Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.
The day following the execution of the Duke of Aveiro and his unhappy companions, a fine merchant ship was seen to glide slowly up the broad Tagus, dropping her anchor within a short distance of a frigate, which lay off Lisbon. A person of some consequence seemed to be on board the former, for a boat quickly pushed off from the sides of the frigate, bearing her Captain; and approached the merchantman. He eagerly stepped on board, and hastened towards a venerable and dignified-looking man, who was pacing the deck, with short and hurried steps, casting anxious glances towards the city, while several attendants stood round, and various chests and packages lay about, as if ready for speedy disembarkation.
No sooner did the stranger see the Captain of the frigate, than he advanced to embrace him, with an expression of satisfaction, “Ah! my kind friend, Captain Pinto,” he exclaimed, “this is kind indeed! The last to see me off, and the first to welcome my return to Portugal, no longer a wanderer and an outcast, but at length with my toils at an end, and my property secured.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” answered our old friend, Captain Pinto, “though I have some sad news to give in return, which I will communicate as we pull on shore, if you are now prepared to accompany me.”
“Gladly! I long once more to tread my native land,” returned the stranger, as he descended with the Captain into the boat. The distance to the landing-place was not great; but, during the short time occupied in reaching it, many important matters were discussed; and, for the first time, the stranger learned of the conspiracy, and the dreadful punishment of those supposed to be the chief leaders, and the imprisonment of many hundreds of others implicated in it.
“Poor boy! it wrings my heart with grief to hear it!” exclaimed the stranger, as they neared the shore: “I cannot believe him guilty.”
“Nor I neither,” said the Captain. “I have in vain endeavoured to discover the place of his imprisonment, and would risk all to save him. It is reported that the Minister has determined to punish many more, either by banishment to the coast of Africa, or by death; but, without interest, as I am, I could do nothing till your arrival, for which I have anxiously waited. Our only chance of success is by an appeal to the Minister himself.”
“To the Minister we will appeal, then,” said the stranger; “I have some hope through him. He will scarcely refuse the first petition of an old and long-lost friend.”
“We have not a moment to lose; for Sebastiaö Jozé is a man both quick to think and to execute, and even now my young friend may be embarking for Angola,” said the Captain, as the boat touched the shore.
A smile of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features, as he once more landed in his native country, but it quickly vanished as he thought of all the miseries that country was suffering; and, accompanied by Captain Pinto, whose well-known person enabled him to pass without the interference of the police, he hurried towards the residence of the Minister. As they arrived in sight of the house, they observed a strong body of cavalry dashing down the street at full speed, who halted in front of it, and, from among them, the commanding figure of Carvalho was seen to dismount from his horse, and enter the building.
“What means this?” asked the stranger. “Does the preserver of his country require a body-guard?”
“The corrector of abuses, we should say, or the despotic tyrant, as his enemies call him, does,” observed the Captain, cautiously. “Alas! by such means only can our countrymen be governed.”
When they arrived, they found a guard drawn up in the entrance-hall; and after Captain Pinto had sent up his name, requesting an audience, they were compelled to wait a considerable time in an ante-room, before they were admitted.
The stranger smiled,—“Times have changed since we parted,” he said.
The great Minister rose to receive them, with his usual courtesy, as they entered, desiring them to be seated, while his piercing eye glanced sternly at the stranger with an inquiring look, as he demanded of the Captain the cause of his visit.
“I came, your Excellency, to introduce one, whom, with your permission, I will now leave to plead his cause with you,” and, bowing profoundly, he withdrew.
The Minister rose, as did the stranger.
“I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your youth,” said the latter.
“My recollection is not liable to be deceived,” said the Minister, scanning the stranger still more earnestly. “They recall the likeness of one long since dead, and truly mourned—one to whom I owed a debt of gratitude never to be repaid—the preserver of my life!”
A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features. “I am not forgotten, then!” he exclaimed. “You see before you one long supposed dead—him, I trust, of whom you speak.”
“What!” cried the Minister, grasping the stranger’s hand. “Speak! are you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty,—does the Luis d’Almeida I loved so well still live?”
“The same, my friend,” cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; “and great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten.”
“’Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my friend,” said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men. He had chosen his station—it was one of power and grandeur, but of danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a rod of iron.
The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the flight of time.
“I have one petition to make to you,” said Senhor d’Almeida, for so we may call the stranger; “it is my first, and it shall be my last.”
“What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?” interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. “Yet let me hear it, for I would not willingly refuse you.”
“I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are centred—the young Count d’Almeida, my nephew.”
“Ah! I have been deceived in that youth! He is accused of the darkest treason,” exclaimed the Minister.
“I will answer for his innocence—he is incapable of a dishonourable deed,” answered the uncle, warmly.
“He is in prison with others equally culpable, and I have vowed to show no mercy to any,” returned the Minister. “If I waver, they deem mercy arises from weakness, and my power is at an end.”
“Then have I lived and toiled in vain,” said the stranger. “Pardon me, I ask but this grace, and I find that I have presumed too far on the love you bore me.”
“Stay, my friend!” exclaimed the Minister. “You wrong me and yourself: I will not refuse your request, but on one condition: your nephew must forthwith quit the country, and till he embarks, appear to no one. He is not proved innocent, and the guilty must not escape punishment. I will send some one who will, this night, set him at liberty, and conduct him to the house where you reside: from thenceforward he is under your charge; and remember, he must run no risk of being retaken.”
The stranger expressed his sincere thanks to his powerful friend; and at length rose to depart. Carvalho accompanied him to the ante-room, and as he saw the worthy Captain Pinto still waiting—“Senhor Pinto,” he said, “prepare to sail, to-morrow morning, for England; I have despatches to send by you.”
The Captain intimated the readiness of his ship for sea; and, accompanied by the stranger, whom the Minister again affectionately embraced, he withdrew.