Wondering, yet glad, Phenee, leaning on Diniz's arm for support, slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led them toward the hotel Miriam had named.

There, sure enough, the young Jewess was waiting, and after tenderly embracing Phenee, and smiling softly at Diniz, she turned to Vincent and placed a bag of gold in his hand.

"This is your reward. May you and your little ones live in happiness!"

she said earnestly.

"We leave Goa to-night, senora. My life would be worth nothing if I stayed here after this. Good-by, and thank you for your generosity."

Miriam hastened her grandfather to the ship, shocked at his feebleness; but for Sampayo he would scarcely have been able to get there.

Only once he spoke to the girl ere he retired to his cabin for the night.

"The money and jewels, Miriam--what have you done with them?"

"They are here, grandfather. I brought everything of value away with me."

"That is right, child. You are a good girl!"

Miriam stood rather sadly beside the bulwarks, gazing at the land in which she had been born, and which she was now leaving forever.

A low sigh broke from her lips.

"Why do you sigh? Are you sorry to quit your native land?" a voice whispered in her ear.

"Yes; though for my grandfather's sake I cannot deeply regret it,"

Miriam answered, gazing at Diniz with tear-dimmed eyes.

"I have not thanked you yet for having released me from that dreadful place, or even a worse doom. I am still scarcely able to realize my good fortune. What made you, a stranger, think of one whom all others had forgotten?"

"Not all. It was Donna Lianor who told me where you were, and asked me to help you," Miriam said, blushing beneath his tender, grateful gaze.

"Besides, I looked upon you as a friend," almost inaudibly.

"That is what I want to be--your friend. And Lianor--how is she?-- well?"

"As well as it is possible to be under the heavy trial she went through this morning. She was married to Manuel Tonza," sadly.

"Poor girl! Poor Lianor! Hers is indeed an unhappy lot!" Diniz murmured pityingly.

CHAPTER V.

In a large, handsome room, overlooking a shining river, now ablaze with sunshine, sat a beautiful woman, wearing on her face unmistakable signs of sadness.

She scarcely heeded the opening door, until two pretty children came bounding to her side, clambering onto her chair and lap.

Then her face changed, and a sweet, tender smile chased away all gloom; the idle hands were busy now stroking the curly heads pressed so close against her.

"I would have brought them to you before, but their father wished to keep them; he is always so happy when they are near," a little, dark-eyed woman, clad in picturesque robes of brilliant crimson and gold, said rapidly, as she threw herself down on a pile of soft cushions opposite the sweet, pale mother.

Lianor sighed, but she could not look sad long with those loved children clasped in her arms.

"I cannot understand Manuel," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes; "he is so strange, sometimes gay--almost too gay; then he relapses into a gloomy, brooding apathy, from which even the children have no power to rouse him."

"But you have. He is never too morose to have a smile for you. I think, sometimes, he feels lonely. You are bound to him, yet your heart is as unresponsive to his pa.s.sionate love as if you were strangers," Savitre said, thoughtfully.

"Do you think so, Savitre? I am indeed sorry; but you know how impossible it is to forget my first love. I like Manuel, but beyond that, affection--except for my darlings--is dead; buried in Luiz's grave."

"Hush! here comes Manuel," Savitre whispered, warningly.

It was indeed Manuel, older and graver-looking than of yore, with a deep melancholy in his eyes, brought there only by intense suffering.

Savitre, on his entrance, softly glided from the room, leaving husband and wife alone.

"Lianor," he began, a bright smile lighting up his face as he bent to kiss her fair brow, "I have been thinking, and am resolved to quit India and return to Portugal. I have been here long enough. Don't you think that will be pleasant, dearest?"

"Nothing would please me more," Lianor cried, delightedly. "The greatest wish of my life is to see Portugal once more, to show our country to our children," bending to kiss her tiny daughter's face.

"Then it will be granted. Prepare to start as soon as possible. Now, I am determined to leave here. Something seems to urge me to go at once."

Only too anxious, Lianor began her arrangements.

Savitre, who had never cared to leave her friend before, even to become Panteleone's bride, entered into the preparations with unconcealed eagerness.

She had faithfully promised her lover that, once in Portugal, she would, with his father's approval, marry him.

Lianor felt no regret at leaving India, except for a loved grave--her father's--which she had so carefully tended.

Not many days after, Manuel Tonza, his wife, children, Panteleone, and Savitre, accompanied by several faithful servants, including Lalli and Tolla, embarked in a fine stately ship, which was to bear them in safety to their home.

Tonza seemed full of joy as he saw the last lines of the Indian coast disappear. He had rarely appeared so happy since his marriage with Lianor five years before.

For several days the good ship went steadily on her way, until one night a terrific storm arose, and the vessel, heedless of the human cargo it was bearing, drifted onward at the mercy of the tempest.

Tonza, holding Lianor and his children closely to him, stood silently dismayed, scarcely able to realize the awful danger which lay before him and those he loved.

Still onward, through the almost impenetrable darkness, went the doomed ship, until, as the dense shadows began to clear and the storm to cease, a sudden shock was felt by all--she had struck against some rocks and was slowly sinking!

"We must be somewhere near land," the captain cried, his voice sounding above the roaring waters.

By aid of the fast-breaking dawn, they could see the line of high, dark rocks, upon which the ship had met her fate.

With much difficulty and peril, under the captain's cool directions, the crew managed at last to leave the sinking vessel, not without much loss of life. Out of nearly five hundred only a few arrived in safety, amongst whom were Tonza, his wife, children, Savitre, and Panteleone.

When the day broke in calm splendor, the sun shown upon a mournful sight--a group of shipwrecked men and women.

No sign of habitation met their view; only a weary waste of bare land, sheltered by a few trees, from whose branches hung a goodly supply of fruit.