Chapter IV: Part 4

The moon shone cloudless above the rocks and rivulets which lay between the cave and Alcazar; brightening the tops of the high palms, while the ground beneath their branches was thrown into deep shadow. Some fortresses, (visible from afar,) gave an air of warlike severity to the scene. Sebastian proceeded in silence, for his thoughts were now busied with mournful anticipations: Abensallah spoke not, and nothing disturbed the universal stillness but remote bursts of rejoicing from the Moorish villages.

As they moved among steep and thickly-wooded hills, a new and horrid sound made the King pause, and look enquiringly at the dervise: “That comes from amidst the unburied slain;” Abensallah faulteringly observed--“It is the howling of hyenas and tygers.” While speaking, he took a small harquebuss from under his garment, and prepared to load it.

For the first time in his life Sebastian’s cheek was completely blanched and his nerves shaken; the ghastly image those words had raised, momentarily unmanned him, but recovering, by a violent effort, he quickened the pace of his mule, and came direct upon the plain of Alcazar.

The moon shining above the arms and armour of the dead, covered them with a sheet of light: Sebastian hastily put his hand to his eyes, and remained a few moments without courage to look again; but at the explosion of Abensallah’s harquebuss, he raised his head and beheld the beasts of prey which that sound had alarmed, hurrying away, with backward glare from their horrid banquet.

The dervise’s harquebuss was re-loaded and again fired, till every savage animal had disappeared; he then assisted his shuddering companion to dismount, and having fastened the mule to a tree, supported him across the plain.

Their steps were soon impeded by scattered groups of horses and riders, that had evidently perished in flight: these groups become more frequent, till at length the ground was no where visible.

As Sebastian knelt down among these perishing bodies, his senses were nearly overcome with their noisome exhalations and ghastly appearance: some of them were half devoured by the wolves, and every trace of the _divine image_ fearfully effaced: except by their shields and the caparisons of their horses, he could not have known his most intimate associates.

Grief and horror become now too strong for outward expression; Sebastian neither spoke nor sighed, but moved from heap to heap with fixed eyes and a wan cheek: sometimes he forgot his errand, and remained gazing on a confusion of bodies, banners, and arms, till the voice of the dervise recalled him. “This is a lesson for Kings!”--said Abensallah;--Sebastian shuddered, and at that moment felt as if his single hand had murdered every victim before him: his countenance expressed this sentiment so strongly, that the dervise sought to change the current of his feelings by suggesting, that his friend might have escaped, since they had not yet found his corpse.--Revived by this suggestion, the unfortunate monarch rallied his scattered spirits and proceeded in his painful task.

Advancing a little onward, he stumbled against the venerable bodies of the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, lying together, embracing the staff of a standard, which had belonged to the holy banner: a few paces beyond these, among a heap of swarthy moors,

“Like some white poppy sunk upon the plain,
Whose heavy head was overcharged with rain,”

lay his page, Diego. The noble boy had been killed at the moment his master’s Arabian was shot, and now lay stretched out beneath it.

At this piteous sight Sebastian’s heart was wrung with an excess of regret; he burst vehemently into tears, and bending to the fair body as he raised it, repeatedly kissed the half-closed eyes: their conversation on the morning of the battle was present to him again.--Vain prophesy! here was its fulfilment!--

Overcome with this recollection, and with the thought of Diego’s parents, Sebastian staggered as he arose, and was forced to catch at the dervise for support; another shock awaited him; his eye fell on the mangled body of Count Vimiosa: his limbs now shook violently, and the idea of Donna Gonsalva’s grief, displaced every other image. Shocked by his looks, the dervise caught his arm and hurried him away.

Insensible to any outward sensation, the King suffered himself to be led along, till suddenly starting from his stupor, he found that they were many paces from the slain. Abensallah would not hear of returning, “We must pass three nights there instead of one,” said he, “before we can examine half that woeful field.--Let us return then, my son, trusting that the same merciful providence which succoured thee, has preserved thy friend. Sorrow and fatigue overcome thee--lean on my shoulder--if we can but reach yonder tower, its walls will shelter us.”

Without answering, Sebastian turned his head back and fixed an earnest look upon the wide scene of slaughter behind them: fire kindled on his cheek, and in his eyes:--it suddenly blazed out.--“Accursed beyond hope of mercy,” he cried, “is the soul of him whose treachery caused all these to perish! from this plain their blood will cry aloud for vengeance, even at the last dreadful day!”

Exhausted with this momentary transport, the enfeebled monarch suffered his head to fall against the shoulder of Abensallah, who seized the opportunity of drawing him towards a resting place. The watch-tower in ruins, and shaded by high cypress trees, stood dark and noiseless; as they approached it, the sound of their steps alarmed some goats that had lain down there, and they bounded away: in their flight they rolled along a broken helmet, which Sebastian immediately recognized; breaking from Abensallah, he flew to an object under the tower, and beheld the corpse of Stukeley.--Throwing himself on the body and clasping it in his arms, he exclaimed, “O gallant Stukeley, and art thou too, fallen!”

The accidental circumstance of having perished alone, removed from the contagion of other bodies, and sheltered from hot winds by the tower and the trees, had preserved the chivalric Englishman from any change: his features were indeed paler than when in life, but the same character of wild sublimity was impressed on them. It seemed as if the soul, in quitting its mortal habitation had left there the eternal impress of its own greatness.

The armour of Stukeley was completely rusted with blood, by his side lay a lance shivered to pieces, and his hand still grasped a broken battle-axe.

Abensallah lifted up the helmet his companion had dropped, and saw that it was beat in upon the top, as if with repeated blows of a mace: he gently replaced it on the ground.

Meanwhile Sebastian hung over the remains of his friend in an agony of blasted hopes, bitter retrospections, and unavailing regrets: it was long ere he could command this tide of grief; but recovering by degrees, he rose with a calmer air, and besought the dervise to lend his aid in committing the honored clay to earth.

Without hesitation the charitable Mahometan consented to carry the slaughtered warrior to his own dwelling, and there see him peacefully buried.

“Moor!” exclaimed the young King, with passionate gratitude, “Should I live to regain my kingdom, and with it my African possessions, your countrymen will owe to you blessings and privileges hitherto unknown.”

Abensallah called on Allah to witness this promise, then hastened away to bring the mule.

When Sebastian was left alone, he threw himself along the ground by Stukeley’s body, and remained stedfastly looking on it: the well-known face, the still ruin, the melancholy midnight, and the destructive plain before him, together with the mournful sound of a neighbouring rivulet, deepened the desolate sadness of that moment: he fastened his lips on the chilling hand of his unconscious friend, while the hollow echo of his own sighs rung through the neighbouring chambers.

Abensallah found him in the same mournful attitude. Having assisted each other in placing Stukeley’s corse on the mule, they proceeded slowly, by a longer though less toilsome way than they had come, to the rocks.

When they reached the cave, Sebastian was so sick from the fretting of his wounds, that he could with difficulty gain its entrance: Ismael met them, and lifted their lamented burthen into the second chamber. There the king watched it for the remaining hours, while Ismael and the dervise were digging the last bed of the hero.

Two hours after day light the grave was finished, Stukeley was buried with his sword and spurs, as the peculiar badges of knighthood, which was supposed swift to succour and strong to avenge; his body was wrapped in a coarse shroud of Moorish cloth, but his head was uncovered; the thick glossy hair gave beauty still to the now marble features:--Sebastian thought of the time when he had hoped to have decorated that majestic head with a crown.

When the grave was closed, he placed upon it a rude cross of wood which he had shaped during the night, and kneeling down by it pronounced a prayer for the gallant soul. Abensallah and Ismael moved away.

Rising from his knees, the young King attentively surveyed the place, that he might remember it at a future day; it was particularized by a few marks not easily forgotten: the place itself was a narrow recess turning out of the valley; it was half encircled by perpendicular heights of stupendous steepness, the sides of which were only clothed with mosses, and at their feet flowed an inconsiderable rivulet; towards the lower end grew a cluster of locust trees, between which and the mountain rose Stukeley’s grave.--So concealed, it was not likely that any human eye would ever discover or disturb the sacred cross.

Somewhat soothed by this thought, and the consciousness of having performed the last duties to a faithful friend, Sebastian rejoined the dervise with less emotion. “We must now dismiss painful recollections,” said the worthy Abensallah, “let us think of nothing, my son, but your perfect recovery and your safe conveyance from Africa.”

“Ah father,” exclaimed Sebastian, “you speak like a man without hopes and without regrets!--Your holy life, exempt from particular affections or selfish wishes, places _you_ beyond the reach of that grief which renders it impossible for me _to dismiss painful recollections_.”

“I am not, therefore, free from sorrow,” replied the dervise, “heedless youth! I do mourn--but it is for human nature in general: alas, I mourn more for its frailties than for its miseries.”

“True--true--” repeated Sebastian, smiting his breast--“you say right, Abensallah; had we no errors we should have but few sufferings.”

Our dervise, more solicitous to impress humane sentiments than eager to propagate peculiar tenets, seized this opportunity of discoursing with much wisdom upon the duties of a sovereign: his companion listened with attention and replied with frankness.

He detailed with simplicity some of his own plans for diffusing comfort in more equal proportions through all ranks of his subjects, and noted the salutary reforms already made by him in the Portuguese government; he described the liberal mode in which he had intended to conduct his African conquests, mixing these details with so many just and noble observations, that Abensallah could not help lamenting the battle of Alcazar.

To have lived under the rule of a King (though Christian,) who would have ameliorated the Moor’s condition by parental care, and sought to win them into schools and churches, without prohibiting their mosques, appeared an object of desire, when compared with the grinding tyranny of their native Xeriffs, and the brutish ignorance to which their laws condemned them.

Abensallah continued to hear his royal guest with that complacent pleasure with which virtuous old age perceives generous principles in youth; but he had lived long enough in the world to know that youth does not always act in conformity with its principles, nay, that its most amiable qualities may be wrought by interested persons into a foundation for the opposite vices. So blindly devoted to the infallibility of papal authority, and so abhorrent of any religion which disputed it, Abensallah rightly doubted whether Sebastian, in the event of complete success, would have persevered in his system of moderation: intolerant persecution might have been easily brought to bear the aspect of religious duty, and that commanded or recommended by a spiritual superior, would soon have swept away every barrier opposed by a character naturally candid.

Such reflections as these, by teaching the dervise to consider his companions’ misfortunes as a necessary discipline, silenced any further regret; yet Sebastian’s sweet and animated manner had so won upon his affections, that he could not help exclaiming, “I shall be loth to part with thee, my son; but we shall meet again in paradise.”

Touched by such kindness, the king pressed Abensallah to accompany him into Portugal, adding to many arguments the entreaties and promises of a grateful spirit, conscious of possessing in his own dominions the means of fulfilling them all.

“Did I live only for myself, answered the dervise, I should perhaps gladly leave a land where I see nothing but misery, but the more miserable it is, the more I am called upon to remain. My holy profession, and the peaceful life I lead, gives me frequent opportunities of assisting captives to escape, or of conveying intelligence from them to the Christian fortresses; if the old man of the rocks were gone, what would become of these poor strangers?--Added to this, I am frequently able to terminate the bloody feuds of my countrymen--to restore harmony amongst brethren, and bring back rebellious children to their parents; these are my treasures, King! which would be poorly exchanged for all your benefits. I shall however, bless you daily; and I will preserve from injury the grave of your departed friend.”

At this mention of Stukeley, clouds gathered over the face of Sebastian; making an effort to dispel them, he hastily uttered some grateful expressions, and then discoursed upon the means of discovering such of his subjects as might have survived the battle.

Abensallah promised to make diligent search for such captives, and to use all his influence for their release.

Sebastian squeezed his hand, exclaiming with generous warmth, “Slacken not your exertions Abensallah for the meanest of my people; I stand indebted to every man whom I brought from Portugal for his liberty. If I part with the whole of my revenue, pawn the jewels of my crown, make myself a debtor to half the monarchs in Christendom, and after all, become a beggar throughout my own dominions for contributions and gifts, I will do it to ransom these gallant sufferers.--Should I reach Lisbon, my first step will be to raise money and send it over to the governor of Tangier; from his hands you will then receive whatever sums may be needful.”

“And should I in my inquiry, find Christians of other nations, perhaps aged men bowed down with sorrow and toil, languishing to die in their native land--”

“Ransom them--ransom them!” interrupted Sebastian, tears glistering in his eyes, “first restore liberty to my Portuguese, for remember, freedom is a debt I owe them--then take all the superflux, and purchase with it happiness for others. There are two noble Portuguese, Abensallah, whom I pray you to search for with a father’s anxiety: one is my dearly-loved cousin, the prior of Crato, the other Don Emanuel de Castro; he saved my life at Alcazar. When you find these, shew them this ring, and say that he who gave it you, is alive, and then I hope, in Portugal.”

“How shall I know these gallant gentlemen?” asked the dervise, “you may know Don Emanuel de Castro,” replied Sebastian, “from all the world: though you should behold him in the vilest habit and employment, yet will such an air of nobleness shine through them, that you cannot help discovering in him an extraordinary man. He is of larger proportions than I, his visage oval and full of thought, his complexion dark olive, his eyes dark grey, somewhat melancholy but very sweet; on his left hand he has a deep scar, got in the wars of India.

“The prior of Crato is of a different mould: though some years older than De Castro, he has preserved almost the roundness and floridness of boyhood; his fair curling hair, light blue eyes, and jovial manner, will soon point him out: he will rejoice to see this ring!--and so will De Castro,” added the King, after a pause, “as it is a token of my safety, he will rejoice, though it was a gift of Gonsalva’s.”

“’Tis a fanciful ring for a warrior,” observed the dervise, curiously eying the bauble, which after the gaudy fashion of those times was formed by various precious stones into a miniature garland of flowers.

“Oh father!” exclaimed Sebastian, passionately fixing his eyes on it also, “that ring was given me by the loveliest and most beloved of women.--I have no other token to send to my friends, or I would not part with that--it must serve too, as a pledge for the governor of Tangier: she who gave it knows I would have defended it with my life, and therefore would not resign it but for the sake of fulfilling a duty.”

Hurried away in thought to the beautiful creature whom this incident recalled, Sebastian forgot every thing else and sunk into silence: he dwelt with tender delight upon the unequivocal proof she had given him of her attachment, which bestowed and avowed ere she could suspect his royal station, carried with them the charm of disinterestedness. He then reproached himself for those fantastic jealousies to which he had sometimes given way, when he saw her dancing with another, and confessed now, that her apparent insensibility at times, had arisen only from a little female coquetry, delighting in power, and willing to prove its extent.

Thus satisfied with her affection, he felt no apprehension of being coldly received, because he returned not a conqueror; the Moors themselves attested his gallant conduct in the field, and the brilliant success of their onset had shewn, that but for the perfidy of Hamet, the day would have been won by the Christians.--What then had he to fear? perhaps given up as lost, he would return to revive his Gonsalva’s widowed heart; she would love him the more for his dangers and distresses, and that delicate pride which had stifled the expressions of tenderness to a powerful, splendid monarch, would impel her to the same monarch, become poor and unfortunate.

Observing his guest absorbed in reflections, which from the expression of his countenance did not appear unpleasant, the worthy Abensallah gently removed into his outer chamber, for the purpose of giving audience to some distressed people who came to implore his counsel.--Meanwhile Sebastian remained leaning on his rude couch, his ideas wandering from late sorrow, over the enchanted ground of the more distant past, till gently wearied, thought glided into dreams, and dreams at last ended in long and profound sleep.

The wounds of Sebastian and his consequent feebleness now daily disappeared, and Abensallah was therefore enabled to make longer excursions from the cave, for the sake of gaining information for his guest: his habitation, always considered sacred, was not likely to excite suspicion as a Christian’s hiding place; and even if it did so, the inner apartment was a secure retreat, being so contrived as to deceive the most prying observer.--Ismael’s fidelity had been too often tried in similar circumstances to be doubted now, so that Abensallah left him without apprehension, to attend Sebastian; whom, however, he knew only as a Portuguese knight.

On the good dervise’s return from Alcazar-quiver, he brought strange intelligence.--After the fatal battle, Hamet Abdulcrim, the new emperor, had strictly enquired for the King of Portugal; he was told that he had fallen: this assertion having been made by Don Nugno De Mascarenhas, the King’s chief equerry, he was sent to the field in order that he might produce a proof of his veracity by finding the King’s body.

In the place he described, was indeed found a corpse in green armour, much maimed and disfigured: the Portuguese who saw it, confessed it to be that of their sovereign, and therefore assured Hamet Abdulcrim that any farther search for Sebastian alive, was useless.--Information of his nephew’s death was now forwarded to Philip of Spain, (the late Xeriff having been in alliance with him,) and when Abensallah heard the tale, a messenger from Madrid was hourly expected to beg the body, and to procure the release of some Castillian prisoners.

On first hearing this account, Sebastian’s inflammable blood took fire, for he believed himself wilfully abandoned by his people; but the next instant made him cool again. It was impossible not to perceive that Marcarenhas, who had always loved his master, could be only actuated by the desire of facilitating his concealment in Barbary, should he be living, and seeking the means of escape; this well-meant deceit had evidently given a hint to the other persons examined by the Xeriff, and to it, probably Sebastian might finally owe his preservation.

Neither the King nor the dervise could approve of absolute falsehood; though they were tempted to think it excusable, under such peculiar circumstances as the present, flowing as it did from loyal zeal and patriotic considerations.

Alarmed at the diffusion of such an error throughout Europe, Sebastian’s anxiety to revisit Portugal became extreme; but as they must travel on foot, Abensallah assured him that it would be culpable rashness to commence a long journey before he was completely restored to health; Arzile, the nearest Christian fortress, lay at some leagues distance, and to avoid notice, they must take a circuitous route thither, hiding themselves in the day, and proceeding through the changeable air of night.

Sebastian’s impatient nature was ill-suited to any delay, but necessity is an imperious mistress; he was therefore obliged to turn his attention towards acquiring health; and by obliging Abensallah on that point, facilitate the hour of their departure.

Each night and morning he now tried his strength among the mountains, in excursions of increasing length, gradually habituating himself to heat, fatigue, and evening damps: his wounds were at last thoroughly healed, and even the dervise could no longer refuse assent to the fresh glow that began to mantle on his cheek.

Sebastian’s eagerness had nobler sources than selfish satisfaction; he lamented every hour thus wasted at a distance from the kingdom where all his duties were centred, he wished to ease the hearts of such as mourned him dead, and above all to commence the promised work of liberation for his followers: it must be confessed that the prospect of again beholding Donna Gonsalva, and of restoring her to happiness, gave additional ardour to those honourable anxieties.

When his importunity finally prevailed on Abensallah to fix the day for their departure, pleasure sparkled in his eyes; it was the first time pleasure had appeared there since he had seen the dervise.

“Ah my son!” exclaimed the holy man, “thou must suffer many more sorrows I fear, ere the spirit that breaks forth in that bright light is finally quenched.”

“And why should it be quenched?” asked the young monarch.

“Because, replied Abensallah, it is full of an extravagant hope of such unfading raptures as are only to be found in paradise. ’Tis the very spirit of youth which falsely believes all it loves, immutable: Time that shews thee the mutability of every thing, even of human character (for alas! how insecure sometimes is virtue herself,) will extinguish, or give a new direction to this erring fire.--Hast thou my son never felt, even in the midst of what is called felicity, a sort of feebleness in thy power of enjoyment, which seemed to make happiness mock thy very grasp? commune with a beloved friend, behold this glorious scene of earth and heaven, and thou wilt acknowledge, even at the moment of liveliest emotion, that in all sublunary things we feel the want of some faculty by which we might enjoy or possess them more intimately: this faculty, whatever it may be, is doubtless reserved for another state of being. Turn and plant thy thoughts then on sublimer objects: with views thus changed, thou wilt no longer hurry impatiently through life, in search of that blessedness for which our souls are expressly formed, but will journey calmly on towards the eternal abiding place, where our Creator treasures up for the faithful, raptures ineffable.”

“I am not unmindful of that glorious eternity, be assured, good father,” returned the King, “yet I frankly acknowledge, that unless I were to believe in the permanence of human excellence, long known and long tried, life would not merely lose its charm, but become hateful to me. In yon humble grave lies one, who, had he lived, I could have anchored my soul on. Yes, gallant Stukeley! our knot of love was soon broken, but the memory of thy noble and endearing qualities can never leave me!”

At this short apostrophe to his friend, Sebastian’s animation disappeared, and a train of reflections succeeded, well calculated to amend and to enlarge his heart.

The ensuing night having been fixed on for their journey, Abensallah and Ismael went in the evening of the present day, to a neighbouring village, for the purchase of such portable provisions as would be requisite to take with him: left free to range over the valley, Sebastian’s steps naturally turned to the resting place of his friend, as he was so soon to quit it never to return; but it was among his mental promises to have the honoured dust transferred to Portugal when he should return thither.

The shadows of evening were now deepening, the gloom of the rocks as he passed along; though the sun had been long set, the air burnt like a furnace; the ground too was scorching; and the colour of the verdure being lost in the grey of twilight, contributed with this unrelenting heat, to give an air of savage sterility to the scene.

Dried up by powerful suns, the mountain stream was known only by its stony channel; Sebastian hastily crossed it, and pushing through the matted boughs of the locust trees, a solitary bird shot from amongst them, and startled him with her piercing cry; long after she was flown, he stood listening to her fearful echo.

What a spot for the last bed of a hero! yet Stukeley slept in it undisturbed!

Never before, had death been so impressed on the senses of the young monarch. The desolation of the place, its now awful stillness, the deepening twilight, the devouring element by which he was surrounded, (for he knew not how to deem it air) and the strong contrast to them in his own animated hopes and busy thoughts, agitated him strangely; he stood as if transfixed, gazing on the mound of earth, without venturing to pollute what seemed to him so sacred, even by an embrace.

He was roused from this trance by the sound of voices; one resembled that of the dervise, and it was calling on Alla for succour: regardless of personal risque (though unarmed,) Sebastian rushed into the valley, and soon reached the spot whence these cries proceeded; an aged Moor was struggling with a band of robbers; though not Abensallah, he could not refrain from bursting upon the plunderers, and attacking them with the limb of a tree, which, blown off by some storm, had lain luckily in his path.

The blows of this unwieldy club, falling with inconceivable rapidity on every side, soon obliged the robbers to quit their prey, and turn on their new antagonist; they surrounded him, attacked him fiercely with their horrid knives, and one of them, succeeding in stabbing him behind, he dropped from loss of blood.

Enraged at the escape of their first victim, (a rich merchant, who had been coming to ask the prayers of Abensallah,) the Alarbes, or mountain dwellers, as they are called, were on the point of wholly sacrificing the royal Portuguese to their vengeance, when a faint flash of lightning cast a gleam over his breast, and discovered through the folds of his coarse galebia, the costly setting of Donna Gonsalva’s picture; the head of the band immediately seized this precious prize, and soon lost in admiration of the diamonds all ideas of slaughter; he now ordered _the Christian dog_ (as he scornfully termed his captive,) to be lifted on a mule, directing one of the men to bandage his wound, and ride on the same beast.

Totally unconscious of what was doing, having fainted from effusion of blood, the ill-starred monarch was lifted up, and placed before one of the Alarbes; the fellow spurred his beast, and followed by the whole troop, set off on full gallop out of the valley.

CHAP. V.

When Sebastian was again capable of observation, he found himself in the heart of almost impenetrable mountains, surrounded by savage tribes, living in tents made of the bark and leaves of the palm-tree. These wretches seemed to have just as much civilization amongst them as rendered their vices more hideous, by taking from them the plea of ignorance: their business was plunder and murder; their pleasures, drunkenness and debauchery.

The habits of such a people were a constant source of horror and indignation to Sebastian; of their barbarous jargon indeed he knew nothing, but the force of these robbers’ passions imparted a detestable expressiveness to every action of their bodies and features, which made him but too well comprehend their ferocity and their profligacy.

Hitherto a surly old woman had dressed his wound, and supplied him with food, and from her he vainly attempted to obtain by signs Donna Gonsalva’s picture: she either did not or would not understand him.

Maddened by this loss, and desperate of release, ignorant of the place where he was, and hopeless therefore of escaping, he began to disregard life: neither the threats nor the violence of the Alarbes prevailed to alter his resolution of never submitting to the base occupations they assigned him; he was a monarch still, though deprived of his people and of liberty; and whether he lived or died, he was resolved to live or die undebased by submission to miscreants.

The firmness with which he endured all their torments, at first astonished, and at length exasperated, his brutal captors; they suffered him to behold the beautiful image of Gonsalva (now robbed of its setting) polluted by their brutish admiration, but steadily withheld it, in defiance of his frantic entreaties, his rash attempts to regain it, or his offer of treasures in exchange.

One day when Sarhamet the chief had exasperated him beyond controul, by deridingly kissing the picture, his fury burst forth so fearfully, that the Alarbe sprung out of his reach, and hastily dashed the contested object into one of the neighbouring torrents: nothing short of regaining his treasure could have given the captive King such joy; his wrath suddenly ceased, he dropt the arm just raised to elance a mortal blow, and approaching the torrent, beheld with satisfaction the divine colours of the portrait effaced by its foaming waters; he then turned quietly away, and returned to his former station.

Tranquillized by the certainty that his Gonsalva’s representative was thus rescued from profanation, he was able to controul his indignation at other circumstances, and to strive at obtaining his own freedom; but though he endeavoured to explain to these banditti, that if they would convey him to a Christian fortress they should be liberally paid, and loaded with gifts, they either did not comprehend, or much mistrusted his veracity: at length, wearied, out by his stedfast character, and tempted by the great price given for handsome Europeans by the Moorish grandees, Sarhamet meditated selling him.

This information, which was meant to vex, rather gratified their prisoner; to be again brought into the plains, was to be once more placed within prospect of liberty, and chance of meeting the reverend Abensallah: Sebastian’s health returned with hope; for though his last wound had been deep, it had been skilfully managed; and the purity of a good constitution, adding force to an invincible spirit, enabled him to bear without injury the piercing mountain air, and the frequent fasts to which the Alarbes had wantonly doomed him.

His improving looks quickened the eagerness of Sarhamet for selling him: solicitous to secure the moment of procuring a high price for his captive, the robber selected a dozen followers, and mounting them and Sebastian upon stout Barbs, set off with them one morning by day break, for the country house of a Moorish grandee.

Sarhamet and his brother rode on each side of the King; they were armed with guns and Moorish knives, and made signs to him, that if he attempted to escape, he must inevitably fall by the hands of the troops escorting them, whose naked weapons were placed in their girdles ready for that purpose:--Sebastian smiled, and motioned acquiescence; but it was a grievous smile, “as if he disdained himself” for so submitting to fortune.

Their journey was long and wearisome: the Alarbes, enured to every change of climate, travelled indifferently through nightly dews and noon-day heats; sometimes they halted after a burning day, upon the very summit of a snow-topt mountain, where they supped, and slept, with no other covering than the clouds; at other times they would journey through the night, and lay themselves to rest in valleys, among scorching rocks, that reflected thrice the heat of the sun.

Sebastian contemplated this iron strength, with something like envy: by rendering a man’s body independent, it gives additional stability to the freedom of his mind; he felt conscious that, had he been thus disciplined into invulnerable strength, he might have attempted, and perhaps effected his escape: but the intense heats had re-opened his last wound, and had in consequence so reduced his natural vigour, that he could not hope to succeed, though he should master two Alarbes who constantly watched him while the others slept. Completely unarmed, and cautiously removed from the spot where the horses were fastened, he was aware, that a contest with one Moor must awaken the others, and that he should perish under their daggers long before he could meet any shelter: by acquiescing at present, he might obtain his object hereafter; in the neighbourhood of a populous city, less hazardous means might be found, and Providence might again throw Abensallah in his way, or some christian friend, with whom he might share in an attempt at mutual deliverance.

These thoughts often occupied him, as he rested or rode among his ferocious companions; and still hope filled his sanguine breast, pointing to his country and to Gonsalva.

From the length of their journey, Sebastian conjectured that his late residence had been at the extremity of the Benzeroel mountains; he had therefore been in the same tract of country with the benevolent dervise, and was now far distant from him: at thought of never seeing him again, his feelings saddened, gliding naturally from Abensallah to the gallant Stukeley, and thence to the slaughter of Alcazar.

On the fourteenth day, Sarhamet exchanged his prisoner’s worn-out galebia for a coarse, but more becoming habit, telling him that they were on the point of finishing their career: Sebastian for the first time enquired the name and rank of the person to whom they were now going; he learnt in reply, that he was the Almoçadem of a cavila, (that is, governor of a province) high in favour of the reigning Xeriff, (having ably assisted in securing him the throne) and highly respected throughout Barbary. His dwelling was in the Valley of Palms, a delightful place, nearly three leagues beyond Mequinez.

After bathing, and re-dressing themselves, the whole party mounted their horses, and proceeded down a winding declivity into a most luxuriant vale: the country-house of El Hader lay before them. Having been a royal gift, the building was a moorish Cassavee of much magnificence, covering with its interior gardens, squares, piazzas, and baths, an extent of four miles. Sebastian paused awhile, admiring its rude splendor.

The high dome of green and gold, the tall cypress trees which appeared rising above the gilded railings of the squares, the fountains of white and azure marble, the gay piazzas chequered with coloured tiles, the lofty columns and massy arches, all presented a semblance of regal grandeur, which made his heart spring back to Ribera and Xabregas. The contrast of his situation now, with what it had been when in those beloved places, almost unmanned him; their scenes were so associated with the idea of Donna Gonsalva, that it was impossible for him not to heave some profound sighs as he entered the dwelling of a Moorish nobleman, a prisoner and a slave.

Sarhamet, with his brother and their captive, was admitted into a lower hall of the Cassavee, whence they were soon after led into the presence of the Almoçadim.

As the young and imperious King of Portugal passed through a crowd of Moors to the audience chamber of El Hader, and reflected that he was going to be sold for a price, like some ignoble animal, his heart might well be said to “grow too big for what contained it;” he was on the point of madly rushing upon all surrounding him, and so purchasing freedom with life. Had he not happily remembered that Portugal claimed a sacrifice at his hands, and that it was his duty to suffer, in the hope of living to repair the unintentional calamity he had caused her, his rashness must have transported him into violence that would have ended in his own destruction.

Fervently calling on every saint to endue him with patience, he walked slowly after Sarhamet, with a resolution of no longer observing the minutiæ of his fate: thus influenced, he scarcely noticed the approbation of El Hader and his retainers, but stood silent, wrapped up in his cloak, wilfully inattentive to the long bargaining of the Alarbe, and the enormous price at length paid down for him.

When the bargain was concluded, Sarhamet departed; the Almoçadem then addressed his new slave in vile Portuguese, telling him to adore Alla, for having advanced him to so high an honour as that of serving the greatest man throughout the Xeriff’s dominions; promising, in consideration of the christian’s fine appearance, to make him one of his household slaves.

The sentence of death would have been more grateful to Sebastian than this degrading favour. What! was he, a christian king, the descendant of kings, to wait upon an accursed infidel, and learn obedience to his nod? No, he would rather perish, he would suffer for his beloved country and for his friends all that pain, sorrow, and want, could inflict, he would for their sakes bend to almost any mortification; but it was impossible for him to yield to base servitude, and become the domestic servant of a Mahometan. Resolute to die in this determination, he calmly repeated it to El Hader, protesting he would only labour in the manly occupation of really useful work, the employments of the field.

The Almoçadem was a good-humoured, indolent man, not easily moved to wrath; surprized, therefore, but not irritated, he turned to his interpreter, bidding him ask the foolish christian if he knew the difference between a household and a field slave. The man who repeated the question, ended it by an explanation of the situations, assuring Sebastian, that if he remained in the Cassavee he would be superbly dressed, delicately fed, and comfortably lodged; that all his business would be to wait at his lord’s back with his hookha, or ride out when he went a hunting, with his lances and arrows: that, on the contrary, if he persisted in joining the field slaves, he would be doomed to hard fare, and worse lodging, and be urged to the most laborious tasks by stripes and blows.

At the last words, Sebastian’s eyes sparkled with fury, “Mark me, Moor!” he cried in a dreadful voice, “I am a man that will not survive disgrace: by the immortal heavens! if but the shadow of one of your whips ever falls upon this body, I will wash out the stain in blood! Beware then!”

The Africans looked on each other with astonishment: the Almoçadem smiled. “We shall see! we shall see!” he repeated carelessly, “if you do your duty I give orders that you shall not be beaten; but I must have all my slaves do their duty; so do you hear, don’t abuse my goodness by insolence and idleness. What are you, young man?--How did you get into that rogue, Sarhamet’s hands?--Were you one of the mad-headed followers of the mad King Sebastian?”

The captive monarch’s blood crimsoned his face: “I _was_ in the battle of Alcazar,” he said proudly, “and were I free this moment, would again follow the royal-standard of Portugal over the plains of Barbary. The mad Sebastian, as you call him, on that day made the stoutest hearts in Morocco tremble.--May he live to make them quake again! I saw your routed Moors flying before him like scattered sheep!--the field was ours, till one of your infidel race, the detested Muley Hamet, turned like a traitor upon the troops he was affecting to aid.--”

“He did right,” interrupted El Hader, “by so doing he made his peace with Mahomet, and gained Paradise. But how could your hot-brained King build on the faith of a man who had broken his faith with the prophet by leaguing with christians? Ah! I see that touches you,--well, they are both gone to settle their accounts together in the other world.”

As he concluded, the Almoçadem turned to his interpreter, “Ephra, we must give this christian fool his choice; you know I am always desirous of leaving my slaves to experience.--Conduct him to field-work; and then, if he continues to despise the honor of attending upon me here, we must leave him to his fate.--Bid him withdraw.”

As El Hader rose while he was speaking, Sebastian naturally coincided with the movement, and turned away; he was therefore spared the mortification of being told to depart.

Ephra conducted him towards a long piazza, through which they passed into a large paved court, where several slaves were refreshing themselves between their hours of labour: struggling with his imperious nature, the unhappy monarch neither saw nor heard any thing, till a passionate exclamation, in pure Portuguese, struck his ear; he turned hastily round and beheld a young man, (whose face he remembered to have seen amongst his troops,) who dropping upon one knee, repeated in whispers--“O sire! what a change is this.”

Many and powerful were the reasons of Sebastian for remaining unknown to the Moors, but his feelings, ever superior to selfish prudence, now mocked controul; he stopt, and extended both his hands, which the soldier eagerly kissed; he would have spoken, but the words died on his lips: the Portuguese recovering from his transport of mixed emotion, into sorrow and habitual reverence, fearfully relinquished his sovereign’s hand, and turned aside to conceal some tears: Ephra rudely advanced and asked the meaning of this scene.

Before Sebastian could reply, the young soldier gently answered, that he was overcome by unexpectedly finding his commanding officer in the new slave, then he prayed permission to converse with him awhile, after which he would return to his occupations with redoubled diligence.

Ephra was a man not easily moved: he coldly denied this indulgence, telling the Portuguese to mind his present superiors and forget his past ones, adding sarcastically, “whoever your captain is, whether Don or Hidalgo, he is now a slave like yourself.”

Without venturing to remonstrate, the poor youth bowed and disappeared, while Ephra morosely continued to precede his royal companion.

Every thing now was unnoticed by Sebastian: this accidental meeting with one of his subjects had subdued him; the sound of those few words pronounced in their native accent, brought into his mind such crouds of tender and affecting images, that his heart was compleatly softened: until this moment he had felt utterly abandoned, and now the unexpected proof of being still loved and honored, even by one he might be said to have injured, affected him to weakness.

It _was_ the weakness of Sebastian to wish for the love of his fellow creatures: time, only, could teach him to be contented with their esteem.

Having conducted his melancholy companion through the obscurest parts of the Cassavee, Ephra brought him into a large square of ground surrounded by mean buildings, where a number of Christians were at work: this place contained the slaves’ habitations, and was under the direction of a governor, whose office it was to see the several tasks fulfilled, and at night to lock up all the captives in their miserable lodgings.

At sight of a new victim, this man came forward; “Here, Ben Tarab,” cried Ephra, “our illustrious master has sent you this refractory Christian to teach obedience; give him work, and see that he does not attempt to escape: if you do not present him to the great El Hader when next he calls for him, your head will answer it.”

Ben Tarab bowed submissively, and Ephra left the court.

Sebastian’s eyes meanwhile were anxiously employed in scrutinizing the persons around him: they were Christians of all nations, some very old, others in the tender spring of life; but blood-drinking care, and flesh-consuming toil had left their traces on the youngest cheeks: every countenance was wan, every figure emaciated.

Amongst the various groups, he sought in vain for his cousin Antonio, or Don Emanuel de Castro; none but strange faces met his gaze, and as no one recognized him, he rightly concluded that none of his own army were amongst them.

Sebastian wished not for partners in affliction; and though anxiety led him to seek for Crato and de Castro, he was gladdened by not finding them under the task-masters of El Hader.

Ben Tarab soon assigned him a portion of labour: too much occupied with reflections on the miserable lot of others, to think any longer of his own, Sebastian performed his task mechanically, while viewing the scene before him.--In one quarter were groups of captives employed in stamping, with heavy weights, the damp earth with which the Moors form the walls of their inferior buildings; others were labouring to prepare this earth out of various materials; others again bringing sand, bricks, and lime, in loaded baskets upon their heads; while some were hewing stone, sawing wood, melting lead, or moulding ornaments for the nobler parts of the Cassavee.

Fainting with heat, toil, and thirst, these unhappy people were yet urged to their tasks with imprecations and blows; neither age nor infirmities pleaded for a moment’s indulgence: they toiled on, consumed by scorching suns, and unrefreshed by a single breeze.

The sighs and groans of the Christians pierced the heart of Sebastian; he heard them with anguish, for he was no longer that Sebastian whose nod could give liberty; a slave now, he had nothing to bestow but inward prayers for himself and for them.

Perceiving his new workman totally ignorant of labour, Ben Tarab roughly told him to observe how others did, and so learn the trade of them.--“What, I suppose you have been what Christian dogs call a gentleman, and therefore are good for nothing:--I have always ten times the trouble with gentlemen; they are either insolent, lazy, or stupid, and are only fit to do the work of horses or asses; one poor fellow is worth a thousand of you.--We never promote gentlemen here, so you may reckon soon upon being sent into the open country to draw the water-waggons, or dig for lime.--Why the plague am I to be troubled with you?--could not you have been kept amongst the household pack?”

The rage which seemed ready to burst in thunder from Sebastian, evidently intimidated Ben Tarab; he moved nimbly out of the reach of his arm, muttering in a sullen tone, “Get on with your job--do as well as you can.”

Recovering his self-command, the young King turned scornfully away, and pursued his occupation; it was chipping marble: The comparative easiness and delicacy of this employment, when contrasted with that of others, made him believe that he owed some gratitude even to Ben Tarab, for having thus favored him, he was therefore resolved to disregard in future the brutal language of the man, and think only of escaping insult by discharging his portion of labour.

In spite of this resolution he could never again look at Ben Tarab without something so alarming in his eyes, that the Moor feared to approach him, he shewed him his daily tasks, not daring to threaten any punishment for their non-fulfilment, and at length, sick of such restraint, offered to remove him into a different department. Sebastian caught at the proposal; he was solicitous to see all the slave of the Almoçadem, and frequently wished to meet once more with the young soldier whose dutiful remembrance had affected him so much.

“I perceive,” said Ben Tarab, “that you know nothing of the works we do here, and perhaps some other might suit your capacity better; every man has not the gift of doing all things.--We have slaves, now, that manufacture powder, and armour, and cast cannon; do you like that business?--What! you’re afraid of such combustibles?--You change colour at the very mention of them: there you and I agree.--We have others that hew and drag timber, some that get in our three harvests, some that make bricks, and a few that work in the great El Hader’s gardens.--I can promote you to any of these departments if you know how to be thankful for such a favor.”

“I know how to be thankful;” said Sebastian gently, “give me any occupation so it be but in the fresh air of heaven, and require little more than _bodily_ exertion, and I will thank you sincerely.”--

“Well then,” replied the Moor, “you may as well change into the gardens; there you will have nothing to do, but trudge about, pruning and digging, fetching water from the fountains to the baths, plenty to do, and nothing to crack your brains with thinking of: if you behave well, and shew any signs of _rare sagacity_, you may get _promoted_, and become at last, _fruit-gatherer_ and _flower-gatherer_ for the _women_.”--

“Ben Tarab!” said Sebastian, after a thoughtful pause, disregarding the brute’s contemptuous air, “Is there any offer that could persuade you into becoming my friend?--procure for me permission to send to one of the Portuguese forts, and I will not only engage to be ransomed at a high price, but will faithfully promise you a hundred gold crowns for your kindness.”

“So then, you _are_ a nobleman?” replied Ben Tarab, attentively eyeing him, “I thought so the moment I saw you: but hark ye my friend, the great El Hader prides himself upon despising ransoms; if the King of Portugal himself were living, and a slave within these walls, he must offer a thousand of such crowns as that he was crowned with, before he could move a true Mussulman: Slaves here, are slaves for life; and I hate you all too cordially ever to betray my trust and risk my neck for such scoundrels.”

As Ben Tarab ended, he disappeared with a malicious grin, and in a short time re-entered with an older Moor, who looked awhile at Sebastian, and then conducted him out of the court: the latter followed his steps in silence, strongly wrestling with his own outraged feelings, which were almost chafed into fury, by the mingled malice and cowardice of Ben Tarab.

After traversing several open quadrangles and stone galleries, they came at length to the gardens: they were admitted through magnificent gates, curiously wrought in open work of cast iron, and covered with gilding; as he entered, Sebastian felt an emotion long unknown to him, an emotion of delight.

The gardens were spacious and verdant, beautified with marble fountains and canals; their terraces were shaded by tall trees of the freshest green, and the air that fanned them was impregnated with the perfume of orange flowers.

Sebastian could not respire air thus perfumed, without instantly thinking of the gardens of Count Vimiosa; the first day he had seen Donna Gonsalva came back to his recollection with all the force of a present scene: he stopt, cast his eyes round, scarcely breathed, almost expecting to see her celestial beauty advance from some of the groves:--But he saw no one, till his conductor led on still further, and brought him to a spot where a few slaves were employed in cutting a subterraneous passage, from a bower of Arabian jessamine, to one of the baths.--Stopping at this place, the Moor shewed the King his new occupation.

After toiling in silence till long past sunset, the slaves were dismissed to their distant lodgings, where a miserable supper awaited them.

On re-entering the court where he had first laboured, Sebastian did not see Ben Tarab, he passed slowly along, noting every fresh group of new faces, without finding any that he knew: at length he perceived a cluster of Christians gathered round one who was sitting with a rude guitar in his hand, playing the symphony of a song; the King approached, and recognized the soldier, Gaspar. The young man, without observing him, began to sing with little voice, and less skill, but infinite feeling, these stanzas.

“O Time! thy waves that might have rolled
Thro’ channels gay with bordering roses,
Now slow and sad and sunless flow
Where not one flower its bloom discloses: