DON SEBASTIAN;
                                  OR,
                        THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

                         J. M‘CREERY, Printer,
                      Black-horse Court, London.

                            DON SEBASTIAN;

                                  OR,

                        THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

                        AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

                           IN FOUR VOLUMES.

                      BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER.

                   AUTHOR OF THE HUNGARIAN BROTHERS.

                                Take Physic, Pomp!
              Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
              So shalt thou shake the superflux to them,
              And shew the Heavens more just.
                                   KING LEAR.

                               VOL. IV.

                                LONDON:

              PRINTED FOR LONGMAN HURST, REES, AND ORME.
                           PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                 1809.

                            DON SEBASTIAN,

                                  OR

                        THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.

CHAP. I.

After serious reflection Sebastian came to the determination of
sacrificing his domestic comforts to the ultimate good of his people and
his child: the conflict was over with himself, but how was he to conquer
the heart of Kara Aziek? of that tender mother, who “chid the winds of
Heaven,” if they blew too roughly on the face of her darling?--that
tender mother and faithful wife, who saw so much of virtue and
happiness around her dwelling at Cachoeira, that she knew not where the
world could shew a station more productive of either.

Dreading the excess of her grief, yet arming himself to encounter it,
Sebastian quitted his solitude, and went forth to seek her.

He found her with Blanche, just returning from their village church,
where they had been witnessing the marriage of an Indian girl with one
of the most enlightened and amiable of her tribe. The happy scene from
which they were come, had lighted up the countenances of each: Blanche
was yet too young for complete sympathy with the blushing Izamba, but
her heart sympathized with happiness of any sort; and the tear of
benevolent pleasure which stood on the cheek of her mother, called a
shower over hers.

Gently walking under a long line of cedars shading the Cachoeira,
Sebastian descried them afar off.--The full and perfectly-formed figure
of Kara Aziek, her slow soft step, the gentle dignity which
distinguished her, were contrasted by the slight and budding graces of
Blanche’s more airy form. Her step was quick, bounding, and uncertain as
the young Gazelle’s; her looks were timid, not majestic; and like spring
preceding summer, she sportively advanced, admiring every object she had
seen and admired a thousand times before.

Sebastian scarcely descried her ere she was at his side: by an
irresistible impulse he took her in his arms, and holding her to his
heart, suffered the tears he could no longer restrain, to fall over her
face.

It was the first time that Blanche had ever felt her father’s tears; she
looked up, and the bright roses of health and delight faded from her
cheek.

“Be not alarmed, my child!” he whispered in a faltering voice, as he let
her go again, “I will rejoin your mother soon--speak not to her of this
weakness--I must explain it myself.”

Having spoken, he turned away, and hurrying towards a sugar-mill, which
he entered, as if intent on business, left Blanche to wait for her
mother, who seeing nothing extraordinary in this conduct of her husband,
entered her own habitation.

It was long ere Sebastian sufficiently recovered himself to join Kara
Aziek; the smile with which he dressed his pale countenance could not
conceal from her the unusual agitation of his heart: she fearfully
inquired its cause, and was answered by a cautious explanation of De
Castro’s situation and engagements.

Kara Aziek listened to him in profound silence, which she did not break
till some moments after he had concluded; she then turned on him her
expressive eyes; no tears were there, but they were full of that
maternal anguish she felt called upon to control.

She looked tenderly at him, as if she believed him unable to avert the
calamity with which she was threatened, and as if she considered him
equally with herself, an object of compassion. “I submit:” she said at
length, turning her eyes from her husband and fixing them on Heaven;
“There are periods in which I dare not yield to my feelings. That God
who has blessed us with our Blanche, calls her now to become an
instrument for her father’s restoration: I may not detain her.”--

At the last words, Kara Aziek closed her eyes as if she would have shut
from her husband’s sight the anguish of her soul: a general trembling
seized her, and unable to relieve herself by tears, she made an effort
to smile, and pressing his hand, leaned her face upon his shoulder.

Sebastian gently supported her. This unresisting acquiescence, this
uncomplaining grief, affected him far more than the most violent
despair: in proportion as his Aziek appeared more worthy of happiness,
her different destiny seemed more cruel.

“Dearest and best of women!” he exclaimed, “is it to day that I am to
receive the strongest proof of that love which has been the angel of my
life?--You know my heart, and you spare me the misery of contending with
tenderness for you, and duty to Portugal: you weep not, you complain
not!--O my Aziek, am I then indeed, dearer to thee than the child to
whom thou gavest birth?--I expected lamentation, remonstrance, shall I
confess it?--sorrowful reproaches--I find gentleness and heroism; I find
that I am still the first in that precious heart.”--

Transported out of himself by such a conviction, Sebastian folded his
arms around his wife, whose countenance suddenly glowing with vivid
emotion, was now bathed in tears. Instantaneously melted by this burst
of affection, she wept profusely, but her tears had no bitterness in
them; she forgot at that moment the impending evil she had been
contemplating.

By degrees this rapture subsided, and the separation from her daughter
returned in all its force. “I will try to merit these kind praises:” she
said faintly, “but my heart may not always have such strength: pardon me
therefore Sebastian, if some moments of weakness should make me the
selfish creature you feared to find me. Remember that in this discourse
I have spoken my real sentiments, and do not attend to the temporary
ravings of a mother, who cannot always hear the voices of Reason and
Religion; who cannot always obey their commands. In my soul I am
convinced we ought to make this sacrifice; as such, it shall be
completed.”

Again the tears of Kara Aziek ceased to flow, and her features resumed
their former paleness. Sebastian still looked at her with a mixture of
anguish and delight. His affection was eloquent, and repeated tributes
to the fortitude he admired, contributed to support and to console Kara
Aziek.

One important matter yet remained to be discussed; should they or should
they not suffer Blanche to depart without knowing the story of her
birth?

Many arguments in favor of each line of conduct presented themselves
during this interesting discussion; but those had the most weight, which
dictated explanation.

Blanche was of an age and a character to feel the value of such a
confidence: the knowledge of her parents misfortunes would surely endear
them to her heart; and when widely separated, that anxiety which must
result from her acquaintance with their critical situation, would form
still a link of union. Their thoughts, their wishes, their solicitudes,
would yet remain the same, though their persons might be divided; it
would be impossible for Blanche not to remember and to love her
parents, when her dearest interests were inseparably interwoven with
their images.

In addition to this consideration, Sebastian urged one equally
important: Blanche would sooner attain the qualities requisite for her
future guidance through life, by this early call upon them. Discretion,
courage, attentive observation of persons and events, careful
calculation of actions, and their consequences, would be the natural
fruit of thus giving her a necessity for all these properties.

With the prospect of one day filling a station of responsibility, seeing
in the example of her father the awful vicissitudes to which even
monarchy is exposed, and feeling, in her own person, the dependance of
man on man, she would avoid the risk of becoming intoxicated with a
distinction which presented itself under a shape so forbidding.

Her imagination, chastized by experience, and her heart disciplined by
early care, would mature, fix, and ennoble her character: if Providence
should call her to a throne, that education would enable her to fill it
with honour; if destined to pass her life in obscurity, the memory of
her parents lot, would teach her the emptiness of the world, and the
rarer treasures of that benevolence which makes joy to itself in every
station.

If blind to the advantages of candour, Sebastian should permit Blanche
to depart in ignorance of her real condition, he reflected, that she
must go with either a sentiment of curiosity about the concealed motives
of her parents, or with a sentiment of disappointment at their
seemingly-lukewarm affection: continual deception must be practised on
her; and bearing away with her no quickening principle of anxiety, her
filial love would soon languish.

The remembrance of her happy home, would, from its very happiness, only
serve to excuse her to herself for ceasing to feel an animated interest
in its inhabitants; and delivering up her young mind to the charms and
novelties of a gay life, she would perhaps lose much of her goodness and
all her simplicity.

These reflections decided Sebastian, for Kara Aziek had decided at
first, from the mere impulse of feeling.

Having left his Aziek seeking additional strength at that sacred source
whence human virtue is derived, he sought Gaspar, and imparted to him
the resolution to which he had brought himself: Gaspar’s emotion was
purely joyful; he neither dreaded dangers nor difficulties, oceans, nor
dungeons, when the prospect of being useful to his King lay before him.

His sanguine nature made him certain that he should not be long
separated from Sebastian: the destruction of Spanish tyranny, and the
restoration of Portugal, were events that he concluded must follow the
interference of England; he was but leading his sweet young mistress to
a triumph, not to a struggle; he was but going to make the path broad
and open which led back to the throne of her ancestors.

“We part, Sire! it is true;” he said, “yet what is our parting?--we
shall meet again, and meet in happiness. I feel that Providence has now
set a period to your trials: this is the epoch destined for the recovery
of your former possessions.--We shall reach England--England will raise
her powerful arm, and as if by magic, the whole mass of foreign tyranny
will crumble to dust. My honoured young mistress will then be given to
the Portuguese as a pledge that their beloved sovereign yet lives, and
will condescend to reign over them: you will arrive, Sire, to find in
your own kingdom, power, adoration, and happiness!”

“Not adoration Gaspar,” said Sebastian, smiling kindly, “not adoration,
that is an impious tribute to kings, which, thank God, I never required,
nay, which I abhorred, even in my proudest day.--If I may regain the
_love_ of my people, by convincing them that a parental tenderness for
them glows in this time-tried heart, I shall indeed rejoice that the
meridian hours of my life are not to pass away at Cachoeira. Marvellous
destiny! (he added after a thoughtful pause) shall I ever again find
myself the ruler of a mighty nation--the arbiter of their fates--the
earthly God to punish and to reward?--When I look back to the period in
which I _was_ this powerful creature, it seems to me a long-past dream;
suffering and seclusion, the only realities!”

“Not so, Sire!” gravely observed Gaspar, “you are a sovereign and a God
at Cachoeira; you are the happiest of husbands and of fathers,--and do
you say that there are no realities but suffering and seclusion?”

Sebastian fixed his eyes on him, with a look of generous approval,
“Ever, my friend!” he exclaimed; “ever watchful over my character as
much as my interest! I spoke, Gaspar, in a way too familiar with me: I
spoke from the impression of one recollection only; I remembered
therefore my losses, and forgot my possessions. Be satisfied, my soul is
fully sensible of the rare blessings I enjoy. Had I not lost my liberty
and crown, I should never have been the happy father and husband, never
have opened my eyes on the light of pure Christianity: this thought
makes me consider my misfortunes as benefits.”

Gaspar expressed his satisfaction at so ingenuous a confession of error,
and proceeded to name the time and preparations that would be required,
ere he could commence his voyage.

He knew that merchant-ships were then in the bay of St. Salvador, bound
for St. Lucar: in one of these, it was agreed he should procure a
passage for himself and his young charge, with whom he might easily
proceed from St. Lucar to Messina.

Nothing was more common than for the children of Brazilian settlers to
be sent to Europe for their education or health, and one of these
motives would certainly be attributed to Blanche’s separation from her
parents, should any persons think such an event of sufficient
consequence to employ their thoughts.

Charged with securing the cabin of the merchant-ship, and with providing
all things requisite for a tedious voyage, Gaspar hastened to St.
Salvador, leaving sadness in that house, which until now, never knew
more than the shadow of passing clouds.

The interview with his daughter was a trying hour to Sebastian: Kara
Aziek declined being present: her heart dreaded itself; and the nearer
drew the moment in which she was to make the sacrifice demanded, the
more her fears and her agitation increased.

“If I should fail at last!” she constantly repeated to herself, while
striving to strengthen her resolution by the recollection of
Sebastian’s commendations; “if I should disappoint his trust in my
promise of submission! ah God! pity me, succour me, support my feeble
spirit, and give me that added confidence in thy mercy, that added
tenderness for his feelings, which may successfully wrestle against the
despair of a mother.”

Impressed with a sense of her own weakness, Kara Aziek fled from every
scene which could enervate her still further, courageous from that very
tenderness of character, with which her courage had to struggle, she
refused to herself the luxury of indulging her grief, and of
participating in that affecting interview which must increase it.

While she surrounded herself by various occupations, forcibly wresting
her mind towards the interest of others, Sebastian was unfolding to
their daughter the wonderful story of his youth.

Her amazement and sympathy may be imagined; they were in proportion to
the sensibility of her character: but Sebastian looked beyond these, and
as he slowly related the events of his life, and pointed out the lessons
to be learned from them, he watched their effect on her who might
hereafter need such beacons to guide her in the same course.

A serious joy warmed his heart, when he beheld the impression made by
the knowledge of her birth: looks of trouble and apprehension were
instantly diffused over her features: she was not ambitious therefore:
to inspire her with zeal for her own rights, it would be requisite to
teach her the benevolent purposes to which they might be directed.

No parts of her father’s narrative so absorbed the attention of Blanche,
as those which related to her mother. While Sebastian detailed the
variety of Kara Aziek’s destiny, and the transitions from pain to
pleasure which they had had mutually endured, the eyes of Blanche
alternately shone with the brightness of joy, or fell to the ground
blinded with tears. It was evident, that from the moment Kara Aziek
appeared upon the scene, her affectionate child saw in her love the best
blessing of life, and ceasing to think of her father’s loftier
anxieties, was solely interested in reaching the moment which gave her
parents to each other.

Once, and only once, did her agitated heart burst through the restraint
which delicate timidity, and filial respect had imposed: it was at the
description of Sebastian’s return to Portugal, at the reception of Donna
Gonsalva, and the conversation of the two noblemen at the house of Lopez
Vernara.

Powerfully moved by these incidents, she suddenly threw herself on the
bosom of her father, exclaiming, in a voice broken by sobs, “Ah send me
not to such a dreadful world! let me not live with people who have thus
outraged my dearest father!”

Much affected by a sensibility as just as it was exquisite, Sebastian
strained her to his breast, and lifting up the scattered ringlets from
her cheek, he kissed it fondly. That roseate cheek, those eyes now
closed with grief, but lovely still from the long lashes which fringed
them, the soft arms that twined around his neck, and the beautiful
tresses which fell dishevelled over them, all these were so like his
Aziek’s, that he repeated his caresses, and abandoned to a moment of
weakness, whispered, “Should I not risk all things to go with my child?”

At this unexpected dawn of hope, Blanche raised her face, the sunshine
of happy youth was on it. “O my father;” she cried, “let us go
together!--my mother, my dear mother too--we cannot live without her.”

Sebastian had now recovered himself, and sorrowing to destroy the
illusion his own words had raised, he proceeded in a calmer tone, to
explain to her the weighty reasons which rendered it necessary for him
to trust the judgment of De Castro, and to act by his suggestion: he
alone could decide on the prudence of measures, which must be influenced
by the conduct of those potentates amongst whom he was acting.

Blanche had been early taught to yield to the voice of reason: the
moment she was convinced that what she wished was hostile to her better
interests, or blameable in itself, she ceased to form a wish on the
subject. She submitted to the commands of duty, as to the irreversible
decrees of Heaven.

This valuable habit of moral obedience, now enabled her to acquiesce in
the dreary prospect of separating from her parents, and committing
herself to a world, of which the history had made her afraid. She wept
bitterly; but she frequently repeated, that she saw her father could
not in justice to himself and his country, and in gratitude to those
friends who were now risking their lives for his sake by secret
correspondence with the enemies of Philip, do otherwise than grant them
some rallying point like herself.

Sebastian contemplated her as she sat struggling against her grief,
kissing his hands and looking at him with humid smiles: Sebastian
contemplated her with many an admiring thought. He contrasted her
character and conduct with what his own had been at a much more forward
period of youth: at that period the whole globe was scarce large enough
for his tempestuous passions to rage in. Shame and compunction were on
his brow. “Blanche,” he exclaimed, “if the certainty that you possess
the fullest love, the most perfect approbation of your father, can give
comfort to your heart, be assured that you do possess them--never my
child, never were you half so dear or so estimable to me, as at this
moment.”

Blanche started from her seat, and threw herself before him; Sebastian
bent towards her, and holding her against his breast in the lovely
attitude in which she had placed herself, he resumed his discourse.
“Cultivate this self-government which ennobles you thus in a parent’s
eyes!--O my daughter, self-government is dignity, is happiness, is
dominion!--’tis the secret of disarming adversity of its sting--’tis the
virtue which comprehends all others--’tis that which will entitle you to
a crown in Heaven!--Had I been like thee, my child, at this instant I
should have nothing to reproach myself with; I should have been dwelling
in the house of my fathers, and I should not have had to send my
innocent Blanche into a faithless world in search of that possession
which my folly threw away.”

He stopt, and several deep sighs followed his words. Blanche kissed his
hand with repressed ardour; her timid voice trembled as she spoke. “You
have profited by your chastisements, dearest father, or how should I
have become the character you praise?--ah me! shall I always remain so?
your virtues have sprung up out of your trials; and mine perhaps may die
under them.”

Struck with the justice of this observation, and charmed with the
salutary humility which it proved, her gratified father pursued the
theme she had begun, and discoursing on principles and passions, on
trials and temptations, forgot the lapse of time.

Kara Aziek’s voice near the windows of the apartment in which they sat,
roused him to recollection, and taking Blanche by the hand, he went
forth to join her mother.

By the same impulse, Kara Aziek and her daughter pressed each other in
their arms without speaking; Sebastian approached, and drew them towards
him! he too was silent: after some moments of extreme emotion, they
recovered themselves, and rose from this sad embrace. The faces of Kara
Aziek and Blanche were bathed in tears, that of Sebastian was pale, but
more composed.

As if by tacit agreement, no one ventured to speak of the only subject
that engrossed their thoughts: their conversation was serious, and
interrupted by long pauses, but it was evidently connected with their
most interesting reflections.

Not till she was alone with her daughter, a few days previous to her
departure, had Kara Aziek courage to name the trial they were about to
encounter: at this instant fortitude forsook her, and the weeping
Blanche beheld for the first time, her gentle and hitherto patient
mother, given up to an agony of despair.

Periods like these, are not those in which human comfortings avail: the
soul must seek and find its comforter in itself. It must be habituated
to believe that all the decrees of Heaven are wise and good; then will
sorrow gradually subside, and a consolation past utterance will succeed
to distraction.

Experience had taught this most precious lesson to Kara Aziek; for often
had she had occasion to feel in her own person, and through that of her
husband, that

                  “We, ignorant of ourselves,
    Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers
    Deny us for our good: so find we profit
    By losing of our prayers.”

The silent caresses and touching tears of her daughter, contributed to
console, rather than to afflict her: so sweet, so amiable, so excellent
a creature, was she not destined to ornament and to bless mankind?--The
heart of a fond mother answered in the affirmative; and like the sick
person who courageously bears the crisis of a disorder when the paroxysm
is expected to work his cure, she roused herself to support a parting
which she hoped would lead to permanent re-union.

Though flattering herself that many months would not elapse ere the path
should be open for Sebastian’s return to Portugal, she exhorted Blanche,
as if their separation were to endure for years: her admonitions were
few and impressive; she had nothing new to teach her daughter, but what
she had been hitherto teaching her every day by example rather than
precept, she now summed up, in easily-remembered maxims.

This discourse with her mother was never forgotten by Blanche.

Gaspar had provided the accommodations requisite for his young mistress;
all their arrangements were completed, and the day was fixed for the
sailing of the vessel which was to convey them to Europe. Sebastian
confided to his friend a packet for Don Emanuel De Castro, signifying
the extent to which he would engage himself with any foreign power
willing to assist him: this packet contained also a letter to Queen
Elizabeth, which Blanche was to deliver at their first meeting.

Sebastian had written with the dignity of a King, and the tenderness of
a father: by the warmth of his paternal expressions, he sought to make
her sensible that she could not hope to injure or distress his child
with impunity. He expressed himself strongly, yet with such courtly
address, that although Elizabeth must feel his meaning, and see his
doubts, she could not openly reply to them.

The hour of separation drew near; the ship was to sail on the morrow.

Having resolved to let no other objects share her heart with her
parents, at that moment in which she alone would occupy theirs, Blanche
took leave of the Indians on the preceding evening: their uncontrolled
lamentations affected her powerfully; and it was not till the night was
far advanced, that she recovered from the mournful impression.

Day-break awoke her: when she first opened her eyes at the rustling of
the breeze among the tall tops of a grove of Magnolias, when she saw
their beautiful foliage, and heard the birds singing from their
branches, she felt a sudden shock; for this was the last time in which
she should see these trees, or feel this air!

She was going far away! she was going from her parents! at this
conviction a death-like sickness oppressed her very heart; she sunk back
on her pillow, and believing the effort impossible, resigned herself to
an excess of despair. The tears which she shed in floods, gradually
relieved her feelings, and left them more obedient to her will: she
repeated to herself the injunctions and arguments of her parents, she
strove to fix a short period for the continuance of their separation,
and having recourse to devotion, was enabled to quit her chamber with a
tolerably serene countenance.

It was yet early day; no one else was stirring, and Blanche rose thus
soon, that she might take a parting look at the recent grave of Barémel.

This playmate and guardian of her infant days, had died of old age, and
was buried by Sebastian himself under a cluster of Palmito’s in his
garden. No stone, with indecent resemblance to the monument of departed
man, marked the place where he laid; but a circle of plaited reeds
enclosed the little mound, and Blanche often stole there, to cover the
bed of her favorite with flowers.

She now moved lightly and timidly towards it, half-ashamed of a
sensibility it was amiable to feel. O lovely season of youth! how sweet
art thou to behold, with thy attendant graces of modesty,
susceptibility, and self-distrust!

The colours of the blooming flowers through which she passed painted the
soft complexion of Blanche; hers was the complexion that announced a
tender and intelligent heart, for it varied with every thought and every
feeling; it was now flushed with strong emotion.

She approached Barémel’s grave, and was going to throw herself upon it
with a violence of sorrow pardonable at her early age, when she was
checked by the apprehension of its being criminal.--“Yet he was so
loving, and faithful!” she exclaimed, tears trembling in her eyes, “I
think it cannot be wrong to remember him with affection.” Her innocent
heart decided in the affirmative, and sitting down near the grassy heap,
she strewed it with blossoms, and gave loose to her tears.

Her mind was quickly thronged with long-past images: different epochs of
holidays and festivals in which Barémel had constantly performed some
amusing part; passed in review before her. She remembered his joyful
bark, his supplicating whine, his watchful and loving looks, his
unwearied attendance of her from infancy to youth, over all the romantic
region that surrounded Cachoeira. “Poor Barémel! I can never see thee
again!” she said, sighing: that apostrophe conveyed to her heart a
salutary exhortation to take comfort on a far dearer subject.

She was indeed going to quit her parents, but not for ever; they were
yet in the flower of their lives, and Providence therefore permitted her
to anticipate their future re-union. Blanche was of a grateful
disposition; she loved to be happy, and far from partaking in the nature
of those wretchedly tempered spirits who seem to feast on discontent,
and refuse to be comforted; she opened her soul to admit the smallest
particle of consolation.

Her reflections now assumed a more serious cast, (for they were employed
in enumerating the mercies she yet possessed, and those she might
anticipate without presumption,) but they were no longer afflicting:
anxious to seize this moment of resignation for appearing before her
parents, she got up, and giving a long look of regret to the
resting-place of her early companion, turned homeward.

Sebastian was advancing in search of her: “I have only been to look at
poor Barémel’s grave,” she said blushing, “since you have told me all
that I owe to him, his memory has become almost sacred to me, he saved
my dear father’s life.”

Blanche added the last sentence with trepidation which shewed she was
eager to give an honorable excuse for what might have been deemed a
weakness. Sebastian pressed her hand as he led her forward: “like thy
mother in all things!” he observed, “ever diffident of thy best and most
engaging actions!”

They proceeded in silence to the apartment of Kara Aziek: she had yet
many things to say, or to repeat, and she was now gathering fortitude to
pronounce them calmly. Blanche sat down between her parents: each held
one of her hands, and frequently pressed it; but as yet, none of them
spoke: their eyes were fixed on the ground.

Why is it that the dearest connexions, when about to lose sight of each
other, avoid looking on the countenance they love, and which they will
so soon long to behold again? is it that the soul instinctively prepares
for its calamity, and tries to soften the pang by gradual abandonment of
its enjoyments? or is it that grief would be uncontrollable if those
delightful feelings were indulged which we are conscious must end with
the removal of the person beloved?

Whatever be the motive, its effect was seen in the family at Cachoeira:
they remained silent and immovable, drawing by stealth long and
interrupted sighs. They were summoning resolution to speak of parting.

At this moment Gaspar hastily entered; every eye was raised towards him:
“The ship sails an hour earlier than we expected, a messenger has just
come from St. Salvador to say so, we have not an instant to lose.”

Kara Aziek uttered a loud shriek, and clasped her daughter in her arms;
they had started up at Gaspar’s first words, and now remained clinging
to each other. Tears, sobs, broken exclamations, embraces repeated again
and again, were the witnesses of their sorrow.

Gaspar called on them to remember the fatal consequence of delay: almost
subdued himself, he yet had courage to appear barbarous, that he might
shorten the pangs of others.

Blanche heard him not: she flung herself alternately from the arms of
one parent to those of the other, and as she deluged their bosoms with
her tears, she called on them to assure her that their separation should
not be eternal.

Cold damps stood on the brow of Sebastian, for the pains of death were
in his heart, but his eyes were tearless. Kara Aziek was like one
frantic; her softness had given place to a wild and resisting despair:
she clung to her child, and no remonstrances had power to loosen her
grasp!

Sebastian trembled for her reason, and that fear gave him strength to
accomplish what he knew to be indispensible. He advanced towards his
wife, forcibly, yet tenderly, unlocked her hands as they met round the
waist of Blanche, and hastily pushing his daughter towards Gaspar,
exclaimed, “Go, go my child! if you would not kill your mother. I have,
I have blessed you--I bless you again.”

Gaspar had seized the arm of Blanche, while his agitated master was
trying to detain Kara Aziek; he now led the former towards the door, and
lifting her up, ran with her from the house to the caloche which was to
carry them to St. Salvador.

On reaching the carriage, he found that she had fainted; less alarmed at
this natural effect of sorrow, than he would have been grieved by her
lamentations, he got into the vehicle, and supporting her against his
shoulder, proceeded to bathe her temples with a pungent essence he
usually wore about him.

His exertion succeeded, Blanche revived: she looked round, and seeing
herself on the road, she knew that all hope of present change was
desperate: her eyes closed again, but it was only to weep with less
obviousness, and to preserve their last look of her parents.

CHAP. II.

It was long ere Sebastian could calm the anguish of her, who still

    “Warmed his fond heart, and beat in every pulse:”

To the pang of parting, quickly succeeded the tortures of suspense; her
child was at the mercy of an ocean whose horrors she had herself
experienced too awfully not to apprehend similar disaster for others.

Aziek soon ceased to complain, but Sebastian’s watchful eyes marked the
sudden alteration in hers at every blast of wind. Those wintry storms
which formerly served to heighten the sublimity of their scenery, were
now heard with horror: the pale cheek, the lifted eye, the
scarce-breathed, half-checked apostrophe, all testified the suffering of
an anxious mother.

Sebastian perceived the inutility of remonstrance and exhortation; these
might teach her to conceal her grief, but they could not bring her to
conquer it: he abandoned them therefore, contenting himself with winning
her to other interests, and planning new calls upon her benevolence.

He talked perpetually of Blanche, he talked without gloom; he reverted
to her sweet manners and virtues, he repeated the anecdotes of her
childhood, (anecdotes, which a mother never ceases to hear with
interest) he drew various imaginary pictures of her future destiny, and
he took care to make those pictures pleasing. By degrees Kara Aziek
learnt to associate the prospect of happiness with this temporary
privation; she learnt to believe the sanguine fortunes he foretold, and
her mind, permitted to dwell on one dear object, readily took the only
way he chose should lead to it. If tears sometimes trickled down her
cheek at the name of her far-distant treasure, they were tender tears,
full of gratitude and hope.

The tedious months at length wore away, and letters arrived from Sicily.

What were the emotions of the parents when they saw the writing of their
daughter, and were thus assured of her safety! for some time they could
not read her letter; but they opened not any other, their child’s
sentiments and situation absorbed all their interest. Having recovered
himself, Sebastian read the letter aloud, though his voice and his hand
yet betrayed signs of remaining agitation.

The letter contained an account of Blanche’s voyage, a warm
acknowledgement of Gaspar’s cares, description of her reception by the
Duchess of Medina Sidonia, and a confession of her pleasurable emotions
on witnessing the customs and refinements of Europe.

To these details was added the most affecting expressions of love for
her parents, and of sorrow at their wide separation: it was evident
that the simple enjoyments of her native village yet held their place in
her uncorrupted heart; the amusements of Sicily could not displace them,
for these amusements only gratified her senses.

Charmed with the Duke and Duchess of Medina Sidonia, she described their
kindness in glowing language: her delineation of their sentiments
relieved Kara Aziek from many fears; with such noble persons she could
trust her daughter’s heart.

The packets from De Castro and Gaspar were chiefly on business:
Sebastian perused them attentively. They informed him that Queen
Elizabeth’s favorable disposition yet remained unimpaired, but that
being desirous of acting on certainties, and avoiding indiscreet
reliance on her good faith, De Castro thought it expedient to return to
London with his credentials from Sebastian, for the settlement of a
final treaty between them; of which Princess Blanche should be the
pledge on the side of Portugal, and an immediate loan of money, (for
the furtherance of their schemes,) the guarantee on the part of England.

This arranged, he would instantly send for Blanche, who might be safely
committed to Gaspar, and would be permitted to retain this watchful
friend about her person, at the court of London.

Through the exertions of Lord Essex, some German Princes had promised to
join the triple league against their common enemy, and Henry of France,
(perhaps secretly favoring those principles he had weakly yielded up to
gain a throne,) actually advanced an unconditional sum of money for the
aid of Sebastian’s agents in their various missions.

A formidable expedition under the gallant Essex, was fitting out in the
ports of England; the capture or destruction of Cadiz was its object.
But the most extraordinary part of this communication, was contained in
the following sentences.

“Amongst the volunteers in our expedition, there are two, at whose names
your majesty will start. Antonio of Crato, and his son Don Christopher.
For some time the prior had been upheld by the English, but on
discovering the instability and levity of his character, they abandoned
his interests: I found him living a neglected and private individual in
London.

“He was unconscious that my exertions here were caused by any stronger
motive than the abhorrence of the Spanish yoke, (for our secret goes not
beyond a small circle) and he deemed it right to visit me--my reception
was so cold, that he quickly left me, and we have never met since.

“He is embarked in the enterprize, foolishly believing that it is meant
for his exaltation: Lord Essex is aware of the use which may be made of
this folly, (as it indeed serves to mask the real candidate for
Portugal) and suffers him therefore to boast as he will.

“Don Christopher is of a different stamp: there is an honourable
melancholy about him, that touched me at first sight; it is easy to
perceive that he blushes at the remembrance of his mother, and that the
story of your majesty’s wrongs has reached his ears. He accompanies the
Earl of Essex as his lieutenant: for he is a true patriot, and seems
earnest to make some atonement for the sins of his parents. Let me,
sire, bespeak your favor for him, when you meet him in Portugal.”

At this mention of his perfidious cousin, Sebastian felt an emotion long
unknown: his blood ran cold, and hastily putting down the letter, he
took up that of Gaspar.

Kara Aziek had no attention to bestow on the abject Prior of Crato: she
was absorbed in grateful contemplation of the happy prospect before her.
Don Emanuel had enumerated so many Spanish and Portuguese nobles, eager
to assist in the re-establishment of Sebastian or his offspring, that
it would have been criminal to refuse placing some confidence in their
efforts. England, France, and Holland, were on their side, and nothing
remained to be concluded, except the signing of a treaty, and the
delivery of their mutual pledges.

With these prospects she was not merely consoled, she was inspirited:
for the first time since the departure of Blanche her lovely eyes shone
with happiness, and she smiled without effort. Her hopes were gay, her
joy unclouded; for of the political world and its tumults, she had
experienced too little to form a distant idea of its rapid mutations.

Sebastian on the contrary, though he abounded in hope also, formed an
instantaneous picture of all the struggles and vicissitudes likely to
follow the public proclamation of his claims. The lives, the fortunes,
of every one embarked in his cause were now at stake: if Spain should
feel in herself the strength adequate to resistance, she would
certainly refuse to yield back the crown of Portugal, at the mere
summons of England. War then, must decide it at last; that war which he
had hitherto so carefully shunned!

To the painfulness of this reflection he opposed the chief argument of
De Castro, which consisted in the horrible oppression of Philip: his
extortions and cruelty, daily ruined or maddened some noble Portuguese;
he carried their youth to fight against the Netherlands, and since not
even personal safety was purchased by submission to his yoke, was it not
better to shed their blood in brave resistance?

Aided by other powers, they would contend on equal terms, in point of
physical strength: and the force of a powerful sentiment would surely
give them superiority in all that related to opinion.

Revived by this reasoning, Sebastian banished the gloom of useless
regret, yet he could not cease to occupy himself with conjecture and
anticipation:--his mind was active and anxious, but that activity and
that anxiety were full of cheerfulness.

From this day the discourses of Sebastian and Kara Aziek lost their
pensive strain: they conversed more frequently together, and the theme
they dwelt on was their return to Europe. Time seemed long to them,
because they were eager, but it had ceased to be sad.

In these new emotions their former duties were not forgotten: as they
anticipated a removal from Cachoeira, its peaceful inhabitants, formed
by their care, and dependent on their goodness, became more interesting
to them; the Guaymures had claims on their hearts, which neither
Sebastian nor Kara Aziek were of a nature to disregard. They now
redoubled their solicitude for their welfare; and Sebastian already
decided on leaving part of his property in the hands of two respectable
Portuguese, who had settled near his abode: to these men he might
safely trust it, as a deposit for the promotion of public works, or as a
fund in case of any unexpected calamity by fire.

Months had gone by, and the second appearance of ships from that quarter
of the globe where all their interests was centered, was looked for
eagerly by Sebastian and Kara Aziek: the ships arrived.

Assured of his daughter’s health by seeing her hand writing, and now
deeply solicitous to learn the event of the pending negociation,
Sebastian transferred her letter to his wife, and opened the packet from
Don Emanuel.

It was written immediately after his second return from England: it was
full of joyous expectation, Elizabeth had acceded to all the requests of
the King of Portugal; she was ready to exchange a large subsidy for the
person of the Princess Blanche; her expedition against Spain had sailed,
and the moment she should obtain some advantage there, and have the
presumptive heiress of Portugal in her possession, she meant to send and
demand of Philip the restitution of her father’s kingdom.

De Castro was come back to Sicily for the purpose of securing his
brother-in-law’s support to the measures of England: by the council of
his nobles, Philip might be influenced to resign a crown which he could
not keep without their assistance.

Affairs then were at their crisis; or rather that crisis was past, and
at this moment, Blanche was either residing in the palace of her
ancestors, and accepted as the representative of her father, or dwelling
in England, while foreign armies were disputing for her father’s rights.

The agitation excited by this idea, was yet fresh in the hearts of Kara
Aziek and her Sebastian, when a vessel with dispatches to the governor,
brought intelligence that Cadiz was taken by the English, that it was
suspected they meant to send out a fleet against Spanish America, and
that consequently the governor was called on to prepare for obstinate
defence.

These news reached Cachoeira by the messenger who brought a letter that
had come in the same ship.

The letter was from Gaspar, and but a month later in date than that of
De Castro: it was short and afflicting: Don Emanuel was dead. A long and
violent fever with which he had been seized soon after his return to
Messina, had delayed the departure of Blanche, and had at last
terminated the life of her most valuable friend.

De Castro had died in the full belief that Providence favoured the cause
of justice and his King; he had died at the brightest moment of their
enterprize; he was therefore to be envied perhaps, if Providence should
will a different fate, and ordain disappointment to the allies.

But what a shock was this event! what a loss! the grief of Sebastian was
as profound as remembrance of De Castro’s past services, and dependence
on his exertions might be expected to render it: he lamented not only
the best of men, but the most zealous of friends. The sinew of his
strength was gone; nay rather, was not De Castro the soul of every
project?

A solemn check was here given to those anticipations which had so lately
spread joy through Cachoeira: one blow, taught him who had been stricken
by repeated misfortune, to expect another, and while he mourned the
companion he loved, he trembled to imagine that new calamities might be
in store for himself and others.

Kara Aziek entered into all his feelings; her daughter, deprived of this
faithful protector, whom power and influence rendered more valuable than
the humbler though equally devoted Gaspar, pressed on her heart, and
called aloud for succour.

Upon the affection of the Duke and Duchess of Medina, she slightly
calculated, (for we do not receive strong impressions by mere
description, we must witness attachment, to rely on its existence) Kara
Aziek only saw her inexperienced daughter, alone, desolate, and sad,
going amongst strangers, to whose honour she must trust for generous
treatment.

Distracted, bewildered, unconscious of what to wish or to propose, she
fell into a passion of grief which Sebastian understood but too well. He
was standing buried in thought: at the sound of her sobs he started, and
approaching her to support her, said in a composed tone: “We have indeed
lost our best friend, my Aziek! he cannot be replaced. Ought I not to
consider his death as the vice of Heaven calling me to abandon this
solitude and appear on the scene myself? Even in his most sanguine
moments De Castro regarded England with suspicion, and knew her to be
guided by self-interest: that base principle may as easily lead to her
betraying my affairs, as to her advancing them. What then would be the
fate of our Blanche? rouse yourself my beloved! we must stand the shock
of peril together--my resolution is taken--I quit Brazil.”

At these words Kara Aziek flung herself on his bosom with a cry of joy;
she had lost sight of every object except her daughter, and
contemplating her desolate state, possible danger to her husband was
forgotten. “O my Sebastian!” she exclaimed, “let us indeed brave the
world united; give me back my child, and then whatever be the destiny
awarded us, we shall meet it with courage. Here, our peaceful days are
over--long, long have they been over, without Blanche we live on, bereft
of our soul.--Shall we ever see her again? O thought too blissful!”

She ceased, overcome with an emotion which Sebastian endeavoured to
moderate, by assuring her that when once they had regained their
daughter, no political motive should induce him to resign her a second
time.

The letter from Caspar was again read; and a long postscript which
Sebastian had overlooked in his first consternation, now served to guide
him in his plan for the future.

This postscript informed him that Juan (the cousin of Don Emanuel) had
set off for England with the intelligence of their loss; and that the
detention of Blanche had been agreed upon amongst them, until Queen
Elizabeth should fulfil her promise by sending part of the stipulated
subsidy. This caution, together with the length of time which must pass
ere Don Juan could return, (in consequence of the secret and circuitous
route by which all voyages to an enemy’s country were necessarily taken)
animated Sebastian to hope that his daughter had not yet left Sicily,
and that he might find her still at Messina.

It was his intention rather to become his own pledge of faith, than to
risk the security of his child. Known in Sicily as the orphan ward of
Don Emanuel, she had hitherto lived unsuspected, under the protection of
his sister: it was true, most people concluded her to be the
illegitimate offspring of her reputed guardian, but that conclusion
excited no further inquiries, and threatened her with no danger: it was
therefore the safest asylum in which affection could place her.

Having formed his resolution, Sebastian lost no time in beginning to
act: he settled his arrangements at Cachoeira; he left the largest
portion of his remaining property in the hands he had proposed, and
preparing his mind for toils and troubles to which it was now disused,
he bade an eternal farewel to Brazil.

It was a day of dismal sadness at Cachoeira, when its founder departed:
the importunate lamentations of his Indians followed him even to St.
Salvador; many of them petitioned to go with him, some refused to quit
his side till they saw him embarked, others flung themselves into the
sea and swam after the ship.

Sebastian had thanks and benedictions for them all: Kara Aziek repaid
them with her tears, and affectionate though mournful smiles. She knew
they were never to meet again, and her heart ached to think how delusive
were the hopes of their return, which each ardent native continued to
express, and demanded to have confirmed.

At length the sounds of sorrow no longer reached them from the receding
shore, it became more distant every moment, it lessened to a speck, it
sunk beneath the horizon! They looked back, and that vast continent was
blotted out from their sight: nothing remained but their solitary vessel
in the midst of that solemn and toiling ocean, beyond which they were
going to court difficulty and danger.

Their situation was like that of a soul returning a second time into
mortal life, after having long reposed on the calm of another world.
Kara Aziek doubted whether she should have strength to encounter the
cares inseparable from such a change; and Sebastian searched his spirit
to discover some of that fire and decisiveness which once predominated
in his character, though it had lain dormant at Cachoeira.

Bereft of Don Emanuel De Castro, he felt dependent chiefly on himself:
(for Don Juan he remembered merely as a very young lord whose character
was not yet developed when they sailed for Africa,) he shuddered to
think what might ensue should the Duke of Medina fail him at this awful
moment: should he have betrayed the secret of Blanche’s birth, her
parents might be hastening only to hear that their innocent child was
immured in a Castillian prison; but should he prove faithful, his
counsel might in some measure atone for the loss of De Castro.

Sebastian revolved these thoughts with deep attention; for the period
was critical, and he was about to play a solemn game that staked his
liberty and his life, the safety of his wife and daughter, and the
existence of Portugal.

CHAP. III.

Filled with such agitating interests, neither Kara Aziek nor Sebastian
marked the dangers of their voyage: they heard the raging storms without
apprehension; mightier storms were threatening from afar, of
still-deadlier import, and though they cherished a rational hope of
finding the scene less fearful than they dreaded, they felt a
presentiment of impending evils.

In something more than three months they reached St. Lucar, whence they
immediately took a passage up the Straits, to Messina.

They had re-embarked, and the vessel was under weigh, when a stranger
put off in a boat from the shore, and gained the ship. He had come post
from Madrid on some business near St. Lucar, and was now anxious to
reach the Venetian gulph where he calculated on obtaining a birth in
some vessel proceeding to Venice: his looks were those of a man who has
just quitted a scene of confusion: he had indeed left the capital of
Castille an hour after its gloomy tyrant had breathed his last.

Philip the second was dead: and as if the whole fabric of her enormous
power was shaken by this event, the strangers in Madrid all hurried to
convey the news, each to his own country, anxious to proclaim that this
was the moment for crushing the despotism of Spain.

Sebastian was sitting alone with Kara Aziek in the cabin they had
exclusively engaged for themselves, when the captain suddenly entered,
and unconscious of the peculiar interest his passengers had in such a
communication, imparted the death of Philip merely as a piece of news.
He then bolted out again, leaving Sebastian transfixed with surprise.

This event was indeed important to him: it was that which would give his
confederates every advantage, by affording them the opportunity of
falling upon Spain at a moment when her unsettled government could but
feebly resist, or would find it policy to comply with their demands:
such an event looked like an omen of success.

Amazement had struck both Sebastian and Kara Aziek speechless: they did
not hear the concluding sentence of the captain, who had requested leave
to send his new passenger into their cabin, as he was of rank, and no
other part of the ship was fit for his reception; they were startled
therefore to see a stranger of good mien and richly habited, enter their
apartment.

The bright flush of their countenances subsided directly, and they
turned towards the windows; for Sebastian was anxious to avoid the
chance of recognition.

The stranger hesitated; at length closing the door, he advanced and
apologized for his intrusion, pleading the necessity occasioned by a
violent fall of rain, which drove him from the deck, and obliged him
thus to throw himself upon the politeness of others.

The gentleman spoke in Italian, which was evidently his native tongue.

His address was too courteous for Kara Aziek to persist in an appearance
of incivility; she turned round, and pronounced with hesitation, the
permission he sought.

Sebastian remained as if in thought, with his face to the windows; the
stranger sat down: he continued to converse with his fair companion, who
listened attentively, since he talked of the event which occupied her
thoughts. He spoke eloquently of the atrocious crimes that had disgraced
the life of Philip, and hazarded several acute conjectures upon the
changes which his death would produce in the cabinets of Europe. In
particular, he described one of the tyrant’s most insolent acts to the
republic of Venice, and anathematized his iniquitous treatment of
Portugal.

At this part of his harangue, Sebastian unconsciously turned round, and
fixed an earnest look on the speaker; the latter started, stretched
eagerly forward, betrayed signs of doubt and surprize, and for a moment
was silent; but he resumed his discourse, on seeing that Sebastian
precipitately moved away.

While the Italian continued to speak, he watched every movement of
Sebastian: his countenance rapidly expressed the succession of thoughts
which this observation excited; suddenly rising he came directly in
front of the person he scrutinized. At this action an indignant flush
crimsoned Sebastian’s features; his look became severe; and the proud
majesty with which he stepped back from the advance of his observer,
made the latter pause.

“I mean not to offend, Sir!” said the stranger, respectfully inclining
his head, “Gracious Virgin! can it be possible; I know not what to--I
dream surely!--so many years!--if I am right in my suspicion, my knee
should follow the homage of my mind.”

Sebastian saw that he was discovered, but resolving to retain
concealment as long as possible, he gravely replied, “your manners
surprise me, sir! I am unconscious of ever having seen you before.”

The stranger still kept his eyes rivetted to the face of Sebastian, but
their expression was rather inviting than hostile. “My memory assures
me, sir,” he returned, “that I have seen you before: it was in the
palace of Santos de Veiel, on the coast of Algarve, where I went on a
secret mission from the Venetian Republic, to the young king of
Portugal. Many years have gone by since that period, but I still retain
the impression made on me by Don Sebastian’s most princely lineaments
and gracious presence.--His moderation, justice, and magnanimity in the
conduct of state business, I had then an opportunity of observing; his
ardent piety was no less my admiration:--and since the fatal year in
which he was said to have perished, I have always been one of those who
most eagerly listened to the various stories of his re-appearance.--I
wish you to know _me_ completely, sir: I am Signor Giuseppe Morosini:
the name of the noblest house in Venice, is, I trust, a herald of
honour:--at this day, my brother holds the first dignity of the
republic.”

“Your mien announced your nobility, sir!” replied Sebastian,
endeavouring to preserve the repelling coldness with which he awed the
vivacity of the Italian: Signor Morosini looked disappointed and
embarrassed; this remark did not answer his question, and he feared to
repeat it.

“My enthusiasm transports me too far;” he said, after a short silence,
“if you are not the personage I imagine; my discourse must sound like
the ravings of a madman, pardon me sir, I have no curiosity; respect and
disinterested zeal, alone dwell in my heart.--I see that I am not
understood--or not recollected--or not credited:--I am at a loss what to
do.”--

The Venetian stopt, and sitting down, Sebastian perceived that he
contrived to let his mantle fall off, and discover below the collar of
his ruff, a device of diamonds which fastened it to his vest: this very
bauble he remembered having given to the Venetian envoy, at the period
mentioned by this stranger. He now examined him attentively; and as
Signor Morosini’s countenance had lost its vivacity, and taken an air of
mortification, that expression came nearer to the serious air of a man
of business: he began to recollect his features and his figure; though
the former were extremely darkened, and the latter greatly enlarged
since they had met at De Veiel. But still he shrunk from precipitate
disclosure, and remained silent.

Kara Aziek, in whom the stranger’s first address had awakened a thousand
fears, now recovered from that impression, and exchanged an approving
glance with Sebastian: she ventured not to speak, and for some time,
silence succeeded to the warmth of energetic discourse.

The reflections of Sebastian were fluctuating and troubled: his nature
led him to implicit confidence in the protestations of a man of whom he
remembered nothing that was not honourable; but experience had taught
him to doubt and to investigate, ere he trusted past recal.

Yet in what way should he act? if Signor Giuseppe were permitted to
depart under the impression which it was evident he retained, pique at
being distrusted, might render him forward to describe the person he had
seen, and the surprise that encounter had caused him. Such conduct must
prove destructive of that secrecy, which, for awhile, should belong to
Sebastian’s intercourse with Spanish subjects: he would be traced to
Messina, to the abode of the Duke de Medina Sidonia’s wife, and the
sacrifice of their whole family might follow the annihilation of his
own.

Was it not better therefore, to take a bold step, and rely at once on
the honour and truth of this Venetian? his near relationship to the
Doge, and the aversion he expressed to the memory of Philip, might be
fairly considered as grounds for confidence; and if his favorable
remembrance of the Portuguese monarch, inspired him to attempt acquiring
for the confederate powers, the assistance of Venice, his friendship
must be considered as an important advantage.

These thoughts were agitating her husband, while Kara Aziek tried to
support languid conversation with Signor Morosini: the latter preserved
a timid and mortified air, yet now and then he stole an earnest glance
towards both his mysterious companions.

Sebastian suddenly approached, and lowering his voice, said, “I would
learn from you, noble Venetian, the name of him for whom you take me?”

Signor Giuseppe raised his head, and said frankly, “For Don Sebastian
himself.”

Sebastian gave no other answer than a gracious smile: the Venetian
seized the confession made by this well-remembered smile, and bent his
knee to the ground; the King gave him his hand, raised him up, and
seated himself by his side.

Signor Morosini, with the vivacity of his country, then began to pour
forth expressions of sincere joy, of wonder, of curiosity: he was eager
to learn where the King of Portugal could have been concealed so long;
and ere Sebastian found voice to reply, had imagined a thousand
fantastic and improbable adventures, which he uttered with more than his
usual rapidity.

Sebastian briefly replied, then added, “You find Signor, that I know
what is due to the bare word of an honorable man: you have merely
assured me that you wish to serve me, and relying on that assurance, I
no longer hesitate to employ your friendship in negotiation with the
Republic. For my long irresolution at our first meeting, your own sense
of discretion will plead: in circumstances like mine, caution is a
virtue.”

Signor Morosini replied with an excess of urbanity: his looks witnessed
his words; and the readiness with which he promised to use the utmost
diligence and prudence, in his negotiation with the Doge and the Senate,
forced Sebastian to confess, that his warmest friends were ever those on
whom he had no right to calculate.

Kara Aziek had retired to another part of the cabin, and taking up some
needlework, ventured not to share in a discourse, where every word was
of consequence to Sebastian, who alone could know how much to withhold
or to confide.

She observed that he never mentioned Blanche, that he prayed leave to
postpone telling the whole of his adventures, and that although he spoke
of England, France, and Holland, as favourably disposed towards him, he
did so in general terms; declining further explanation, until Venice had
determined on what course she would pursue.

Signor Giuseppe understood only, that the King of Portugal was going to
seek some old friend in Sicily; and solemnly swearing not to confide
that secret, even to his brother, he promised to be speedy in
dispatching news of success or failure, to Messina.

Thus situated, the vessel brought them to the mouth of the Venetian
gulph.

So many ships were proceeding to Venice, that Signor Morosini found no
difficulty in procuring the passage he sought: he renewed his promises
of secresy and devotedness, and getting into a felucca, was soon removed
from the vessel of Sebastian.

Filled with unexpected satisfaction by this Providential rencontre, and
led to hope complete success, since Philip was snatched from the world,
Sebastian discouraged not the expression of Kara Aziek’s joyful
feelings. He believed that the terror of Philip’s name no longer
operating to intimidate other sovereigns, past injuries would make them
rise to limit the power of his successor, such an event must prove a
signal for Portugal to start forward in her own cause: and if at the
same time her long-lost monarch should appear at the head of a
confederate army, would not his miraculous appearance stimulate them to
victory.

It was now that the sun once more shone out over the darkened fate of
Sebastian: how various, how trying had been his lot! but he was
becoming accustomed to change; and that equanimity of soul which so
peculiarly distinguishes those who have passed through many
vicissitudes, was already visible, equally under sunshine or under
storms.

Kara Aziek was less philosophic, and more animated; she thought their
allotted time of suffering had reached its termination, and fondly
anticipating a re-union with her daughter, trusted that after this
moment, their destiny must remain bright and secure.

The wind favored her eagerness: their vessel proceeded rapidly, and
gained the port of Messina.

The house of Marco Cattizone (a name assumed by Gaspar, who believed it
prudent to lull curiosity, by passing for an Italian) was easily
discovered: as Sebastian and Kara Aziek approached it, their hearts
throbbed with apprehension, lest they should not find him: if he were
gone to England with Blanche, another tedious voyage must be taken.

They had wrapped themselves in large mantles to conceal their figures,
without appearing to have studied concealment, and having landed towards
night, they reached the house unnoticed. Sebastian knew that Gaspar had
married the favorite woman of the Duchess Medina, (by whom this little
estate was given as her dowry) he was therefore prepared to act
cautiously, when appearing thus unexpectedly before a friend, whose
surprise might betray him into indiscretion.

Having learned that Marco Cattizone was at home and alone in his garden,
he went with Kara Aziek into a retired room, and desired him to be sent
for. In a few moments Gaspar entered: Sebastian and Kara Aziek stood
with their faces averted till the servant had closed the door, they then
turned round, and Gaspar uttered a cry of joy: the next instant his
countenance changed, and he exclaimed, “In the name of God, dearest
master, why are you here? this precipitate step”--His looks expressed
the apprehension he felt.

Regardless of themselves, the impatient parents only pronounced the name
of Blanche. “She is here, blessed be Heaven!” returned Gaspar, “still
the care and delight of our good Duchess.”

“Does she remember us,” exclaimed Kara Aziek, “does she love us as she
used to do?”

Gaspar’s animated reply drew a flood of joyful tears down the cheeks of
the tender mother: lost in delightful anticipations, she listened not to
the alternate interrogatories and explanations of Sebastian and his
friend; when they spoke of the subject nearest her heart, she was all
ear again.

They spoke of Blanche’s prolonged stay at Messina.--Caspar confessed,
that after the death of Don Emanuel de Castro, some wavering conduct on
the part of Queen Elizabeth, had rendered him fearful of committing so
precious a pledge to her good faith. Elizabeth had taken advantage of
their loss, to dictate new terms of alliance, and in her conversation
with Father Texere, had stipulated for two of the most important islands
belonging to Portugal, in the Atlantic and Indian ocean, to be given her
as a compensation for her services, in case Don Sebastian should be
restored: the repayment of the subsidy, of course, was not abandoned in
her altered articles.

Her avidity, and the ungenerous advantage thus taken of desperate
circumstances, had alarmed Gaspar, and disgusted the other adherents of
Sebastian: they deemed it right to detain Princess Blanche till the
English Queen should come back to her former terms; since once delivered
into her possession, the safety of Blanche might be turned by her into
an instrument of fresh extortion.

The ultimatum of the confederate nobles had lately been sent to London,
and at this period, Don Juan De Castro, (who was the bearer of it) was
daily expected to arrive with the decision of Elizabeth.

Intelligence like this must have struck a death-blow to the hopes of
Sebastian, had he not possessed a ground of encouragement in the
prospect of Venetian aid, and some consolation from the death of him who
had trampled on his country: his countenance was undismayed. “Let us not
despond, my friend! I have other resources yet.--Providence has not
abandoned your King:--our prime enemy is gone to answer for all his
crimes against God and man,--Philip of Spain is dead.”

Gaspar looked as if doubtful whether he were dreaming or awake, he
turned a vacant gaze from Sebastian to Kara Aziek: the former repeated
his assertion, briefly adding the source whence his information was
derived. That explanation led to a narrative of the adventure with
Signor Morosini; at which Gaspar passed from the extreme of
despondency, to the extreme of joy.

All his trouble vanished: he rightly believed that the accession of
fresh allies would force Elizabeth into moderation and fidelity; and
that Philip III. unwilling to strain the nerves of an infant government,
and eager to regain those friends which his gloomy predecessor had
spurned from him, might yield with a good grace to the mediation of so
many princes, and restore the crown of Portugal.

Relieved from the torture of contemplating future disasters, he now
considered the arrival of his sovereign, as an alarum to raise the
spirits and confirm the loyalty of his adherents; and no longer
apprehensive for his personal security, he delivered himself up to the
gratifications of friendship.

Only the remembrance of De Castro, the generous De Castro, saddened
this meeting: his activity and virtues were sincerely eulogised: his
last hours were described by Gaspar; and many were the tears which then
embalmed his memory.

The distance of villa Rosolia, obliged Kara Aziek to resign the
expectation of embracing her daughter before the next day. Gaspar dwelt
at Messina for the convenience of receiving and forwarding dispatches
beyond sea; and Kara Aziek divined, that as his wife still retained her
situation about the person of the Duchess, he had formed the connection
chiefly that he might visit the villa unnoticed by the other domestics;
thus preserving his intercourse with the Duke, and his interest in
Blanche undiscovered.

Villa Rosolia was two leagues off, but Gaspar deemed it expedient to
dispatch a messenger with a letter to Blanche under cover to his wife,
informing her of the arrival of her parents, and preparing her to
receive them on the ensuing day.

The return of this messenger brought a letter from Blanche written in
the overflowings of filial joy: she named an early hour for receiving
her parents on the morrow, when she hoped they were to meet never to
part again.

Parental emotions banished sleep from the pillow of Kara Aziek and
Sebastian: their night was spent in conversation about her, upon whom
hung all their domestic happiness. Would they find her still the same
artless and admirable creature they had parted with in Brazil! would the
same beautiful countenance present itself unchanged to their partial
sight?

A multitude of natural doubts and fears moderated their joy, but
increased their impatience, and they rose soon, to commence their short
journey to Rosolia.

Gaspar had the self-denial to remain behind, lest his appearance in
familiar society with the visitors of the Duchess Medina, should excite
curiosity in her household.

The hired carriage which conveyed them from Messina, was not long of
bringing them to the gate of the villa. At beholding that house which
contained her child, Kara Aziek’s emotion was heightened to painfulness:
she turned pale, grew faint, and alighting from the carriage, tottered
into a hall, almost unconscious of existence.

Having paused a little to recover herself, a servant led them into an
unoccupied apartment, where they were immediately joined by their
daughter.--She came alone.

At her entrance, both parents stretched out their arms towards her,
without having power to advance; they scarcely saw the beautiful young
creature who sprung to their embrace with the bloom of a Hebé, and a
sensibility which covered her glowing cheeks with tears: they knew it
was their child; for her voice vibrated in well-remembered sweetness on
their ear. They blessed, they embraced, they wept over her; they
murmured out their gratitude to Heaven; and lost to every thing else,
thought only that they were indeed met to part no more.

When this mutual transport had a little subsided, they were able to look
attentively on Blanche: it was not her extreme beauty (though she was
lovelier than any “mortal mixture of earth’s mould”) that elevated and
delighted their hearts; it was the expression which made that beauty
beautiful to them. Her eyes still beamed the tenderness and sweetness of
her mother, her brow yet announced the energy and heroism of her father:
her manner was still simple and modest; her words the language of
unperverted truth.

The mutual details of this happy family may be easily imagined: they
consisted on the part of the parents in the repetition of what they had
already repeated to Gaspar; and on the side of Blanche, in accounts of
her habits of life, and such interesting anecdotes of her protectress
as were connected with them.

She informed her father that the Duke had been sent for express the
evening before, on the death of Philip II. and ere Sebastian reached
Messina, had gone for Spain with his only son Don Hyppolito, in order to
appear at the first council of their new sovereign. This circumstance,
though it robbed Sebastian of that Nobleman’s advice, was yet to be
considered as replete with advantages, since in quality of counsellor to
the new monarch, he might add his influence to the Portuguese party,
when England and the other allies should openly proclaim in his favor.

Eager to introduce her protectress, Blanche now hastened away for that
purpose; she returned, preceded by the Duchess.

Her resemblance to Don Emanuel deeply affected Sebastian, he kissed her
hand in silence, and as he lifted up his head again, the Duchess saw
that tears were on his cheek; interpreting their cause, she too, turned
aside to hide rising emotion.

It is only a half-sorrow which seeks to display itself: true grief, like
true virtue, courts the shade.

Not a heart there, but was full of De Castro’s memory, yet not a lip
trusted itself to breathe his name.

The conversation flowed less on the past, than the future. Sebastian
found that the Duchess possessed an acute and penetrating mind: she had
entered into all the views of her brother and husband; and though the
latter had never consented to act in rebellion against his own lawful
sovereign, he was forward to avow his abhorrence of usurpation, and to
prove it, by entering his protest against a detention of the Portuguese
crown, should Philip refuse to resign it on the appearance of Sebastian.

She stated these principles with perfect candour, professing no more in
her husband’s name, than she knew him earnest to perform. She offered
Sebastian the protection of her house, and the use of the revenues
attached to it; for the family of Medina Sidonia was the richest in
Spain, and this Sicilian estate made but a small part of their wealth.

Impressed by her generous conduct, both Sebastian and Kara Aziek renewed
those protestations of eternal gratitude which they had first uttered,
while acknowledging all they owed to her for her maternal care of their
daughter, but they neither required nor accepted any additional favors
beyond that of shelter for awhile.

Happy were the days that now flowed away at the villa Rosolia; in the
enjoyment of life’s most hallowed affections, the parents and the child
refused to allow any moment of their time to distracting cares; they
were all absorbed in each other.

Gaspar might be said to hover over their domestic circle; for his
spirit was always with them, though their inequality of rank rendered
the discretion of distant respect an act of necessity. At some periods
however, this restraint was amply compensated. Innocent stratagems were
devised by which he had opportunities of conversing whole hours with his
noble friends; and though his wife was not entrusted with the secret of
Blanche’s connexion with these extraordinary strangers, she knew them to
be his former master and mistress, and wondered not at their
graciousness to her husband.

Letters from Spain and Venice changed the calm aspect of villa
Rosolia.--Medina Sidonia wrote, that he found the new King well-inclined
to lighten the burthens which his predecessor had imposed on the
Portuguese, nay, that he was aware of the danger of driving them to
despair, and the policy of conciliation; and that he had listened with
attention to Medina’s suggestion of placing at the head of their
government their first noble, the Duke of Braganza. This suggestion had
been hazarded to try Philip’s pulse, and from the moderation with which
he received it, Medina sanguinely concluded, that he would not attempt
retaining the crown when the legitimate owner was proved to be living.

Signor Morosini’s packet contained more substantial good fortune: it
accompanied an invitation from the Doge, for Don Sebastian to repair
immediately to Venice, where he promised (on certain conditions,
advantageous for the republic, and not inimical to the interests of
Portugal) to protect him against Spain, to procure the assistance of
other Italian states, and if supported by England and France, to take up
arms in his cause.

Among the motives for gratitude to Don Sebastian which the Venetian
republic felt and acknowledged, was a very considerable loan of money
which she had borrowed at a time of imminent want, and which she had not
since been able to return. Sebastian had cancelled the debt; and he now
received this forwardness to assert his rights, as an honourable proof
that political virtue had not abandoned the world.

A list of illustrious names was subscribed to this letter: he well
remembered many of their signatures, that had been inscribed on official
papers at the period alluded to, and no longer doubting either the
sincerity or the success of Signor Morosini, he once more gave the reins
to his sanguine nature, and believed himself justified in trusting to
the honor of the Venetians.

This seemed the crisis of his fate, the hour that was to determine
whether Portugal should be emancipated, or doomed to eternal slavery.
The bold act of suddenly claiming his rights from the bosom of an
independent state, would fix the wavering inclinations of France and
England; Holland had never retracted her good faith; and thus supported,
Sebastian believed himself called on to resolve decisively.

It was important for him to secure the friendly offices of some powerful
personage in his own dominions, and to whom could he look with such
certainty, as to his kinsman the duke of Braganza?

This nobleman was that Theodosius, Duke of Barcelos, who at eleven years
old had borne a royal standard over the field of Alcazar: he was now the
only representative of their ancient house. To him, (as one dear to his
recollection, and well acquainted with his hand-writing) Sebastian
intended to address a confidential letter, informing him of his
existence, and of his determination to repair immediately to Venice,
whence he should send a summons to Philip for the restoration of his
dominions.

Gaspar eagerly offered to become the bearer of this important dispatch,
fearful that any messenger less aware of its momentous nature, might
fail of delivering it, or loiter on his way. Gaspar’s long absence from
Portugal persuaded him that his person would be worn out of the memory
of all but his most familiar associates, and to none of them, except his
sisters, was his return from Barbary known. Besides the motive of duty,
he pleaded his wish of once more beholding his relations, and to the
force of such a plea rather than to his reasoning, Sebastian reluctantly
conceded the permission he sought.

The letter for Braganza was given to Gaspar, who prepared for instant
departure from Messina.

“This is a time of joy, honored Sire!” exclaimed he, as he knelt to
receive the parting benediction of his master, “why then that serious
and almost sad look? I go with such a glow of hope in this heart of
mine, that it convinces me Providence ordains Gaspar Ribeiro to be one
of the favored instruments in the great event we anticipate. Give me a
farewel smile, my beloved liege! or I shall fear you doubt my
discretion.”

Sebastian gave the smile which his faithful servant solicited, but his
heart smiled not, for the recollection of De Castro’s death came over
him, and he shuddered to think that even of this friend also accident
might deprive him.

The departure of Gaspar was followed by preparations for that of
Sebastian: his resolution was taken; and not even the fantastic fears of
Kara Aziek (whose courage failed her when the moment drew near in which
they must wholly depend on the sincerity of Venice) could make him
shrink from the bold experiment he was about to hazard.

“Better to sink at once,” he said to himself, “than to continue thus
struggling for life, in a stormy ocean of perpetual vicissitudes: the
most precious things are not precious, unless held with a security of
possession. I will lose or I will gain all!”

This determination, as it rather endangered his own security, than
involved that of others, was equally the effect of reason as of
feeling: he was no longer able to dwell in obscurity, since half Europe
knew of his existence, and should he let this favorable crisis escape
him, Spain would have time to win away his adherents, and might finally
end by extirpating him and his race.

Again, therefore, must he repose his only child on the affection of the
Duchess Medina Sidonia. Adopted by her, and known but as the offspring
of Don Emanuel De Castro, should Providence ordain her parents to perish
or to fail, she might pursue her blameless life in retirement, striving
to forget that she had ever dreamed of power or of distinction.

Kara Aziek felt the urgency of this reasoning too strongly not to
acquiesce in its decision: the safety of Blanche was far dearer to her
than her own gratification; but the lover of her youth, the tender
friend and long-endeared companion of her maturity, had claims on her
heart which not even her child could weaken.

“I share thy fate, my Sebastian!” she said, as he spoke to her of
remaining in Sicily, “time has not changed thy Aziek’s soul: dost thou
believe her less thine, or more capable of outliving thy loss, than when
she drooped for thee to the tomb in Africa?--Ah, know her still!”

“I do, I do know thee still!” exclaimed Sebastian, with an overflowing
heart,--“and it is only my anxious care for thy safety, that makes me
apprehend any danger where I expect none for myself. We go then,
together, My Aziek! May the Almighty grant that this may be the last,
the decisive struggle!”

CHAP. IV.

Prosperous as were the views before them, Sebastian and Kara Aziek did
not leave their Blanche a second time without a trying conflict; but
they left her in the hands of another mother, and a short voyage wafted
them into scenes of most momentous interest.

Signor Morosini received them at his mansion in Venice, with a vivacity
of joy: and the Doge evinced his respect, by paying the homage of a
first visit to his illustrious supplicant.

In this interview the terms of their future alliance were specified and
fixed, and the mode of their proceedings settled. Morosini was appointed
to repair immediately to Madrid, with a formal notification to Philip
III. of his royal relation’s existence, he was to assert the identity of
Don Sebastian, and to demand the restitution of Portugal; should Philip
hesitate, he was then empowered to announce the Republic’s intention to
maintain the rights of their ancient ally. Armed with the assurance of
aid from England, France, and the Low Countries, the Venetians feared
not to embark in a cause so ably supported; a sense of recent injuries
from the proud house of Austria, contributed to inflame their zeal.

On the day of Morosini’s departure from Venice, messengers were sent off
for all the different courts in Europe, calling on them to assist in
replacing a brother-monarch. Sebastian wrote with his own hand to Queen
Elizabeth and to Essex, requiring the former to abate her hard
conditions, and to accept any other guarantee for his fidelity to the
engagements she exacted, than his only child.

While these agents were rapidly passing to and fro, the King of
Portugal remained in the house of Morosini, not yet formally declared
before the senate, (because Morosini’s presence would be necessary for
his acknowledgment,) but in private implicitly trusted, and honorably
attended by every senator.

The protestant powers had already replied favorably to the letters of
Sebastian, and dispatched their representative to the court of Madrid,
testifying their conviction of his identity, and making his restoration
the basis of a general peace: no decisive answer was yet come from that
court.

Morosini wrote, that Philip, and his ministers of course, rested their
delay on the question of identity; and willing to consider Sebastian as
an impostor, were then endeavouring to find him so: he advised an
instant appeal to the Pontiff of Rome, whose investigation of the truth
or falsehood of this wonderful event would be guided by pious motives
alone, therefore to his decision the King of Spain must submit.

At this suggestion, Sebastian felt called upon to reveal his bosom
principles; after explicitly detailing them, and pledging his solemn
oath never to let them interfere with his conduct in public affairs, he
declared his resolution to live and to die a Protestant, whether as a
King or as a fugitive. He abjured the authority of Rome, protesting his
willingness to meet the scrutiny of the Pope in common with other
temporal Princes, but never to consider him as his superior in spiritual
things.

Here was a stay to the forward zeal of Venice! the Doge receded with
terrified precipitancy at this unforeseen avowal, and the reply of
Morosini was full of dismay and persuasion!

Clouds began once more to gather over the fortunes of Sebastian; his
warmest Italian friends avoided his society, or employed their zeal
only in vain arguments to induce him to recant those doctrines which
they deemed abominable, and which they dared not pollute themselves by
hearing!

The Pope’s legate finding exhortations and promises totally useless, at
length pronounced the sentence of reprobation in his master’s name; and
threatened the inhabitants of Venice with excommunication if they
continued to uphold him, whom he proclaimed to be a devil, or a
magician, assuming the form of the really deceased Sebastian.

Morosini returned from Madrid: his manner was changed, his zeal extinct.
Of a character eagerly open to new impressions, which by their vivacity
deceived the observer into a belief of their durability, he had been
fascinated by the insinuating graces of Philip III. and suddenly chilled
by the discovery of Don Sebastian’s altered sentiments on the most
important of subjects.

Philip had address enough to perceive the unsubstantial character he had
to deal with; he affected to lament the affronts offered to Venice, he
promised ample reparation, and by the most studied attentions to
Morosini, flattered his vanity, and lighted up a transient flame of
enthusiasm in his inflammable breast.

Morosini yet wavered between the romantic interest which a fugitive King
excited, and the vain exultation inspired by a young and prosperous
monarch’s caresses, when the Pope’s bull fell like a thunderbolt between
him and the fortunes of the former, and severed him from them for ever.

He now met Sebastian with confusion and restraint: his discourse was
full of abstruse dogmas and church threatenings; he eulogized the
unshakable, yet unpersecuting spirit with which Philip III. possessed
the faith of Rome; and he reluctantly confessed, that unless the King of
Portugal would consent to acknowledge the supremacy of the Papal See,
and to accept his crown on her conditions, the Senate of Venice could
not openly proclaim, or secretly support him.

“What then!” exclaimed Sebastian, with some of his former impetuosity,
“do you maintain the impious doctrine that man is more powerful than
God? what human hand dare bar my hand to that throne on which the divine
hand had placed me at the hour of my birth? Your birth-right is your
patrimonial house, your noble name, your rank in the republic--mine is
the throne of Portugal and the Indies; and now, by the blessing of God,
I will perish ere I renounce it. When Kings are prosperous, then do you
make them Gods; when they are in adversity, you reduce them below
humanity: what manner of justice is this? Who shall say that aught but
crimes can deprive a common individual of his lawful inheritance? and
are Princes to be more hardly dealt with than their subjects?--shame on
such base conclusions.”

“It is a crime, Sir, to abandon the only true faith, and adopt the creed
of heretics.” Morosini spoke with a ruffled though hesitating voice. “I
dare not league my soul with any Prince who professes enmity to the
church of Peter. If this were a mere political matter, we should not
scrutinize the opinions of an ally, but it is a question of conscience.
Can the Catholic republic of Venice consistently with its character,
assist in taking the crown of Portugal from the head of a pious King, to
place it on that of an apostate?”

Sebastian gave him a lightning glance of proud indignation, but quelling
the sudden emotion as it arose, he said deliberately,

“The republic of Venice knows that my sentiments are in direct
opposition to all persecution: that liberty of conscience which I claim
for myself, I am ready to grant to others. Man cannot answer for man,
at the last dread day; beware then, how you yield up your soul to the
authority of a mortal like yourself!--I disclaim all power over the
spiritual part of my subjects: they are responsible to God, not to their
King, for those religious tenets from which their good or evil actions
proceed. When I return to Portugal I return to obey and to execute the
laws; to provide for the political prosperity of my people; to endeavour
at forwarding their moral improvement by my example; and to live in
amity with all nations who acknowledge one obligation to worship one
creator, and to obey the one law of virtue that he has placed in every
heart: further, than this, I exact of no man; different portions of
reason and different habits, will produce, to the end of time, different
degrees in the scale of religious advancement.

“Morosini, you now know my sentiments; which I solemnly take Heaven to
witness are faithfully delivered to you. If your republic will continue
to support a man of such sentiments in his just claim, I pledge myself
for eternal gratitude: if not, I condemn her not; I lament her slavery
to that anti-christian authority which once fettered myself, and I will
depart in peace.”

“Not so, Sir!” said Morosini, changing colour, and in a hurried voice,
for shame was at his heart. “The republic is under the painful necessity
of detaining you until our most holy father the Pope has signified his
pleasure respecting her conduct.”

Sebastian was transfixed by this reply; the blood recoiled upon his
heart, and he stood some moments incapable of speech; then advancing and
fixing a stern look on Signor Giuseppe, he said,

“On the faith of the whole republic, not merely on the word of him who
proffered friendship unasked, did I come hither: eternal infamy will
lighten that republic if they suffer a hair of this head to fall.
Beware how you damn yourselves to posterity by this unheard of
treachery.”

“What treachery, does Don Sebastian injuriously apprehend?” asked
Giuseppe, endeavouring to look tranquil.

“That which lays upon the surface of your own words,” was the
reply--“you return from the court of him who has fallen heir to my
usurped dominions, with a determination to make the fulfilment of your
hasty promises depend upon my renunciation of those principles, which
still believing, I dare not abjure. You cannot dispute the identity
which your own eyes and lips have acknowledged, therefore, (seduced into
Philip’s interest,) you take refuge under papal authority, and will
deliver me up to imprisonment or to death, at the ordination of Rome.”

Morosini appeared indignant at the supposition: indeed his mind was not
yet made up to any decision; and though fanaticism had taken alarm at
the obstinate heresy of his former idol, he was far from lending a
willing assent to an act of violence.

“I am cruelly situated:” he exclaimed, at length, and the facile tears
stood in his eyes--“remember, Don Sebastian, that at the period I swore
to serve you unto death, I knew not that you were otherwise than a son
of the church: since then you have undeceived me; and that difference of
opinion on matters of conscience which you have yourself established,
obliges me to stifle the pleadings of my ardent prejudice in your favor,
and to place my future conduct at the disposal of my spiritual director.
In this instance I am only the organ of the republic; it is she, who
waits the result of her message to Rome: till that arrives, your majesty
must condescend still to consider this house as your own. You command
here, as the guest of Giuseppe Morosini.”

Sebastian turned towards the Italian with a strong expression of disgust
at his now-offensive courteousness: his blood boiled: but quickly
subsiding, he repeated with a smile of contempt a short quotation from
the Poet of England.

          “Note this, good Sirs!
    When zeal begins to sicken and decay,
    It useth an enforced ceremony.”

“Morosini!” he added, (and he spoke sternly, and with an air of majesty)
“I must be spared in future this mockery of respect.

“You cannot feel it, if you sincerely believe me reprobate of Heaven;
and if you do not believe me so, this abandonment of my cause either
from interest or from fear, renders you despicable in the eyes of an
honest and a brave man. Leave me, Sir! I remain then, your prisoner--but
I have friends without these walls who may with God’s blessing shake
them to their centre; yea, the foundations of your city itself.”

Sebastian turned away as he concluded, and Morosini abruptly retired.

Sebastian was still too ingenuous for the world he lived in: the moment
that roused his feelings or inflamed his passions, laid his whole heart
open: that mantle of reserve, in which long efforts had taught him to
wrap himself, was instantly discarded, and he shewed himself to his
adversary, with all his weaknesses and all his strength.

Fatal was his present sincerity: Morosini left him, mortified,
humiliated, and enraged; one hour’s discourse had made him his
determined foe.

When Kara Aziek rejoined her husband, she saw in his perturbed looks the
herald of disagreeable tidings: her first thought was of Blanche, and
she pronounced her name. Sebastian quieted this natural fear, and then,
conscious that it is vain to think of concealing evils which we know
must endure for a certain period, he proceeded to tell her the nature of
his interview with Morosini.

She was prepared for disappointment, but not for an actual misfortune;
and at the intimation of their being prisoners in Venice, the blood
forsook her cheeks. Her rapid imagination instantly created a thousand
frightful images, which were indeed too likely to be realized: she sat
cold and speechless as a statue, while Sebastian, tenderly enumerating
the motives to courage under this evil, exhorted her not only to
confidence in the exertions of their friends, but to confidence in
heaven.

Kara Aziek, with streaming eyes, did indeed look only to that heaven for
succour: but dark and intricate are the ways of Providence, and who dare
assure themselves that what they dread most, is not destined to form
part of those trials by which their souls are to be disciplined for a
purer being? She despaired not, but she ventured not to expect; scarcely
did she hope.

Sebastian’s courage rose in proportion to the peril with which he was
threatened, and in seeking to tranquillize her he loved, he re-assured
himself.

Resolute to assert his freedom, and not tamely to bend his neck to the
yoke imposed, he addressed a short note to the Doge and Senate,
requiring their immediate answer to his question, of whether they
sanctioned the words of Signor Morosini, and demanding permission to
leave their territory, in case they declined fulfilling their former
engagements.

This letter was answered by a request that he would attend the council
of senators at midnight.

At the hour appointed, Sebastian got into the gondola of the Doge, which
was sent for his conveyance: it conveyed him not to the senate-house,
but to the state-prison.

Morosini’s private resentment had cooperated with his ambition, his
interest, and his dread of excommunication: he alone of the Venetians
knew the person of Don Sebastian, and upon his professing to believe
that he had been imposed upon by the extreme likeness and great address
of an impostor, the senate took alarm, readily seized this opportunity
of abandoning a man whom the Pope anathematized, and for whose detention
Philip had recently offered them the most tempting advantages, and
precipitately determined on committing him to prison.

When Sebastian found himself thus betrayed, his fortitude transiently
forsook him, and his limbs shook under him; it seemed as if he had seen
the last of all he loved: but quickly recovering, he turned to the
governor of the place, and said calmly--

“I demand the consolation of my wife’s society. Tell your senate, that I
charge them, as they are men sensible to human affection, that they
separate us not! as they deal with me now, so will I requite them
hereafter: for let them not believe that they may corrupt the justice of
Heaven.”

Signor Valdorno bowed and obeyed, and after a long absence, re-appeared
with Kara Aziek.

Left alone with her husband in an apartment, which though commodious,
was still part of a prison, Kara Aziek looked round her with an air of
distraction: her eyes were wild and tearless, her hands burning as she
clasped those of Sebastian. “Here then, we are to die!” she exclaimed,
“or here we are to live, buried from our child!”

She fell senseless on his breast as she spoke, and lost for awhile all
consciousness of their misfortune. Her recovery was followed by tears
and incessant sighs, that pierced the heart of Sebastian: he sought to
comfort her, but every delusive expression faltered on his tongue, and
at length he remained silent, hopeless of success.

The silent and deep sadness of him who was still the dearest object of
her love, made Kara Aziek sensible to the cruelty of indulging her own
sorrow: she checked her sobs, she wiped away her tears, and firmly
striving to resign herself to her fate, she rose from his supporting
arms.

“We have not yet lost all!” she cried, “since we retain each other! for
that greatest of mercies, O may I be properly thankful! pardon your
Aziek my Sebastian, she is herself again.”

Sebastian embraced her without speaking, for now tenderness subdued him,
and his words were suffocated. The remainder of their night was spent in
mutual attempts at animating the courage of each other, and in secret
aspirations to the only source of real fortitude.

When the governor appeared on the morrow, to make a courteous offer of
any service he might venture to bestow, Sebastian charged him with a
second message to the senate, demanding the reason of this outrageous
treatment, and calling on them to remember the respect due to the
Lord’s anointed. He had to learn that the senate of Venice no longer
acknowledged his claim to such a title.

Morosini’s moral apostacy had given them all a plausible pretext for
violating the law of hospitality in the person of their dubious guest.
If he were indeed an impostor, no crowned head would resent their
treatment of him, no individual blame it: without having recourse to the
plea of religion, (which might embroil them with potentates professing
the same faith with their victim) they might surely detain and punish
him as a deceiver.

Most of the lords believed Morosini’s assertion, (who had nearly
persuaded himself to believe it also) that an extreme likeness had
misled him, together with some circumstances which accident might have
brought to the knowledge of the pretended King, but that in their last
interview, these were rendered of no importance, since the incredible
difference between the religion of the true and the false Sebastian,
was a decisive proof of his imposture.

Many Venetians doubted this explanation; but they were spell-bound by
spiritual terrors, and were willing to let events take their course.

Both parties united in outwardly discrediting his identity, and to that
effect they answered his message.

“Since they have taken their stand on this vain ground,” cried Sebastian
to the governor, “my hour of triumph is at hand. Your senate dare not
have the boldness or injustice to deny bringing me to the proof. I
demand to be seen of the Portuguese: I am anxious to court the scrutiny
of those who have known me from infancy to manhood. There are personal
marks about most men which may certify them to others: my body is
remarkable for them: let me be seen by those now living that have served
about my person! I challenge your republic to produce me before the
world. I invite the amplest investigation: if they find me not what I
maintain myself, Sebastian the King of Portugal, let my head be smitten
off--carry this message, sir, to the Doge.”

Fluctuating, and fearful, and interested, the Doge and his counsellors
were ill-disposed to grant the fair demands of him they were betraying:
the threats of Rome, and the persuasions of Spain, could not induce them
to deliver up Sebastian to certain destruction; but they temporized and
qualified, and by detaining the object of Philip’s alarm till he should
gain time to win over Sebastian’s friends to his views, they hoped to
obtain the dazzling favors he promised, and to avert the curses
denounced by the descendant of Peter.

Morosini already reaped the fruit of his infidelity: he was caressed by
the new monarch of Spain, and gratified with the distinction of being
admitted into the order of its grandees: he was in short become the
secret spy of Philip.

No reply was vouchsafed to the frequent messages of the injured King,
and as time wore away, his amazed mind began to admit the horrid thought
that Kara Aziek’s prophecy was indeed true, and that they were doomed to
finish their days in imprisonment together.

But what were become of his friends, and of those princes who had
entered into a compact for his sake? they had not abandoned him.

No sooner did the news of this atrocious act meet the different agents
of Sebastian on their arrival at Venice, where they had hastened to see
and acknowledge him, than they importuned the senate for permission to
visit him in his prison, in order to satisfy themselves whether it was
or was not their lawful King.

The senate were deaf to their intreaties, and again De Castro, Texere,
and Don Christopher of Crato, hastened back to England, Holland, and
France, to procure the interference of these powers with the republic,
for a sight of him who proclaimed himself their sovereign.

The Duke of Medina Sidonia vehemently urged at the court of Castille,
his abhorrence of the perfidy and injustice of the Venetians, calling on
his monarch to assert the honour of Spain, by disavowing such conduct,
and proceeding to an open investigation of the stranger’s story.

The Duke of Braganza dispatched his late mother’s confessor, the Father
Sampayo, with a written deposition of the person and natural marks of
Don Sebastian, taken from the testimony of his foster-brother and his
servants, requiring the republic to compare that description with her
prisoner.

These various exertions were now making in favour of him, who remote
from all intelligence, remained a prey to every species of misery. The
fate of these friends themselves, and of his innocent daughter, began to
alarm his fears, and the possibility of being torn from his wife and
child, filled him with dismay.

He was sitting one wintry night, (listening to the hollow wind that
swept in gusts over the Adriatic) now looking towards the chamber where
Aziek had sunk into a short slumber, now fixing his eyes in sad
abstraction on the ground, when the door opened, and Signor Valdorno the
governor appeared, followed by a person in the dress of a monk.

“This holy man’s importunities have made me hazard my office to give you
comfort, sir,” said Valdorno, speaking low--“your interview shall be
private--I will return in an hour.”

The governor closed the door, which he fastened on the outside again,
and then departed.

Sebastian had risen up: he looked earnestly towards the monk, who was
standing with his eyes fixed as wistfully upon him. Sebastian looked to
find the features of Gaspar beneath this disguise; but he saw only an
aged and care-worn visage, over which a few tears began slowly to
trickle.

“So changed! so very much changed!” said the old man in a feeble voice
after a long silence, “yet noble and princely still! Can twenty years,
then, make such havoc in manly beauty! speak to me, Sir! let me be sure
it is my lord and master Don Sebastian; on whose head I laid these
withered hands in benediction at the house of the Duchess Braganza, on
the day of his embarkation for Africa. Speak to me, Sir--let me hear
your voice!”

“Sampayo! good father Sampayo!” exclaimed Sebastian, falling on his
neck, and melting into weakness, “do you live to seek me? has your old
age been spared only to find your master thus?”

Sampayo wrung his hands in transport, “It is, it is my King!” he
exclaimed, while essaying to bend his trembling knee, Sebastian stayed
him on his arm. “Not so, good father! but our time is short; say whence
you come, and from whom! know you aught of my friend Juan De Castro--and
of him the most faithful, most dear, whom I sent to my kinsman in
Portugal?”

“I am but just come from Lisbon,” replied Sampayo, looking down and
lowering his voice; “your kinsman the Duke of Braganza has sent me, on
his representations, to ascertain your identity: denied admittance to
you by the senate, I have procured admittance through the humanity of
your gaoler; I go now, to re-urge the Duke’s request to the republic for
your Majesty to be publicly compared with a written testimonial of your
person, which I carry. Despair not, Sire! you still live in the hearts
of the Portuguese, and you have zealous friends. England, France,
Holland, openly demand of Venice, the satisfaction of bringing your
truth or falsehood to the proof. I lament the sad change in your
religion; but you are my dear lord and master still.”

The old man shed tears as he spoke, and devoutly crossing himself,
repeated an inward prayer for the soul of him he believed seduced into
error.

Sebastian’s countenance brightened: “All is not lost then!” he
exclaimed, “the path is rugged and hard to climb, Sampayo! but I shall
gain the summit at last. Yet talk to me of my friend! where is he? why
stays he from me at the time of my extremest need?”

Sampayo was silent: his care-worn countenance altered visibly, and
appalled Sebastian: the latter fixed a look on him, as if he would have
dived into his soul. “Why stays he?” he repeated hastily; still Sampayo
replied not, and the frightful silence which followed, was first broken
by the King.

“In the name of God, father! answer my question.”

Sampayo looked sorrowfully up, and said in a trembling voice, “Ours is a
chequered life, dear master! grief and gladness, gain and loss are so
woven together, that--

“No preparations father!” cried the King, grasping his arm with a wild
sternness, “what have I to learn?--that some horrible misfortune has
befallen my last friend?--that I am bereft of him also?”

“Yours is the misfortune, Sire! his, the blessing:” returned Sampayo,
“he is gone to everlasting joy.”

The blow was too sudden to be borne: Sebastian uttered a dismal cry, and
fell suddenly to the ground.

At the sound of his voice, Kara Aziek awoke, and starting up, ran into
the apartment: She beheld her husband seemingly lifeless, lying at the
feet of a very aged man, whose shaking hands were feebly essaying to
lift him up. She sprang towards them, she raised Sebastian in her arms,
and slackening the collar of his doublet, sprinkled his face with water:
her cares were all employed for him, but her mind was full of alarm for
her daughter, and she incoherently questioned the stranger about her
alone.

Sampayo’s answers convinced her that he knew not of whom she spoke: and
now her fears took a new direction, and she believed him a messenger of
death to her husband.

At this moment Sebastian opened his eyes; he turned them from her in
search of Sampayo, with a look of unutterable grief; then raised and
fixed them upon Heaven.

Kara Aziek’s faltering voice could with difficulty intreat an
explanation of the scene before her: Sampayo briefly repeated it. For a
more vital wound, her imagination had so far prepared her, that she
received this without that acuteness of anguish which otherwise must
have assaulted her sensibility; she merely sunk down upon a seat, pale,
speechless, and awe-struck.

Sebastian leaned against the wall of the chamber, with his head bent
down, unconsciously knocking his hand against his heart, with a violent
motion that shewed how intolerable was the pain he felt there. “Half my
life is gone!” he said, after a long and doleful silence, “he was the
dearest of my friends, for we had suffered together; he lived only in
me, doubtless he died for!”

At this thought a burst of tenderness forced the passage from his heart,
and covered his face with tears: Kara Aziek and father Sampayo wept with
him. Several times Sebastian attempted to inquire the particulars of his
loss, and as often did a passion of sorrow sweep the words away.

It was now Kara Aziek’s part to interpose herself between him and
affliction: she tenderly besought him to retire into the room she had
quitted, while she learned from father Sampayo those circumstances which
he could not hear without fresh emotion. Sebastian hastened to comply;
for he was no longer master of himself, and his grief increased rather
than subsided.

While he ran to hide his lamentations in solitude, father Sampayo
proceeded to detail the mournful event of which it was his fate to be
made the messenger.

“My royal master is already informed of the noble Braganza’s favourable
reception of his confidential agent.” Convinced by the hand-writing of
Don Sebastian, and by several anecdotes of the Braganza family, which
Gaspar Ribeiro repeated, the Duke lent all his authority to the mission
of your friend, he permitted him to use his name in every attempt to
disseminate a spirit of inquiry on this important subject through our
countrymen. Gaspar had succeeded to a marvel: aided by one Lopez Vernara
(an old inn-keeper, who testified to the return of Don Sebastian,
though he knew not at the time the royal guest he was harbouring,) he
drew crowds to follow him, calling aloud for their lawful King.

About this period the Venetian proclamation of Don Sebastian’s
existence, and their remonstrance with Spain, followed by those of other
powerful states, was known in Portugal: this circumstance substantiating
Gaspar’s assertions, caused such tumults of joy amongst the people, that
the Marquis Castel Rodrigo, who now governs Portugal as viceroy, took
alarm, and commanded the noble Braganza to deliver up the man who had
originally excited this commotion.

Braganza refused: he told Castel Rodrigo, that on the truth or falsehood
of Gaspar’s report his reward or punishment might depend: he was willing
to pledge himself for the accused’s appearance, on the event of the
examination at Venice: when if the stranger there, who called himself
their royal kinsman, were shewn to be an impostor, this agent of his
should be delivered up to the will of Spain: till then, (believing his
story) he should maintain his liberty against the whole force of Spanish
power.

To this brave answer the Marquis replied, by commanding the Duke to
attend him in private, with the person he protected, for the sake of
hearing his strange story. Braganza went: and leaving his armed escort
in the hall of the palace, ascended with Gaspar to the audience chamber.

“Pardon me dear Lady! let me breathe awhile! I am old and soon overcome,
and there are some events one cannot recal without sorrow.”

Father Sampayo paused to rest himself; while Kara Aziek, pale with
anxiety, and trembling with anticipated horror, waited all ear to catch
his renewed discourse. It was many minutes ere he had strength to
resume.

“Time will not permit me to enter minutely into the scene which
followed: the two nobles met avowedly to examine Gaspar’s evidence
without prejudice. Castel Rodrigo had professed moderation; but in
proportion to his conviction of the truth of what he wished to
disbelieve, his anger rose: he reviled Gaspar; and finding Braganza
resolute to protect his liberty with the lives and liberties of his
adherents, he lost all command of himself, called the Duke an ambitious
traitor, and aimed a blow at his person.

“The intrepid Gaspar saved my honored master from such disgrace: he
sprung forward, and with a sudden grasp, arrested the arm of the
viceroy; but his own hour was come: Rodrigo nimbly drew forth a dagger
with his other hand, and plunged it into the heart of Gaspar. He fell,
exclaiming, “Commend me to my dear lord! I die as I have wished--in his
cause.”

At this part of his narrative Sampayo stopt again; and Kara Aziek,
drowned in tears covered her face, and faintly motioned him not to
continue. Removed from the sight of Sebastian, whose grief would have
been heightened by hers, she felt privileged to give a loose to those
feelings of regret, admiration, gratitude, and affection, which the
conduct and the memory of Gaspar excited.

Her ill-suppressed sobs were not unheard by Sebastian: but he had the
resolution to remove further from the door of his apartment, sensible,
that at a moment like this, he could not bear any addition to his pains.

After a dreary interval of silence, Kara Aziek said tremulously. “Died
he indeed, happy, good father; how would this calamity be sweetened to
us, if we dare believe that Gaspar left the world with hope and comfort
at his heart.”

“The triumphant smile which sat on his pale lips,” replied Sampayo,
“assures me that he did so: that smile was still there, when his
lifeless body was conveyed to the Braganza palace, for mourning and
honourable interment.

“The brutal Marquis, satisfied with the death of his victim, opposed not
this act of my lord’s; and the lowly Gaspar Ribeiro now lies by the side
of noble dust: he sleeps in the vault of the Braganzas.”

“Ah what avails it!” exclaimed Kara Aziek, weeping afresh, “empty
tribute to the best and noblest of human beings! Honours cannot recal
him to us.”

“Yet evincing the esteem of others, they may soothe his nearer friends.”
Replied Sampayo. “I have brought with me a relic of remembrance, a lock
of his hair: my royal master may one day love to look on it.”

Kara Aziek averted her head as she stretched out her trembling hand to
receive the sad memorial: she ventured not to look at it, even while
pressing it to her lips and to her closed eyelids. Moistened by
increasing tears, she placed the relic in her breast.

A step was now heard approaching: “It is the governor,” cried Sampayo,
“farewel, dearest lady, I may not see my dear sovereign again: tell him
I go to solicit afresh--bid him be of good cheer--so monstrous an act
must arm all Europe against Spain and the Republic.” Sampayo had but
just time to salute the hem of her garment, when Signor Valdorno
appeared, and led him from the apartment.

CHAP. V.

Sebastian did not suffer Kara Aziek to remain alone: he rejoined her
with an air of desolation, which though profound, was composed. “I am
now prepared to hear all that relates to my dear friend: tell me Aziek,
how is he lost to us?”

Kara Aziek answered, with quivering lips, and the narrative she
repeated, once more subdued the fortitude of Sebastian. What love, what
grief was in his heart while he listened to the death-scene of him,
whose whole life had been devoted to his fortunes!

The visit of father Sampayo, and the event of his mission, could not
abstract his thoughts a single moment from the memory of Gaspar. But
Kara Aziek, in whom every new event excited a new apprehension, felt a
tumultuous trouble of soul, to which no reasoning could give rest.

Her daughter’s situation (of which she was ignorant) tortured her with
fear: Alas! what were the feelings of that affectionate child? and how
were they to learn whether the unexpected misfortune of her parents, had
not driven her to distraction? Since perfidy or inconstancy had shewn
itself in the character of Morosini, who should say that the Duke of
Medina Sidonia would continue his perilous protection to Blanche, and
stand the scrutiny which might follow the present inquiries of Spain?

Should Medina fail them, Blanche must fall a hopeless victim into the
hands of their enemy: and should the influence of the confederates
produce no effect on Venetian cowardice, her parents might too probably
share her wretched fate.

How sad was the prospect! treachery and alarm were succeeding to
enthusiasm and boldness: one by one, their firmest and dearest friends
were torn from them; and Kara Aziek looked at Sebastian with an
expression of piercing pain, as she thought for a moment, that ere a
little while, they might possess only each other in the world.

Times of rousing anxiety, times in which our fortunes, our comforts,
nay, our very existence, stand on the fate of a moment, are not the
periods in which the soul surrenders itself to lamentation: but
frequently when solicitude for one object is united with regret for
another, we yield to a gloomy sadness, that tinctures every thing with
the same hue, and renders the sufferer inaccessible to one cheering
emotion.

Aziek and Sebastian indulged not in sorrow, though it might be said to
embue their whole being: they tacitly agreed to give their private hours
to the memory of him they lamented, and when together, to converse but
on such topics as might benefit them by consultation.

Signor Valdorno’s indulgence tempted Aziek to suggest a hope, that by
his connivance they might escape from Venice, and she eagerly gave it
utterance.

Sebastian returned a glance of surprize and concern: “What, my beloved!”
he exclaimed, “would you have me the assassin of my own honour? To fly,
would be to avow myself the impostor they would willingly prove me:
no--I am resolved to wait the scrutiny I will never cease demanding. If
they suffer me to wear out my days in this obscurity, posterity will do
me justice, and own that I must have been the true King of Portugal: but
if I basely fly, history will rank me with those miserable madmen who
usurped my name, and perished in their folly. Trust still in Heaven, my
Aziek; my soul is anchored there.”

His eyes raised and filled with virtuous confidence, infused some of
their own energy into those of Kara Aziek; she smiled through tears, and
the glow which spread over her face, assured him that their feelings
were in unison.

Meanwhile the good Sampayo hastened to renew his solicitations to the
Doge and senators: the rank and character of his master would not permit
the Venetians to hazard refusing him admittance to their council. He was
admitted, together with Juan De Castro and Father Texere, who came to
present remonstrances from England and France.

Having briefly stated their request, Sampayo concluded thus.

“My lords! I neither assert nor deny the identity of this man, who
proclaims himself Don Sebastian of Portugal; I merely come from his
noble kinsman, to ascertain his truth or to detect his falsehood. I come
provided with a minute description of the person and bodily marks of Don
Sebastian; all of which deposed to by his foster-brother and his
confidential servant, now dwelling at Lisbon: I come accompanied by
divers persons, all well acquainted with various minute circumstances,
upon which they are ready to question him publicly, so to establish or
to disprove his assertions.

“Believe you not, my lords, that it is important for the Portuguese to
discover the truth of this man? think you that we are eager to place
ourselves under the dominion of a low-born impostor? think you that the
Duke of Braganza would resign his pretension to the succession, (in case
of failure in the Spanish line) to any other than to the real Don
Sebastian? no, my lords! we are actuated solely by respect for the
memory of him whom we have so long lamented. Examine this person, try
him before your senate in the face of Europe, or expect to have the
whole world filled with outcries against your perfidy and injustice. You
can no otherwise efface the shame of your present bold conduct than by
proving the guilt of him you detain. You say he is an impostor; in the
name of God then, hasten to make it appear; and tell your new friend
Philip III. that even his stern predecessor dealt not thus with the
pretended Sebastians of his less settled day.”

“Your holy office protects you, father!” observed the Castillian
ambassador, as Sampayo concluded, “or this licence of speech would
surely draw down on you the resentment of the republic: let that sacred
character remind you of your duty. Is it a priest of the Romish church
who thus advocates the cause of an heretic? be he, or be he not the true
Sebastian, he is an apostate, and an alien from the protection of
heaven, and we dare not stir a step in so solemn a crisis, without the
directing hand of our august oracle the Pope.

“Beware how you draw the lightning of the consistory upon your heads--I
speak to you both, Sampayo and Texere--for both of you tread on the
precincts of spiritual rebellion.”

“Our sins be on ourselves!” said Texere, with an undaunted air, “neither
of us will shrink from an honest defence, when it is needful to make it:
now, it is for your illustrious prisoner that we speak, not for our own
principles. First admit his story to a fair hearing and investigation,
after that pronounce on his character; punish him as an impostor, or as
the King of Portugal, let our sacred superior exhort him to
reconciliation with the church.

“While the Portuguese are ready to receive their King, without insisting
on his abjuration of certain private opinions, he is King of Portugal
still.”

“What abominable doctrine is this!” exclaimed the ambassador, “is it a
son of the church, that dares proclaim the Vox Populi, Vox Dei? but I
forget myself--the speaker is Francisco Joseph Texere, a fellow hanging
between the heaven and hell of truth and error; one that has not yet
decided whether he is to adhere to the rock of St. Peter, or to follow
the standard of Martin Luther. I have heard of his residence in England,
his attention to her new theories, and the heretical books which he has
published, I am not surprized therefore, to see him abet the cause of an
impostor, or at least an apostate!”

Texere frowned severely, and disregarding the speaker further, resumed
his address to the senate: good father Sampayo suffered some tears to
trickle down his aged cheeks.

“It is our well-beloved monarch whom we would support,” he said mildly,
“justice and loyalty demand such conduct at our hands; and Christian
charity should teach us to hope, that when restored to his throne, and
placed again within the reach of spiritual instruction, his pious soul
will retrace its steps, and return to the bosom of the true faith!”

“We are bound to act solely by the Pope’s direction;” gravely observed
the Doge, “if you may obtain his holiness’s permission to hold converse
with this mysterious personage, the republic will cheerfully add her
consent--till then, he remains unseen by any one. This is our answer;
you may withdraw.”

Texere and Sampayo quitted the assembly, and retiring with their
Portuguese friends who waited them without, proceeded to consultation
upon their future movements.

It was deemed expedient for one of them to repair immediately to Rome;
and as father Sampayo’s orthodoxy and ghostly life had never been
impeached, the choice fell upon him. Careless of his age and
infirmities, he departed on the instant, and the remainder of the
Portuguese lingered in Venice to wait the event, to continue their
importunities, and to invite all such persons as remembered the figure
of Don Sebastian to join in demanding permission to see and to peruse
him.

The long interval of time which elapsed between this period and that in
which the different travellers met again, was spent in torturing anxiety
by Kara Aziek and Sebastian. Bereft of their faithfulest friend, the
devoted Gaspar, no one remained to share their hearts with each other,
but their far distant Blanche: yet of her, they dared not inquire.

Experience had taught them suspicion of all around them; and since the
very existence of Blanche was a secret between England and the late Don
Emanuel De Castro’s family, they blest his prudence, and resolved to
perish with anxiety, rather than betray their child into danger.

To believe her ignorant of their changed fortune, was to imagine an
impossibility: the interruption of their correspondence alone, would
arouse her inquiries, and those inquiries must lead to explanation. How
then, was she suffering? and how would her tender nature enable her to
live through months, perhaps years of constant apprehension?

These thoughts preyed upon each; yet neither of them gave utterance to
their sorrow. Sebastian never permitted himself to lament any other
misfortune than that of knowing himself the prime cause of so much
misery to the woman he loved; and Kara Aziek, afflicted by this
self-reproach, became solicitous to prove that her sorrows were not yet
so insupportable as he believed.

Mutually endeared by these mutual sacrifices, their prison still
enclosed two hearts that felt not a diminution of love; and even their
bitterest hours were sweetened by the fond glance of approval, the
tender smile of gratitude.

Signor Valdorno witnessed this dignified and true attachment with
feelings that did him honour; and though strict in the performance of
his duty, his manners were full of respectful pity, and his
communications on the events without, as explanatory as he dared
hazard. It was from him that Sebastian at length drew an account of the
various exertions which were still making by his friends; and at this
information his hopes revived.

The fitful day of his fate might yet change! so many vicissitudes had
already marked its progress, that he deemed it impious to despair; and
the more so, while allowed to retain those precious objects of his soul,
without whom, no destiny could bestow happiness.

In the midst of reviving hope, father Sampayo returned from Rome with
the Pope’s order to the Senate of Venice for an immediate and private
interview with their prisoner.

A bright sunbeam shone through the window of Sebastian’s chamber, on the
face of old Sampayo, as he entered where Sebastian and Kara Aziek sat
expecting him; a brighter beam, for it emanated from a comforted heart,
was there also.

Sebastian run forward to welcome him; Sampayo whispered a benediction,
and dropt a joyful tear over the hand of Kara Aziek, as he feebly
grasped it within his. “This is a happy or a sad hour to me, as my Liege
shall chuse to make it!” said Sampayo, slowly seating his exhausted
frame. “I come back charged with an important mission: the fate of this
dear lady, your own fate, honored Sire! the lives and comforts of
millions are now in your hands, a single word will destroy or save all.”

Kara Aziek looked on him with an anxiety which suspended her breath and
her pulsation: Sebastian already guessed the mission of Sampayo. “Say
on!” he cried, with a steady voice, “I am prepared to hear you with
attention and singleness of heart.--It is of God and our conscience,
that we are about to speak.”