and well armed in case of being attacked. Just as the door was carefully closed behind them by old Lucas, Luis observed some dark figures, wrapped in cloaks, standing on the opposite side of the street; but, supposing them to be casual passers by, he took no further notice of them, nor did they make any advance towards his party. We have before described the disordered state of the streets in Lisbon; for, though there were some military police, they committed more robberies than they prevented, stopping every single passenger to beg of him, and, if they were refused, they seldom failed to take what they required by force. Our friends, however, promised, by their appearance, to make too strong a resistance, to tempt either their attacks, or those of the professional marauders who were abroad; though had they encountered any party of the young nobles who delighted to perambulate the streets in search of adventures, they might have been insulted, to draw them into a conflict; their chief danger, therefore, was from the unsavoury showers which fell, at very frequent intervals, from the windows of the houses, and from the troops of fierce gaunt dogs who howled at them, as, in passing, they disturbed them from their loathsome repast. Rats, also, of enormous size, would constantly cross their path, seemingly in good fellowship with the dogs, and perfectly fearless of the human beings: woe to the unfortunate wretch who should fall, faint or wounded, on the ground!—he would instantly fall a prey to these savage vermin.

The way to the house where they expected to find Senhor Mendez was long, and, as may, from the above description, be supposed, by no means agreeable; nor were they able to hold much conversation, from the necessity both of picking their path, and of keeping on the watch against any sudden attack either from man or beast.

“I must warn you,” said Captain Pinto, as they approached the house, “that our friend is still suffering from illness: his wounds were more severe than we suspected, and I much fear his days on earth are numbered.”

There were many questions, much unbarring and drawing of bolts, before the people inside the house would open the door to Captain Pinto’s summons; for the Portuguese will allow a person to run the chance of being murdered, or to stand shivering in a shower of rain, till they can assure themselves of his name and quality, as we have found to our cost. At length an old lady appeared, with a maid-servant behind her, holding a candle, and, after they had entered, again carefully closed the door. She shook her head, in answer to the captain’s inquiries for her guest. “He is very bad, very bad, indeed,” she said. “I fear he must soon be sacramentado, or he will depart without the consolations of religion.”

When a person is given over by the doctors, a priest is summoned from the nearest church, who comes bearing the holy sacrament under a canopy, accompanied by choristers, and a person ringing a bell, who loudly chant at the door of the room in which the person is dying, or supposed to be so; the very noise and ceremony, however, frequently contributing to extinguish the flickering spark of life. The old lady, desiring Pedro to sit down in the passage to chew the cud of reflection till her return, in which he seemed much inclined to draw her young attendant to aid him, led the captain and Luis upstairs, and, opening a door, announced their arrival to her invalid guest.

Senhor Mendez raised himself from his couch, and gazed anxiously at Luis, as he entered. “This is kind of you, though what I expected you would do, my young friend,” he said, faintly, “when you were told of my illness. Words of thanks to you, Captain Pinto, are valueless, when compared to what I owe you.”

Don Luis expressed his sincere regret at finding him yet so far from recovered. He smiled faintly as he answered, “I fear it is the nearest approach I shall make to recovery in this world, yet the great hope of reviving in a far purer existence sustains my oft drooping spirits; but I fain would tarry longer here, for I have much to do which I would not willingly leave undone. Captain Pinto is my executor, it may, perchance, be but of a pauper’s fortune, and at present I owe everything to him. He, like the good Samaritan whom the priests tell us of, has sheltered and fed the houseless and poverty-stricken wanderer. Remember my words, Don Luis, for they are not spoken idly. Truly does he follow the first great rule of charity; and, though it has become a principle of his existence, I am not the less thankful to him.”

“Do not speak thus of me, my friend,” interrupted the generous sailor. “I am but acting towards you as you would have done by me.”

Luis, with much hesitation, begged to be allowed to afford his aid, if possible.

“I feel confident that you would,” returned Senhor Mendez. “But Captain Pinto acts the part of a brother towards me, and what is of nearer kindred? so that I cannot deprive him of the privilege he claims.”

Their conversation was long and interesting. The sick man made minute inquiries respecting the Count d’Almeida, and seemed grieved on hearing that he would not return to Lisbon. He advised Luis to cultivate the friendship of the Minister, and spoke with a tone of satisfaction, on hearing that he had offered to befriend him. He warned him not to fall into the vices of the fidalgos, and to shun their bigotry, and overbearing, illiberal conduct. Indeed, he showed himself to be a person far in advance of the generality of his countrymen with regard to his opinions. He informed Luis, also, that he was in daily expectation of receiving accounts from England of the safety of the fortune he had transmitted there from India. The conversation seemed to have revived him; and when Luis, having promised again to call on him, quitted him with the captain, they both felt stronger hopes of his recovery than when they first entered.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.We must now follow the Count San Vincente, and his gay and thoughtless friend, whom the former hurried away from the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda.“This conduct of your sister’s will drive me mad, Gonçalo!” exclaimed the Count, as soon as they were in the street. “Her coldness I could have borne; but to see her receiving, with satisfaction, the addresses of another, is unbearable; but I will punish the youth who has had the temerity to rival me. Let us follow him; he is, probably, alone; and, armed but with his dress-sword, we can make short work of the affair.”“I do not understand you. I cannot seek a quarrel with Don Luis; for he has been of infinite service to my father and sister.”“Boyish scruples!” interrupted the Count, fiercely. “Let us set upon him at once, as men, and punish him for his audacity, in addressing your sister without your permission.”“Can a friend of mine make such a proposition to me?” exclaimed Gonçalo. “We must have mistaken each other strangely. I have been wild and careless, but I have not become a midnight assassin.”“Your pardon,—I was but joking,” said the Count. “I thought we might fall in with this Don Luis, and enjoy a little small-sword play; for I confess I have a longing to pink him; but you may stand aloof, and see fair play.”“I have already said, I feel no inclination to force into a quarrel one who has never offended me: if he seeks it, I shall be ready for him. I must, therefore, decline accompanying you.”“Well, well, I will give up my point. He is not likely to be successful with your sister; so it little matters; though at first I felt annoyed, I confess, at his presumption. Come along with me, for I expect some friends at supper, who will help us to pass the night gaily; and we may then sally forth in search of adventures.”They were now near the count’s palace; and Gonçalo making no opposition to his proposal, the former led him in, where they found a large party of dissipated young men awaiting their arrival. The count excusing himself for a few minutes, left his friend among them, while he repaired to his own chamber; there casting off the gayer part of his costume, he threw a cloak over his person, and selected a stouter sword than the one he laid aside, which he concealed beneath it. He then again issued into the street; and, walking rapidly along a narrow lane, he knocked at the door of a low, shabby house, but a short distance from his own princely palace.“Who is there?” said a voice. “’Tis late, and all honest people ought to be in bed.”The Count gave a cant watchword in reply. “’Tis I.”A laugh was the answer; and, the door being unbolted, the dark figure of the bravo we described at the inn on the road to Coimbra presented itself.“You are welcome, Senhor Conde,” said the ruffian, as the count entered, and he bolted the door behind him. “’Tis long since I have had the honour of seeing your Excellency. Have you any work for me?”This was said in a low, miserable room, into which the count descended, by two or three steps, directly from the street. The floor was of clay, beaten hard; the walls unplastered, and the roof seeming as if inclined to fall in from above. There was a recess, with a wretched pallet-bed in it, and another of the same sort was outside. In one corner, an old woman was seated on a low stool, cooking some mess, odoriferous of garlic, over a small clay stove, lighted with charcoal; but she rose not, nor gave any sign of intelligence at the appearance of a stranger. The count looked towards her, without answering the question.“Do not fear her,” said the man, observing his doubt; “she is only my mother, and she is so deaf that she cannot hear a word, and so foolish that she could not understand it if she did. Do you require anything of me, senhor?” he again asked.“I should not seek you without a cause,” said the Count. “Do you know Don Luis d’Almeida?—though why do I ask?—you ought to know every gentleman, in case your services are required against them, or by them.”The man looked at him, as much as to say, “My services may be required against you some day; and I would as willingly plunge my dagger into your bosom, but that I should lose an employer. Know him?” he exclaimed. “Curses on him! I know him well, and would—”Then, recollecting that by showing any personal interest, he might lower the value of the service he well knew he was expected to perform, he added, “Yes, senhor, I know his person, I believe. What do you wish to have done respecting him? Remember, the times are bad; for the Minister has apprehended and hung some of my friends lately; so the price of any such work as you fidalgos require of us poor men is rising.”“This is work which will give you little trouble, but it must be done quickly,” said the Count. “Go, take two or three of your companions; select whom you please; but my name must not be known. Watch the palace of the Conde d’Almeida, and you will meet Don Luis, either entering or coming out; for I just now parted from him. Strike him the moment you see him; and take care your dagger does not fail in its work. Inform me when your work is done, and I promise you thirty crowns for yourself, and ten for each of your companions. Will that satisfy you?”“It is but little, your Excellency, considering the danger I run; for all the work falls upon my shoulders.”“Well, I will add ten more, provided it is done to-night,” said the Count. “I can no longer delay. Beware you fail me not!”With these words the count took his departure, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement he had made, and joined his companions at their revels, though, during the feast, he waited, with an anxious look, to hear tidings of the deed having been performed. The young Gonçalo, unsuspicious of the dark vengeance his friend meditated against Luis, and which he would have been the first to prevent, was the gayest of the party, rallying the master of the feast on his gloom and taciturnity, ascribing it entirely to the ill-success with which his advances had been received by his sister.After leaving the abode of Senhor Mendez, Luis and his friend, who had promised to remain with him, accompanied by Pedro, as their body-guard, made the best of their way towards home, running the gauntlet of the many dangers to be encountered, without suffering from any of them. As they were within sight of the palace, Luis again observed several figures in the same position as before; and this time he pointed them out to Captain Pinto.“We will keep out of their way,” said his friend, “and we can then give them no cause to insult us; for, depend upon it, they are there for no good purpose, probably on the watch to rob or murder some unfortunate wretch. I am very happy to fight at times, but have no fancy for these night brawls.”As he spoke, the group moved towards them, and a figure, emerging from among them, advanced close to them, evidently endeavouring to distinguish their features.“Don Luis d’Almeida, a friend wishes to speak with you,” said the person.“You must seek him elsewhere, my friend,” answered the Captain, preventing Luis from speaking. “Pardon us, we are in a hurry, and would pass on.”The man appeared satisfied, and rejoined his companions, who were about to move away, when they observed our friends stop at the door of the palace, where the captain gave a loud summons. The strangers held a moment’s consultation together, and were about again to advance towards them, when the captain, drawing his sword, ordered them to keep their distance; and while they hesitated, old Lucas, more agile than usual, had opened the door, allowing his master and his companions to enter, when the robbers, for such they appeared, retired.The incident gave a subject of conversation to the friends before they retired to their beds, and the captain was the first to discover the real clue to the proceedings of the strangers. “You say the Conde San Vincente is a suitor of Donna Clara’s, and that he observed you speaking to her at the palace of the Marchioness de Corcunda this evening; then, depend upon it, he was either among those gentlemen, or had deputed them to attack you, which they would most undoubtedly have done, had you been alone. I have heard of some of his deeds, and his character is better known than he is aware of.”“Now you give me the idea,” said Luis, “I feel confident that I have before heard the voice of that man who spoke to us;—yes, he is one of the brigands who robbed Gonçalo Christovaö in the forest, and afterwards attacked me at the inn, when he swore to avenge the loss of a brother, of whose just death I was the instrument.”“Then I must most earnestly entreat you not to venture out alone, or you are certain to fall a victim either to his revenge, or to that of the count, who has, very probably, employed him to murder you. Do not think that it will exhibit want of courage to take every precaution, for so daring have these ruffians become, that scarcely a night passes without some dreadful murder, and I should deeply grieve to find you among the number of sufferers; therefore, as an old friend, I must make you promise to run no greater risk than you can possibly avoid.”Luis promised faithfully to follow the gallant sailor’s advice; and it was fortunate for him that he did so, for in vain did the assassin, Rodrigo, watch night after night to find him alone. The following morning, he repaired, at an early hour, to call on Gonçalo Christovaö, his heart beating with doubts and fears as to the success of his petition. He carried the casket of jewels to restore to Donna Clara, but, on searching for the letter to her father, he could nowhere discover it. After turning over every article of his baggage, aided by Pedro, he was at last obliged to set forward without it, trusting, however, to have frequent opportunities of delivering it. The fidalgo received him with stately politeness, pouring forth torrents of expressions of gratitude for the service he had afforded him; but when Luis mentioned the chief object of his visit, he at first looked confounded with astonishment, assuring him that he had never before heard of a young noble venturing to win a young lady’s affections without having first applied to the father for leave to do so; such conduct was excusable only in low-born plebeians, whose marriages were of no importance; that he had, however, no objections to him, except from his want of fortune, which was an insurmountable one; that his daughter could never wed without his leave, and that she was engaged to another gentleman.This answer, though very polite, was a most discouraging one, as most of our readers will agree; but, at the same time, there was that buoyant nature in the composition of Luis, which made him hope where others would have despaired, though he certainly could not see very clearly on what grounds to found those hopes; indeed, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that they arose far more from the feelings, than from the judgment.The fidalgo made a great many more very polite speeches, assuring him that his house, and everything he possessed, was at his service, except his daughter; that he would forgive his falling in love with her, provided he made no further attempts to see her, and that the trouble he had taken to recover the casket, raised him, if possible, even higher in his opinion than before; indeed, there was nobody he more admired in the world; but that he must banish all thoughts of Clara from his mind. We only quote a part of the substance of the harangue, which was very long, and filled with the most courteous and elegant flourishes; indeed, it is extraordinary how very polite people are when they feel confident that they are saying the most disagreeable things in the world.Luis listened in silence, and answered only by bows, evading carefully every promise the fidalgo endeavoured to draw from him, not to see Clara again, determining to win her, if he possibly could; for the feelings of what is now, in ridicule, called romantic chivalry, which animated him, rebelled against the thoughts of her being compelled to marry a man she hated; and he was persuaded that every principle of honour and duty called on him to prevent the sacrifice, at every risk to himself, and even in direct opposition to the unjust commands of her proud father.The fidalgo positively refused the earnest request of Luis, to be permitted to see Clara, even to take a last farewell; nor would he undertake to bear any message to her: indeed, as our readers already know, she was led to suppose that he had not called, nor did even Senhora Gertrudes discover the truth.At length he was obliged to rise to take his departure, when the fidalgo redoubled his politeness, again thanking him for the casket of jewels, bowing himout, not only out of the room, but down stairs, through the hall, and into the very street, so that he had no opportunity of sending to inform Senhora Gertrudes that he was there, which he had some thoughts of doing.Don Luis made many endeavours to see Donna Clara, or to communicate with her, but they were all alike fruitless, the fidalgo, the marchioness, and the priest, keeping so very strict a watch; though, had it not been for the latter, he would probably have been successful. At length he wrote a letter, which he had every hope would reach her, couched in the most respectful terms, but every line breathing the tenderest and most devoted affection. Day after day he waited for an answer, but it came not; the priest had been too vigilant: his was the only eye which saw the letter, and it served him as a copy for the next he had occasion to write.

We must now follow the Count San Vincente, and his gay and thoughtless friend, whom the former hurried away from the palace of the Marchioness of Corcunda.

“This conduct of your sister’s will drive me mad, Gonçalo!” exclaimed the Count, as soon as they were in the street. “Her coldness I could have borne; but to see her receiving, with satisfaction, the addresses of another, is unbearable; but I will punish the youth who has had the temerity to rival me. Let us follow him; he is, probably, alone; and, armed but with his dress-sword, we can make short work of the affair.”

“I do not understand you. I cannot seek a quarrel with Don Luis; for he has been of infinite service to my father and sister.”

“Boyish scruples!” interrupted the Count, fiercely. “Let us set upon him at once, as men, and punish him for his audacity, in addressing your sister without your permission.”

“Can a friend of mine make such a proposition to me?” exclaimed Gonçalo. “We must have mistaken each other strangely. I have been wild and careless, but I have not become a midnight assassin.”

“Your pardon,—I was but joking,” said the Count. “I thought we might fall in with this Don Luis, and enjoy a little small-sword play; for I confess I have a longing to pink him; but you may stand aloof, and see fair play.”

“I have already said, I feel no inclination to force into a quarrel one who has never offended me: if he seeks it, I shall be ready for him. I must, therefore, decline accompanying you.”

“Well, well, I will give up my point. He is not likely to be successful with your sister; so it little matters; though at first I felt annoyed, I confess, at his presumption. Come along with me, for I expect some friends at supper, who will help us to pass the night gaily; and we may then sally forth in search of adventures.”

They were now near the count’s palace; and Gonçalo making no opposition to his proposal, the former led him in, where they found a large party of dissipated young men awaiting their arrival. The count excusing himself for a few minutes, left his friend among them, while he repaired to his own chamber; there casting off the gayer part of his costume, he threw a cloak over his person, and selected a stouter sword than the one he laid aside, which he concealed beneath it. He then again issued into the street; and, walking rapidly along a narrow lane, he knocked at the door of a low, shabby house, but a short distance from his own princely palace.

“Who is there?” said a voice. “’Tis late, and all honest people ought to be in bed.”

The Count gave a cant watchword in reply. “’Tis I.”

A laugh was the answer; and, the door being unbolted, the dark figure of the bravo we described at the inn on the road to Coimbra presented itself.

“You are welcome, Senhor Conde,” said the ruffian, as the count entered, and he bolted the door behind him. “’Tis long since I have had the honour of seeing your Excellency. Have you any work for me?”

This was said in a low, miserable room, into which the count descended, by two or three steps, directly from the street. The floor was of clay, beaten hard; the walls unplastered, and the roof seeming as if inclined to fall in from above. There was a recess, with a wretched pallet-bed in it, and another of the same sort was outside. In one corner, an old woman was seated on a low stool, cooking some mess, odoriferous of garlic, over a small clay stove, lighted with charcoal; but she rose not, nor gave any sign of intelligence at the appearance of a stranger. The count looked towards her, without answering the question.

“Do not fear her,” said the man, observing his doubt; “she is only my mother, and she is so deaf that she cannot hear a word, and so foolish that she could not understand it if she did. Do you require anything of me, senhor?” he again asked.

“I should not seek you without a cause,” said the Count. “Do you know Don Luis d’Almeida?—though why do I ask?—you ought to know every gentleman, in case your services are required against them, or by them.”

The man looked at him, as much as to say, “My services may be required against you some day; and I would as willingly plunge my dagger into your bosom, but that I should lose an employer. Know him?” he exclaimed. “Curses on him! I know him well, and would—”

Then, recollecting that by showing any personal interest, he might lower the value of the service he well knew he was expected to perform, he added, “Yes, senhor, I know his person, I believe. What do you wish to have done respecting him? Remember, the times are bad; for the Minister has apprehended and hung some of my friends lately; so the price of any such work as you fidalgos require of us poor men is rising.”

“This is work which will give you little trouble, but it must be done quickly,” said the Count. “Go, take two or three of your companions; select whom you please; but my name must not be known. Watch the palace of the Conde d’Almeida, and you will meet Don Luis, either entering or coming out; for I just now parted from him. Strike him the moment you see him; and take care your dagger does not fail in its work. Inform me when your work is done, and I promise you thirty crowns for yourself, and ten for each of your companions. Will that satisfy you?”

“It is but little, your Excellency, considering the danger I run; for all the work falls upon my shoulders.”

“Well, I will add ten more, provided it is done to-night,” said the Count. “I can no longer delay. Beware you fail me not!”

With these words the count took his departure, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement he had made, and joined his companions at their revels, though, during the feast, he waited, with an anxious look, to hear tidings of the deed having been performed. The young Gonçalo, unsuspicious of the dark vengeance his friend meditated against Luis, and which he would have been the first to prevent, was the gayest of the party, rallying the master of the feast on his gloom and taciturnity, ascribing it entirely to the ill-success with which his advances had been received by his sister.

After leaving the abode of Senhor Mendez, Luis and his friend, who had promised to remain with him, accompanied by Pedro, as their body-guard, made the best of their way towards home, running the gauntlet of the many dangers to be encountered, without suffering from any of them. As they were within sight of the palace, Luis again observed several figures in the same position as before; and this time he pointed them out to Captain Pinto.

“We will keep out of their way,” said his friend, “and we can then give them no cause to insult us; for, depend upon it, they are there for no good purpose, probably on the watch to rob or murder some unfortunate wretch. I am very happy to fight at times, but have no fancy for these night brawls.”

As he spoke, the group moved towards them, and a figure, emerging from among them, advanced close to them, evidently endeavouring to distinguish their features.

“Don Luis d’Almeida, a friend wishes to speak with you,” said the person.

“You must seek him elsewhere, my friend,” answered the Captain, preventing Luis from speaking. “Pardon us, we are in a hurry, and would pass on.”

The man appeared satisfied, and rejoined his companions, who were about to move away, when they observed our friends stop at the door of the palace, where the captain gave a loud summons. The strangers held a moment’s consultation together, and were about again to advance towards them, when the captain, drawing his sword, ordered them to keep their distance; and while they hesitated, old Lucas, more agile than usual, had opened the door, allowing his master and his companions to enter, when the robbers, for such they appeared, retired.

The incident gave a subject of conversation to the friends before they retired to their beds, and the captain was the first to discover the real clue to the proceedings of the strangers. “You say the Conde San Vincente is a suitor of Donna Clara’s, and that he observed you speaking to her at the palace of the Marchioness de Corcunda this evening; then, depend upon it, he was either among those gentlemen, or had deputed them to attack you, which they would most undoubtedly have done, had you been alone. I have heard of some of his deeds, and his character is better known than he is aware of.”

“Now you give me the idea,” said Luis, “I feel confident that I have before heard the voice of that man who spoke to us;—yes, he is one of the brigands who robbed Gonçalo Christovaö in the forest, and afterwards attacked me at the inn, when he swore to avenge the loss of a brother, of whose just death I was the instrument.”

“Then I must most earnestly entreat you not to venture out alone, or you are certain to fall a victim either to his revenge, or to that of the count, who has, very probably, employed him to murder you. Do not think that it will exhibit want of courage to take every precaution, for so daring have these ruffians become, that scarcely a night passes without some dreadful murder, and I should deeply grieve to find you among the number of sufferers; therefore, as an old friend, I must make you promise to run no greater risk than you can possibly avoid.”

Luis promised faithfully to follow the gallant sailor’s advice; and it was fortunate for him that he did so, for in vain did the assassin, Rodrigo, watch night after night to find him alone. The following morning, he repaired, at an early hour, to call on Gonçalo Christovaö, his heart beating with doubts and fears as to the success of his petition. He carried the casket of jewels to restore to Donna Clara, but, on searching for the letter to her father, he could nowhere discover it. After turning over every article of his baggage, aided by Pedro, he was at last obliged to set forward without it, trusting, however, to have frequent opportunities of delivering it. The fidalgo received him with stately politeness, pouring forth torrents of expressions of gratitude for the service he had afforded him; but when Luis mentioned the chief object of his visit, he at first looked confounded with astonishment, assuring him that he had never before heard of a young noble venturing to win a young lady’s affections without having first applied to the father for leave to do so; such conduct was excusable only in low-born plebeians, whose marriages were of no importance; that he had, however, no objections to him, except from his want of fortune, which was an insurmountable one; that his daughter could never wed without his leave, and that she was engaged to another gentleman.

This answer, though very polite, was a most discouraging one, as most of our readers will agree; but, at the same time, there was that buoyant nature in the composition of Luis, which made him hope where others would have despaired, though he certainly could not see very clearly on what grounds to found those hopes; indeed, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that they arose far more from the feelings, than from the judgment.

The fidalgo made a great many more very polite speeches, assuring him that his house, and everything he possessed, was at his service, except his daughter; that he would forgive his falling in love with her, provided he made no further attempts to see her, and that the trouble he had taken to recover the casket, raised him, if possible, even higher in his opinion than before; indeed, there was nobody he more admired in the world; but that he must banish all thoughts of Clara from his mind. We only quote a part of the substance of the harangue, which was very long, and filled with the most courteous and elegant flourishes; indeed, it is extraordinary how very polite people are when they feel confident that they are saying the most disagreeable things in the world.

Luis listened in silence, and answered only by bows, evading carefully every promise the fidalgo endeavoured to draw from him, not to see Clara again, determining to win her, if he possibly could; for the feelings of what is now, in ridicule, called romantic chivalry, which animated him, rebelled against the thoughts of her being compelled to marry a man she hated; and he was persuaded that every principle of honour and duty called on him to prevent the sacrifice, at every risk to himself, and even in direct opposition to the unjust commands of her proud father.

The fidalgo positively refused the earnest request of Luis, to be permitted to see Clara, even to take a last farewell; nor would he undertake to bear any message to her: indeed, as our readers already know, she was led to suppose that he had not called, nor did even Senhora Gertrudes discover the truth.

At length he was obliged to rise to take his departure, when the fidalgo redoubled his politeness, again thanking him for the casket of jewels, bowing himout, not only out of the room, but down stairs, through the hall, and into the very street, so that he had no opportunity of sending to inform Senhora Gertrudes that he was there, which he had some thoughts of doing.

Don Luis made many endeavours to see Donna Clara, or to communicate with her, but they were all alike fruitless, the fidalgo, the marchioness, and the priest, keeping so very strict a watch; though, had it not been for the latter, he would probably have been successful. At length he wrote a letter, which he had every hope would reach her, couched in the most respectful terms, but every line breathing the tenderest and most devoted affection. Day after day he waited for an answer, but it came not; the priest had been too vigilant: his was the only eye which saw the letter, and it served him as a copy for the next he had occasion to write.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.More than a week passed away; it was now within three days of the end of October, when Luis had repaired to a neighbouring church, to hear morning mass, and was kneeling on one side of the aisle, attending to the ceremonies going forward; he heard his name pronounced close to him, by a female, in the attitude of devotion, shrouded in the black mantelha, or hooded cloak, then worn by even the very highest classes, at mass. The female turned her head as he looked round, when he recognised the features of Senhora Gertrudes, which gave him more satisfaction than if they had been those of the fairest lady in the land, her young mistress excepted. The old lady sidled up to him, when she whispered, looking, we cannot help acknowledging, as if she was deeply engaged in her devotions all the time—“Oh, Senhor Don Luis, I am so glad to see you! for I have been trying everywhere to meet you, without success; for that horrid Padre Alfonzo kept so strict a watch on me, that I could not venture to your house. Oh, senhor! they have stolen away my dear child, and they have carried her to a convent, where they have shut her up, and will never let her out again; the cruel, wicked wretches! All the world has conspired against us; and even my old master, whom, till now, I always looked upon as an angel, has grown as bad as the rest, and now I have only got you to depend on. There is my young lady breaking her heart about you, and no one whom she cares about to comfort her.”This news electrified Don Luis. “To what convent has Donna Clara been conveyed?” he exclaimed, eagerly. “’Twill be a consolation to know where she is.”“To that of Santa Clara, senhor,” answered Senhora Gertrudes; “and if you will write a short little note to her, I know it will be a consolation to her. There can be no harm in a little note, I’m sure; and I will take care that she receives it.”Luis agreed with her that there could be no possible impropriety in his writing, and promised to do so.“There is to be mass again here to-morrow, when I will meet you, senhor, and I will carry your note, for I shall be able to gain permission, I hope, to visit my dear young mistress. She will not be obliged to take her first vows for some time to come, and after that there will be a whole year before she can profess; so that, in the mean time, something may happen to release her; so do not be cast down, senhor, as I told her, sweet child, to comfort her, though Heaven alone knows what chance she has of happiness.”The service being concluded, Luis and the old nurse parted, he hastening home to employ himself in composing an epistle to Clara, which, instead of being the very little note the good Gertrudes recommended, swelled by degrees into several sheets, as the thoughts crowded on his mind, though, after all, they resolved themselves into two or three points,—his devotion, his wretchedness, and his hopes; for it was not his nature to despair; besides, he felt assured that his love was returned, and, with that proud consciousness, how could he cease to cherish hope?We deem that man unworthy of a woman’s affection whom the consciousness of possessing it does not raise above all fears, and give hopes of ultimately conquering all difficulties in his path. Such was the effect on the mind of Luis, and he determined that nothing should dispirit him till the fatal veil had, like the dark tomb, separated her from him for ever; then he felt that to him death would indeed be welcome.He had just concluded his letter, forgetful of how the hours had flown by; his dinner had remained almost untasted; the grateful siesta was not thought of, and the shades of evening had already closed in the day, when Captain Pinto entered his room to remind him that they had on that night agreed to visit Senhor Mendez.It must be recollected that those were not the days (at all events, in Portugal) of double hot-pressed glossy Bath paper, over which the pen glides with the rapidity of the skate on the virgin ice, which will account for the time he occupied in the employment; besides, he felt a pleasure in prolonging it to the utmost; yet, he was as delighted on completing it as we shall be when we write finis to this compilation, though he was not perfectly satisfied with it, and thought he could have written a better, as will probably be our feeling also.As before, they were accompanied by Pedro with a torch, and were happy at finding their friend slightly recovered, though still unable to quit his couch. Senhor Mendez turned the conversation on points in which he considered that he could offer advice to Luis. He warned him particularly to beware of the Jesuits, whom he designated as crafty and deceitful men, ambitious alone of increasing the power of their order at the expense of their fellow-creatures, whom, in furtherance of this aim, they kept bound in the chains of ignorance and superstition; and that they were, so far, more dangerous than the other monastic orders, from their very superiority of education and intellect, and from their freedom from those gross vices which stained the character of the rest.The advice, perhaps, might have been of service to Luis, for he had purposed, on the following day, to pay a visit to his cousin Father Jacinto, whom he had not seen since his return to Lisbon. Senhor Mendez then drew him to speak of himself, and of his love for Donna Clara, his eye flashing with indignation, when he heard of the chief reasons her father had deigned to advance for rejecting his offer.“O pride and ambition!” he cried, “what banes are they to social intercourse! So this haughty patrician would rather consign his child to splendid misery in the arms of a man she abhors, leading her too probably to vice and disgrace, or would immure her within the profane walls of a convent, than see her wedded to one she loves, because his fortune does not equal what he, in his vanity, considers necessary to support her in grandeur equal to her rank. Mark me,” he continued, “do not for a moment suppose that I would advocate unequal alliances, where the family on one side would despise the other, such can seldom fail of bringing misery to both; but I do say, where Heaven has joined two hearts in one, parents draw an awful responsibility on their own heads in venturing to separate them.”We must not longer delay, by giving the further observations Senhor Mendez made, as we have subjects to relate which will afford far more interest to our readers; and we might also run the risk of having our book banished from the library as a work full of pestiferous and dangerous tenets, which would cause us infinite pain, conscious, as we feel ourselves, of the rectitude of our intentions in transcribing what we find before us.The course Luis and his friend took homeward led them near the residence of the Conde San Vincente, in which neighbourhood they were, Pedro being in advance with the torch, when they encountered a party who woke the night air with their bacchanalian songs, and seemed little inclined either to move out of their way, or to allow them to pass. The torch was immediately knocked out of the grasp of Pedro, who forthwith dealt the perpetrator of the act a severe blow with a cudgel he carried.“Wretched villain!” exclaimed a young man, by the tone of his voice evidently suffering from the effects of wine, “how dare you to lift your hand against a fidalgo? you shall die the death for your audacity,” and, drawing his sword, he was about to run Pedro through the body, had not the captain and Luis, unsheathing their weapons, also sprung forward to rescue him.“A skirmish, a skirmish!” cried several voices, and the whole of the opposite party rushed forward to attack them.“Nought but the blood of my foe can wash out the insult I have received,” exclaimed the young man, who had been the cause of the fray, setting furiously on Luis, in the blindness of intoxication, not observing to whom he was opposed.“Ah, you have a sword, too, as well as a stick; then, I conclude you are a gentleman, and fit to engage with—no matter—here’s at you!” He, however, was a good swordsman, nor could Luis disarm him, as he wished to do, seeing his state, pressed closely, as he was also by his companions, the Captain and Pedro being abundantly occupied in keeping the rest at bay.The young man, as we have said, rushed upon Luis, utterly regardless of his own person, becoming, every pass in which he was foiled, more and more daring; and still firmly retaining his sword. At length, Luis grew weary of his attacks, and, perhaps, less cautious not to injure him, when the young man, endeavouring to rush in on him, the former could not draw back in time, his sword passing through his side, and, with a sharp cry, he fell to the ground. The rage of his companions seemed increased by the accident, when Captain Pinto, seeing what had occurred, shouted out—“Beware, cavaliers, this may afford amusement to you, but I am a peaceable man, and do not like fighting, so take warning from the fate of your companion, and draw off, or by heavens, I will run two or three of you through the body, to heighten your pleasure.”This warning, uttered in a determined voice, seemed to have some effect on the obfuscated intellects of the party of debauchees, particularly as the speaker had disarmed two of them, who fell back for support among their companions, by whom, in mistake, they were very nearly run through the body. A few slight scratches had been received by the assailants, which appeared to satisfy them with fighting, and they were retreating, forgetful of their wounded friend, when Luis sprung forward to aid him. What was his horror, when, on Pedro recovering his torch, which had remained burning on the ground, and bringing it to the spot, he beheld in the features of his fallen antagonist those of the young Gonçalo, the brother of Clara.He was senseless, Luis trusted, more from the fall, or from intoxication, than from the effects of his wound; for he still breathed heavily, although blood flowed freely from his side. As he was about to raise him, some of his companions appeared to have recollected his disaster; and returning, without apparently noticing Luis and his friends, they lifted him amongst them from the ground, and, with staggering steps, bore him along, not uttering a word during the time, till they were nearly out of sight.Luis was in doubts whether he ought not to follow, to see that more attention was paid to the wounded man, than his friends were likely to be able, in their present state, to afford; but the captain recommended him not to interfere, observing, that as they had sense enough left to carry him out of the road, they would send for the nearest barber to bind up his side, which was all that a clean sword wound required.“Oh, but he is the brother of my Clara, and may die from the wound he has received,” exclaimed Luis.“That alters the case,” said the Captain, and they set forward to overtake the bearers of the wounded man; but though they walked quickly along, by the time they came up with the party whom they fancied were carrying him, he was not to be seen among them. To their inquiries, the people assured them that they must be mistaken, as they had themselves but just turned down from another street, and had heard no sounds of the fray. They then followed another group, whose voices they heard a little in advance; but with like want of success, the people holding silence directly they approached.“He has, perhaps, been conveyed to the palace of the Conde San Vincente,” exclaimed Luis; so they hurried down the street towards it; for it was, as we have said, close at hand; but no one appeared in the neighbourhood, and when, at length, they knocked at the door, after a long time it was opened, and a surly porter declared that no one had been there all that evening, nor had his master left his home since the morning, and had now been in bed for some hours. This might, or might not, have been true; but Luis had no other resource than to return with his friend homeward, dispirited, and full of regret at the accident, wishing that he rather had been the victim; for, should Gonçalo die, he would be looked upon as his murderer, and another barrier, far more insuperable than the former, would be placed against any prospect of his union with Clara. The best consolation the kind-hearted sailor could offer, was, in endeavouring to persuade him, that the wound the young fidalgo had received was probably slight, and that he would recover in a few days; that Luis was in no way to blame, the encounter on his side being perfectly unsought, and that the sufferer and his friends must view it in the same light; indeed, he used every argument that most people would have done in a like case, to soothe the mind of his young friend, though they were of little avail; and it was almost daylight when Luis fell asleep, with his hopes at a lower ebb than he had ever before found them.With increased anxiety, he repaired, on the following morning, to the church where he was to meet Senhora Gertrudes; and, true to her appointment, he found her kneeling at the same spot, where he had encountered her on the previous day. Notwithstanding the recent unfortunate occurrence, he had resolved to send the letter he had written to Clara; for when his hand had penned it, that was yet unstained with her brother’s blood, as his heart was still guiltless of any intention of shedding it.The old nurse, however, was unconscious of anything that had occurred. “Oh, senhor,” she said, “I am so glad that you have not been prevented from coming; for I have got leave to visit my young mistress this very morning, and though she loves me dearly, I am sure that I shall be a more welcome visitor if I carry your little note. Where is it, senhor? Stay,—that nobody may see you deliver it, have the kindness to return me my pocket-handkerchief, which I will drop.” Upon which, she adroitly drew the article she mentioned from her pocket, and let it fall by the side of Don Luis, who, stooping down, restored it to her with the letter, which he had conveyed under it.As she felt the size of the packet, she whispered, “I am afraid, senhor, this is much larger than the little note I promised to carry; but, never mind, I dare say that you have a great deal to say to my young lady, which she will like to hear; and I don’t think a long note can do more harm than a short one, so be assured she shall have it. Poor dear, I would do anything to please her.”Luis was longing, all the time the old lady was speaking, to put in a word to inquire for the young Gonçalo. To his question, she answered, that the young master’s habits were so very irregular, that no one remarked upon his remaining away for a night; that she had not seen him that morning, nor did she think that he had returned home on the previous evening; but that, just as she was leaving the palace, she was surprised to meet, at that unusually early hour, his friend the Conde San Vincente, (whom she took the opportunity to abuse,) just entering the hall; that she thought he might have come to speak to the younger Gonçalo, or, perhaps, to his father.Luis then told her, under the promise of the strictest secrecy, that he had unintentionally, and, indeed, against his utmost endeavours, wounded the young fidalgo on the previous evening; that he had been carried off by his party, and he knew not where he had been conveyed. Luis then assured her that his heart was wrung with anguish at what he had done, and besought her, if her mistress heard of the accident, to place his conduct in its proper light, as he had no doubt that occasion would be taken to vilify him, if possible, in her opinion; particularly if, as he suspected, the Conde San Vincente was engaged in the affair.“Ah, senhor, I am sure it was entirely Gonçalo’s fault, who is led into all sorts of mischief by that horrid count,” said Gertrudes. “I knew he would some day or other suffer for his folly; and I will take care my young lady does not believe anything to your disparagement.”“In mercy do, my good senhora, or she will be taught to look upon me with horror instead of love,” said Luis. “You know not the pangs, the wretchedness, I have suffered, at the thoughts of this fresh misfortune.”“Oh yes, senhor, I can feel for you, I assure you,” whispered the old Nurse. “You forget I too was once young and pretty, and had my admirers also, particularly one who was handsome, and constant, and loving; so I married him at last, and some happy years I spent, till he went to sea, and I never heard of him more; but I have ever since felt a kindred feeling for young lovers, and doubly so when my sweet mistress is one of the parties.”Luis felt his heart much relieved by her promises, and just then bethought him of a present he had prepared for her, so requesting her again to drop her handkerchief, he begged her to accept what he offered her, which, considering it was a pair of handsome filigree gold earrings, he had not much hesitation in doing, and seemed mightily pleased at the attention.While the greater part of the above conversation was going forward, they had risen from their knees, and were standing hid from general view behind one of the pillars of the church, the loud chanting of the service preventing the tones of their voices being heard by any but themselves. The same scene we have described is constantly practised for far more doubtful purposes.Senhora Gertrudes promising to bring Luis either a verbal or written answer to his letter within a few days, they separated, little dreaming of the accumulated horrors those days were to bring forth. Though his conversation with the old nurse had somewhat restored peace to his mind, by affording him yet a gleam of hope, Luis felt his spirits, like the air, heavy and gloomy. As he walked slowly homeward, the unaccountable and unusual gloom, which, like a funereal pall, had for many preceding days hung over the city, seemed increased in density.

More than a week passed away; it was now within three days of the end of October, when Luis had repaired to a neighbouring church, to hear morning mass, and was kneeling on one side of the aisle, attending to the ceremonies going forward; he heard his name pronounced close to him, by a female, in the attitude of devotion, shrouded in the black mantelha, or hooded cloak, then worn by even the very highest classes, at mass. The female turned her head as he looked round, when he recognised the features of Senhora Gertrudes, which gave him more satisfaction than if they had been those of the fairest lady in the land, her young mistress excepted. The old lady sidled up to him, when she whispered, looking, we cannot help acknowledging, as if she was deeply engaged in her devotions all the time—

“Oh, Senhor Don Luis, I am so glad to see you! for I have been trying everywhere to meet you, without success; for that horrid Padre Alfonzo kept so strict a watch on me, that I could not venture to your house. Oh, senhor! they have stolen away my dear child, and they have carried her to a convent, where they have shut her up, and will never let her out again; the cruel, wicked wretches! All the world has conspired against us; and even my old master, whom, till now, I always looked upon as an angel, has grown as bad as the rest, and now I have only got you to depend on. There is my young lady breaking her heart about you, and no one whom she cares about to comfort her.”

This news electrified Don Luis. “To what convent has Donna Clara been conveyed?” he exclaimed, eagerly. “’Twill be a consolation to know where she is.”

“To that of Santa Clara, senhor,” answered Senhora Gertrudes; “and if you will write a short little note to her, I know it will be a consolation to her. There can be no harm in a little note, I’m sure; and I will take care that she receives it.”

Luis agreed with her that there could be no possible impropriety in his writing, and promised to do so.

“There is to be mass again here to-morrow, when I will meet you, senhor, and I will carry your note, for I shall be able to gain permission, I hope, to visit my dear young mistress. She will not be obliged to take her first vows for some time to come, and after that there will be a whole year before she can profess; so that, in the mean time, something may happen to release her; so do not be cast down, senhor, as I told her, sweet child, to comfort her, though Heaven alone knows what chance she has of happiness.”

The service being concluded, Luis and the old nurse parted, he hastening home to employ himself in composing an epistle to Clara, which, instead of being the very little note the good Gertrudes recommended, swelled by degrees into several sheets, as the thoughts crowded on his mind, though, after all, they resolved themselves into two or three points,—his devotion, his wretchedness, and his hopes; for it was not his nature to despair; besides, he felt assured that his love was returned, and, with that proud consciousness, how could he cease to cherish hope?

We deem that man unworthy of a woman’s affection whom the consciousness of possessing it does not raise above all fears, and give hopes of ultimately conquering all difficulties in his path. Such was the effect on the mind of Luis, and he determined that nothing should dispirit him till the fatal veil had, like the dark tomb, separated her from him for ever; then he felt that to him death would indeed be welcome.

He had just concluded his letter, forgetful of how the hours had flown by; his dinner had remained almost untasted; the grateful siesta was not thought of, and the shades of evening had already closed in the day, when Captain Pinto entered his room to remind him that they had on that night agreed to visit Senhor Mendez.

It must be recollected that those were not the days (at all events, in Portugal) of double hot-pressed glossy Bath paper, over which the pen glides with the rapidity of the skate on the virgin ice, which will account for the time he occupied in the employment; besides, he felt a pleasure in prolonging it to the utmost; yet, he was as delighted on completing it as we shall be when we write finis to this compilation, though he was not perfectly satisfied with it, and thought he could have written a better, as will probably be our feeling also.

As before, they were accompanied by Pedro with a torch, and were happy at finding their friend slightly recovered, though still unable to quit his couch. Senhor Mendez turned the conversation on points in which he considered that he could offer advice to Luis. He warned him particularly to beware of the Jesuits, whom he designated as crafty and deceitful men, ambitious alone of increasing the power of their order at the expense of their fellow-creatures, whom, in furtherance of this aim, they kept bound in the chains of ignorance and superstition; and that they were, so far, more dangerous than the other monastic orders, from their very superiority of education and intellect, and from their freedom from those gross vices which stained the character of the rest.

The advice, perhaps, might have been of service to Luis, for he had purposed, on the following day, to pay a visit to his cousin Father Jacinto, whom he had not seen since his return to Lisbon. Senhor Mendez then drew him to speak of himself, and of his love for Donna Clara, his eye flashing with indignation, when he heard of the chief reasons her father had deigned to advance for rejecting his offer.

“O pride and ambition!” he cried, “what banes are they to social intercourse! So this haughty patrician would rather consign his child to splendid misery in the arms of a man she abhors, leading her too probably to vice and disgrace, or would immure her within the profane walls of a convent, than see her wedded to one she loves, because his fortune does not equal what he, in his vanity, considers necessary to support her in grandeur equal to her rank. Mark me,” he continued, “do not for a moment suppose that I would advocate unequal alliances, where the family on one side would despise the other, such can seldom fail of bringing misery to both; but I do say, where Heaven has joined two hearts in one, parents draw an awful responsibility on their own heads in venturing to separate them.”

We must not longer delay, by giving the further observations Senhor Mendez made, as we have subjects to relate which will afford far more interest to our readers; and we might also run the risk of having our book banished from the library as a work full of pestiferous and dangerous tenets, which would cause us infinite pain, conscious, as we feel ourselves, of the rectitude of our intentions in transcribing what we find before us.

The course Luis and his friend took homeward led them near the residence of the Conde San Vincente, in which neighbourhood they were, Pedro being in advance with the torch, when they encountered a party who woke the night air with their bacchanalian songs, and seemed little inclined either to move out of their way, or to allow them to pass. The torch was immediately knocked out of the grasp of Pedro, who forthwith dealt the perpetrator of the act a severe blow with a cudgel he carried.

“Wretched villain!” exclaimed a young man, by the tone of his voice evidently suffering from the effects of wine, “how dare you to lift your hand against a fidalgo? you shall die the death for your audacity,” and, drawing his sword, he was about to run Pedro through the body, had not the captain and Luis, unsheathing their weapons, also sprung forward to rescue him.

“A skirmish, a skirmish!” cried several voices, and the whole of the opposite party rushed forward to attack them.

“Nought but the blood of my foe can wash out the insult I have received,” exclaimed the young man, who had been the cause of the fray, setting furiously on Luis, in the blindness of intoxication, not observing to whom he was opposed.

“Ah, you have a sword, too, as well as a stick; then, I conclude you are a gentleman, and fit to engage with—no matter—here’s at you!” He, however, was a good swordsman, nor could Luis disarm him, as he wished to do, seeing his state, pressed closely, as he was also by his companions, the Captain and Pedro being abundantly occupied in keeping the rest at bay.

The young man, as we have said, rushed upon Luis, utterly regardless of his own person, becoming, every pass in which he was foiled, more and more daring; and still firmly retaining his sword. At length, Luis grew weary of his attacks, and, perhaps, less cautious not to injure him, when the young man, endeavouring to rush in on him, the former could not draw back in time, his sword passing through his side, and, with a sharp cry, he fell to the ground. The rage of his companions seemed increased by the accident, when Captain Pinto, seeing what had occurred, shouted out—“Beware, cavaliers, this may afford amusement to you, but I am a peaceable man, and do not like fighting, so take warning from the fate of your companion, and draw off, or by heavens, I will run two or three of you through the body, to heighten your pleasure.”

This warning, uttered in a determined voice, seemed to have some effect on the obfuscated intellects of the party of debauchees, particularly as the speaker had disarmed two of them, who fell back for support among their companions, by whom, in mistake, they were very nearly run through the body. A few slight scratches had been received by the assailants, which appeared to satisfy them with fighting, and they were retreating, forgetful of their wounded friend, when Luis sprung forward to aid him. What was his horror, when, on Pedro recovering his torch, which had remained burning on the ground, and bringing it to the spot, he beheld in the features of his fallen antagonist those of the young Gonçalo, the brother of Clara.

He was senseless, Luis trusted, more from the fall, or from intoxication, than from the effects of his wound; for he still breathed heavily, although blood flowed freely from his side. As he was about to raise him, some of his companions appeared to have recollected his disaster; and returning, without apparently noticing Luis and his friends, they lifted him amongst them from the ground, and, with staggering steps, bore him along, not uttering a word during the time, till they were nearly out of sight.

Luis was in doubts whether he ought not to follow, to see that more attention was paid to the wounded man, than his friends were likely to be able, in their present state, to afford; but the captain recommended him not to interfere, observing, that as they had sense enough left to carry him out of the road, they would send for the nearest barber to bind up his side, which was all that a clean sword wound required.

“Oh, but he is the brother of my Clara, and may die from the wound he has received,” exclaimed Luis.

“That alters the case,” said the Captain, and they set forward to overtake the bearers of the wounded man; but though they walked quickly along, by the time they came up with the party whom they fancied were carrying him, he was not to be seen among them. To their inquiries, the people assured them that they must be mistaken, as they had themselves but just turned down from another street, and had heard no sounds of the fray. They then followed another group, whose voices they heard a little in advance; but with like want of success, the people holding silence directly they approached.

“He has, perhaps, been conveyed to the palace of the Conde San Vincente,” exclaimed Luis; so they hurried down the street towards it; for it was, as we have said, close at hand; but no one appeared in the neighbourhood, and when, at length, they knocked at the door, after a long time it was opened, and a surly porter declared that no one had been there all that evening, nor had his master left his home since the morning, and had now been in bed for some hours. This might, or might not, have been true; but Luis had no other resource than to return with his friend homeward, dispirited, and full of regret at the accident, wishing that he rather had been the victim; for, should Gonçalo die, he would be looked upon as his murderer, and another barrier, far more insuperable than the former, would be placed against any prospect of his union with Clara. The best consolation the kind-hearted sailor could offer, was, in endeavouring to persuade him, that the wound the young fidalgo had received was probably slight, and that he would recover in a few days; that Luis was in no way to blame, the encounter on his side being perfectly unsought, and that the sufferer and his friends must view it in the same light; indeed, he used every argument that most people would have done in a like case, to soothe the mind of his young friend, though they were of little avail; and it was almost daylight when Luis fell asleep, with his hopes at a lower ebb than he had ever before found them.

With increased anxiety, he repaired, on the following morning, to the church where he was to meet Senhora Gertrudes; and, true to her appointment, he found her kneeling at the same spot, where he had encountered her on the previous day. Notwithstanding the recent unfortunate occurrence, he had resolved to send the letter he had written to Clara; for when his hand had penned it, that was yet unstained with her brother’s blood, as his heart was still guiltless of any intention of shedding it.

The old nurse, however, was unconscious of anything that had occurred. “Oh, senhor,” she said, “I am so glad that you have not been prevented from coming; for I have got leave to visit my young mistress this very morning, and though she loves me dearly, I am sure that I shall be a more welcome visitor if I carry your little note. Where is it, senhor? Stay,—that nobody may see you deliver it, have the kindness to return me my pocket-handkerchief, which I will drop.” Upon which, she adroitly drew the article she mentioned from her pocket, and let it fall by the side of Don Luis, who, stooping down, restored it to her with the letter, which he had conveyed under it.

As she felt the size of the packet, she whispered, “I am afraid, senhor, this is much larger than the little note I promised to carry; but, never mind, I dare say that you have a great deal to say to my young lady, which she will like to hear; and I don’t think a long note can do more harm than a short one, so be assured she shall have it. Poor dear, I would do anything to please her.”

Luis was longing, all the time the old lady was speaking, to put in a word to inquire for the young Gonçalo. To his question, she answered, that the young master’s habits were so very irregular, that no one remarked upon his remaining away for a night; that she had not seen him that morning, nor did she think that he had returned home on the previous evening; but that, just as she was leaving the palace, she was surprised to meet, at that unusually early hour, his friend the Conde San Vincente, (whom she took the opportunity to abuse,) just entering the hall; that she thought he might have come to speak to the younger Gonçalo, or, perhaps, to his father.

Luis then told her, under the promise of the strictest secrecy, that he had unintentionally, and, indeed, against his utmost endeavours, wounded the young fidalgo on the previous evening; that he had been carried off by his party, and he knew not where he had been conveyed. Luis then assured her that his heart was wrung with anguish at what he had done, and besought her, if her mistress heard of the accident, to place his conduct in its proper light, as he had no doubt that occasion would be taken to vilify him, if possible, in her opinion; particularly if, as he suspected, the Conde San Vincente was engaged in the affair.

“Ah, senhor, I am sure it was entirely Gonçalo’s fault, who is led into all sorts of mischief by that horrid count,” said Gertrudes. “I knew he would some day or other suffer for his folly; and I will take care my young lady does not believe anything to your disparagement.”

“In mercy do, my good senhora, or she will be taught to look upon me with horror instead of love,” said Luis. “You know not the pangs, the wretchedness, I have suffered, at the thoughts of this fresh misfortune.”

“Oh yes, senhor, I can feel for you, I assure you,” whispered the old Nurse. “You forget I too was once young and pretty, and had my admirers also, particularly one who was handsome, and constant, and loving; so I married him at last, and some happy years I spent, till he went to sea, and I never heard of him more; but I have ever since felt a kindred feeling for young lovers, and doubly so when my sweet mistress is one of the parties.”

Luis felt his heart much relieved by her promises, and just then bethought him of a present he had prepared for her, so requesting her again to drop her handkerchief, he begged her to accept what he offered her, which, considering it was a pair of handsome filigree gold earrings, he had not much hesitation in doing, and seemed mightily pleased at the attention.

While the greater part of the above conversation was going forward, they had risen from their knees, and were standing hid from general view behind one of the pillars of the church, the loud chanting of the service preventing the tones of their voices being heard by any but themselves. The same scene we have described is constantly practised for far more doubtful purposes.

Senhora Gertrudes promising to bring Luis either a verbal or written answer to his letter within a few days, they separated, little dreaming of the accumulated horrors those days were to bring forth. Though his conversation with the old nurse had somewhat restored peace to his mind, by affording him yet a gleam of hope, Luis felt his spirits, like the air, heavy and gloomy. As he walked slowly homeward, the unaccountable and unusual gloom, which, like a funereal pall, had for many preceding days hung over the city, seemed increased in density.

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