Luis, in spite of himself, could not help joining in the Friar's merriment, which seemed to give the latter much satisfaction. "That is as it should be, my friend; I wish the gaolers were deaf, and that the rascally Governor was not likely to be prowling this way, for we might drink and sing away to our heart's content. Come, help me to finish the bottle, or I shall not be quite in a clerical state to make a clear report to the Governor of your confession."

There was such a laughing devil in the Friar's eye all the time, that it struck Luis he might even then be playing off some trick upon him.

"How comes it, Fre Diogo, that I see you here in Lisbon as a professed Friar, when, the last time we met, you acknowledged you had never taken the vows?" he asked.

"Don't you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience."

Luis had not forgotten poor Goncalo's request; but he was considering in his mind whether the priest in question was a person qualified to administer the consolations of religion to a dying man; but there was a sincerity in the eccentric Friar's manner, which at last determined him, for want of a better, to confide in him. At all events, he felt that it might afford satisfaction to the dying youth. He, therefore, told the Friar of his interview with his fellow-prisoner, the young Goncalo Christovao, whom he had been accused of killing, recalling to his mind their fruitless search, and finished, by begging him to administer, with the utmost decorum he could a.s.sume, the rites of the Church appointed for the sick or dying.

"You seem by your words, to suppose that I am not as capable as the most rigid and sanctimonious confessor, who ever shrived a fair penitent, to put on a serious air when necessary," said the Friar, laughing. "There you are wrong again; and I will show you that I can equal the best of them. By the way, now you mention the name of Goncalo Christovao, it reminds me that, in a most wonderful way, I came into possession of the very letter I gave you with the jewels in the cave, and which you lost before you could deliver it to the person to whom it was directed,--the father of this same hapless youth. You will not press me to explain exactly how I got it--suffice it to say, I found it in the pocket of a coat which, doubtless, had been yours, and which I strongly suspect had been stolen."

"Have you the letter still?" inquired Luis, eagerly. "I have ever since had cause to regret its loss; for, though I know its contents, I have had a feeling that it might have saved much wretchedness to one I love dearer than life itself."

"It struck me, also, at the time I found it, that it might be of some consequence, so I preserved it carefully for several months in my breviary, intending to restore it to you or Senhor Christovao, should I meet either of you, though I had long forgot all about it; whether or no it is still there, I cannot say," said the Friar. "I fortunately brought the book to Lisbon with me, so if the letter is in it, I will bring it to you on my next visit. I shall take care, by my account to the Governor of your confession, to be sent to you again."

"Thanks, my kind friend," answered Luis. "You may thus render me a great service, though, could you send it to Goncalo Christovao yourself, it would sooner reach him. I know not when my term of captivity may end."

"I will endeavour to do as you wish," answered the Friar. "Now, my dear Count, I am speaking more seriously to you than I ever did to any one in my life. I have a true regard for you, and sincerely wish to rise in your opinion. Do not think me a scoundrel, for I am better than I have too often appeared. Will you promise me this?" The Friar spoke with energy, and a tear stood in his eye, as he took Luis's hand, and pressed it to his heart.

"I firmly trust in you," answered Luis, "and know you to be my kind and generous friend,--one of the few I now possess on earth."

"Thanks, Count, thanks! your words have made me a happier and better man," said the Friar, much moved. "The knowledge that I am esteemed by one honest person, who knows me as I am, will prevent me from ever again acting the part of a knave." He drew a deep sigh. "Ha! ha! we must not let care oppress us, so we will finish our bottle before the turnkey comes to summon me away. I will then visit your sick friend, and do what I can to comfort him. Remember, whatever happens, confide in me.

If I find that your life is in the slightest danger, it shall not be my fault that you do not escape from hence."

Luis warmly expressed his thanks to Fre Diogo, for he now felt convinced that he had gained an invaluable friend, and the dull leaden sensation he had experienced at the thoughts of his speedy execution, gave way to a renewed hope of life.

"Ah! here comes the gaoler," exclaimed the Friar, as steps were heard in the pa.s.sage; "he is a worthy fellow, and the only honest man employed in the prison. I now and then crack a bottle with him for society's sake;--thinking of that, I must hide my friend and the gla.s.ses under my robe; so fare you well, Count, till to-morrow." As he spoke the turnkey opened the door, when Luis, entreating him to introduce the Friar to the sick man in the next cell, he promised to comply, and the Count was left alone to meditate on his own fortunes.

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

Words are insufficient to describe the sufferings of the high-born captives who lay in those wretched cells, formed to contain wild beasts instead of human beings, whither the stern policy of the Minister had condemned them to be conveyed. Kept apart from each other, in darkness and solitude, though near enough to hear each other's groans and cries, they were allowed no change of garments from those in which they were first apprehended; straw heaped in a corner on the floor, unswept since the removal of its former savage inhabitants, formed their places of rest; the coa.r.s.est food, sufficient to sustain nature, was alone supplied them, and no one but the officers of justice was allowed to visit them.

Day after day they remained thus, in antic.i.p.ation of their dreadful fate; then came ferocious looking men, callous to the sufferings of their fellow-beings, whose appearance bespoke them to be the detested executioners of the law; even the guards and gaolers shuddered as they beheld them entering the prison, bearing their implements of torture.

Two Desembargadors, a notary, and a surgeon followed, repairing to a large hall, round which the cells occupied by the prisoners were ranged, their fronts being now blocked up with masonry. The executioners had here erected their instruments of torture, chairs being prepared for the judges and notary, with a table for the latter to take minutes of the examination.

The first prisoner led forward was the Duke of Aveiro, but he refused to answer any of the questions put to him.

"Since you refuse to speak in any other way, we must try what effect the rack will cause," said one of the judges. "Let the question be administered to him."

The Duke turned pale, but answered not a word till the dislocation of his limbs commenced, when he gave way to shrieks and cries for mercy, which rang through the hall, piercing to the cells of his fellow-prisoners, and giving dreadful warning of the fate awaiting them.

"I will confess! I will confess!" at last he cried, unable longer to endure the agony; but when, on being cast loose, he again denied any knowledge of the occurrences the Desembargadors mentioned, he was once more placed upon the engine of torture, nor would they listen to his entreaties to be released till he had further felt its power.

"Mercy, mercy, mercy!" he cried, when the surgeon approached him, and his cries ceased. He had fainted. He was lifted off the machine, and carried back to his cell, where restoratives were administered, and he was left till sufficiently recovered to bear further questioning.

The Marquis of Tavora was then brought forward, and subjected to the same system of examination; but not a word, to criminate either himself or others, could be elicited from him. His sons, the Conde d'Atouquia, and the servants of both houses, followed in succession; the agony of their sufferings drawing statements from some of them which the others denied. Young Joze de Tavora was the only one, who, like his father, boldly and firmly persisted in the declaration of his innocence of the crime laid to his charge.

"Were I guilty of the deed of which you accuse me, I would acknowledge it," he exclaimed; "but no tortures the cruelty of Sebastiao Joze can invent have power to make me speak a falsehood."

"Take him to his cell," thundered the Magistrate; "he is obdurate.

Bring back the Duke."

The same scene of horror was again enacted, when the wretched n.o.ble, overcome by terror, made a long statement, which was eagerly committed to paper by the Notary, accusing himself, his fellow-prisoners, and numerous others of the highest n.o.bility in the land, of conspiring against the life of the King. Whether his account was true, or whether it was the invention of his brain wrought into madness by agony, has never yet been satisfactorily determined. We leave our readers to form their own conclusions.

We do not venture to describe more minutely the dreadful scene of tyranny, injustice, and human suffering; for we have yet in store horrors sufficient to make the heart of the strongest sicken at the recital; and we would advise those who would avoid having their feelings harrowed with the tale which truth compels us to narrate, to pa.s.s over the chapter succeeding this.

At last, all the evidence which could be wrung by torture from the prisoners, or obtained from other witnesses, being collected, their trial formally took place. On the first day, the judges appointed by the Minister to preside could not come to an agreement; two of them firmly refusing to sign the process. Carvalho, probably, firmly believed most, if not all, of the prisoners guilty; and, after the violent steps he had taken, his own existence depended on their condemnation; but, owing to the absence of clear and satisfactory evidence, this was difficult to be obtained. He therefore inst.i.tuted another court, taking care that the presidents should be creatures entirely devoted to his service, and the result of the trial may be antic.i.p.ated.

The weak and timid Monarch yet remained a close prisoner in his palace, suspecting a traitor in each n.o.ble of his court, and starting at every sound, fancying it a signal of rebellion. His physician had just quitted him, Teixeira was absent, and the Minister had himself gone to watch the proceedings at the trial of the conspirators. He was alone-- his feelings were oppressed, his thoughts gloomy; for his disposition was naturally mild, and indisposed to bloodshed; and he now knew that the blood of his first n.o.bles was about to flow like water for his safety. Yet what injustice will not fear make a man commit! He wept.

"Alas!" he cried, "they must die. The trial must, ere this, have been concluded, and I shall then know the punishment awarded them. It must be so; I cannot feel security till they are no more."

The King heard a suppressed sob near him, and looking round, he beheld a young page kneeling at a short distance from where he sat. He started, and rising, retired a few paces, for in every human being he had been taught to suspect an agent of treason.

"What brings you here, boy? How could you have entered unperceived?" he exclaimed rapidly, as a strange thrill shot across his bosom. "Speak!

who are you?"

"A wretched suppliant for your Majesty's clemency," answered the Page, in a low and broken voice.

"What mean you, boy? There are too many such in our dominions,"

exclaimed the Monarch, bitterly. "But rise, boy, and retire: this intrusion ought to have been prevented. Whatever pet.i.tion you have to make, present it to our Minister, Sebastiao Joze, two or three days hence, when he will have time to attend to you. We would be alone."

"Alas! two days hence will be too late," responded the Page, in the same low tone as before. "It is not to that cruel unbending man I would make my prayer. It is to your Majesty's compa.s.sionate heart alone, a miserable guilty creature would appeal. Hear me, my liege; hear me. By my guilty conduct, many of those I was bound to love and honour--my kindred and connexions--have been, like the vilest felons, imprisoned and tortured, and some have, within this hour, been condemned to an agonising death and everlasting disgrace. For them I come to plead-- their lives, their honour, are in your power. Spare them, my liege, and let me be the victim; for I, and I alone, have been the cause of all their sufferings."

"Great Heavens! Whose voice is that?" exclaimed the King, more agitated than his suppliant, towards whom he hurriedly advanced, and whom he raised from the ground. "Donna Theresa!"

"Would to G.o.d you had never known that name, my liege. I am that wretched woman," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the seeming page, still keeping her hands in a suppliant att.i.tude before her, while the King gazed fondly at her care-worn, though yet lovely, countenance. "I have braved all dangers and difficulties,--I have deceived your guards,--I have penetrated to your Majesty's retirement, to throw myself at your feet, and plead for my kindred's lives. They cannot be guilty of the foul deed for which they are condemned;--they never could have sought to injure your Majesty, though even I have been accused by some (to heap greater wretchedness on my head) of having falsely accused them of the crime.

Your Majesty knows I am thus far guiltless; and, if my injured husband, incited by jealousy and indignation of his wrongs, should have harboured a thought of malice, oh! show your magnanimity, by pardoning him and his family. Disarmed by your clemency, they could not then further injure you; or let them retire to some other land, where they may repent of ever having given cause of suspicion to so good and kind a master. This act of mercy alone would put down sedition, and bind more firmly all the n.o.bles of the land to your service, and, revered while you live, your name would descend to posterity as a magnanimous and generous prince, who feared not to pardon those who had offended him. But, if your cruel Minister requires some one on whom to vent his hatred, of the aristocracy of the land, the legitimate and n.o.ble guardians of your person, whose jealousy he well knows has been aroused at his persevering interference, let me be delivered up as the victim of his vengeance. My fatal love for my sovereign first kindled the spark which has never yet burnt into a flame, and I alone ought to be sacrificed for my crime, if so your Majesty deems it."

The King was deeply moved at the energy of her pa.s.sion, her tears, and prayers. He led her gently to a chair, and insisted on her being seated, while he stood before her with his arms folded on his bosom; but, as soon as she perceived it, she rose, and threw herself kneeling on the ground.

"This must not be, Donna Theresa," said the agitated Monarch, again attempting to raise her, but she would not quit her suppliant posture.

"Rise, madam, rise. I have no enmity against your relations. It is not I who accuse them. They have been tried by the laws of the country, and, if guilty, I have resigned all power over them. My crown, my life, the happiness of my people, and the tranquillity of the land, require their punishment. It is by my Minister's advice I act thus, and to him you must plead their cause."

"Oh, say not so, your Majesty. Do not thus yield to the grasping ambition of that enemy of our race, who seeks to rise by their destruction," exclaimed Donna Theresa. "Exert your own royal authority, and act according to the generous dictates of your heart. You have the power--exert it, and be merciful; if not, before two suns have set, such deeds of cruelty will have been perpetrated as will cause the nations of Europe to execrate the very name of a Portuguese."

The King's firmness was fast yielding to the entreaties of his lovely pet.i.tioner. "I will endeavour to mitigate the rigour of their sentence for your sake, fair lady," he answered. "If clearly proved, for the sake of my successors, I have no right to overlook their crime."

"Rather let it be supposed by posterity that such a crime was impossible in Portugal," interrupted Donna Theresa; "or teach your successors the virtue of clemency."

"You plead most powerfully to my heart, Donna Theresa, nor can I longer withstand the energy of your prayers," said the King. "Rise, then, and let me rather ask pardon for the anguish I have caused you. I it was who ought to have knelt to you."

"I cannot rise till I hear their pardon p.r.o.nounced by your gracious lips," returned Donna Theresa. "Let me, to prove my innocence of betraying them, be the bearer of your forgiveness."

"I do forgive them," answered the King; "yet, in so important a matter, I may not act further without consulting my Minister."

"Then their doom is sealed!" cried the unhappy lady. "Sebastiao Joze has moved heaven and earth to destroy them; and unless your Majesty rescues them by a determined act, they can in no way escape death."