Chapter III: Part 3

This perpetual inconsideration deeply wounded the King; for a lover like him, expected to throb in every pulse of her heart. Racked with repeated mortifications, that perhaps owed their existence to an impassioned fastidiousness “which I beseech ye, call a godly sin”--he looked anxiously towards the hour of his departure from Portugal, secretly hoping to endear himself by danger, or at least to rouse some of those sensibilities which were as wholly concealed now by ceaseless gaiety, as when no anxieties existed to call them forth.

Don Antonio was ever Gonsalva’s advocate; sometimes rallying, and sometimes more seriously reproving his royal cousin for pampering a sickly sensitiveness, which thus poisoned life’s chief blessing.

Sir Thomas Stukely, ignorant of his illustrious friend’s discontent, unconsciously increased it; for one night in a walk among the gardens of Ribera, under the boundless and starry heavens, he poured into the attentive ear of Sebastian, the story of his early life: that story, though it might be comprised in a single incident, was deeply interesting to the young King, whose heart, penetrated with one affection, delighted to sympathize with every other; yet he listened sadly, for he thought the more of Gonsalva’s temperate feelings.

The untimely death of a brother, long and justly beloved, had driven Stukely a wanderer from his country: that brother’s character, made up of every estimable and endearing quality; his fraternal love “exceeding the love of women,” were depicted in the heart-wringing language of a regret increasing with time.

“We lived in our native Devonshire,” continued Stukely, “far from the excitements and the temptations of a court; ignorant of any mortal happiness beyond each others deserved encomiums. One fatal day, hunting among the woods round Illfracombe--my erring spear--I cannot describe it!--this brother, dearer to me than existence, this soul of my wretched life, fell through a disastrous accident by my hand!--But he died with forgiveness on his lips--he died kissing the hand that smote him!”--

Stukely’s voice assumed a fearful hollowness as he spoke the last words, his eyes rolled back upon themselves, and his pale countenance expressed the extremity of despair; but the next moment rapture illumined him, and he wildly resumed--

“Oft in the dead of night his voice I hear,
Like harp angelic, bidding me rejoice,
Not weep his fate; for now he dwells in bliss,
High, full, seraphic, far transcending all
That heart of man can image, and with eye
Cleared from its mortal dross, beholds the end
Of human suff’ring; weeps no more the woes
Of fellow dust, but sees unnumbered crowds,
Multitudes vast--of ev’ry race and tint--
Dreaming of pain awhile, but to awake
In beatific and eternal Heaven!”

Accustomed to hear his friend converse by snatches in a strain resembling poetry, Sebastian made no remark on this momentary rhapsody: Stukeley paused awhile, and then continued:

“After the loss of my brother, I know not what strange calamity fell on me. I sometimes think I could not have been in my right mind. Memory retains a confused notion of my having once formed a visionary project of colonizing Florida, then but newly discovered, erecting over it the sovereignty of an order still purer and more self-denying than the orders of Jerusalem and Malta: I can recollect displeasing the young queen Elizabeth with my romantic ambition. At length, when my intellect recovered its cruel shock, I found myself in a court, filled with the professors of a new religion; it was impossible for me to stay, even to hear their doctrines. I passed from England to Ireland, from Ireland to Italy, sorrowing and self-condemned for my involuntary crime; there, my arms have been constantly employed against the enemies of our holy church. This wandering warfare; this renunciation of home, country, and kindred, is the penance to which I have condemned myself: may it tend to expiate my guilt!--My grief it cannot cure.” Again Stukeley mused awhile, and again he abruptly added, “’Tis a distinguished privilege to die in defence of the sacred cross! I swear never to abandon it! We will plant the blessed banner on every mosque in Morocco, or perish in the attempt.”

Gladly seizing the last subject suggested by Stukeley, Sebastian forbore to comment on the melancholy commencement of their discourse, leading him to talk of the meditated war, of which religion formed the only basis.

Public affairs now hastened to a crisis: the armament was complete, and the fleet equipped; the Pope had transmitted his blessing, with a present exceeding in value that of the consecrated rose: it was an arrow which had pierced the side of St. Sebastian!

In their armour and field accoutrements, the nobility displayed infinite splendour; and as desolated Portugal could not furnish many private soldiers, the troops composed chiefly of gentlemen volunteers, seemed but a gallant shew of accomplished knights.

The royal-standard (embroidered by Donna Gonsalva) was carried in procession through the streets of Lisbon, to receive the benediction of the archbishop; it was then delivered into the hand of the Marquis Villa-real, and the army marshalled around it.

After this august ceremony, the troops prepared to embark, while his officers and men were exchanging adieus with wives, sisters, and parents, Sebastian hurried to take leave of Donna Gonsalva: she had for some days yielded to an excess of grief, and had shut herself up from all society. At sight of her royal lover clad in the shining livery of war, she flung herself into his arms with tears and cries; distracted at the possibility of eventually losing him either by death or changed sentiments, she wildly expressed a wish to become his by a secret, but binding tie.

Sebastian pressed her to his breast in a tumult of tender delight, “dearest treasure of my life!” he exclaimed, covering her fair brow with kisses, “at this moment your Sebastian is blest to the utmost extent of his fantastic desires.--Ah, Gonsalva! why have I ever believed you indifferent, or incapable of exquisite love? be assured I go now, confident of possessing your heart; I go to conquer for your sake, to return worthy of you, covered with the spiritual dew of heaven, its blessing and the blessings of millions:--but ask me not to forfeit my right to this dear hand, by evading the conditions upon which it has been awarded to me; I have promised our holy father to engage in an expedition against the infidels--successful or unsuccessful, I will return to Portugal, and either share my glory with you, or--perish the possibility of mischance!” Donna Gonsalva now redoubled her tears and her endearments; and tying round his neck a picture of herself, conjured him to remember that her existence was interwoven with his own.

As the enamoured King repeated his belief of her sincerity, he added tenderly, “These tears, these sighs, my Gonsalva, can never be absent from my thoughts: be assured that whenever you think of your Sebastian, whether at the dead of night, or in the hurry of day, he is at that moment thinking of you.”

His eyes overflowed as he spoke; he strained her to his bosom, held her there an instant, then broke away. While moving towards the door, a favourite dog that had always been his companion, leaped up, and licked his forehead. “Farewel, Barémel!” said the softened king, “I cannot take thee,--Stay with my Gonsalva, and be cherished for thy master’s sake.” On pronouncing these words, he gently pushed the faithful animal aside, and hastened out of the apartment.

The royal equerries waited with their sovereign’s Arabian, at the gates of Xabregas; Sebastian vaulted into his seat, and with a soul raised to rapture by the undisguised fondness of Donna Gonsalva, rode towards the place at which the troops were ordered to assemble.

There, the King and the soldier took their turn: he rode along the lines formed by his army, proudly exulting in their strength and appearance. His animation diffused cheerfulness through the soldiery; and a short address, exhorting them to patience, perseverence, and fidelity, was answered by loyal acclamations: the word was then given, and the army began its march.

The figure of the young King, (clad in a suit of green armour) full of youth, spirit, and hope, was picturesquely contrasted by the wild sadness of Stukeley, the light and shade of whose countenance at one time flashed the fire of a warrior, at others was lost in a gloom of unavailing regret. Don Antonio of Crato, formed a contrast of another sort; his gold armour was gayly adorned with bosses and chasings, which the priest’s vestment did not entirely conceal; his florid aspect seemed equally free from thought and care: but there was one knight among the troops whose face expressed many thoughts and many feelings: It was Don Emanuel de Castro.

Without attempting to see or to address Sebastian, he had signified to the master of the horse his intention of furnishing five hundred harquebusiers for the expedition: through that nobleman’s interference this offer was not only accepted, but he was permitted to head them himself; and thus allowed an opportunity of retrieving his sovereign’s lost favour. De Castro now rode among the noble volunteers, with a serious brow.

His steady judgment, neither hurried away by the romantic sanguineness of the inexperienced Sebastian, nor actuated by that indifference to life which left Stukeley without a wish to estimate danger, nor constitutionally careless of every thing beyond present enjoyment, like the prior of Crato, foresaw much to apprehend from the inadequacy of their armament. A thousand gallant vessels, with their bravery of tackling and of sails, made a noble shew in the bay; and twenty thousand troops, in all the gloss of unstained arms, and unbroken spirits, presented an imposing spectacle to the gaze of enthusiasts. But what were these in reality, when contrasted with perhaps more than a hundred thousand enemies upon their own ground? De Castro’s prophetic heart ached in the midst of general exultation.

The various regiments were now embarking: as they marched along the shore the sun flamed upon their banners and coats of mail; the inspiring trumpet resounded from all the neighbouring echoes; pealing bells rung joyously from the city; and at intervals the discharge of ordnance from adjacent forts, was seen to shake the ships and the hills.

Impatient to be the first embarked, Sebastian rode eagerly through his people, amid their shouts and blessings, as if returning in triumph; his youth, his personal graces, and the imposing dignity of his cause, made every heart follow him. As he leaped into the boat which was to bear him to the royal galley, he uncovered his head, and waving aloft his flowing helmet, seemed to be commending Portugal to the protection of Heaven. By his side stood his favourite page, and the Duke of Barcelos, two young sons of the Duchess of Braganza, his near kinswoman, and next heir to the crown: their tender childhood and gallant mien, their sweet faces, yet wet with a mother’s tears, caused a momentary pang in the multitude, but the sunny look of the King brightened regret into exultation, and loud acclamations pursued the track of his departing boat.

In a few hours more, the whole army was embarked, and then the fleet weighing anchor, sailed out of the Tagus. Prosperous winds swelled their sails to Cadiz, where they waited awhile for the promised succours from Philip II. the Duke of Medina Sidonia feasted the King and the knights there, with a munificence little inferior to royalty. After a week’s delay the expected supplies arrived; they consisted but of two thousand foot soldiers: the enraged Sebastian would have sent them back to his dissembling uncle, had not the Duke of Medina found some plausible excuse for his master’s conduct, and faithfully promised further aid in his name.

Quickly irritated, and as easily appeased, the ingenuous monarch believed this hollow apology, and returning the courteous entertainment of his host by conferring on him an order of knighthood, re-embarked with his army for the shores of Africa.

The Portuguese fleet crossed the mouth of the streights, and passing within sight of Cape Spartel, coasted along as far as Tangier, where Sebastian, with his English friend Stukeley, were landed, and the remaining troops under Diego de Souza, and Antonio of Crato, proceeded to the fortress of Arzile.

The Moorish princes Muley Hamet and his brother-in-law, Cid Albequerin, were at Tangier, with a few armed followers, to receive the king of Portugal: they delivered into his hands hostages for their fidelity, conjuring their Christian ally not to listen to the deceptive representations of the Xeriff Muley Moloch, whose ambassador was now arrived at the fortress. Sebastian re-assured them, though he could not refuse the Moorish envoy, an audience.

On being admitted to the royal presence, the African delivered a letter from his master, wherein moderation and spirit were admirably blended. This letter declared the Xeriff prepared in all points for war, and ready to meet it; but while he made such a declaration, he besought Don Sebastian to weigh well the value of men’s lives ere he rashly threw away his own and those of his subjects: he described with terrible simplicity the immensity of his resources, and the number of his armies, proving the improbability of success, though the Portuguese King were at the head of 20,000 heroes. Having exhorted him to spare to his people those virtues of his, that were yet only in the bud of blooming youth, he entered into a full discussion of his own pretensions and those of Hamet; by this discussion he laboured to shew that his right to the crowns of Fez and Morocco, was superior to that of his nephew; and that even were it otherwise, the latter had forfeited his claim by acts of cruelty and oppression. To secure peace, and the friendship of the christians, he offered Don Sebastian undisturbed possession of every fortress in Africa that ever had belonged or did now belong to Portugal, and he promised to add to each of them, a moderate tract of arable land.

After pressing this proposal upon the young monarch, he once more conjured him to weigh well the real interest of his subjects; concluding with a sentiment memorable in a despotic prince.

“You know, great prince, (or ought to know) that the regal power allotted us, makes us common servants of our creator; then of those people whom we govern; so that observing the duties we owe to God, we deliver blessings to mankind: in providing for the public good of our states we magnify the honour of God; like the celestial bodies, which, though they have much veneration, yet serve only to the benefit of the world. It is the excellency of our office to be the instruments whereby happiness is delivered to nations.”

Negociation upon a proposal of this kind, so inadequate to the grand object of Sebastian, was not likely to meet with his concurrence: he bade the embassador bear his refusal to Muley Moloch, with an expression of regret that such noble sentiments were not the production of a lawful and a christian ruler. He then dismissed the ambassador, and went with Sir Thomas Stukeley to examine the state of the fortress.

Stukeley was now become as dear, as he had ever appeared admirable, to this warm-hearted sovereign: in the close intimacy and domestic habits of a sea-voyage, the amiable parts of the Englishman’s character gradually disclosed themselves; and their tastes and principles proving consonant, the partiality of Sebastian increased so much, as to lead him into a disclosure, which had more of friendship than of justice in it. This respected the disposal of Barbary.

Every one presumed that in the event of a conquest, Sebastian would yield the empire of Morocco to Muley Hamet, and be himself crowned king of Fez: but he had long resolved to prove the disinterestedness of his motives, by awarding the throne of Fez to him who should most distinguish himself in the expedition. To rescue the Moors from ignorance and infidelity, by giving them a christian monarch and christian teachers, was the chief aim of his enterprise: unsullied honour was the only wreath he sought to preserve for his own brow.

By entrusting the secret to Stukeley, Sebastian unconsciously meant to give additional energy to his friend’s arms, and to secure for him the new monarchy: our gallant countryman received this information with grateful enthusiasm; but unwilling to take an unfair advantage of his competitors, besought the king to communicate it to all his nobles, when they should join the grand army.

Such generous conduct increased Sebastian’s esteem; he freely granted the request, adding--“They will all have my good wishes for their success, but you, Stukeley, will have my prayers.”

Orders were now issued for the Moorish forces under Muley Hamet, and the Portuguese who had disembarked at Tangier with their king, to be ready for marching to Arzile: there, the whole strength of their little army was concentrated.

A tedious march along a hot and arid coast, produced sickness among the soldiery; when they reached the main body, under Don Diego de Souza, they found it somewhat enfeebled through the same cause: but a spirit of enterprize still animated every breast; and as the immediate siege of Larache was determined upon, a military council was called for the purpose of ascertaining whether it were most advisable to proceed directly by land, through an enemy’s country, to the destined siege, or to re-embark and proceed thither by sea.

At this suggestion of prudence, the rash monarch took fire: he had not yet learned to separate true valour from that vain contempt of danger which makes a man put his life to the hazard for an inadequate object, or for the attainment of a good, attainable by less perilous means: he vehemently protested against the latter measure, and his experienced commanders were silenced without being convinced.

During the king’s stay at Tangier, his officers at Arzile had had time to learn the exact strength of the enemy, and what dependence was to be placed on the succours so largely promised by Hamet. Don Emanuel de Castro now ventured in council to address his sovereign, informing him that their Moorish ally had grossly exaggerated his ability and the inclinations of the Africans, as they appeared mostly unanimous in defence of the present Xeriff’s authority. That intrepid old man, he said, was now sick of a fever, but was yet rapidly approaching at the head of a hundred thousand men; fresh armies were forming in the rear and flank of the christians; and should these succeed in turning their other wing, (which they might easily do, if the Portuguese were marched inland towards Larache,) so surrounded and cut off from their fleet, destruction must follow. He therefore suggested the propriety of extreme caution. At this remark the king frowned, and issued decisive orders for proceeding to the river Lucos, (upon which stood the fortress) and fording it, though in the mouth of the enemy’s cannon.

“If we begin to think of defeat, or of providing for our own security,” he said sternly, to De Castro, “we are lost!--we have nothing to oppose to this ocean of Moors that you talk of, but the belief that we are invincible.--Give us only the _enthusiasm_ of our ancestors, and the glorious field of Ourique will no longer stand unrivalled in the imperishable page of history.”

De Castro granted the justice of this reliance upon the omnipotence of opinion; yet a lurking suspicion of the Moorish Prince Hamet, made him foresee ultimate disappointment: he pointed out several traits in the infidel’s conduct, which indicated jealousy of the Christians, and Sebastian admitting their force, promised to observe him narrowly.

The army now began its march towards Larache, and halted between Arzile and Alcazar-quiver.--To proceed without a decisive engagement, was become impossible; for the Xeriff’s force, consisting of sixty thousand horse and forty thousand foot, had advanced by forced marches from Morocco into Fez, secured the passage of the Lucos, and suddenly shewn themselves, encamped in the plains of Alcazar.--Don Sebastian was for immediately advancing to give them battle; but against this step Muley Hamet opposed many plausible arguments: he proposed that the Portuguese should draw nearer to the coast, where, in case of extremity, they might be received into their ships; by throwing up entrenchments, they could there bid defiance to any assault, and would be secured from every species of want, by supplies of ammunition and provisions from the fleet.

“And for what is this delay proposed, now?”--cried the astonished Sebastian, “are we to abandon our enterprize even on the threshold? are we to shrink from the very difficulties we have courted, and fly before an enemy with whom we have not exchanged a single blow? do you think we came only to _look_ at your countrymen?--In the name of God, prince, what coward’s counsel is this?”

Dissembling his rage at the indiscreet anger of the young King, Hamet coolly replied, that Muley Moloch was now master of all the fords and passages of the Lucos, from the ocean to the mountains of Benzeroel, that consequently an attempt to force these would be the attempt of madmen, since their troops were already fainting with a long sultry march, and nearly destitute of provisions: by avoiding an engagement for at least some days, they would give time for the arrival of King Philip’s promised succours, and might be further re-inforced by deserters from the usurper Moloch.

Perceiving his aim at last, and transported out of all patience, the unreflecting Sebastian forgot every thing but indignation: he started from his seat with a look of fierce defiance, crying out, “away with such dissembling! Moor, I can read your heart:--you would do without the aid of the Christians. In a few days, perhaps hours, you expect death to rid you of your uncle, and give you these kingdoms by some political trick--then would our treaty, aye and our safety, be left to your honour!--but thank heaven, my brave Portuguese are not to be thus trifled with!--we shall march forward; if without you, for ourselves,--for the release of christian captives--for the sake of the blessed cross; if with you, for your advantage as well as for our own,--and with a conscientious resolution to preserve _our_ share in the compact inviolate.

“Prince! we are in sight of the enemy--behold me draw this sword, which I swear by the virgin mother of Jesus, never to sheathe till it has cut my way through yonder host!”

A sublime sterness sat on the brow of the young warrior while he spoke: in one moment the clashing of swords and the murmur of vows were heard throughout the assembly; as if electrified with the same fire, all the knights followed his chivalric example.

Hamet was silent: at length he bowed before the royal seat, saying in a subdued voice, “light of thy people, thou hast not interpreted my zealous caution with the usual charity of a Christian: let my actions speak for me!--I will follow thee unto death.”

“Prove that I have wronged thee, Hamet!” returned Sebastian, with a relenting smile, “and thou shalt find me more prompt to repair, than I have been to commit, this injury.”

Muley Hamet bowed submissively again; the clouds of passion and suspicion then fled from the face of the King, and demanding his officer’s attention, he proceeded to hear their separate opinions upon the subject under discussion.

Experienced and inexperienced, now decided on Sebastian’s side; even De Castro voted for giving battle to the Xeriff. Conduct that would have been prudent at Arzile, became cowardice at Alcazar: to begin retreating towards the coast, seemed at this period more hazardous than to risk an engagement; for in the former case, an enormous army hanging upon their rear, might harrass their retreat, and at last make an easy prey of the famished and fatigued soldiers: by the former plan the Portuguese would preserve a chance of victory, or at least secure to themselves honourable graves.

Gratified with his council, and pleasingly surprised to find Don Emanuel urgent for action, Sebastian graciously acknowledged that pleasure, and paying a just tribute to his rival’s warlike talents, resolved thenceforth only to remember his services.--He now gave him his hand with a look so effulgently expressive, that De Castro’s tranquil countenance became agitated with unexpected pleasure; he bent his knee to the ground, and ventured to put his lips respectfully to the hand that had been given him;--Sebastian suffered it to remain awhile in his grasp--then calling his knights to their posts, hastened out to reconnoitre and to marshal his troops.

All was now animation in the Portuguese camp; dauntless hearts, hot with religious zeal, made them eager for engagement: the King went at night from tent to tent, encouraging his men, and rousing their emulation by proclaiming his intention of instituting a new order upon that day, should Heaven bless his arms: to the highest distinction in this novel institution, even the humblest soldier might aspire, and be enrolled in the same proud list with his commander. From the private’s quarters he returned to his own tent, where assembling his officers, he imparted the magnificent prize destined for _their_ reward:--the crown of Fez!

How does the outward lustre of a crown dazzle all eyes, and blind them to its thorny lining! ambition, more potent even than love, sees no defect in its object, but grasps at it with the avidity of a soul certain of seizing beautitude!--The nobles round King Sebastian looked at each other for awhile without speaking; then actuated by the same spirit, cast themselves at his feet in a transport of gratitude; their tumultuous and lavish protestations infused confidence into their sovereign, whose breast beat with the certainty of success: dismissing them soon after, he threw himself upon his palliass, for a few hours repose.

To sleep was impossible: Sebastian counted the night watches with impatience, and just as morning broke, had the mortification to hear rain falling heavily upon the roof of his tent: he leaped up, and hurried into the air.--The dawn was now beginning to glimmer over the extensive camp of the enemy, but the sky was moist and dark: to commence an attack under such circumstances would be fruitless; the showers blew directly in the face of his army, and would render their cannon and harquebusses, almost useless;--he was therefore forced to command a suspension of his orders.

After two hours of incessant rain, the clouds dispersed, and the sun shone out with intense heat:--the King then hastily roused his page (Diego of Braganza,) whose childish hands trembled while they clasped the rivets of his master’s vantbrace.

“What! you tremble my little cousin?”--said he, stroaking his fair hair, and smiling more tenderly than sportively.

“With impatience, Sire, not fear.”--replied the blushing boy.--Sebastian gave him a hasty embrace; “thou hast the soul of a soldier!” he cried, “if I fall to-day, may thy race sit on the throne of Portugal.”

“I would rather see a son of your majesty’s seated there:” answered the intrepid child--“it is not my ambition to be a King; but I wish to make myself greater than an ordinary King:---- I would willingly _live worthily, and die nobly_!”

“Thou wilt do both, then, my brave cousin!” exclaimed Sebastian, “brief or lengthened, thy career will be glorious, for that sentiment contains a life of magnanimity.”

They were now issuing from the tent: Don Diego ventured to remark his King’s imprudence in wearing armour of a colour, which being held almost sacred by the Mahometans, would sharpen their resentment, and enable them to take a surer note of his person. “I chose it for that very purpose;” replied the monarch, “not to insult them, indeed, but to be easier distinguished by friend and foe.--besides, Diego, green is the colour of hope.”

Sebastian now left his tent, and put his troops in motion. If the genius of Portugal could be supposed to have beheld them from the heights of Benzeroel, tears such as immortals shed, might have flowed from her eyes: the flower of her nobles and of her peasantry, were now gaily marching to certain death.

For the first time since the foundation of their monarchy, the private soldiers were stimulated by the prospect of chivalric honour, and their leaders by the chance of a crown:--following their royal general both as their King and their benefactor, the glow of virtuous emulation was on every cheek, and in every heart.

The army, drawn up in three lines, now halted on the plain of Alcazar: De Castro and Stukeley had the glory of leading the vanguard, which consisted wholly of volunteers; the Portuguese infantry were in the center, and the rear under Don Diego De Souza; on the right wing were the Moorish horse of Muley Hamet, and the squadrons of count Vimiosa; on the left were the royal standard, the banner of the cross, and the flower of the Portuguese cavalry; round these, were seen the young dukes of Barcelos, Contiuho, and D’Aveyro, the counts Villa-real, Ridondo, and Norogno, the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, and lastly, the prior of Crato.

Attended by his favorite page, the King was seen with his beaver up, mounted on a white Arabian, riding along the lines, and animating his men to the charge. His emerald-green armour, (on which the sun now sparkled) and the white plume of his helmet, (now lifted by rising winds) rendered him fatally conspicuous.

Meanwhile the Moors were steadily advancing, with all the pomp of gaudy banners and magnificent attire: in the midst of a chosen band was seen the litter of their sick, but intrepid Xeriff.

A hundred thousand armed men, approaching in the form of a crescent, gradually extending their wings to outstretch and inclose a handful of Christians, made a formidable appearance: momentarily checking his horse, Sebastian looked at them with some portion of that awe which a vast and powerful object excites, but without one throb of apprehension, he believed himself under the immediate protection of an approving Providence!

Suddenly the Moorish music began to play, and their troops advanced with a quicker step: the king of Portugal rode to the left of his little band, and placing himself before the royal-standard, bade his lords remember that they fought for a crown. “I, for a heavenly one, and for Gonsalva!” he whispered to himself, hastily darting his eye athwart the mingled banners of the cross, and of Portugal.

The two armies were now so near each other, that the Portuguese could distinctly see the Xeriff assisted from his litter to a horse; age and sickness had enfeebled his body, but his energetic soul was yet unimpaired. In the act of haranguing his men, he appeared slowly riding through the lines, with flowing robes, and a long white beard, which gave him a majestic air: Sebastian pitied his infirmities, and beheld his grey locks with reverence; he commanded his followers to spare, and to respect Muley Moloch, should he fall into their hands, and then he gave the signal for battle.

A general discharge of artillery began the action: the Portuguese horse charged with impetuosity, their young King, like a destroying angel, leading them on: his terrible looks, and still more terrible arm, scattered the infidels on every side. Stukeley and De Castro’s track resembled the path of lightning; for by the blue gloom of their steely armour they were distinguished afar off, flaming through the dark ranks of the enemy.

The Moors assaulted with all the fury of religious hate, and all the fire of chivalry, gave way in every direction; their nobles fell in heaps under the arrows, the swords, and the artillery, of the christians: frantic with despair, Muley Moloch exerted the remaining spark of life in an attempt to rally them; he spurred his horse, and brandishing a massy scymitar, aimed a blow at Don Antonio of Crato: that effort was his last; he fell dead upon the field.

His body-guard with difficulty rescued their master’s corpse from the Portuguese, and conveyed it to the litter, where his death was concealed from the army; but the hoisting of a particular pendent over the litter, by one of his ministers, who had secretly corresponded with the Xeriff Hamet, gave the signal so long waited for by that perfidious wretch. He had hitherto hung back in the action; now, he ordered his troops to turn their arms upon their allies.

At this command, the left wing of the Moorish horse wheeled round, and took the Christians in flank; a dreadful carnage ensued: the brave Portuguese amazed, bewildered, not knowing who were or were not their enemies, fought in darkness; even their German and Castillian auxiliaries shared the fate of the treacherous infidels, for they now dealt the strokes of death without discrimination: the presence of their king all hacked and bleeding, only increased their consternation.

At this critical juncture, Stukeley appeared; waving his fiery sword as a call for them to rally, and aim at conquest still, he broke through the squadrons of Muley Hamet, like some tremendous comet that traverses the wilds of æther, scattering terror and dismay over nations. He rushed towards the traitor: Hamet read destruction in the deadly eyes of the Englishman, and took to flight; Stukeley followed; his indignant threats sounded through the field: gaining upon the Xeriff, he was aiming a mortal blow at him, when the affrighted wretch threw himself into a rivulet which crossed their path, and borne down by the weight of his robes and armour, perished ingloriously. Stukeley looked at him for a moment with scornful disappointment, then turned towards the fight.

But he was now surrounded by a host of assailants: their merciless weapons fell on his head, his shoulders, his limbs; he turned from side to side, alternately parrying and receiving wounds. Fighting his way to a ruined watch tower, he placed his back against it, and defended himself with determined intrepidity; till at length, bleeding at every pore, and exhausted with exertion, his resistance became fainter and fainter. He staggered and sunk down. The dying hero cast his eyes around as if in search of his friend, the next moment they closed for ever. Thus fell the gallant Sir Thomas Stukeley, in the bloom of manhood, in a foreign land!

Meanwhile, Don Sebastian was attempting to regain the advantage of the day: a short contest convinced him that it was no longer for victory, but for safety, they must fight; of all his troops, there remained only a remnant, but he bravely resolved rather to die than to desert them.

Antonio, and the dukes of Barcelos and Aveyro, were taken prisoners; De Castro was sinking under many wounds: the King himself was disabled in one shoulder by a musquet shot, and was besides smarting with sword-cuts: two horses had already been killed under him, and after fighting some time on foot, one of his officers had now mounted him upon a third.

Again, he charged the enemy with a few gallant troops; again his powerful arm scattered the Moors like dust before a mighty wind. Streaming with blood, De Castro followed his glorious path. That faithful Noble (who had appeared throughout the whole of the battle, to think only of his sovereign’s honour, his sovereign’s safety) now interposed his body between him and destruction: the battle-axe of an infidel was raised to fall on the unarmed head of Sebastian, when Don Emanuel rushed forward, and sprung on the Moor; dashing down his lifted weapon, he grasped his body and grappled with him till they both fell: Sebastian threw himself off his horse, and valiantly defended him; but the Moors pouring in at every side, like so many torrents, forcibly swept the brave friends asunder, and De Castro was taken.

The fight now turned into a slaughter: the Germans and Castillians were all cut in pieces, the knights and nobles lay in heaps over the plain, and among the vast army of Moors, but a solitary Portuguese was here and there to be seen vainly combatting for life.

Retreating towards the river, (allured by a distant figure like Sir Thomas Stukeley’s) Sebastian met his standard-bearer with the colours wrapped round his body; animated with the remembrance of Donna Gonsalva, the King exclaimed, “Brave Brito! let us die upon these.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when a body of infidels rushed tumultuously towards them; Sebastian fought with the desperation of love; De Brito and the colours were taken and re-taken repeatedly; but alas! the strength of the former, was exhausted, and his single arm could no longer encircle a faithful servant with protection. De Brito more solicitous to save his king than to obey him, contested at last but faintly, and suffered himself to be surrounded.

The Moors, clamourous in disputing the honour of having gained the royal-standard, hurried off their prisoner, regardless of a solitary individual covered with dust and blood, evidently on the point of sinking amongst the slain.

Fortunately for Sebastian, these accidental circumstances, together with the loss of his coronetted helmet and his horse, concealed him from suspicion: he remained standing where they had left him, supporting himself with difficulty upon the fragment of his sword. His strength now ebbed apace: the blood pouring from a large cut on his head, and oozing through the scarf with which his arm was bound, sickened and enfeebled him; his very thoughts partook of the mortal languor creeping over all his senses: a confusion of images, of Gonsalva, of Stukeley, of his page Diego, swam through his brain; he staggered a few paces, fell, and breathed no more!

CHAP. IV.

After the battle of Alcazar, there remained but fifty of the Portuguese troops alive in Africa: most of these were prisoners to the Moors, and the remainder gaining with difficulty the christian fortresses, at length escaped homewards. The Moors in return lost above one-fifth of their gigantic army, but the pillage of the christian camp, (filled with all the riches of the East and West,) amply atoned, in their opinion, for such a loss.

This memorable battle lasted from morning till long after mid-day, and the sacking of the field of fight, continued till the next morning’s dawn.

While the infidels were thus employed, a benevolent dervise, whose piety was his authority and his protection, came to seek for such christians as might yet remain capable of receiving assistance: on the bank of the Lucos, among a heap of tall Lentiscos, he caught a gleam of light as if the moon-beams fell upon arms: the dervise stooped, and pushing away the shrubs, applied his lanthorn to the object. It was the figure of a young man, in armour, which bore marks of heavy and repeated blows; over his forehead curled a profusion of hair steeped in blood; the white and polished brow was trenched with a gaping wound, and the countenance lovely in death, was yet embellished by a look of youthful sweetness, which melted the good Mahometan’s heart; he knelt by the body, and gently raising it, dropped balsam upon the wounds; he then poured a cordial into the lips.

Presently he thought the brows were contracted with returning sensation: animated by this, he cautiously unfastened the knight’s cuirass, and opened the silk shirt beneath it; under this he saw the picture of a woman, which carefully putting aside, he exclaimed, “alas! poor youth, here is one, doubtless, that will sorely lament thee!” As he spoke he gently rubbed an aromatic liquid upon the Christian’s chest; the experiment succeeded; by degrees the motion of the heart was apparent--it increased--the body began to glow--and at last the stranger visibly breathed.

Many minutes elapsed ere the benevolent mussulman saw the object of his anxiety unclose his eyes; when he did so, he knew not that in succouring a desolate stranger, he was bringing back to life the king of Portugal, that foe to Mahomet.

Sebastian felt as if in a dream, but the last feeling to which he had been conscious when he fell, was now the first he was sensible of: he thought himself still pressing towards the river in search of Stukeley, and impressed with that idea, uttered his name, and made an effort to rise. Too feeble for exertion of any kind, he fell back upon the breast of the dervise, who in bad Portuguese assured him that he was in safety.

The unfortunate monarch bowed his head with a mournful smile of bitter recollection, without speaking. Meanwhile a servant attending the dervise, formed a litter of oak-branches, covering it with some of these soft, high grasses, which grow abundantly throughout Barbary, and placing Sebastian upon it, assisted his master in bearing him to their dwelling.

This was a retired cave formed by nature’s hand in a rock almost wholly overgrown with flowering shrubs; the entrance was shaded by lofty sycamores, and above it was heard the cooling sound of waters issuing from numerous springs.

Tranquillity, the tranquillity of perfect solitude, surrounded this habitation; Sebastian found himself conveyed through one rocky apartment, into an interior cell where he was laid upon a mattrass, and having some weak cordial given to him, left to repose: his enfeebled powers overcome with this simple nourishment, soon sunk into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

The dervise now and then came to watch his slumbers, but staid not to disturb them: whenever his patient awaked, he administered to him small portions of Tourkia bread melted in wine, (which was easily swallowed thus dissolved) and gently replacing his head upon the cushion of the mattrass, watched to see him sink again into his medicinal slumber.

The sun was at its meridian height the next day, when the king of Portugal fully awoke: the good mussulman sat by his bed-side. “How dost thou feel, my son?” he asked with an air of compassion.

Sebastian drew a sigh from the very depths of his heart. “As one,” he said, after a long pause; “as one deprived of all that makes life precious. Tell me, father, what have become of the Christians? I have yet one Portuguese in Africa?”

“Alas, my son!” replied the dervise, “they are all slain or taken captives; but the great Muley Moloch is fallen--the Xeriffs who fought against him, are also dead; and now his brother reigns in Morocco.”

Sebastian answered by a heavy groan, and threw himself back upon his mattrass: the slaughter of his people, pierced him with unutterable grief; though the consciousness of pious motives, and the certainty that treachery alone had produced defeat, served to reconcile him to himself.

Oppressed with apprehensions for the fate of Stukeley, and overcome with the remembrance of many of his followers whom he had loved, and had seen fall, the unhappy King uttered such deep and doleful groans, that the dervise believing him concerned at the prospect of slavery, bade him be of good cheer, and rest assured that he was still free.

“You are not fallen into the hands of a master, but of a friend,” said the aged man, “I will but detain you, Sir Knight, till I have healed your wounds, and then, with the blessing of our holy prophet, we will journey together to the castle of Tangier: it will not be the first time that Abensallah has conducted an unhappy christian to his countrymen.”

“And art thou a Mahometan?” exclaimed Sebastian, half raising himself with surprise, “how is it that thou breathest the very spirit of our benevolent faith?”

“The same God which spake through the lips of thy _Sidie Messika_,” replied the dervise, “inspires the hearts of all good men: besides, we venerate thy prophet’s moral laws, though Mahomet, a greater prophet than he, arose to outshine his brightness, as he had before outshone that of Moses. We are not so unlike in our faith, young soldier, but we might live in brotherhood on the earth. Would to God! that thy king, Sebastian, had studied his prophet’s laws more, and his spiritual superior’s less!”

“Hold, Moor!” cried the King, “I must not hear you impeach the authority of the representative of St. Peter.”

“Ah, my son!” returned the old man, shaking his grey locks, “dost thou not remember, that when this Peter struck off the ear of Malchus, though in defence of his Lord’s sacred person, thy prophet rebuked his zeal, bidding him put up the sword! How, then, dare the pontiff of Rome turn his sheep-hook into a weapon of offence?”

Struck with the force of this remark, which he was not prepared to answer, and disdaining to parry it, by retorting the bloody intolerance of Mahometanism, Sebastian was silent.

The dervise continued: “But let us not talk of our different creeds at this period; thou art sick and weak, and I should think of thy suffering body.”

The good man then dressed his companion’s wounds afresh, and spread before him palm leaves filled with fruit, together with a cordial drink and some Pharouk bread: by moderately partaking of these, the King was so refreshed, that he found himself able to rise, and walk up and down the cell. As he walked, he conversed courteously with Abensallah, though his discourse was mingled with many sighs, and he frequently lost himself in other thoughts.

The dervise noted his dejected looks with benevolent curiosity. “Thou hast lost, I fear, some dear kinsman in this fatal battle--some brother, or father, perhaps; and thy young heart not yet enured to sorrow.”--

“O, dervise!” exclaimed Sebastian, bursting into an agony of grief, “every living soul in the Christian army were to me like fathers and brothers. My countrymen, my brave countrymen! when you marched on so gallantly, could I have foreseen that I was leading you to----,” he stopped, then suddenly actuated by one of his rash impulses, abruptly added--“Abensallah, you see before you, Sebastian of Portugal.”

The dervise prostrated himself at his feet, “Young monarch, I bow to the lord’s anointed! thy misfortunes are thy security. Let the conduct of Abensallah teach thee hereafter to believe that there may be charity among mussulmen.”

Inexpressibly affected, the King motioned for him to rise, “Abensallah,” he said, squeezing his hand between both his, “Africa has already taught me a lesson I shall never forget: but I did not wage war against your prince from a false notion that he ruled over miscreants. I was actuated by zeal for that religion which, by limiting the prerogative of kings and the obedience of subjects, bestows equal blessings upon both. I would have conquered Africa to have freed her people from tyrannical rulers and tyrannical errors, to have afforded them opportunities of understanding our holy faith; not to have established a new despotism, and swayed with the iron mace of persecution--these ardent hopes are over; you see me here a fugitive, but with God’s leave, a King still.”

As Sebastian spoke the last words, a noble imperiousness sat on his youthful brow, his heart swelled with it, but quickly sunk again at recollection of his companions in arms.

Anxious to learn the fate of Stukeley, he besought the dervise to assist him in ascertaining whether he were dead, or captive; by searching the field of battle he hoped to arrive at some certainty. Abensallah in vain remonstrated against this hazardous enterprize, but no arguments availed with the still imprudent Sebastian; he was therefore reluctantly induced to propose their going on the night of the ensuing day, when all the Moors would be engaged in the celebration of one of their feasts, and the Portuguese monarch might perhaps pass unnoticed in the dress of a servant.

During the remainder of the day, Sebastian carefully attended to all the prescriptions of the dervise, he went soon to rest, and at break of day rose to breathe the air in safety at the mouth of the cave.

But two short days before, how differently had the king of Portugal beheld morning dawn!--then at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by zealous friends, strong in youth, health, and hope: now, a solitary fugitive, like some desolate wretch escaped from ship-wreck or an earth-quake, sunk in despondency, and reduced to infantine feebleness.

As the light spread over the distant plain of Alcazar, and the grey mists rose, from the stream of the Lucos, he could not refrain from shedding some tears, they were sacred to the sorrows of all who had lost friends on that luckless field: his softened heart then turned fondly to the image of Gonsalva, a treasure which yet remained to comfort him under affliction. Its heavenly beauty, the dewy smile which sat upon the lips, the tearful tenderness of the eyes to which a skilful painter had given all the effect of sadness, renovated his fainting spirit; he kissed it repeatedly, exclaiming, “At sight of thee, will not all this be forgotten?”

The appearance of the dervise, checked this lover-like weakness, he concealed his picture, and advanced to meet him.

They proceeded together along a narrow valley, formed by the rocks near the cavern, where frequently resting awhile, they breathed the refreshing air of the trees, and gently returned homeward.

Whenever Abensallah and his servant went to their devotions in the mosque of a neighbouring village, he fastened the entrance of his dwelling, to prevent the intrusion of ill-intentioned persons: he now left his Christian guest, with many intreaties that he would recruit his strength with frequent nourishment, and continue to inhale the fumes of Tauz Argent, a fragrant weed which in those days was esteemed, when burned, sovereign for inward weakness.

Left a whole day alone, the King had leisure to revolve over the extraordinary revolution of his fate: the uprightness of his intentions (for it must be remembered that he measured his conduct by the rules of the church of Rome) seemed to warrant him in believing, that had not the treachery of Hamet interposed, his arms must have been successful, and half Africa rescued from its tyrants: he did not therefore account himself suffering under the wrath of Heaven, confident of whose favor he was again ready to risk his crown and his life if required. The kindness of the dervise appeared little less than a miracle worked for his preservation, and he fondly trusted therefore, that his present misfortunes were but passing trials.

Of the possibility of being betrayed by Abensallah he never once thought, convinced that the man who has performed one act of solid benevolence is incapable of being tempted by any reward to an act of baseness.

As returning strength and calmer reflection continued to banish the gloomy impressions under which he had first entered Abensallah’s cave, his spirit rose with his hopes; he felt as if he could hazard unheard-of perils for the sake of regaining Portugal, and ransoming his captive soldiers. Fain would the sanguine monarch have persuaded himself that most of his troops had escaped to the sea-coast; but amongst these he could not hope to find Stukeley.--Stukeley, who had sworn to follow him either into slavery or death!--

“And my poor little cousin!” he exclaimed aloud, “What is become of him?--Ah noble boy, thou hast gained thy wish-perhaps!--yet surely these barbarians would not kill a child!”--he sighed profoundly as he spoke, for his heavy heart denied the confidence of his words.

Racked with fearful impatience, to him the day seemed insufferably long: his devotions were merely short ejaculations breathed over a plain cross of the order of Christus, which he had worn under his cuirass, yet never at the foot of the golden crucifix in the church of his ancestors, and surrounded by all the religious in Portugal, had he prayed with such warmth or sincerity.

Abensallah did not appear to interrupt his meditations, till night was begun: cautiously entering, he crossed the first chamber, and advancing to the interior cell, saw with satisfaction that his guest was safe. “Alla be praised!” he exclaimed, “I had fears for thee my son; for the robbers of the mountains sometimes plunder even the dwellings of poor solitaries.--We may now venture forth; every one is enjoying the last hours of their feast, and we are, sure to pass unseen.”

Sebastian gratefully thanked him, and taking off the coarse vest and cloak with which the dervise had replaced his uneasy coat of mail, exchanged them for the still meaner attire of Ismael the servant. At the mouth of the valley he saw a mule tied to a tree, which Abensallah had provided for him to ride; this humane attention touched the King; he was, indeed, ill able to walk far, but it cost him an effort to accept such accommodation, when the venerable man had no other support than his staff.

It may truly be said, that at the period which brought him to the knowledge of Abensallah, Sebastian first tasted the sweet bitterness of obligation.--Gratitude is a sentiment unknown to Kings; for having all things in their power, they learn to believe that they have a right to command all things. Sebastian, now stripped of that power, began to feel the original equality of man, and found his heart warmed by a perception of pure benevolence, hitherto unknown: from this perception flowed nobler notions of human nature in general, which made him welcome his new emotion of gratitude, not only as honorable but delightful.