Volume Two—Chapter One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.In painting a true picture of times and events, we must introduce among our figures the wealthy and great, the wicked, the wretched, and the indigent, or we should present no true likeness of the world as it exists; but we must also beg leave to bring forward a personage who was certainly not wealthy or great; who vowed that he was not wicked, for he performed his duty to God and man; who was not wretched, for he was singing all day long; while he declared that he could not be indigent, for he possessed abundance to supply all his wants, though, fortunately for himself, they were very few.This personage was a cobbler. Now, it is a curious fact, which no one will venture to dispute, that, from the time of the cobbler who tacked the bits of Ali Baba’s brother together, as mentioned in the authentic history of the Forty Thieves—with which we trust all our readers are acquainted—to the days of the celebrated cobbler who lived in a stall, “which served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,” cobblers have borne a strong similarity to each other, with distinctive qualities separating them from other men, as can be proved by the above and numerous other instances, both in all countries and all ages.In England, a tailor is looked upon, not only as inferior to other men, but actually to be of no more consideration than the ninth part of a man: now, in Portugal, the same unjust sort of prejudice exists against shoemakers; consequently, cobblers are considered utterly below all notice.Our cobbler, however, did not care one iota for the opinions of people, whom, in his sleeve, he despised and ridiculed: “For,” said he, when he had collected a small knot of attentive listeners, “if, in England, as I hear, they laugh at a tailor, and esteem a cobbler, and here they honour a tailor and despise a cobbler; while in France, for what I know to the contrary, they may admire both, and not think much of a hat-maker; and if, in this country, no man will carry a load, while our next door neighbours come on purpose so to do, I should very much like to know who is in the right, and who in the wrong, and which trade is really derogatory to the dignity of man? Mark another absurdity—how different nations and people despise each other, when one may not be at all superior to the other. When Jerusalem was a city of the Jews, I should like to know who would have dared walk into it and scoff at a man because he was a Jew? Here every one reviles that people. If a Turk comes here, he is stared at as a savage and a heathen; and if a Christian goes to Turkey, he is called an unbeliever and a barbarian—now which is right, and which is wrong? Why should I, therefore, put myself out of my way to follow any other trade than the one I like? I choose to be a cobbler: it suits my taste. I can talk, sing, or meditate at pleasure, while I mend shoes. What fools men are! The statesman thinks no one so wise as himself; the lawyer considers the soldier only fit food for powder; while the latter despises the peaceable merchant; the merchant looks upon all in trade as beneath him; and he who deals in silks thinks himself infinitely superior to the vendor of leather; while they all join in despising the cobbler. What fools, what fools men are! Why, I laugh at them,” he would say, as he wound up his discourse, at the same time indulging in a low, quiet chuckle. These observations very much edified and pleased his auditors, who, being of about the same rank in society as he appeared, felt that such sentiments were their own; adding, on their parts, that all distinction of classes was a most unjust arrangement. They would then begin to discuss among themselves, whether they were not as well able to govern the state as those who actually held the reins. When they got to this point the cobbler laughed at them. He was fond of laughing at people who talked nonsense. He thus laughed, in turn, at the greater part of the world.While we have been giving this long account of the character and sayings of the cobbler, we entirely overlooked the main points to be described; namely, his outward appearance, and when and where he lived. Our readers, we dare say, expect to hear that he was an odd, little, crooked old fellow, with a dirty face and unshorn locks; but we can assure them history informs us, on the contrary, that he was once young—nor was he now old; that he was well-made, and when he drew himself up, his height was respectable; that when his work was done, and he had shaved and washed, his face was as clean as that of any of his very numerous acquaintance. From this description, it may be deduced, that his appearance was in his favour; his colour was dark, his eyes were piercing and jetty black, as was his hair, and that he had fine teeth, and a long nose, rather hooked. Some, indeed, hinted that he was a Jew; but, being a strong athletic fellow, with his long sharp leather-knife by his side, none dared call him so to his face; besides, he was constant at his devotions, and a regular attendant at all religious ceremonies; none more devoutly kneeling and crossing themselves when the mysterious and sublime Host passed by, borne under a rich canopy, in the hands of a venerable priest, accompanied by monks and choristers chanting forth hymns of praise, and preceded by some pious person tinkling a bell, to give notice of its approach, that all, uncovered, might bend in adoration.No one knew exactly whence he came; but, a short time previous to the events we have related in the former part of this history, he made his appearance one morning with his stock in trade on his back, and established himself in a deep recess in the wall of a large house, directly facing the entrance to the palace of the Duke of Aveiro. He set down his stool, threw a bundle of leather on one side, the implements of his craft on the other, with a few old shoes, put his lapstone on his knees, and began working away as if he had lived there all his life.He soon made friends with the servants of the palace: he mended the footmen’s shoes, charging them less, and doing the work better, than any one else could have done; and next, one by one, the women brought out their slippers or sandals; and for each he had a smile and a compliment, or a piece of wit, in readiness: sometimes a moral reflection, if the beauties of the dame he addressed had become faded by years, and if he had observed her kissing with greater fervour the little images of saints brought round from the churches, or more constant in her attendance at mass than others. If the lady was young, with sparkling black eyes, he knew exactly how to bestow his praise, and, at all events, their feet were a sure subject for compliment. Considering the small sums he charged, they could not but wait to pay him with a little chat, while he was putting the last stitch or so into his work; for, come when they would, so it was that a few minutes’ work always remained to be completed; and, as they did not complain, he did not correct his fault, being thus enabled, in a quiet, confidential way, to learn all that was going forward in the establishment. What he learned will be detailed in the course of this history.We have said that he had taken up his abode in a recess in the wall of a house opposite the palace; but we do not wish to describe the house as facing the palace, for it looked into a street running at right angles to it; the recess being part of a doorway in the garden-wall, now stopped up. This house was inhabited by a very rich merchant and his family, most exemplary Catholics, who set a lesson of piety to the community by their regular observance of all the ordinances of the Church, and by their fastings and alms: yet, notwithstanding this, people dared to point the finger of scorn at them, stigmatising them as Jews and heretics, and longing to show their zeal for religion by offering them up in that grateful sacrifice to the benign power, the most holy Auto da Fè—thus to become sharers in their hoarded riches. Whatever were their own private notions regarding the established faith, they certainly suffered under the inabilities of the New Christians, as those were called who had Jewish or even Moorish blood in their veins, the term having origin from the following cause.At an early period in Lusitanian history, we find that the Jews had collected in great numbers in Portugal, and down to the reign of John the First they had their synagogues and rabbins; indeed, in no country in Europe did they enjoy greater prosperity, their wealth adding much to the power of the kingdom.In Spain, also, they had acquired considerable influence, till the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, when those pious sovereigns having driven the Moors from their dominions, conceived that their duty to Heaven ordained that they should depopulate the other half of the cities in Spain, by banishing the Jews also. This idea, fostered by the avarice of some and the bigotry of others, was put into execution, and great numbers of the unfortunate refugees were received by John the Second on condition of their paying a certain tribute, and quitting the kingdom within a limited period, he undertaking to provide them with vessels to transport them wherever they desired to proceed. The king’s state of health prevented him from seeing his orders put into execution, while the captains and seamen of the vessels treated those who had embarked in the most barbarous manner; keeping them at sea till they had entirely consumed their own provisions, and then compelling them to buy of them at exorbitant rates; so that those who remained in Portugal, fearful of the like treatment, allowed the prescribed time to elapse, and thus forfeited their liberty. Such was the situation of the Jews when Emanuel began his reign, and generously restored them to liberty, for which extraordinary benevolence they offered him, in gratitude, a large sum of money; but he refused it, in the hopes of gaining their affections by kind treatment, and converting them to Christianity. At length, however, bigotry, and envy at their increasing wealth, caused a loud clamour to be raised against them, and Emanuel was induced, contrary to his own judgment, by the representations of his counsellors, and the interference of the Spanish sovereigns, to order all, both Jews and Moors, who refused to embrace the Christian faith, to quit his dominions. A day was fixed for their departure, after which all who remained in the country were to lose their liberty; but, as it approached, the king, greatly afflicted at the thoughts of driving so many of his subjects into banishment, devised a scheme which was eventually of great benefit to the kingdom. He ordered all the children of the Jews, under fourteen years of age, to be forcibly taken from their parents, that they might be educated in the Christian faith, thus gaining converts to the Church at the expense of all the laws of justice and humanity.“What a moving spectacle was this to behold!” exclaims the reverend Father Ozorio. “Children torn from the agonised embraces of their screaming mothers, or dragged from the necks of their affectionate brothers and sisters, from whom they were to be for ever separated, while the fathers sternly gazed, and cursed the perpetrators of deeds they had no power to avenge! The city of Lisbon was filled with cries and lamentations; even the spectators could not refrain from tears. Parents, in the excess of their frenzy, were seen to lay violent hands on themselves; many, rather than submit to the severity of the decree, hurling their infants into wells and pits. Never was such tribulation heard in Israel since the days of Herod the Tetrarch!”No vessels had been provided for their transport, as had been promised, and thus, when the day for their departure had passed, they again forfeited their liberty. Thus harassed, they at length, to recover their children and their liberty, affected to become Christians, the king giving them every encouragement, so that the greater number lived contentedly in the Portuguese dominions.Though thus professing the religion of the country, it could not be supposed that they could regard it with any fond affection, and consequently their faith was ever looked upon with suspicion by the rest of the inhabitants, particularly by those who envied their industry and wealth: that hell-invented tribunal of the Inquisition taking every means, on the slightest pretext, to subject them to its tyrannical power. Many embraced the earliest opportunity of escaping to Holland, England, and other free countries, where they could enjoy uninterruptedly the exercise of their faith. Those that remained still continued to intermarry among themselves, and, it was supposed, not without considerable reason, to exercise in private the rites they were forbidden to perform in public. Whatever, therefore, was their profession of faith, none gave them credit for their belief in the holy Catholic Church, but bestowed on them the distinctive appellation of New Christians, which they retained at the time of which we are now speaking.The Marquis of Pombal, with that liberal policy which marked many of his actions, finally abolished all such distinctions; but before he had succeeded in doing so, King Joseph took it into his most sagacious head, that, for the benefit of religion, there ought to be some sign placed on all those with Jewish blood in their veins. He consequently ordered a decree to be promulgated that all such should wear white hats.The Minister remonstrated, but in vain. Finding reason ineffectual, he pretended compliance, and presented himself to the king with the edict, at the same time drawing out from under his cloak two white hats. On the king inquiring the meaning of the joke—“Oh!” replied Pombal, “I come prepared to obey your majesty’s edict, with one hat for you and another for myself,” thus hinting the well-known fact, that the royal family itself was not entirely free from the imaginary stain; the family of the Minister also, it was said, having sprung from the stock of Abraham, as are a vast many others. The king laughed, and gave up the point.On the death of Joseph, and the banishment of his Minister, when bigotry and priestcraft regained their supremacy, the New Christians were again subject to persecutions, and it is only under the present free constitution that all difference has been finally, and, we trust, for ever, abolished.But we have wandered from our subject, and have, by nearly a century, forestalled events. Our readers will exclaim, What has this long account of the Jews, and King Joseph and his Minister, with the white hats, got to do with the cobbler and his stall?Spera hum poco—(which is to say, in Portuguese, “Stop a little,” a very favourite expression before all their actions, whereby they often lose the right time)—we shall presently see; for if it has nothing to do with the cobbler, it has with the family under whose walls he plied his trade, for they were New Christians; many indeed affirmed that they still adhered to the faith of their forefathers, and there were various stories current respecting the performance of their ancient rites. It was said, that when strangers were admitted to the house, there was one room, of considerable dimensions, always kept closed, which was supposed to be dedicated to the purposes of a synagogue. The vulgar believed that, at the Feast of the Passover, they immolated a Christian child yet unweaned; the origin of which idea was, of course, the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb; and there were various other stories, equally absurd and revolting, having less foundation in truth. However, Senhor Matteos de Menezes and his family had escaped the power of the Inquisition: it might have been by timely donations of no inconsiderable amount to holy Mother Church, so that even the Grand Inquisitor himself could not doubt the completeness of their conversion, and the purity of their faith.Having given a full description of the locality of the cobbler’s stall, we may now go on spinning the thread of our history; and if some of our readers complain that we have turned our mystic spindle too slowly, we must beg their pardon, and assure them that we are about to progress at a rapid rate, with scenes of the most thrilling interest, such as will cause their eyes to ache ere they can lay down the book.The cobbler was one day seated in his stall, hard at work, hammering a new heel on to a shoe, at the same time thinking of the number of fools there were in the world, and yet how few were aware that they belonged to that class of creation; for, as we observed, our cobbler was a philosopher in his way, and had he been born in the higher ranks of society, he would have been a noted wit and satirist, laughing at the follies and scourging the vices of his equals. But he found the follies of the poor too slight, or too sad, to laugh at, and their vices more the fault of institutions than their own, and beyond correction. Next, he thought of the state of the nation. He saw a priesthood wallowing in sloth, corrupted, bigoted, and abandoned to every vice; a nobility haughty, ignorant, vicious, and tyrannical; a king weak, superstitious, and profligate; a people sunk in apathy, and the grossest superstition, without courage or intelligence to assert their rights. And he pitied them; but he knew there was one man in the realm able and willing to overthrow the power of the first, to crush the arrogant pride of the second, to rule the king, to enlighten the people, and to give justice to all; and he had long determined to aid his designs; for the cobbler had more power than the world supposed, and he thanked Heaven he did not belong to any of these classes. These thoughts had just passed through his mind, when he heard a tramping of steeds, and looking up, he beheld a cavalcade approaching, at the head of which rode the Duke of Aveiro, accompanied by his handsome young nephew on one side, while on the other was his equerry, Captain Policarpio, in earnest conversation with him, heedless of the people who thronged the streets, the horses bespattering them with mud and dirt, the attendants, also, taking a pleasure in causing confusion and annoyance to all whom they passed. A youth, with a basket of oranges on his head, was offering them for sale, when one of the domestics adroitly managed to make his horse sidle against him. The vendor of fruit, with a cry of terror, endeavoured to escape, when his foot slipped, and letting go his basket, the contents rolled out on the ground, over which the others trampled, with loud laughter at the disaster, none deigning to make the slightest amends to the youth. Some of the passers by stopped to assist him, for he was sobbing piteously at his loss, but dared not complain.Our cobbler saw the occurrence. “Take care, my masters,” as he watched the arrogant noble who had just reached his palace gates; “take care, or you will discover, when too late to remedy your faults, that your days of prosperity have passed away.” No sooner did the duke enter the lofty gateway of his palace, than the major-domo rushed down stairs to hold his stirrup while he alighted, his young kinsman throwing himself from his steed, without waiting for assistance, and the attendants bustling about and creating more noise and confusion than was at all necessary.“Why has the duke so suddenly returned to the city?” thought the Cobbler. “I must watch and learn, for ’tis about no good, I am certain.”It has just occurred to us, that we have never given our cobbler’s name. By diligent search through the vast pile of manuscripts before us, we have discovered the important piece of information that he was called Antonio, generally withO Memendab, or the Mender, added thereto. No dignified title, certainly! but he was contented with it, and so must we be; for we cannot anywhere discover what was his other name, if he ever had one, which we deem problematical.Several days passed before Antonio became much wiser as to the cause of the duke’s movements than on the first day of his arrival, though he narrowly watched all his outgoings, and incomings, and also most diligently questioned the servants who stepped across the street to have five minutes’ chat with him. The duke had just driven out, when one of the lackeys, rejoicing in the name of Jozé, was sauntering about the hall, and having nothing to do, bethought him that he would honour the cobbler with his society.“Good day, Senhor Jozé,” said the Cobbler, as he saw him approach; “you have pleasant times of it, with nothing to do, and plenty to eat, while I must hammer, hammer, and stitch, stitch, all day long, to earn a fewvintemsto supply my food.”“You are right, Senhor Antonio, you are right,” answered Jozé, as he leaned, with his hands in his pockets, a toothpick in his mouth, and his legs crossed, against the wall; “we have a tolerable life of it; for, except that the duke sits inside, while we stand outside, what difference is there between us? and when the people take off their hats, it is as much to our fine coats as to him. Then we eat the same food, and drink the same wines as he does, only a good deal more of each than he can, in which we have the advantage of him, and as for knowledge, between ourselves, there is not much difference either.”“Ah! the duke is a good master, and blessed with good servants,” returned Antonio.“Why, as to his servants, I must not speak, as I am one of them,” answered Jozé, pulling out his ruffles; “but his Excellency himself—whom God preserve—would be all the better if he did not beat us so confoundedly when he is angered; but that is a trifle—it is his privilege, and we must be content.”“You are right, Senhor Jozé, there is no use quarrelling with one’s lot. What would be the advantage to him of being a duke, if he might not do what pleases him?” said the Cobbler, plying his awl as if he thought much more of mending the old shoe on his lap, than of the words he was speaking. “He appears to be fonder of taking carriage exercise than he was?”“Oh! he is driving about all day,” said Jozé, “first to one place, then to another; now to pay his respects to his majesty, then to some fidalgo he never before thought of visiting. It is said that this change has been worked by the influence of the pious saint, the holy Father Malagrida, who tells him, that to be at enmity with his fellow-men is sinful and wicked, and that he must reform his life, and be in charity with all. To prove his sincerity, the last time it was my turn to go out, we drove to the palace of the Marquis of Tavora, to whom he has not spoken for years; but he craved forgiveness for some insult he had committed towards him, and when they parted, they embraced in the most affectionate way, the duke kissing the hand of the marchioness most lovingly. Oh, it was quite pathetic to see them!”“Oh, it must have been,” returned Antonio; “and you say he has renewed his friendship with several other nobles?”“Oh yes, there was the Count d’Atouquia, who had never spoken to him since he ran his brother through the body one night in a street brawl, and now they are hand and glove: then he has written to the Count d’Almeida, before whom he used to carry himself so haughtily, though the count thought himself just as great a man as our lord. Then he paid a visit of ceremony to the Senhor Silva, whom he has constantly passed in the streets as if he was some commoner or plebeian; and he dined yesterday with the Marquis d’Alorna, with whom he was on bad terms formerly. We do not know what to make of it; and I should not think of speaking on the subject to any one but a friend like you; but, to tell you the truth, our opinion is, that there is some marriage about to take place between the young viscount, our lord’s nephew, and some lady of one of these noble families, or perhaps his son is to be betrothed to one of them.”“I have no doubt you have exactly hit off the truth,” said the Cobbler, nodding his head sagaciously; “but I would advise you not to talk about your lord’s affairs to people in general: to a friend like me it is different; for you know the less said the soonest mended; but I am as close as cobbler’s wax,” and he kneaded a lump of that composition in his fingers.“Ah! I know you are, or I should not be so great a fool as to talk to you as I do,” said Jozé, sagaciously. “By-the-bye, have you heard of the marriage about to take place between the young Marquis of Tavora, who is a great friend of our young viscount, and the daughter of the Count d’Alorna?”“Not I,” answered Antonio; “I hear nothing except what my friends like to tell me as I sit at my work,” and he strenuously stitched away at the shoe on his lap.As soon as the evening arrived, Antonio packed up his tools, and placed them within the hall of Senhor Menezes’ house, where it was his custom to leave them, by permission of the servants, with whom it seemed he was acquainted, though they seldom came out to talk to him. He then, looking to see that no one observed him, repaired, after taking many turnings, as was his wont, to his lodgings, which, considering his apparent poverty, were far more respectable than could have been expected. He there, throwing off his working suit with an air of disdain, and washing his hands and face, attired himself in the garments of a man of fashion, when, buckling a sword to his side, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he again sallied forth in such guise, that no one could have recognised in him the humble cobbler of the morning. He now appeared a well-grown man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, with large dark whiskers, and full black eyes, as he walked along with an independent air, and perhaps a slight swagger in his gait, as if he enjoyed his emancipation from his daily toil. He again looked cautiously around, throwing the right side of his cloak over his left shoulder, and hastily traversing several streets up and down hill, he arrived before a mansion, at the door of which a sentinel was stationed. He gave some name to the porter, who immediately allowed him to pass, another servant showing him into an anteroom on the top of the first flight of steps. “Wait here a few minutes, senhor, and my master will speak with you,” said the domestic, as he withdrew with the quiet step of one accustomed to attend on people high in office.“I have information that may be of great value,” thought Antonio to himself, as he paced up and down the ill-furnished room; “but the reward may be proportionably great; and I would far rather confide in him than in any of the miserable wretches who have crawled till now about the Court, and have seized the high offices of state, their pride overflowing with the thoughts of their bastard descent from some profligate prince or mitred abbot of a few centuries back, since which time they have had but little fresh blood to improve the stream.” He thought this, as we have said; for he was not one to give utterance to what was passing in his mind: a door opened, and a man of dignified carriage and lofty stature stood before him, in whose presence even Antonio shrunk into insignificance.It was the Minister Carvalho. “Ah! my faithful Antonio, you are ever punctual to your time,” he began. “Had I twenty such strenuous supporters, Portugal would quickly again lift up her head among the kingdoms of Europe.” Antonio bowed, in acknowledgment of the compliment, which he valued exactly at what it was worth. “But tell me, my friend, what information have you collected lately?” added the Minister, speaking quickly.“I have seen much, and guessed more, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio. “In the first place, the duke returned suddenly to Lisbon, and has since then renewed his acquaintance with various families with whom he was formerly at enmity. Now, a man does not do so unless he is about to repent of his sins, or, far more probably, unless he is about some mischief. Then, Senhor Policarpio has been running about in all directions, like his master, making friends with those whom he never before deigned to address; though he is insolent enough to many over whom he dares to tyrannise. The duke also constantly receives visits from that mad Jesuit Malagrida, a professed enemy of your Excellency, and from many others openly disaffected to your government; but I have brought here a list of all those who have visited the duke; and here is another, containing the names of those with whom he has had communication at other places, as far as I can learn.” Saying which, he handed two papers to the Minister, adding, “With these your Excellency will be able to form a better opinion than I can venture to offer.”“Ah!” exclaimed the Minister, taking the papers eagerly, and running his eye over their contents. “Beware, my lord duke, or you will soon, methinks, be in my power; and we shall then see if you dare to scorn the lowly commoner. I see his aims,” he continued, half speaking to himself. “He hopes to gain our sovereign’s ear, and then, with an army of parasites, to hurl me to destruction; but I am prepared for his machinations, and ere long he shall feel so. I must break the pride of these arrogant fidalgos, or they will lord it over the king himself,—base wretches, whose whole being is composed of avarice and the most sordid selfishness, without valour, honour, or patriotism,—who care not for the fate of their country, so that they can undisturbedly enjoy their own luxuries. Ah, miscreants! I will overwhelm you when you little expect it!” Suddenly stopping in his soliloquy, he seemed to recollect that another person was present, and turning to Antonio, he again addressed him. “The information you bring me is valuable, my friend; but there is much yet to be learned. Continue constant to your purpose, and you shall be rewarded highly: in the meantime, take this purse. You have earned it well.”Antonio stretched not out his hand to clutch the gold, as many would have done; but, unconsciously drawing himself up, he replied, “No, senhor; pardon me, I seek not such reward. Freely, and of my own accord, I have served you, and no gold would repay me for the days of watching and drudgery I have for this purpose undergone. Because the blood of Abraham flows in my veins, think not that I must needs be avaricious. When I was in want of money, you gave it me; if I require more, I will ask it; but such is not the recompense I seek. When the time comes, I will demand my reward, and it will be such alone as you in justice will be bound to grant.”Carvalho gazed at the speaker earnestly. “You have a soul above your class, and deserve a higher destiny,” he said.“I may not be what I appear to the world, nor seek I a higher destiny than is my lot,” returned Antonio. “If I have your Excellency’s permission, I will depart.”“You are at liberty; I will detain you no longer,” said Carvalho. “Adeos, my friend.”Antonio bowed low to the Minister, who retired to his inner chamber; while, as he found his way, unquestioned into the street, he whispered to himself, “He will serve my purpose.”

In painting a true picture of times and events, we must introduce among our figures the wealthy and great, the wicked, the wretched, and the indigent, or we should present no true likeness of the world as it exists; but we must also beg leave to bring forward a personage who was certainly not wealthy or great; who vowed that he was not wicked, for he performed his duty to God and man; who was not wretched, for he was singing all day long; while he declared that he could not be indigent, for he possessed abundance to supply all his wants, though, fortunately for himself, they were very few.

This personage was a cobbler. Now, it is a curious fact, which no one will venture to dispute, that, from the time of the cobbler who tacked the bits of Ali Baba’s brother together, as mentioned in the authentic history of the Forty Thieves—with which we trust all our readers are acquainted—to the days of the celebrated cobbler who lived in a stall, “which served him for parlour, and kitchen, and hall,” cobblers have borne a strong similarity to each other, with distinctive qualities separating them from other men, as can be proved by the above and numerous other instances, both in all countries and all ages.

In England, a tailor is looked upon, not only as inferior to other men, but actually to be of no more consideration than the ninth part of a man: now, in Portugal, the same unjust sort of prejudice exists against shoemakers; consequently, cobblers are considered utterly below all notice.

Our cobbler, however, did not care one iota for the opinions of people, whom, in his sleeve, he despised and ridiculed: “For,” said he, when he had collected a small knot of attentive listeners, “if, in England, as I hear, they laugh at a tailor, and esteem a cobbler, and here they honour a tailor and despise a cobbler; while in France, for what I know to the contrary, they may admire both, and not think much of a hat-maker; and if, in this country, no man will carry a load, while our next door neighbours come on purpose so to do, I should very much like to know who is in the right, and who in the wrong, and which trade is really derogatory to the dignity of man? Mark another absurdity—how different nations and people despise each other, when one may not be at all superior to the other. When Jerusalem was a city of the Jews, I should like to know who would have dared walk into it and scoff at a man because he was a Jew? Here every one reviles that people. If a Turk comes here, he is stared at as a savage and a heathen; and if a Christian goes to Turkey, he is called an unbeliever and a barbarian—now which is right, and which is wrong? Why should I, therefore, put myself out of my way to follow any other trade than the one I like? I choose to be a cobbler: it suits my taste. I can talk, sing, or meditate at pleasure, while I mend shoes. What fools men are! The statesman thinks no one so wise as himself; the lawyer considers the soldier only fit food for powder; while the latter despises the peaceable merchant; the merchant looks upon all in trade as beneath him; and he who deals in silks thinks himself infinitely superior to the vendor of leather; while they all join in despising the cobbler. What fools, what fools men are! Why, I laugh at them,” he would say, as he wound up his discourse, at the same time indulging in a low, quiet chuckle. These observations very much edified and pleased his auditors, who, being of about the same rank in society as he appeared, felt that such sentiments were their own; adding, on their parts, that all distinction of classes was a most unjust arrangement. They would then begin to discuss among themselves, whether they were not as well able to govern the state as those who actually held the reins. When they got to this point the cobbler laughed at them. He was fond of laughing at people who talked nonsense. He thus laughed, in turn, at the greater part of the world.

While we have been giving this long account of the character and sayings of the cobbler, we entirely overlooked the main points to be described; namely, his outward appearance, and when and where he lived. Our readers, we dare say, expect to hear that he was an odd, little, crooked old fellow, with a dirty face and unshorn locks; but we can assure them history informs us, on the contrary, that he was once young—nor was he now old; that he was well-made, and when he drew himself up, his height was respectable; that when his work was done, and he had shaved and washed, his face was as clean as that of any of his very numerous acquaintance. From this description, it may be deduced, that his appearance was in his favour; his colour was dark, his eyes were piercing and jetty black, as was his hair, and that he had fine teeth, and a long nose, rather hooked. Some, indeed, hinted that he was a Jew; but, being a strong athletic fellow, with his long sharp leather-knife by his side, none dared call him so to his face; besides, he was constant at his devotions, and a regular attendant at all religious ceremonies; none more devoutly kneeling and crossing themselves when the mysterious and sublime Host passed by, borne under a rich canopy, in the hands of a venerable priest, accompanied by monks and choristers chanting forth hymns of praise, and preceded by some pious person tinkling a bell, to give notice of its approach, that all, uncovered, might bend in adoration.

No one knew exactly whence he came; but, a short time previous to the events we have related in the former part of this history, he made his appearance one morning with his stock in trade on his back, and established himself in a deep recess in the wall of a large house, directly facing the entrance to the palace of the Duke of Aveiro. He set down his stool, threw a bundle of leather on one side, the implements of his craft on the other, with a few old shoes, put his lapstone on his knees, and began working away as if he had lived there all his life.

He soon made friends with the servants of the palace: he mended the footmen’s shoes, charging them less, and doing the work better, than any one else could have done; and next, one by one, the women brought out their slippers or sandals; and for each he had a smile and a compliment, or a piece of wit, in readiness: sometimes a moral reflection, if the beauties of the dame he addressed had become faded by years, and if he had observed her kissing with greater fervour the little images of saints brought round from the churches, or more constant in her attendance at mass than others. If the lady was young, with sparkling black eyes, he knew exactly how to bestow his praise, and, at all events, their feet were a sure subject for compliment. Considering the small sums he charged, they could not but wait to pay him with a little chat, while he was putting the last stitch or so into his work; for, come when they would, so it was that a few minutes’ work always remained to be completed; and, as they did not complain, he did not correct his fault, being thus enabled, in a quiet, confidential way, to learn all that was going forward in the establishment. What he learned will be detailed in the course of this history.

We have said that he had taken up his abode in a recess in the wall of a house opposite the palace; but we do not wish to describe the house as facing the palace, for it looked into a street running at right angles to it; the recess being part of a doorway in the garden-wall, now stopped up. This house was inhabited by a very rich merchant and his family, most exemplary Catholics, who set a lesson of piety to the community by their regular observance of all the ordinances of the Church, and by their fastings and alms: yet, notwithstanding this, people dared to point the finger of scorn at them, stigmatising them as Jews and heretics, and longing to show their zeal for religion by offering them up in that grateful sacrifice to the benign power, the most holy Auto da Fè—thus to become sharers in their hoarded riches. Whatever were their own private notions regarding the established faith, they certainly suffered under the inabilities of the New Christians, as those were called who had Jewish or even Moorish blood in their veins, the term having origin from the following cause.

At an early period in Lusitanian history, we find that the Jews had collected in great numbers in Portugal, and down to the reign of John the First they had their synagogues and rabbins; indeed, in no country in Europe did they enjoy greater prosperity, their wealth adding much to the power of the kingdom.

In Spain, also, they had acquired considerable influence, till the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, when those pious sovereigns having driven the Moors from their dominions, conceived that their duty to Heaven ordained that they should depopulate the other half of the cities in Spain, by banishing the Jews also. This idea, fostered by the avarice of some and the bigotry of others, was put into execution, and great numbers of the unfortunate refugees were received by John the Second on condition of their paying a certain tribute, and quitting the kingdom within a limited period, he undertaking to provide them with vessels to transport them wherever they desired to proceed. The king’s state of health prevented him from seeing his orders put into execution, while the captains and seamen of the vessels treated those who had embarked in the most barbarous manner; keeping them at sea till they had entirely consumed their own provisions, and then compelling them to buy of them at exorbitant rates; so that those who remained in Portugal, fearful of the like treatment, allowed the prescribed time to elapse, and thus forfeited their liberty. Such was the situation of the Jews when Emanuel began his reign, and generously restored them to liberty, for which extraordinary benevolence they offered him, in gratitude, a large sum of money; but he refused it, in the hopes of gaining their affections by kind treatment, and converting them to Christianity. At length, however, bigotry, and envy at their increasing wealth, caused a loud clamour to be raised against them, and Emanuel was induced, contrary to his own judgment, by the representations of his counsellors, and the interference of the Spanish sovereigns, to order all, both Jews and Moors, who refused to embrace the Christian faith, to quit his dominions. A day was fixed for their departure, after which all who remained in the country were to lose their liberty; but, as it approached, the king, greatly afflicted at the thoughts of driving so many of his subjects into banishment, devised a scheme which was eventually of great benefit to the kingdom. He ordered all the children of the Jews, under fourteen years of age, to be forcibly taken from their parents, that they might be educated in the Christian faith, thus gaining converts to the Church at the expense of all the laws of justice and humanity.

“What a moving spectacle was this to behold!” exclaims the reverend Father Ozorio. “Children torn from the agonised embraces of their screaming mothers, or dragged from the necks of their affectionate brothers and sisters, from whom they were to be for ever separated, while the fathers sternly gazed, and cursed the perpetrators of deeds they had no power to avenge! The city of Lisbon was filled with cries and lamentations; even the spectators could not refrain from tears. Parents, in the excess of their frenzy, were seen to lay violent hands on themselves; many, rather than submit to the severity of the decree, hurling their infants into wells and pits. Never was such tribulation heard in Israel since the days of Herod the Tetrarch!”

No vessels had been provided for their transport, as had been promised, and thus, when the day for their departure had passed, they again forfeited their liberty. Thus harassed, they at length, to recover their children and their liberty, affected to become Christians, the king giving them every encouragement, so that the greater number lived contentedly in the Portuguese dominions.

Though thus professing the religion of the country, it could not be supposed that they could regard it with any fond affection, and consequently their faith was ever looked upon with suspicion by the rest of the inhabitants, particularly by those who envied their industry and wealth: that hell-invented tribunal of the Inquisition taking every means, on the slightest pretext, to subject them to its tyrannical power. Many embraced the earliest opportunity of escaping to Holland, England, and other free countries, where they could enjoy uninterruptedly the exercise of their faith. Those that remained still continued to intermarry among themselves, and, it was supposed, not without considerable reason, to exercise in private the rites they were forbidden to perform in public. Whatever, therefore, was their profession of faith, none gave them credit for their belief in the holy Catholic Church, but bestowed on them the distinctive appellation of New Christians, which they retained at the time of which we are now speaking.

The Marquis of Pombal, with that liberal policy which marked many of his actions, finally abolished all such distinctions; but before he had succeeded in doing so, King Joseph took it into his most sagacious head, that, for the benefit of religion, there ought to be some sign placed on all those with Jewish blood in their veins. He consequently ordered a decree to be promulgated that all such should wear white hats.

The Minister remonstrated, but in vain. Finding reason ineffectual, he pretended compliance, and presented himself to the king with the edict, at the same time drawing out from under his cloak two white hats. On the king inquiring the meaning of the joke—“Oh!” replied Pombal, “I come prepared to obey your majesty’s edict, with one hat for you and another for myself,” thus hinting the well-known fact, that the royal family itself was not entirely free from the imaginary stain; the family of the Minister also, it was said, having sprung from the stock of Abraham, as are a vast many others. The king laughed, and gave up the point.

On the death of Joseph, and the banishment of his Minister, when bigotry and priestcraft regained their supremacy, the New Christians were again subject to persecutions, and it is only under the present free constitution that all difference has been finally, and, we trust, for ever, abolished.

But we have wandered from our subject, and have, by nearly a century, forestalled events. Our readers will exclaim, What has this long account of the Jews, and King Joseph and his Minister, with the white hats, got to do with the cobbler and his stall?Spera hum poco—(which is to say, in Portuguese, “Stop a little,” a very favourite expression before all their actions, whereby they often lose the right time)—we shall presently see; for if it has nothing to do with the cobbler, it has with the family under whose walls he plied his trade, for they were New Christians; many indeed affirmed that they still adhered to the faith of their forefathers, and there were various stories current respecting the performance of their ancient rites. It was said, that when strangers were admitted to the house, there was one room, of considerable dimensions, always kept closed, which was supposed to be dedicated to the purposes of a synagogue. The vulgar believed that, at the Feast of the Passover, they immolated a Christian child yet unweaned; the origin of which idea was, of course, the sacrifice of the Paschal lamb; and there were various other stories, equally absurd and revolting, having less foundation in truth. However, Senhor Matteos de Menezes and his family had escaped the power of the Inquisition: it might have been by timely donations of no inconsiderable amount to holy Mother Church, so that even the Grand Inquisitor himself could not doubt the completeness of their conversion, and the purity of their faith.

Having given a full description of the locality of the cobbler’s stall, we may now go on spinning the thread of our history; and if some of our readers complain that we have turned our mystic spindle too slowly, we must beg their pardon, and assure them that we are about to progress at a rapid rate, with scenes of the most thrilling interest, such as will cause their eyes to ache ere they can lay down the book.

The cobbler was one day seated in his stall, hard at work, hammering a new heel on to a shoe, at the same time thinking of the number of fools there were in the world, and yet how few were aware that they belonged to that class of creation; for, as we observed, our cobbler was a philosopher in his way, and had he been born in the higher ranks of society, he would have been a noted wit and satirist, laughing at the follies and scourging the vices of his equals. But he found the follies of the poor too slight, or too sad, to laugh at, and their vices more the fault of institutions than their own, and beyond correction. Next, he thought of the state of the nation. He saw a priesthood wallowing in sloth, corrupted, bigoted, and abandoned to every vice; a nobility haughty, ignorant, vicious, and tyrannical; a king weak, superstitious, and profligate; a people sunk in apathy, and the grossest superstition, without courage or intelligence to assert their rights. And he pitied them; but he knew there was one man in the realm able and willing to overthrow the power of the first, to crush the arrogant pride of the second, to rule the king, to enlighten the people, and to give justice to all; and he had long determined to aid his designs; for the cobbler had more power than the world supposed, and he thanked Heaven he did not belong to any of these classes. These thoughts had just passed through his mind, when he heard a tramping of steeds, and looking up, he beheld a cavalcade approaching, at the head of which rode the Duke of Aveiro, accompanied by his handsome young nephew on one side, while on the other was his equerry, Captain Policarpio, in earnest conversation with him, heedless of the people who thronged the streets, the horses bespattering them with mud and dirt, the attendants, also, taking a pleasure in causing confusion and annoyance to all whom they passed. A youth, with a basket of oranges on his head, was offering them for sale, when one of the domestics adroitly managed to make his horse sidle against him. The vendor of fruit, with a cry of terror, endeavoured to escape, when his foot slipped, and letting go his basket, the contents rolled out on the ground, over which the others trampled, with loud laughter at the disaster, none deigning to make the slightest amends to the youth. Some of the passers by stopped to assist him, for he was sobbing piteously at his loss, but dared not complain.

Our cobbler saw the occurrence. “Take care, my masters,” as he watched the arrogant noble who had just reached his palace gates; “take care, or you will discover, when too late to remedy your faults, that your days of prosperity have passed away.” No sooner did the duke enter the lofty gateway of his palace, than the major-domo rushed down stairs to hold his stirrup while he alighted, his young kinsman throwing himself from his steed, without waiting for assistance, and the attendants bustling about and creating more noise and confusion than was at all necessary.

“Why has the duke so suddenly returned to the city?” thought the Cobbler. “I must watch and learn, for ’tis about no good, I am certain.”

It has just occurred to us, that we have never given our cobbler’s name. By diligent search through the vast pile of manuscripts before us, we have discovered the important piece of information that he was called Antonio, generally withO Memendab, or the Mender, added thereto. No dignified title, certainly! but he was contented with it, and so must we be; for we cannot anywhere discover what was his other name, if he ever had one, which we deem problematical.

Several days passed before Antonio became much wiser as to the cause of the duke’s movements than on the first day of his arrival, though he narrowly watched all his outgoings, and incomings, and also most diligently questioned the servants who stepped across the street to have five minutes’ chat with him. The duke had just driven out, when one of the lackeys, rejoicing in the name of Jozé, was sauntering about the hall, and having nothing to do, bethought him that he would honour the cobbler with his society.

“Good day, Senhor Jozé,” said the Cobbler, as he saw him approach; “you have pleasant times of it, with nothing to do, and plenty to eat, while I must hammer, hammer, and stitch, stitch, all day long, to earn a fewvintemsto supply my food.”

“You are right, Senhor Antonio, you are right,” answered Jozé, as he leaned, with his hands in his pockets, a toothpick in his mouth, and his legs crossed, against the wall; “we have a tolerable life of it; for, except that the duke sits inside, while we stand outside, what difference is there between us? and when the people take off their hats, it is as much to our fine coats as to him. Then we eat the same food, and drink the same wines as he does, only a good deal more of each than he can, in which we have the advantage of him, and as for knowledge, between ourselves, there is not much difference either.”

“Ah! the duke is a good master, and blessed with good servants,” returned Antonio.

“Why, as to his servants, I must not speak, as I am one of them,” answered Jozé, pulling out his ruffles; “but his Excellency himself—whom God preserve—would be all the better if he did not beat us so confoundedly when he is angered; but that is a trifle—it is his privilege, and we must be content.”

“You are right, Senhor Jozé, there is no use quarrelling with one’s lot. What would be the advantage to him of being a duke, if he might not do what pleases him?” said the Cobbler, plying his awl as if he thought much more of mending the old shoe on his lap, than of the words he was speaking. “He appears to be fonder of taking carriage exercise than he was?”

“Oh! he is driving about all day,” said Jozé, “first to one place, then to another; now to pay his respects to his majesty, then to some fidalgo he never before thought of visiting. It is said that this change has been worked by the influence of the pious saint, the holy Father Malagrida, who tells him, that to be at enmity with his fellow-men is sinful and wicked, and that he must reform his life, and be in charity with all. To prove his sincerity, the last time it was my turn to go out, we drove to the palace of the Marquis of Tavora, to whom he has not spoken for years; but he craved forgiveness for some insult he had committed towards him, and when they parted, they embraced in the most affectionate way, the duke kissing the hand of the marchioness most lovingly. Oh, it was quite pathetic to see them!”

“Oh, it must have been,” returned Antonio; “and you say he has renewed his friendship with several other nobles?”

“Oh yes, there was the Count d’Atouquia, who had never spoken to him since he ran his brother through the body one night in a street brawl, and now they are hand and glove: then he has written to the Count d’Almeida, before whom he used to carry himself so haughtily, though the count thought himself just as great a man as our lord. Then he paid a visit of ceremony to the Senhor Silva, whom he has constantly passed in the streets as if he was some commoner or plebeian; and he dined yesterday with the Marquis d’Alorna, with whom he was on bad terms formerly. We do not know what to make of it; and I should not think of speaking on the subject to any one but a friend like you; but, to tell you the truth, our opinion is, that there is some marriage about to take place between the young viscount, our lord’s nephew, and some lady of one of these noble families, or perhaps his son is to be betrothed to one of them.”

“I have no doubt you have exactly hit off the truth,” said the Cobbler, nodding his head sagaciously; “but I would advise you not to talk about your lord’s affairs to people in general: to a friend like me it is different; for you know the less said the soonest mended; but I am as close as cobbler’s wax,” and he kneaded a lump of that composition in his fingers.

“Ah! I know you are, or I should not be so great a fool as to talk to you as I do,” said Jozé, sagaciously. “By-the-bye, have you heard of the marriage about to take place between the young Marquis of Tavora, who is a great friend of our young viscount, and the daughter of the Count d’Alorna?”

“Not I,” answered Antonio; “I hear nothing except what my friends like to tell me as I sit at my work,” and he strenuously stitched away at the shoe on his lap.

As soon as the evening arrived, Antonio packed up his tools, and placed them within the hall of Senhor Menezes’ house, where it was his custom to leave them, by permission of the servants, with whom it seemed he was acquainted, though they seldom came out to talk to him. He then, looking to see that no one observed him, repaired, after taking many turnings, as was his wont, to his lodgings, which, considering his apparent poverty, were far more respectable than could have been expected. He there, throwing off his working suit with an air of disdain, and washing his hands and face, attired himself in the garments of a man of fashion, when, buckling a sword to his side, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he again sallied forth in such guise, that no one could have recognised in him the humble cobbler of the morning. He now appeared a well-grown man of some thirty-five or forty years of age, with large dark whiskers, and full black eyes, as he walked along with an independent air, and perhaps a slight swagger in his gait, as if he enjoyed his emancipation from his daily toil. He again looked cautiously around, throwing the right side of his cloak over his left shoulder, and hastily traversing several streets up and down hill, he arrived before a mansion, at the door of which a sentinel was stationed. He gave some name to the porter, who immediately allowed him to pass, another servant showing him into an anteroom on the top of the first flight of steps. “Wait here a few minutes, senhor, and my master will speak with you,” said the domestic, as he withdrew with the quiet step of one accustomed to attend on people high in office.

“I have information that may be of great value,” thought Antonio to himself, as he paced up and down the ill-furnished room; “but the reward may be proportionably great; and I would far rather confide in him than in any of the miserable wretches who have crawled till now about the Court, and have seized the high offices of state, their pride overflowing with the thoughts of their bastard descent from some profligate prince or mitred abbot of a few centuries back, since which time they have had but little fresh blood to improve the stream.” He thought this, as we have said; for he was not one to give utterance to what was passing in his mind: a door opened, and a man of dignified carriage and lofty stature stood before him, in whose presence even Antonio shrunk into insignificance.

It was the Minister Carvalho. “Ah! my faithful Antonio, you are ever punctual to your time,” he began. “Had I twenty such strenuous supporters, Portugal would quickly again lift up her head among the kingdoms of Europe.” Antonio bowed, in acknowledgment of the compliment, which he valued exactly at what it was worth. “But tell me, my friend, what information have you collected lately?” added the Minister, speaking quickly.

“I have seen much, and guessed more, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio. “In the first place, the duke returned suddenly to Lisbon, and has since then renewed his acquaintance with various families with whom he was formerly at enmity. Now, a man does not do so unless he is about to repent of his sins, or, far more probably, unless he is about some mischief. Then, Senhor Policarpio has been running about in all directions, like his master, making friends with those whom he never before deigned to address; though he is insolent enough to many over whom he dares to tyrannise. The duke also constantly receives visits from that mad Jesuit Malagrida, a professed enemy of your Excellency, and from many others openly disaffected to your government; but I have brought here a list of all those who have visited the duke; and here is another, containing the names of those with whom he has had communication at other places, as far as I can learn.” Saying which, he handed two papers to the Minister, adding, “With these your Excellency will be able to form a better opinion than I can venture to offer.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Minister, taking the papers eagerly, and running his eye over their contents. “Beware, my lord duke, or you will soon, methinks, be in my power; and we shall then see if you dare to scorn the lowly commoner. I see his aims,” he continued, half speaking to himself. “He hopes to gain our sovereign’s ear, and then, with an army of parasites, to hurl me to destruction; but I am prepared for his machinations, and ere long he shall feel so. I must break the pride of these arrogant fidalgos, or they will lord it over the king himself,—base wretches, whose whole being is composed of avarice and the most sordid selfishness, without valour, honour, or patriotism,—who care not for the fate of their country, so that they can undisturbedly enjoy their own luxuries. Ah, miscreants! I will overwhelm you when you little expect it!” Suddenly stopping in his soliloquy, he seemed to recollect that another person was present, and turning to Antonio, he again addressed him. “The information you bring me is valuable, my friend; but there is much yet to be learned. Continue constant to your purpose, and you shall be rewarded highly: in the meantime, take this purse. You have earned it well.”

Antonio stretched not out his hand to clutch the gold, as many would have done; but, unconsciously drawing himself up, he replied, “No, senhor; pardon me, I seek not such reward. Freely, and of my own accord, I have served you, and no gold would repay me for the days of watching and drudgery I have for this purpose undergone. Because the blood of Abraham flows in my veins, think not that I must needs be avaricious. When I was in want of money, you gave it me; if I require more, I will ask it; but such is not the recompense I seek. When the time comes, I will demand my reward, and it will be such alone as you in justice will be bound to grant.”

Carvalho gazed at the speaker earnestly. “You have a soul above your class, and deserve a higher destiny,” he said.

“I may not be what I appear to the world, nor seek I a higher destiny than is my lot,” returned Antonio. “If I have your Excellency’s permission, I will depart.”

“You are at liberty; I will detain you no longer,” said Carvalho. “Adeos, my friend.”

Antonio bowed low to the Minister, who retired to his inner chamber; while, as he found his way, unquestioned into the street, he whispered to himself, “He will serve my purpose.”

Volume Two—Chapter Two.We find ourselves so constantly recurring to Don Luis d’Almeida, that we begin to fear our readers, particularly the fairer portion of them, will soon get heartily tired of hearing so much about him; and, therefore, to please them, we would, were we composing a mere story from our own brain, effectually get rid of him, by carrying him into a dark forest at midnight, amid a storm of thunder and lightning, when a hundred brigands should rush upon him from their lurking places, and plunge their daggers into his bosom; but that, by so doing, we should infringe the plan on which we have determined, to adhere strictly to the truth of history. We do not, however, feel ourselves called upon to describe minutely the events of each day, and we will, therefore, pass over rather more than a week, which he had spent in his father’s society, when, towards the evening, he was seated, in a listless humour, with a book in his hand, on a stone terrace, overlooking a garden, stretched out below it. But his eyes seemed to glance much less frequently at the pages before him, than at the pure blue sky, or the bright parterres of flowers, the sparkling fountains, the primly cut box trees, and the long straight walks; though, even then, it seemed that his eye was less occupied than his mental vision. But we need not inquire what were his thoughts; perhaps, they were of the scenes he had witnessed in his travels; perhaps of Theresa’s falsehood; and there is a possibility of their having been of the fair portrait he had so quickly taken of Donna Clara.—A servant suddenly recalled him to the present moment, by informing him that a holy friar, waiting at the gate, begged earnestly to see him on some matter of importance.“I will speak to him,” he exclaimed, rising; and, throwing down his book, he took his way towards the gate. He there perceived a figure in the monastic habit, walking slowly up and down, and, turning his head with a cautious look in every direction; and, as the person approached, he was not long in distinguishing the features of the friar who had played so very suspicious a part at the inn.“Ah, my young friend,” exclaimed that worthy personage, with the greatest effrontery; “I have not, you see, forgotten either you, or your requests. It struck me, that you very much wished to possess the jewels you spoke of, so, from the strong desire I felt to serve you, I exerted myself diligently to procure them for you. I hope that you have not forgotten your part of the contract; for, though I should myself require no reward, yet I was obliged to pay various sums to the persons who held the property.”“I perfectly appreciate your feelings, reverend Father,” returned Don Luis. “Nor have I forgotten my promise. Where are the jewels?”“I have not been able to bring them with me, my son, for weighty reasons; but where are the hundred milreas? for though that sum is not a quarter of their real value, the gentlemen who had appropriated them have a predilection for hard cash.”Don Luis had good reasons for suspecting that the friar was deceiving him, as he answered, “The money shall be forthcoming when you show me the jewels; but, under the circumstances of the case, you can scarcely expect me to pay you beforehand.”“Why, I confess that you have seen me in rather suspicious company, senhor; but yet it is cruel to doubt the honesty of an humble friar. To convince you of my sincerity, I have brought this ring, which I believe belonged to the young lady you said had been robbed by those rascally banditti.”Don Luis took the ring which the friar offered. “This, Senhor Frade, is but a small portion of the trinkets I expected. It was for the recovery of the casket I promised you the reward.”“I am aware of that, senhor; but I wish to show you that, though you doubt me, I put every confidence in your honour; and, if you were not so impatient, I would deliver the proposal which I came here to make. In the first place, I beg you will keep that ring, as an earnest of my sincerity; and, if you will trust me with the money, I will return with the casket; but if not, the only way by which you can recover it, is to follow my directions.”Don Luis considered a moment; but there was such a roguish glance in the twinkle of the friar’s eye, that he thought it would be folly to trust him, and that he should probably neither see the casket nor his money again, though he would willingly have risked a far larger sum for the sake of recovering the jewels. Yet he wished first to hear what the friar had to propose.“I see how it is,” said the Friar, laughing. “You think me a rogue in grain, so there is no use concealing the matter; but I am not offended, I assure you. Other people have thought me so too, who knew me better than you do, till they found out their mistake, as you will some day: however, if you had trusted me, you might have saved yourself considerable trouble.”“Well, well, Father,” interrupted Don Luis, getting rather impatient at all this circumlocution, “let me hear your proposition, and then I shall be able to determine how to act.”“You must know, then, my young friend, that this precious casket, which you are so anxious to gain, is in the possession of a very holy and pious man, an aged hermit, whose food is the roots of the earth, or the nuts from the trees, and his drink the pure water from the brook,” began the Friar, speaking very slowly, and eyeing Don Luis, with a laughing glance. “And thus it befell, that this holy man became possessed of the casket. You know a hill, which stands about two leagues from hence, on the summit of which is a chapel dedicated to our Lady of the Rock?”“Yes, yes,” answered Don Luis, rather impatiently, and vexed at the friar’s evident intention of putting his temper to the proof, “I have often been there in my boyhood; but pray proceed with your story, if you intend it to lead to anything satisfactory.”“Of course I do, my young friend,” answered the Friar. “I was going to tell you where the holy man resides, when you interrupted me. You must know, then, that beneath the hill on which the chapel stands, there is a cave, which has of late years been cleared from the rubbish which formerly blocked it up, and has been converted into a very tolerable habitation for the summer months, during which period this holy man is constantly there to be found, as he is at present, or was when I was there last, attending to the duties of the sacred edifice above. His great sanctity, his prayers, and fastings, have on many occasions been found to be of the greatest service, both in replenishing his pockets, and in restoring those to health who have consulted him; but his great forte is in saying masses for the souls of the departed, which have double the efficacy of those of any other religious person, as he constantly affirms, and no one can disprove, nor does any one dream of disputing the word of so holy a man. I am now, senhor, approaching the point which is of more consequence to you. You must know that the comrades of the men, whom, as I am told, you killed in the forest, when they attacked the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö, were tolerably well aware that they had a considerable share of unrepented crimes on their consciences; and that, consequently, their stay in purgatory would be of rather long duration, unless great exertions were made to get them clear of it. Now, most of them having a fellow-feeling for their unfortunate friends, turned it in their minds how they could best contrive to shorten their residence in that very unpleasant abode; and, at last, it was agreed that they should engage the holy man I speak of, and of whom they had all heard, to say as many masses as half the booty they had taken would supply, at the lowest possible rate; for which purpose, they laid aside the very casket you are in search of. Now, it chanced that I was paying a visit to this holy man, who, I am proud to say, is a friend of mine; and he showed me the casket, begging me to estimate its value, that he might know how many masses he ought to say. I no sooner beheld it, than I at once recollected your request; so I told him that, though in Lisbon it might be sold for a larger sum, yet he would here be very fortunate if he succeeded in receiving a hundred milreas for it, particularly as I suspected it was stolen property; for which sum he might say fully sufficient masses to get the souls of the departed rogues quietly domesticated in the realms of Paradise. He agreed with me, that, if it did not, it must be their own fault, for being so desperately wicked, so that there could be no help for them. I then told him, that if he would let me have the casket, I would return with the money for it; but it is very extraordinary, senhor, that he objected to do so,—not, of course, that he could have any doubts about my honesty, but that the happiness of the souls in purgatory would be at stake, if, by any chance, it was lost. I had no arguments to offer to his objections, so I was obliged to give up the point; and I hastened here to inform you of the discovery I had made, that I might either return with the money, or allow you to go and fetch the casket yourself. If you still persist in so unjustly distrusting me, senhor, if you will visit our Lady of the Rock early to-morrow morning, you will there find the holy man performing mass. Wait till it is over, and the people have departed,—for the fame of his sanctity has collected many worshippers there,—follow him to his cave, without speaking; when, if you produce the money, he will restore the casket to you; then, without staying to inquire further, return home. If, however, you will allow me to advise you as a friend, add twenty milreas or so to the amount, to increase the number of masses; for you must remember that it was by your hand the men fell, though I do not mean to say that it was not their own fault; but it will be charity well bestowed, as I fear they were wretched sinners, and, do all we can, they must remain in purgatory a long time.”Don Luis listened to this long story with considerable doubts as to the truth of the greater part of it, yet it was so in accordance with the ideas and customs of the times, that he could not altogether discredit it; he therefore answered, “I must thank you, Senhor Frade, for the trouble you have taken in my service; and I beg you to inform your holy friend that I will repair to his hermitage to-morrow morning, and will take the amount agreed on to release the jewels.”“Then you will not trust me with the money, senhor?” said the Friar, smiling. “Patience—I am not easily offended, and take it all in good part; but do not forget the additional twenty milreas; and if you happen to have a little spare cash about you to bestow on an humble and indigent servant of the Church, I shall be thankful, and will not forget you in my prayers; for I have come a long distance to serve you, and have put more trust in your honour than you seem inclined to place in mine.”“I will pay you for the ring, Senhor Frade,” said Don Luis, who could not help being amused at the imperturbable impudence of the friar; “though you seem to forget certain incidents which occurred at the inn, on my journey here,—not to mention others on the previous day.”“Now, now, you ought not to rake up old grievances,” answered the Friar. “It is not charitable; and charity is the first of Christian virtues, you well know. Besides, you cannot deny that I have served you faithfully.”“I will not refuse you,” said Don Luis, bestowing all the silver he had about him, “you argue so logically to gain your point. I trust that you will not play me false.”“Confide in the honour of a Capuchin,” said the Friar, putting his hand to his heart. “May we meet again under happier auspices than those by which we became acquainted; and, believe me, I am grateful for your bounty. Adeos, senhor! It is growing dark, and I have a long way to go before I rest; but an humble friar has nought to fear.”“Farewell, my friend!” said Don Luis. “I certainly have met none like you.”“Oh, you flatter—you flatter,” was the answer. “Do not, however, forget your friend. Diogo Lopez is my name,—an humble one at present; but it may become some day well-known to the world. Adeos, adeos, senhor!”Don Luis, without further parley, re-entered the Quinta, and, for some minutes, he fancied that he could hear the quiet chuckle of the friar echoing in his ears.Early the next morning he ordered his horse, telling Pedro whither he was going; and, putting his pistols in his holsters, with his sword by his side,—for in those days nobody ever thought of riding, forth unarmed,—he set off for the chapel of our Lady of the Rock,—not forgetting the hundred milreas to redeem the casket, to which he added twenty more, to be expended for the benefit of the souls of those miserable men to whose deaths he had certainly contributed, though he in no way blamed himself on that account. It must be remembered that he had been brought up in a strict belief of the religion of his country; nor had he in any way learned to doubt the main points of that faith in which all those dear to him confided; so that he had full confidence in the efficacy of prayer for the souls of departed sinners; nor do we wish to dispute the point with those who profess the same creed.The road he was obliged to take, scarcely deserving the name of one, was so broken, and cut up into deep ruts, and covered with loose stones, that nearly an hour elapsed before he reached the foot of the little rocky hill on which the chapel stood. There, perceiving a lad sitting on the top of a wall, “whistling for want of thought,” and without any occupation, he called to him, and bade him hold his horse, with the promise of a reward, while he climbed up the winding rugged path to the top of the rock. It was an isolated height, rising far above all the neighbouring hills,—thus commanding an extensive view on every side. The little chapel was built on the highest point, with a rude stone cross in front, and surmounted by five tall pine trees, their taper stems bent by the blasts to which they were exposed, without a branch below their broad, ever-verdant heads. The chapel was a rough building, of merely two gable ends, and a small porch in front, facing the west; but the view fully repaid the trouble of mounting the hill, even had he come without an object. To the south, over an undulating country, covered with fields and pine-groves, he could distinguish his father’s house and estates; on the west, in the furthest point in the horizon, was to be seen a thin bright line of blue, indicating the presence of the boundless ocean; while on the north appeared the heights of Coimbra, covered with its colleges, monasteries, and churches, below which ran the placid stream of the Mondego, on whose willow-covered banks once wept, with tears of anguish, the lovely and ill-fated Ines de Castro, for ever celebrated in the immortal song of Camoens. On the east, again, over a wide sea of pine-forest, which, indeed, extended on every side of the rock, rose hill upon hill, and mountain upon mountain, till the furthest ridges were lost in a blue haze.Don Luis entered the chapel, which was, as the friar told him it would be, filled with country people, some beating their breasts, others kissing the ground, and licking up the dust, and the rest rapt in an ecstasy of devotion; while the little altar glittered with lighted tapers. The walls of the edifice were hung with offerings from the pious; among which were seen, carved in wax, what were intended to be representations of the arms, legs, feet, or hands of the human body, those members having been cured by the miraculous interposition of our Lady of the Rock, and the prayers of the holy hermit; these falling to her share, while he appropriated whatever was offered in the shape of money, observing, that such could be of no possible use to our Lady, who was supplied with all she could require. There were also pictures of her appearance in the bodily form, to comfort and assure her devout worshippers. A priest, whose features Luis could not distinguish, further than that he was an aged man, with a long flowing white beard over his breast, clothed in his vestments, was performing the ceremony of mass. It was, however, nearly completed; so, having knelt down, and offered up a short prayer, he again retired, to wait till the people had departed, in order to follow the priest to his cave, as he had agreed. While he was standing and gazing at the lovely view, he heard a groaning near him, and, turning round, he beheld a sight which might have caused a smile on his lips, had he not rather pitied the unfortunate sufferers. There were two old women, who appeared to have started together in a race, on their unprotected knees, in which they were endeavouring to make a certain number of circuits round the chapel, each strenuously trying to get as close to the walls as possible, to save her distance. A strong, sturdy-looking fellow soon after came out, and commenced the same penance; but he very soon distanced his aged competitors for absolution, quickly performing his rounds, at the same time vehemently beating his breast. Perhaps his knees were hardened by habitual kneeling in devotion; but Luis observed a most suspicious thickness about them, which might have been caused by their recent swelling, or he might have taken the precaution to pad them, suspecting to what his sins would condemn him. He, however, gained the credit of zealous penitence.Before this ceremony was quite completed, the rest of the congregation came out of the chapel, and among them was a man whom Don Luis caught eyeing him very narrowly, but, the moment the man saw that he was observed, he disappeared hastily down the hill. Don Luis, therefore, concluded that he was merely astonished at seeing a gentleman there at that early hour of the morning. He had some time longer to wait before all the people had quitted the hill, when, as he was still admiring the view before him, he heard a slight noise, and his name whispered, and, on turning round, he saw the priest who had officiated at the chapel descending the rock by a steep path on the opposite side to that which his congregation had taken. Luis directly followed him, when he saw a signal for him to do so; but so quickly did the venerable person descend, that he could scarcely keep him in view without danger of breaking his neck, from his ignorance of the stepping-stones in the side of the hill, with which his guide, from his unhesitating pace, seemed perfectly familiar. He had proceeded about three-quarters of the way, and had yet some of the most precipitous part of the descent to make, when he perceived the priest, who had reached the bottom, after looking cautiously around, proceed a few paces at the base of the rock, and, again repeating his signal, disappear beneath an overhanging cliff. As soon as Luis had likewise reached the bottom, he followed the same course; when, as he was passing under the cliff, he again heard his name called by a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth, and, looking earnestly in that direction, perceived a small cavity in the side of the rock, but so shrouded by brushwood, that he might easily have passed it several times had it not been particularly called to his notice.“Enter, my son, and fear not,” said the voice: “nought but what is holy is here to be found.”Luis, putting aside the boughs which grew across the entrance, and stooping low to avoid striking his head against the rugged arch which formed it, entered the cave; but, on first leaving the bright glare of sunshine, his eyes were so oppressed by the darkness, that he could not venture to advance, until suddenly a small flickering light appeared before him, sufficient, however, to show him that he stood in a naturally vaulted chamber, or rather passage, in which he might stand perfectly upright, of some twelve feet in width, but of a length it was impossible to determine, the sides of the jagged and unhewn rock, and the floor, being covered with soft fine sand. In vain did his sight seek to pierce beyond the twinkling light, but it served to guide his footsteps, when it seemed to be in motion, and approaching him. He now saw the venerable figure of the hermit standing a short way up the cave, with snowy beard, the hair round his shaven crown and his eyebrows being of the same silvery hue. In his hand was a small taper, which he held before him.“What seekest thou of me, my son?” he uttered, in the same low tones Luis had before heard. “If it is aught which my prayers can be of service to gain for thee, they shall, without intermission, be offered up.”“In this case your prayers are not required, most reverend hermit,” returned Don Luis. “I understand that you have in your possession a casket of jewels which you are willing to deliver to me for a certain recompense.”“It is the truth, my son. I have a casket, about which I was yesterday speaking to that most holy and devout brother, the friar Diogo Lopez, a man in whom the gifts of Divine grace shine most conspicuously, my most particular and esteemed friend, yet one whose fair fame the tongue of calumny has dared to slander; who has been accused of consorting with robbers and evil-doers, even to sharing in the profits of their mal-practices. Oft has he come to me, with tears in his eyes, mourning his hard fate; and, in the hopes of gaining the favour of Heaven to clear his fame, has he flagellated his back with the cord of repentance, till the blood has flowed in torrents to the ground. Oh! brother Diogo is truly a righteous man!”“Your pardon, Father! I came to inquire for a casket of jewels, and not to discuss the character of Frè Diogo; about which the less said in his praise the smaller will be the chance of his actions contradicting your words,” answered Luis.“You are severe, my son, you are severe on brother Diogo. But about the jewels; now you recall the circumstance to my mind, I do recollect that he told me that a young and estimable friend of his was anxious to obtain them; and that he was to come here this morning, with a hundred and fifty milreas, which he was willing to give for them, besides thirty more which he was anxious to offer for masses to be said for the souls of certain unfortunate men who were killed a few days ago.”“You are under a slight error with regard to the amount of the sum I promised your respectable friend; but the hundred milreas I will give when you deliver the casket, and I will, beyond that, offer twenty more to be expended in masses.”“That is acting like a true fidalgo,” answered the Hermit; “and I feel assured that the souls of the brigands will be highly obliged to you. Of course, I must have been mistaken with regard to the additional fifty milreas; but age has somewhat impaired my memory, and I cannot doubt the word of so honourable a gentleman. As you may, perhaps, be anxious to gain possession of these same jewels, if you will follow me to the head of the cave, you will find the casket on a little stone altar; there deposit the money, with any further trifling donation you, in your generosity, may be inclined to offer, take up the casket, and depart in peace. With the casket you will find a sealed packet, to whom directed I know not, never having been instructed in the profane art of reading a written hand; my breviary, and the lives of the saints, having occupied my whole attention. It was found within the casket; but being of no value to those who found it there, they honestly gave it to me, and I restore it to you. Follow me, my son.”Having thus spoken, the hermit proceeded up the cave for several yards, when he suddenly stopped and placed the taper in a socket on the little altar he spoke of; but by the time Luis had reached the spot he had disappeared. Luis looked around in every direction, but it was impossible to pierce the surrounding gloom, the faint rays of the taper not extending to the sides of the cavern, by which he concluded it must have considerably increased in size; so that the holy man was yet watching him at no great distance, though himself invisible. The taper cast its light on the surface of the altar, and on a small stone cross, rudely carved, which surmounted it, a few rays alone throwing a faint gleam on the roof above, from which hung down long and transparent stalactites, the floor being here moist and slippery; indeed, a light murmuring sound gave notice that a spring ran through this part of the cavern. Two small steps conducted him to the altar, when he found that the hermit had not deceived him, for there were the casket and the packet. He opened the former, and letting the light of the candle fall on the interior, it displayed a glittering collection of various trinkets, such as were then worn by ladies; closing the case, he placed it securely about his person, and then examined the superscription on the packet. It was in a delicate female handwriting, and directed thus:—“To Gonçalo Christovaö.” Luis secured that also carefully in his bosom; and then, placing on the spot from which he had taken them three separate parcels of money,—two of the amount promised, and another of ten milreas intended for the hermit himself, the very great holiness of whose character he could not, however, help doubting,—he was about to take the taper from the altar, with the intention of finding his way to the month of the cave.—“Hold! impious man!” exclaimed the voice of the Hermit; though, from what quarter it came it was impossible to tell. “Take thy sacrilegious hands from off that candle, which must remain till I have counted thy gifts. Retire the way by which you came.”Don Luis, though not particularly well pleased at this address, thought it would be of no avail either to answer or to disobey the order; and accordingly endeavoured so to direct his course as to reach the entrance of the cavern, hoping soon to see the light of day streaming in from the opening in the rock. Holding his sword in its scabbard before him, to prevent himself from running suddenly against the side of the cave, should he miss the right course, he slowly groped his way onward, but had not advanced far when he found the value of his precaution by its striking against the rock. He looked round, intending to take a fresh departure from the light, when he found that it had been extinguished, and that he was in utter darkness. He now felt convinced that some trick was being played off against him, at the bottom of which he strongly suspected was the holy Frè Diogo; though, had robbery been intended, it might have been committed at once, without delivering the casket or packet. It must be confessed that he was in a very disagreeable position; shut up in a dark cavern, and, for aught he could tell to the contrary, surrounded by robbers, or, at the best, in the power of some daring impostors. He was inclined, as well he might be, to be very angry; but he knew that losing his temper would not at all aid him to get out of the trap; besides, utter darkness, such as surrounded him, has generally a very soothing effect on the mind. The ground on which he stood was still hard and damp, so that he knew he could not yet have reached the passage by which he entered, and for some moments he could not resolve to proceed, fearful of becoming more confused, and of perhaps falling into some deep cavity, through which the water he heard must find its way. He determined, however, if violence was intended, not to be taken without a stroke for life; silently, therefore, drawing his sword, he grasped it firmly in his right hand, while with the scabbard he felt around on his left side. He fancied that he could hear the breathing of some one near him, but, as he swept his sword round, it met nought but the empty air. Now Luis was, as he had often proved, possessed of as much of that quality called courage as most men; but there are many who will face danger without shrinking in open daylight, and when they see and know the strength of their foe, who would feel very uncomfortable when shut up in the dark, and not at all knowing what to expect, which was exactly his case at present. His patience, also, was quickly worn out. “I beg, most holy hermit, that you will not consider me like a mole, with eyes to see, or claws to work my way out of this cave; but, as I am anxious to return home, that you will throw a light upon my path to enable me to do so,” he exclaimed, with some degree of anger in his tone.“Turn, then, to the left as you face the rock, and you will soon see the bright light which shines on all men alike, the light of day;” said a voice at some little distance.“If he does, he will plunge into the deep hole through which the stream flows; his feet are close to it already,” answered another voice.“Then he is not where I thought he was,” said the first; “but let him turn to the right then, and he will be free.”“I beg you will finish this mummery,” exclaimed Don Luis, “and show me the way out of this place.”“Beware that you utter no blasphemy,” said the voice. “Now, look more earnestly, and you will behold the light before you.”At that moment a small flame burst forth, towards which he immediately advanced, and found himself treading on the soft sand in the narrow passage. The light was again extinguished, but in its stead he saw, at some distance, the sunshine gleaming through the mouth of the cavern. Glad to escape from the place, he was hurrying towards it, when a loud noise resounded through the rocky vault, and he found himself again in complete darkness, and could distinctly hear a suppressed chuckle of laughter.This was trying his patience too much. “Whether saint or devil,” he exclaimed, “let me go free from your abode.”“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the voice; “but your temper shall no longer be tried; only, remember in future to cast no reflections on the character of my esteemed friend, the holy Frè Diogo;” and a loud peal of laughter resounded through the vault, whose echoes had no sooner died away, than a door he had not before perceived was thrown open, and the sunshine again streamed in, when he saw, standing on one side, the venerable form of the hermit.“Farewell, my son,” said the latter personage. “My devotions have been sadly disturbed by sounds of unwonted merriment, in which the spirits of darkness have indulged, even as they did in the hermitage of the most holy Saint Anthony. Ah! I see you were prepared to combat with the weapons of carnal warfare; but those avail not against the inhabitants of the infernal regions. ’Twas with his crosier and breviary, not to mention the pair of red-hot tongs, that the great saint put to flight the Prince of Darkness; and such are the weapons with which I fight. I will detain you no longer: again, farewell, my son. Your shortest way home is to mount the path by which you came here, and to descend on the other side of the hill. Above all things, do not speak ill of the holy Frè Diogo.”“Farewell, most holy hermit,” answered Luis; “though, I suspect, if you allow such proceedings in your hermitage, its character for sanctity will be somewhat damaged.”“No fear of that, my son,” said the venerable personage; “there is no character in the world so quickly gained, or so easily maintained, as that of sanctity, which is the reason so many people assume it who have lost all claim to any other. Remember that, my son, for I have full cause to know the truth of what I say. Now Heaven speed you, for you are a good youth!”With these words, the hermit retired into the recesses of the cave, and Luis issued into the open air. As advised, he climbed up the hill by the steep path he had descended, which he found far less difficulty in doing; and crossing to the other side, he was happy to perceive his horse quietly grazing in a field below, somewhat impeded in the operation by the bit in his mouth, while the boy had gone to sleep by his side, wondering when the fidalgo would return.Luis roused the boy, and gave him a piece of silver, probably a larger amount than he had ever before possessed, while he threw the reins over his horse’s neck and prepared to mount. The lad’s eyes glistened with delight, and in a moment he appeared to be brisk and intelligent enough. “A thousand thanks, for your charity to a poor lad, senhor,” he said; “and I have something to tell you. Some time after you were gone away, while I was lying down on the grass, thinking of going to sleep, some strange men came up to your horse, and, without saying a word, took your pistols out of the holsters, threw out the priming, and returned them quickly back again. They looked so fierce, that I was afraid to say anything; so I snored away, pretending to be fast asleep, and the men directly afterwards went away; but I forgot all about it till you gave me the piece of silver.”Luis immediately examined his pistols, and found that they had been tampered with; then, carefully reloading them, and giving the boy another piece of money for his information, he mounted his horse, and regained the road, and had just done so when he saw a horseman galloping along to meet him, in whom he was by no means sorry to recognise his servant Pedro.“Oh, senhor!” exclaimed the honest fellow, when he came up to him, “I am delighted to see you safe and sound; for my mind misgave me, ever since you told me you were going to meet an acquaintance of that rascally friar;—Heaven forgive me if I wrong him;—so at last I determined to take a horse and follow you; but now I have found you, it is all right, and I hope you will forgive me my fears for your safety.”While Pedro was speaking, their path was leading them a little way round the base of the hill; and before his master had time to answer, several men sprung out from behind some large rocks, which lay scattered around, and seizing their bridles, attempted to drag them from their horses. Pedro, who was armed only with a thick stick, laid about him most manfully, keeping the robbers, for such they appeared to be, at bay; and Don Luis drew a pistol from his holster, threatening to shoot the man nearest him; but the fellow only laughed, daring him to fire, which he immediately did, and the man dropped. Upon this, the others, undaunted, rushed on him with loud cries of vengeance, and before he could draw his sword or use his other pistol, they grasped him by the arms, dragging him from his horse to the ground. Pedro fought on some time longer, proving that a good oak stick in the hand is better than a sword by the side, and had very nearly succeeded in rescuing his master, when the robbers, fearing that such would be the case, made a rush on him all together, and pinioned his arms behind him.The report of Don Luis’s pistol had, at this juncture of affairs, called another actor on the scene, whom Pedro, at all events, did not expect to find in the character of a friend. This personage was no other than the worthy Frè Diogo, who was seen rushing down the hill, flourishing a cudgel very similar to the one he had used with such effect in their service at the inn, and shouting at the top of his voice, “Off, off you rascals! Is this the way you dare to treat my friends?”He was quickly on the spot, dealing his blows with no gentle force on every side, soon emancipating Pedro from thraldom, and driving off those who held Don Luis. “How dare you, ye villains, attack a friend of mine, who came to visit me, with my word pledged for his security?” he cried. “I hope, senhor, you are not injured. Well, then, it does not matter, and I see you have punished one of them. Pick up that fellow, and away with you; for I see he’s more frightened than hurt.”The men sulkily obeyed, raising their fallen comrade, who proved to be only stunned, the pistol ball having merely grazed his head.So quickly had these incidents occurred, that Don Luis had scarcely time to speak before he found himself again at liberty; and when he turned to thank his deliverer, he could not help being amused at his appearance. The dark robes, the rim of carroty hair, and the red eyes were there; but above the eyes were a pair of thick, bushy, white eyebrows. “The venerable hermit!” he exclaimed.“What, senhor, have you found me out?” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “Well, don’t betray me, or you will injure my character for sanctity, and ’tis the last thing I have now to depend on.”“I should be ungrateful for the service you have just now afforded me,” answered Don Luis. “Though, for your own sake, my friend, I wish it were more justly established.”“Oh! that is a trifle, senhor,—I mean, the service I have done you,” said the Friar. “What do you stand gaping there for, you rogues? Off with you,” he shouted to the robbers, who still stood at some little distance, while Luis and his servant mounted their horses.“Come, Senhor Frade, pay us for our work, then,” answered one of the men. “We came to rob this young fidalgo by your orders, and we won’t, go back empty-handed.”“Oh, you villains! you will ruin my character if you talk thus;—that was to be if the young fidalgo was not charitable; but he has won my heart; and remember, the man who injures him is my enemy. However, here is more than you deserve,” and he flung them the ten milreas Luis had left for the hermit, on which each of the men made him a low bow, and hurried away. Nothing abashed, he again turned to Don Luis. “You see, senhor, the truth of the saying exemplified, that charity brings its own reward. Now, if you had not been charitable, I confess the temptation to rob you was very great; but when I found the amount of your offering, I repented, and, as you see, came to rescue you. If you have a trifle about you, you can repay me at once;—well, never mind, if you have not; another time will do;—but don’t say a Capuchin is ungrateful, that’s all. Now, farewell, senhor; we shall meet again, I doubt not. You will not betray me, I know; and I am sure Senhor Pedro there will not, for he is an honest fellow; and if he does, I shall break his head some time or other. You had better make the best of your way home, and not encounter those men, as they have not the same feelings of honour that I have. Now, don’t answer;—I know what you would say, that I am a rogue in grain; but it cannot be helped... Adeos, senhor.”Without waiting for an answer to this specimen of consummate impudence, which, indeed, Don Luis would have had some difficulty in making, he again began to mount the hill, indulging in a loud chuckle as he went. Don Luis and Pedro, however, followed his advice, though they could not admire his principles.“That friar seems to be a very great rogue, senhor,” said Pedro, as they rode home.“Not much greater, I suspect, than many others,” answered his master; “only he certainly does not take much pains to conceal it.”We must apologise to our readers for occupying so much of their time with this rather unromantic adventure of Don Luis’s, and hope that his character will not have been injured in their estimation by it.He remained some weeks longer under his father’s roof, without any very important event occurring to him; and, in the mean time, we must beg leave to fly back again to Lisbon.

We find ourselves so constantly recurring to Don Luis d’Almeida, that we begin to fear our readers, particularly the fairer portion of them, will soon get heartily tired of hearing so much about him; and, therefore, to please them, we would, were we composing a mere story from our own brain, effectually get rid of him, by carrying him into a dark forest at midnight, amid a storm of thunder and lightning, when a hundred brigands should rush upon him from their lurking places, and plunge their daggers into his bosom; but that, by so doing, we should infringe the plan on which we have determined, to adhere strictly to the truth of history. We do not, however, feel ourselves called upon to describe minutely the events of each day, and we will, therefore, pass over rather more than a week, which he had spent in his father’s society, when, towards the evening, he was seated, in a listless humour, with a book in his hand, on a stone terrace, overlooking a garden, stretched out below it. But his eyes seemed to glance much less frequently at the pages before him, than at the pure blue sky, or the bright parterres of flowers, the sparkling fountains, the primly cut box trees, and the long straight walks; though, even then, it seemed that his eye was less occupied than his mental vision. But we need not inquire what were his thoughts; perhaps, they were of the scenes he had witnessed in his travels; perhaps of Theresa’s falsehood; and there is a possibility of their having been of the fair portrait he had so quickly taken of Donna Clara.—A servant suddenly recalled him to the present moment, by informing him that a holy friar, waiting at the gate, begged earnestly to see him on some matter of importance.

“I will speak to him,” he exclaimed, rising; and, throwing down his book, he took his way towards the gate. He there perceived a figure in the monastic habit, walking slowly up and down, and, turning his head with a cautious look in every direction; and, as the person approached, he was not long in distinguishing the features of the friar who had played so very suspicious a part at the inn.

“Ah, my young friend,” exclaimed that worthy personage, with the greatest effrontery; “I have not, you see, forgotten either you, or your requests. It struck me, that you very much wished to possess the jewels you spoke of, so, from the strong desire I felt to serve you, I exerted myself diligently to procure them for you. I hope that you have not forgotten your part of the contract; for, though I should myself require no reward, yet I was obliged to pay various sums to the persons who held the property.”

“I perfectly appreciate your feelings, reverend Father,” returned Don Luis. “Nor have I forgotten my promise. Where are the jewels?”

“I have not been able to bring them with me, my son, for weighty reasons; but where are the hundred milreas? for though that sum is not a quarter of their real value, the gentlemen who had appropriated them have a predilection for hard cash.”

Don Luis had good reasons for suspecting that the friar was deceiving him, as he answered, “The money shall be forthcoming when you show me the jewels; but, under the circumstances of the case, you can scarcely expect me to pay you beforehand.”

“Why, I confess that you have seen me in rather suspicious company, senhor; but yet it is cruel to doubt the honesty of an humble friar. To convince you of my sincerity, I have brought this ring, which I believe belonged to the young lady you said had been robbed by those rascally banditti.”

Don Luis took the ring which the friar offered. “This, Senhor Frade, is but a small portion of the trinkets I expected. It was for the recovery of the casket I promised you the reward.”

“I am aware of that, senhor; but I wish to show you that, though you doubt me, I put every confidence in your honour; and, if you were not so impatient, I would deliver the proposal which I came here to make. In the first place, I beg you will keep that ring, as an earnest of my sincerity; and, if you will trust me with the money, I will return with the casket; but if not, the only way by which you can recover it, is to follow my directions.”

Don Luis considered a moment; but there was such a roguish glance in the twinkle of the friar’s eye, that he thought it would be folly to trust him, and that he should probably neither see the casket nor his money again, though he would willingly have risked a far larger sum for the sake of recovering the jewels. Yet he wished first to hear what the friar had to propose.

“I see how it is,” said the Friar, laughing. “You think me a rogue in grain, so there is no use concealing the matter; but I am not offended, I assure you. Other people have thought me so too, who knew me better than you do, till they found out their mistake, as you will some day: however, if you had trusted me, you might have saved yourself considerable trouble.”

“Well, well, Father,” interrupted Don Luis, getting rather impatient at all this circumlocution, “let me hear your proposition, and then I shall be able to determine how to act.”

“You must know, then, my young friend, that this precious casket, which you are so anxious to gain, is in the possession of a very holy and pious man, an aged hermit, whose food is the roots of the earth, or the nuts from the trees, and his drink the pure water from the brook,” began the Friar, speaking very slowly, and eyeing Don Luis, with a laughing glance. “And thus it befell, that this holy man became possessed of the casket. You know a hill, which stands about two leagues from hence, on the summit of which is a chapel dedicated to our Lady of the Rock?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Don Luis, rather impatiently, and vexed at the friar’s evident intention of putting his temper to the proof, “I have often been there in my boyhood; but pray proceed with your story, if you intend it to lead to anything satisfactory.”

“Of course I do, my young friend,” answered the Friar. “I was going to tell you where the holy man resides, when you interrupted me. You must know, then, that beneath the hill on which the chapel stands, there is a cave, which has of late years been cleared from the rubbish which formerly blocked it up, and has been converted into a very tolerable habitation for the summer months, during which period this holy man is constantly there to be found, as he is at present, or was when I was there last, attending to the duties of the sacred edifice above. His great sanctity, his prayers, and fastings, have on many occasions been found to be of the greatest service, both in replenishing his pockets, and in restoring those to health who have consulted him; but his great forte is in saying masses for the souls of the departed, which have double the efficacy of those of any other religious person, as he constantly affirms, and no one can disprove, nor does any one dream of disputing the word of so holy a man. I am now, senhor, approaching the point which is of more consequence to you. You must know that the comrades of the men, whom, as I am told, you killed in the forest, when they attacked the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö, were tolerably well aware that they had a considerable share of unrepented crimes on their consciences; and that, consequently, their stay in purgatory would be of rather long duration, unless great exertions were made to get them clear of it. Now, most of them having a fellow-feeling for their unfortunate friends, turned it in their minds how they could best contrive to shorten their residence in that very unpleasant abode; and, at last, it was agreed that they should engage the holy man I speak of, and of whom they had all heard, to say as many masses as half the booty they had taken would supply, at the lowest possible rate; for which purpose, they laid aside the very casket you are in search of. Now, it chanced that I was paying a visit to this holy man, who, I am proud to say, is a friend of mine; and he showed me the casket, begging me to estimate its value, that he might know how many masses he ought to say. I no sooner beheld it, than I at once recollected your request; so I told him that, though in Lisbon it might be sold for a larger sum, yet he would here be very fortunate if he succeeded in receiving a hundred milreas for it, particularly as I suspected it was stolen property; for which sum he might say fully sufficient masses to get the souls of the departed rogues quietly domesticated in the realms of Paradise. He agreed with me, that, if it did not, it must be their own fault, for being so desperately wicked, so that there could be no help for them. I then told him, that if he would let me have the casket, I would return with the money for it; but it is very extraordinary, senhor, that he objected to do so,—not, of course, that he could have any doubts about my honesty, but that the happiness of the souls in purgatory would be at stake, if, by any chance, it was lost. I had no arguments to offer to his objections, so I was obliged to give up the point; and I hastened here to inform you of the discovery I had made, that I might either return with the money, or allow you to go and fetch the casket yourself. If you still persist in so unjustly distrusting me, senhor, if you will visit our Lady of the Rock early to-morrow morning, you will there find the holy man performing mass. Wait till it is over, and the people have departed,—for the fame of his sanctity has collected many worshippers there,—follow him to his cave, without speaking; when, if you produce the money, he will restore the casket to you; then, without staying to inquire further, return home. If, however, you will allow me to advise you as a friend, add twenty milreas or so to the amount, to increase the number of masses; for you must remember that it was by your hand the men fell, though I do not mean to say that it was not their own fault; but it will be charity well bestowed, as I fear they were wretched sinners, and, do all we can, they must remain in purgatory a long time.”

Don Luis listened to this long story with considerable doubts as to the truth of the greater part of it, yet it was so in accordance with the ideas and customs of the times, that he could not altogether discredit it; he therefore answered, “I must thank you, Senhor Frade, for the trouble you have taken in my service; and I beg you to inform your holy friend that I will repair to his hermitage to-morrow morning, and will take the amount agreed on to release the jewels.”

“Then you will not trust me with the money, senhor?” said the Friar, smiling. “Patience—I am not easily offended, and take it all in good part; but do not forget the additional twenty milreas; and if you happen to have a little spare cash about you to bestow on an humble and indigent servant of the Church, I shall be thankful, and will not forget you in my prayers; for I have come a long distance to serve you, and have put more trust in your honour than you seem inclined to place in mine.”

“I will pay you for the ring, Senhor Frade,” said Don Luis, who could not help being amused at the imperturbable impudence of the friar; “though you seem to forget certain incidents which occurred at the inn, on my journey here,—not to mention others on the previous day.”

“Now, now, you ought not to rake up old grievances,” answered the Friar. “It is not charitable; and charity is the first of Christian virtues, you well know. Besides, you cannot deny that I have served you faithfully.”

“I will not refuse you,” said Don Luis, bestowing all the silver he had about him, “you argue so logically to gain your point. I trust that you will not play me false.”

“Confide in the honour of a Capuchin,” said the Friar, putting his hand to his heart. “May we meet again under happier auspices than those by which we became acquainted; and, believe me, I am grateful for your bounty. Adeos, senhor! It is growing dark, and I have a long way to go before I rest; but an humble friar has nought to fear.”

“Farewell, my friend!” said Don Luis. “I certainly have met none like you.”

“Oh, you flatter—you flatter,” was the answer. “Do not, however, forget your friend. Diogo Lopez is my name,—an humble one at present; but it may become some day well-known to the world. Adeos, adeos, senhor!”

Don Luis, without further parley, re-entered the Quinta, and, for some minutes, he fancied that he could hear the quiet chuckle of the friar echoing in his ears.

Early the next morning he ordered his horse, telling Pedro whither he was going; and, putting his pistols in his holsters, with his sword by his side,—for in those days nobody ever thought of riding, forth unarmed,—he set off for the chapel of our Lady of the Rock,—not forgetting the hundred milreas to redeem the casket, to which he added twenty more, to be expended for the benefit of the souls of those miserable men to whose deaths he had certainly contributed, though he in no way blamed himself on that account. It must be remembered that he had been brought up in a strict belief of the religion of his country; nor had he in any way learned to doubt the main points of that faith in which all those dear to him confided; so that he had full confidence in the efficacy of prayer for the souls of departed sinners; nor do we wish to dispute the point with those who profess the same creed.

The road he was obliged to take, scarcely deserving the name of one, was so broken, and cut up into deep ruts, and covered with loose stones, that nearly an hour elapsed before he reached the foot of the little rocky hill on which the chapel stood. There, perceiving a lad sitting on the top of a wall, “whistling for want of thought,” and without any occupation, he called to him, and bade him hold his horse, with the promise of a reward, while he climbed up the winding rugged path to the top of the rock. It was an isolated height, rising far above all the neighbouring hills,—thus commanding an extensive view on every side. The little chapel was built on the highest point, with a rude stone cross in front, and surmounted by five tall pine trees, their taper stems bent by the blasts to which they were exposed, without a branch below their broad, ever-verdant heads. The chapel was a rough building, of merely two gable ends, and a small porch in front, facing the west; but the view fully repaid the trouble of mounting the hill, even had he come without an object. To the south, over an undulating country, covered with fields and pine-groves, he could distinguish his father’s house and estates; on the west, in the furthest point in the horizon, was to be seen a thin bright line of blue, indicating the presence of the boundless ocean; while on the north appeared the heights of Coimbra, covered with its colleges, monasteries, and churches, below which ran the placid stream of the Mondego, on whose willow-covered banks once wept, with tears of anguish, the lovely and ill-fated Ines de Castro, for ever celebrated in the immortal song of Camoens. On the east, again, over a wide sea of pine-forest, which, indeed, extended on every side of the rock, rose hill upon hill, and mountain upon mountain, till the furthest ridges were lost in a blue haze.

Don Luis entered the chapel, which was, as the friar told him it would be, filled with country people, some beating their breasts, others kissing the ground, and licking up the dust, and the rest rapt in an ecstasy of devotion; while the little altar glittered with lighted tapers. The walls of the edifice were hung with offerings from the pious; among which were seen, carved in wax, what were intended to be representations of the arms, legs, feet, or hands of the human body, those members having been cured by the miraculous interposition of our Lady of the Rock, and the prayers of the holy hermit; these falling to her share, while he appropriated whatever was offered in the shape of money, observing, that such could be of no possible use to our Lady, who was supplied with all she could require. There were also pictures of her appearance in the bodily form, to comfort and assure her devout worshippers. A priest, whose features Luis could not distinguish, further than that he was an aged man, with a long flowing white beard over his breast, clothed in his vestments, was performing the ceremony of mass. It was, however, nearly completed; so, having knelt down, and offered up a short prayer, he again retired, to wait till the people had departed, in order to follow the priest to his cave, as he had agreed. While he was standing and gazing at the lovely view, he heard a groaning near him, and, turning round, he beheld a sight which might have caused a smile on his lips, had he not rather pitied the unfortunate sufferers. There were two old women, who appeared to have started together in a race, on their unprotected knees, in which they were endeavouring to make a certain number of circuits round the chapel, each strenuously trying to get as close to the walls as possible, to save her distance. A strong, sturdy-looking fellow soon after came out, and commenced the same penance; but he very soon distanced his aged competitors for absolution, quickly performing his rounds, at the same time vehemently beating his breast. Perhaps his knees were hardened by habitual kneeling in devotion; but Luis observed a most suspicious thickness about them, which might have been caused by their recent swelling, or he might have taken the precaution to pad them, suspecting to what his sins would condemn him. He, however, gained the credit of zealous penitence.

Before this ceremony was quite completed, the rest of the congregation came out of the chapel, and among them was a man whom Don Luis caught eyeing him very narrowly, but, the moment the man saw that he was observed, he disappeared hastily down the hill. Don Luis, therefore, concluded that he was merely astonished at seeing a gentleman there at that early hour of the morning. He had some time longer to wait before all the people had quitted the hill, when, as he was still admiring the view before him, he heard a slight noise, and his name whispered, and, on turning round, he saw the priest who had officiated at the chapel descending the rock by a steep path on the opposite side to that which his congregation had taken. Luis directly followed him, when he saw a signal for him to do so; but so quickly did the venerable person descend, that he could scarcely keep him in view without danger of breaking his neck, from his ignorance of the stepping-stones in the side of the hill, with which his guide, from his unhesitating pace, seemed perfectly familiar. He had proceeded about three-quarters of the way, and had yet some of the most precipitous part of the descent to make, when he perceived the priest, who had reached the bottom, after looking cautiously around, proceed a few paces at the base of the rock, and, again repeating his signal, disappear beneath an overhanging cliff. As soon as Luis had likewise reached the bottom, he followed the same course; when, as he was passing under the cliff, he again heard his name called by a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth, and, looking earnestly in that direction, perceived a small cavity in the side of the rock, but so shrouded by brushwood, that he might easily have passed it several times had it not been particularly called to his notice.

“Enter, my son, and fear not,” said the voice: “nought but what is holy is here to be found.”

Luis, putting aside the boughs which grew across the entrance, and stooping low to avoid striking his head against the rugged arch which formed it, entered the cave; but, on first leaving the bright glare of sunshine, his eyes were so oppressed by the darkness, that he could not venture to advance, until suddenly a small flickering light appeared before him, sufficient, however, to show him that he stood in a naturally vaulted chamber, or rather passage, in which he might stand perfectly upright, of some twelve feet in width, but of a length it was impossible to determine, the sides of the jagged and unhewn rock, and the floor, being covered with soft fine sand. In vain did his sight seek to pierce beyond the twinkling light, but it served to guide his footsteps, when it seemed to be in motion, and approaching him. He now saw the venerable figure of the hermit standing a short way up the cave, with snowy beard, the hair round his shaven crown and his eyebrows being of the same silvery hue. In his hand was a small taper, which he held before him.

“What seekest thou of me, my son?” he uttered, in the same low tones Luis had before heard. “If it is aught which my prayers can be of service to gain for thee, they shall, without intermission, be offered up.”

“In this case your prayers are not required, most reverend hermit,” returned Don Luis. “I understand that you have in your possession a casket of jewels which you are willing to deliver to me for a certain recompense.”

“It is the truth, my son. I have a casket, about which I was yesterday speaking to that most holy and devout brother, the friar Diogo Lopez, a man in whom the gifts of Divine grace shine most conspicuously, my most particular and esteemed friend, yet one whose fair fame the tongue of calumny has dared to slander; who has been accused of consorting with robbers and evil-doers, even to sharing in the profits of their mal-practices. Oft has he come to me, with tears in his eyes, mourning his hard fate; and, in the hopes of gaining the favour of Heaven to clear his fame, has he flagellated his back with the cord of repentance, till the blood has flowed in torrents to the ground. Oh! brother Diogo is truly a righteous man!”

“Your pardon, Father! I came to inquire for a casket of jewels, and not to discuss the character of Frè Diogo; about which the less said in his praise the smaller will be the chance of his actions contradicting your words,” answered Luis.

“You are severe, my son, you are severe on brother Diogo. But about the jewels; now you recall the circumstance to my mind, I do recollect that he told me that a young and estimable friend of his was anxious to obtain them; and that he was to come here this morning, with a hundred and fifty milreas, which he was willing to give for them, besides thirty more which he was anxious to offer for masses to be said for the souls of certain unfortunate men who were killed a few days ago.”

“You are under a slight error with regard to the amount of the sum I promised your respectable friend; but the hundred milreas I will give when you deliver the casket, and I will, beyond that, offer twenty more to be expended in masses.”

“That is acting like a true fidalgo,” answered the Hermit; “and I feel assured that the souls of the brigands will be highly obliged to you. Of course, I must have been mistaken with regard to the additional fifty milreas; but age has somewhat impaired my memory, and I cannot doubt the word of so honourable a gentleman. As you may, perhaps, be anxious to gain possession of these same jewels, if you will follow me to the head of the cave, you will find the casket on a little stone altar; there deposit the money, with any further trifling donation you, in your generosity, may be inclined to offer, take up the casket, and depart in peace. With the casket you will find a sealed packet, to whom directed I know not, never having been instructed in the profane art of reading a written hand; my breviary, and the lives of the saints, having occupied my whole attention. It was found within the casket; but being of no value to those who found it there, they honestly gave it to me, and I restore it to you. Follow me, my son.”

Having thus spoken, the hermit proceeded up the cave for several yards, when he suddenly stopped and placed the taper in a socket on the little altar he spoke of; but by the time Luis had reached the spot he had disappeared. Luis looked around in every direction, but it was impossible to pierce the surrounding gloom, the faint rays of the taper not extending to the sides of the cavern, by which he concluded it must have considerably increased in size; so that the holy man was yet watching him at no great distance, though himself invisible. The taper cast its light on the surface of the altar, and on a small stone cross, rudely carved, which surmounted it, a few rays alone throwing a faint gleam on the roof above, from which hung down long and transparent stalactites, the floor being here moist and slippery; indeed, a light murmuring sound gave notice that a spring ran through this part of the cavern. Two small steps conducted him to the altar, when he found that the hermit had not deceived him, for there were the casket and the packet. He opened the former, and letting the light of the candle fall on the interior, it displayed a glittering collection of various trinkets, such as were then worn by ladies; closing the case, he placed it securely about his person, and then examined the superscription on the packet. It was in a delicate female handwriting, and directed thus:—“To Gonçalo Christovaö.” Luis secured that also carefully in his bosom; and then, placing on the spot from which he had taken them three separate parcels of money,—two of the amount promised, and another of ten milreas intended for the hermit himself, the very great holiness of whose character he could not, however, help doubting,—he was about to take the taper from the altar, with the intention of finding his way to the month of the cave.—“Hold! impious man!” exclaimed the voice of the Hermit; though, from what quarter it came it was impossible to tell. “Take thy sacrilegious hands from off that candle, which must remain till I have counted thy gifts. Retire the way by which you came.”

Don Luis, though not particularly well pleased at this address, thought it would be of no avail either to answer or to disobey the order; and accordingly endeavoured so to direct his course as to reach the entrance of the cavern, hoping soon to see the light of day streaming in from the opening in the rock. Holding his sword in its scabbard before him, to prevent himself from running suddenly against the side of the cave, should he miss the right course, he slowly groped his way onward, but had not advanced far when he found the value of his precaution by its striking against the rock. He looked round, intending to take a fresh departure from the light, when he found that it had been extinguished, and that he was in utter darkness. He now felt convinced that some trick was being played off against him, at the bottom of which he strongly suspected was the holy Frè Diogo; though, had robbery been intended, it might have been committed at once, without delivering the casket or packet. It must be confessed that he was in a very disagreeable position; shut up in a dark cavern, and, for aught he could tell to the contrary, surrounded by robbers, or, at the best, in the power of some daring impostors. He was inclined, as well he might be, to be very angry; but he knew that losing his temper would not at all aid him to get out of the trap; besides, utter darkness, such as surrounded him, has generally a very soothing effect on the mind. The ground on which he stood was still hard and damp, so that he knew he could not yet have reached the passage by which he entered, and for some moments he could not resolve to proceed, fearful of becoming more confused, and of perhaps falling into some deep cavity, through which the water he heard must find its way. He determined, however, if violence was intended, not to be taken without a stroke for life; silently, therefore, drawing his sword, he grasped it firmly in his right hand, while with the scabbard he felt around on his left side. He fancied that he could hear the breathing of some one near him, but, as he swept his sword round, it met nought but the empty air. Now Luis was, as he had often proved, possessed of as much of that quality called courage as most men; but there are many who will face danger without shrinking in open daylight, and when they see and know the strength of their foe, who would feel very uncomfortable when shut up in the dark, and not at all knowing what to expect, which was exactly his case at present. His patience, also, was quickly worn out. “I beg, most holy hermit, that you will not consider me like a mole, with eyes to see, or claws to work my way out of this cave; but, as I am anxious to return home, that you will throw a light upon my path to enable me to do so,” he exclaimed, with some degree of anger in his tone.

“Turn, then, to the left as you face the rock, and you will soon see the bright light which shines on all men alike, the light of day;” said a voice at some little distance.

“If he does, he will plunge into the deep hole through which the stream flows; his feet are close to it already,” answered another voice.

“Then he is not where I thought he was,” said the first; “but let him turn to the right then, and he will be free.”

“I beg you will finish this mummery,” exclaimed Don Luis, “and show me the way out of this place.”

“Beware that you utter no blasphemy,” said the voice. “Now, look more earnestly, and you will behold the light before you.”

At that moment a small flame burst forth, towards which he immediately advanced, and found himself treading on the soft sand in the narrow passage. The light was again extinguished, but in its stead he saw, at some distance, the sunshine gleaming through the mouth of the cavern. Glad to escape from the place, he was hurrying towards it, when a loud noise resounded through the rocky vault, and he found himself again in complete darkness, and could distinctly hear a suppressed chuckle of laughter.

This was trying his patience too much. “Whether saint or devil,” he exclaimed, “let me go free from your abode.”

“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the voice; “but your temper shall no longer be tried; only, remember in future to cast no reflections on the character of my esteemed friend, the holy Frè Diogo;” and a loud peal of laughter resounded through the vault, whose echoes had no sooner died away, than a door he had not before perceived was thrown open, and the sunshine again streamed in, when he saw, standing on one side, the venerable form of the hermit.

“Farewell, my son,” said the latter personage. “My devotions have been sadly disturbed by sounds of unwonted merriment, in which the spirits of darkness have indulged, even as they did in the hermitage of the most holy Saint Anthony. Ah! I see you were prepared to combat with the weapons of carnal warfare; but those avail not against the inhabitants of the infernal regions. ’Twas with his crosier and breviary, not to mention the pair of red-hot tongs, that the great saint put to flight the Prince of Darkness; and such are the weapons with which I fight. I will detain you no longer: again, farewell, my son. Your shortest way home is to mount the path by which you came here, and to descend on the other side of the hill. Above all things, do not speak ill of the holy Frè Diogo.”

“Farewell, most holy hermit,” answered Luis; “though, I suspect, if you allow such proceedings in your hermitage, its character for sanctity will be somewhat damaged.”

“No fear of that, my son,” said the venerable personage; “there is no character in the world so quickly gained, or so easily maintained, as that of sanctity, which is the reason so many people assume it who have lost all claim to any other. Remember that, my son, for I have full cause to know the truth of what I say. Now Heaven speed you, for you are a good youth!”

With these words, the hermit retired into the recesses of the cave, and Luis issued into the open air. As advised, he climbed up the hill by the steep path he had descended, which he found far less difficulty in doing; and crossing to the other side, he was happy to perceive his horse quietly grazing in a field below, somewhat impeded in the operation by the bit in his mouth, while the boy had gone to sleep by his side, wondering when the fidalgo would return.

Luis roused the boy, and gave him a piece of silver, probably a larger amount than he had ever before possessed, while he threw the reins over his horse’s neck and prepared to mount. The lad’s eyes glistened with delight, and in a moment he appeared to be brisk and intelligent enough. “A thousand thanks, for your charity to a poor lad, senhor,” he said; “and I have something to tell you. Some time after you were gone away, while I was lying down on the grass, thinking of going to sleep, some strange men came up to your horse, and, without saying a word, took your pistols out of the holsters, threw out the priming, and returned them quickly back again. They looked so fierce, that I was afraid to say anything; so I snored away, pretending to be fast asleep, and the men directly afterwards went away; but I forgot all about it till you gave me the piece of silver.”

Luis immediately examined his pistols, and found that they had been tampered with; then, carefully reloading them, and giving the boy another piece of money for his information, he mounted his horse, and regained the road, and had just done so when he saw a horseman galloping along to meet him, in whom he was by no means sorry to recognise his servant Pedro.

“Oh, senhor!” exclaimed the honest fellow, when he came up to him, “I am delighted to see you safe and sound; for my mind misgave me, ever since you told me you were going to meet an acquaintance of that rascally friar;—Heaven forgive me if I wrong him;—so at last I determined to take a horse and follow you; but now I have found you, it is all right, and I hope you will forgive me my fears for your safety.”

While Pedro was speaking, their path was leading them a little way round the base of the hill; and before his master had time to answer, several men sprung out from behind some large rocks, which lay scattered around, and seizing their bridles, attempted to drag them from their horses. Pedro, who was armed only with a thick stick, laid about him most manfully, keeping the robbers, for such they appeared to be, at bay; and Don Luis drew a pistol from his holster, threatening to shoot the man nearest him; but the fellow only laughed, daring him to fire, which he immediately did, and the man dropped. Upon this, the others, undaunted, rushed on him with loud cries of vengeance, and before he could draw his sword or use his other pistol, they grasped him by the arms, dragging him from his horse to the ground. Pedro fought on some time longer, proving that a good oak stick in the hand is better than a sword by the side, and had very nearly succeeded in rescuing his master, when the robbers, fearing that such would be the case, made a rush on him all together, and pinioned his arms behind him.

The report of Don Luis’s pistol had, at this juncture of affairs, called another actor on the scene, whom Pedro, at all events, did not expect to find in the character of a friend. This personage was no other than the worthy Frè Diogo, who was seen rushing down the hill, flourishing a cudgel very similar to the one he had used with such effect in their service at the inn, and shouting at the top of his voice, “Off, off you rascals! Is this the way you dare to treat my friends?”

He was quickly on the spot, dealing his blows with no gentle force on every side, soon emancipating Pedro from thraldom, and driving off those who held Don Luis. “How dare you, ye villains, attack a friend of mine, who came to visit me, with my word pledged for his security?” he cried. “I hope, senhor, you are not injured. Well, then, it does not matter, and I see you have punished one of them. Pick up that fellow, and away with you; for I see he’s more frightened than hurt.”

The men sulkily obeyed, raising their fallen comrade, who proved to be only stunned, the pistol ball having merely grazed his head.

So quickly had these incidents occurred, that Don Luis had scarcely time to speak before he found himself again at liberty; and when he turned to thank his deliverer, he could not help being amused at his appearance. The dark robes, the rim of carroty hair, and the red eyes were there; but above the eyes were a pair of thick, bushy, white eyebrows. “The venerable hermit!” he exclaimed.

“What, senhor, have you found me out?” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “Well, don’t betray me, or you will injure my character for sanctity, and ’tis the last thing I have now to depend on.”

“I should be ungrateful for the service you have just now afforded me,” answered Don Luis. “Though, for your own sake, my friend, I wish it were more justly established.”

“Oh! that is a trifle, senhor,—I mean, the service I have done you,” said the Friar. “What do you stand gaping there for, you rogues? Off with you,” he shouted to the robbers, who still stood at some little distance, while Luis and his servant mounted their horses.

“Come, Senhor Frade, pay us for our work, then,” answered one of the men. “We came to rob this young fidalgo by your orders, and we won’t, go back empty-handed.”

“Oh, you villains! you will ruin my character if you talk thus;—that was to be if the young fidalgo was not charitable; but he has won my heart; and remember, the man who injures him is my enemy. However, here is more than you deserve,” and he flung them the ten milreas Luis had left for the hermit, on which each of the men made him a low bow, and hurried away. Nothing abashed, he again turned to Don Luis. “You see, senhor, the truth of the saying exemplified, that charity brings its own reward. Now, if you had not been charitable, I confess the temptation to rob you was very great; but when I found the amount of your offering, I repented, and, as you see, came to rescue you. If you have a trifle about you, you can repay me at once;—well, never mind, if you have not; another time will do;—but don’t say a Capuchin is ungrateful, that’s all. Now, farewell, senhor; we shall meet again, I doubt not. You will not betray me, I know; and I am sure Senhor Pedro there will not, for he is an honest fellow; and if he does, I shall break his head some time or other. You had better make the best of your way home, and not encounter those men, as they have not the same feelings of honour that I have. Now, don’t answer;—I know what you would say, that I am a rogue in grain; but it cannot be helped... Adeos, senhor.”

Without waiting for an answer to this specimen of consummate impudence, which, indeed, Don Luis would have had some difficulty in making, he again began to mount the hill, indulging in a loud chuckle as he went. Don Luis and Pedro, however, followed his advice, though they could not admire his principles.

“That friar seems to be a very great rogue, senhor,” said Pedro, as they rode home.

“Not much greater, I suspect, than many others,” answered his master; “only he certainly does not take much pains to conceal it.”

We must apologise to our readers for occupying so much of their time with this rather unromantic adventure of Don Luis’s, and hope that his character will not have been injured in their estimation by it.

He remained some weeks longer under his father’s roof, without any very important event occurring to him; and, in the mean time, we must beg leave to fly back again to Lisbon.

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