Volume Two—Chapter Two.
We find ourselves so constantly recurring to Don Luis d’Almeida, that we begin to fear our readers, particularly the fairer portion of them, will soon get heartily tired of hearing so much about him; and, therefore, to please them, we would, were we composing a mere story from our own brain, effectually get rid of him, by carrying him into a dark forest at midnight, amid a storm of thunder and lightning, when a hundred brigands should rush upon him from their lurking places, and plunge their daggers into his bosom; but that, by so doing, we should infringe the plan on which we have determined, to adhere strictly to the truth of history. We do not, however, feel ourselves called upon to describe minutely the events of each day, and we will, therefore, pass over rather more than a week, which he had spent in his father’s society, when, towards the evening, he was seated, in a listless humour, with a book in his hand, on a stone terrace, overlooking a garden, stretched out below it. But his eyes seemed to glance much less frequently at the pages before him, than at the pure blue sky, or the bright parterres of flowers, the sparkling fountains, the primly cut box trees, and the long straight walks; though, even then, it seemed that his eye was less occupied than his mental vision. But we need not inquire what were his thoughts; perhaps, they were of the scenes he had witnessed in his travels; perhaps of Theresa’s falsehood; and there is a possibility of their having been of the fair portrait he had so quickly taken of Donna Clara.—A servant suddenly recalled him to the present moment, by informing him that a holy friar, waiting at the gate, begged earnestly to see him on some matter of importance.
“I will speak to him,” he exclaimed, rising; and, throwing down his book, he took his way towards the gate. He there perceived a figure in the monastic habit, walking slowly up and down, and, turning his head with a cautious look in every direction; and, as the person approached, he was not long in distinguishing the features of the friar who had played so very suspicious a part at the inn.
“Ah, my young friend,” exclaimed that worthy personage, with the greatest effrontery; “I have not, you see, forgotten either you, or your requests. It struck me, that you very much wished to possess the jewels you spoke of, so, from the strong desire I felt to serve you, I exerted myself diligently to procure them for you. I hope that you have not forgotten your part of the contract; for, though I should myself require no reward, yet I was obliged to pay various sums to the persons who held the property.”
“I perfectly appreciate your feelings, reverend Father,” returned Don Luis. “Nor have I forgotten my promise. Where are the jewels?”
“I have not been able to bring them with me, my son, for weighty reasons; but where are the hundred milreas? for though that sum is not a quarter of their real value, the gentlemen who had appropriated them have a predilection for hard cash.”
Don Luis had good reasons for suspecting that the friar was deceiving him, as he answered, “The money shall be forthcoming when you show me the jewels; but, under the circumstances of the case, you can scarcely expect me to pay you beforehand.”
“Why, I confess that you have seen me in rather suspicious company, senhor; but yet it is cruel to doubt the honesty of an humble friar. To convince you of my sincerity, I have brought this ring, which I believe belonged to the young lady you said had been robbed by those rascally banditti.”
Don Luis took the ring which the friar offered. “This, Senhor Frade, is but a small portion of the trinkets I expected. It was for the recovery of the casket I promised you the reward.”
“I am aware of that, senhor; but I wish to show you that, though you doubt me, I put every confidence in your honour; and, if you were not so impatient, I would deliver the proposal which I came here to make. In the first place, I beg you will keep that ring, as an earnest of my sincerity; and, if you will trust me with the money, I will return with the casket; but if not, the only way by which you can recover it, is to follow my directions.”
Don Luis considered a moment; but there was such a roguish glance in the twinkle of the friar’s eye, that he thought it would be folly to trust him, and that he should probably neither see the casket nor his money again, though he would willingly have risked a far larger sum for the sake of recovering the jewels. Yet he wished first to hear what the friar had to propose.
“I see how it is,” said the Friar, laughing. “You think me a rogue in grain, so there is no use concealing the matter; but I am not offended, I assure you. Other people have thought me so too, who knew me better than you do, till they found out their mistake, as you will some day: however, if you had trusted me, you might have saved yourself considerable trouble.”
“Well, well, Father,” interrupted Don Luis, getting rather impatient at all this circumlocution, “let me hear your proposition, and then I shall be able to determine how to act.”
“You must know, then, my young friend, that this precious casket, which you are so anxious to gain, is in the possession of a very holy and pious man, an aged hermit, whose food is the roots of the earth, or the nuts from the trees, and his drink the pure water from the brook,” began the Friar, speaking very slowly, and eyeing Don Luis, with a laughing glance. “And thus it befell, that this holy man became possessed of the casket. You know a hill, which stands about two leagues from hence, on the summit of which is a chapel dedicated to our Lady of the Rock?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Don Luis, rather impatiently, and vexed at the friar’s evident intention of putting his temper to the proof, “I have often been there in my boyhood; but pray proceed with your story, if you intend it to lead to anything satisfactory.”
“Of course I do, my young friend,” answered the Friar. “I was going to tell you where the holy man resides, when you interrupted me. You must know, then, that beneath the hill on which the chapel stands, there is a cave, which has of late years been cleared from the rubbish which formerly blocked it up, and has been converted into a very tolerable habitation for the summer months, during which period this holy man is constantly there to be found, as he is at present, or was when I was there last, attending to the duties of the sacred edifice above. His great sanctity, his prayers, and fastings, have on many occasions been found to be of the greatest service, both in replenishing his pockets, and in restoring those to health who have consulted him; but his great forte is in saying masses for the souls of the departed, which have double the efficacy of those of any other religious person, as he constantly affirms, and no one can disprove, nor does any one dream of disputing the word of so holy a man. I am now, senhor, approaching the point which is of more consequence to you. You must know that the comrades of the men, whom, as I am told, you killed in the forest, when they attacked the fidalgo Gonçalo Christovaö, were tolerably well aware that they had a considerable share of unrepented crimes on their consciences; and that, consequently, their stay in purgatory would be of rather long duration, unless great exertions were made to get them clear of it. Now, most of them having a fellow-feeling for their unfortunate friends, turned it in their minds how they could best contrive to shorten their residence in that very unpleasant abode; and, at last, it was agreed that they should engage the holy man I speak of, and of whom they had all heard, to say as many masses as half the booty they had taken would supply, at the lowest possible rate; for which purpose, they laid aside the very casket you are in search of. Now, it chanced that I was paying a visit to this holy man, who, I am proud to say, is a friend of mine; and he showed me the casket, begging me to estimate its value, that he might know how many masses he ought to say. I no sooner beheld it, than I at once recollected your request; so I told him that, though in Lisbon it might be sold for a larger sum, yet he would here be very fortunate if he succeeded in receiving a hundred milreas for it, particularly as I suspected it was stolen property; for which sum he might say fully sufficient masses to get the souls of the departed rogues quietly domesticated in the realms of Paradise. He agreed with me, that, if it did not, it must be their own fault, for being so desperately wicked, so that there could be no help for them. I then told him, that if he would let me have the casket, I would return with the money for it; but it is very extraordinary, senhor, that he objected to do so,—not, of course, that he could have any doubts about my honesty, but that the happiness of the souls in purgatory would be at stake, if, by any chance, it was lost. I had no arguments to offer to his objections, so I was obliged to give up the point; and I hastened here to inform you of the discovery I had made, that I might either return with the money, or allow you to go and fetch the casket yourself. If you still persist in so unjustly distrusting me, senhor, if you will visit our Lady of the Rock early to-morrow morning, you will there find the holy man performing mass. Wait till it is over, and the people have departed,—for the fame of his sanctity has collected many worshippers there,—follow him to his cave, without speaking; when, if you produce the money, he will restore the casket to you; then, without staying to inquire further, return home. If, however, you will allow me to advise you as a friend, add twenty milreas or so to the amount, to increase the number of masses; for you must remember that it was by your hand the men fell, though I do not mean to say that it was not their own fault; but it will be charity well bestowed, as I fear they were wretched sinners, and, do all we can, they must remain in purgatory a long time.”
Don Luis listened to this long story with considerable doubts as to the truth of the greater part of it, yet it was so in accordance with the ideas and customs of the times, that he could not altogether discredit it; he therefore answered, “I must thank you, Senhor Frade, for the trouble you have taken in my service; and I beg you to inform your holy friend that I will repair to his hermitage to-morrow morning, and will take the amount agreed on to release the jewels.”
“Then you will not trust me with the money, senhor?” said the Friar, smiling. “Patience—I am not easily offended, and take it all in good part; but do not forget the additional twenty milreas; and if you happen to have a little spare cash about you to bestow on an humble and indigent servant of the Church, I shall be thankful, and will not forget you in my prayers; for I have come a long distance to serve you, and have put more trust in your honour than you seem inclined to place in mine.”
“I will pay you for the ring, Senhor Frade,” said Don Luis, who could not help being amused at the imperturbable impudence of the friar; “though you seem to forget certain incidents which occurred at the inn, on my journey here,—not to mention others on the previous day.”
“Now, now, you ought not to rake up old grievances,” answered the Friar. “It is not charitable; and charity is the first of Christian virtues, you well know. Besides, you cannot deny that I have served you faithfully.”
“I will not refuse you,” said Don Luis, bestowing all the silver he had about him, “you argue so logically to gain your point. I trust that you will not play me false.”
“Confide in the honour of a Capuchin,” said the Friar, putting his hand to his heart. “May we meet again under happier auspices than those by which we became acquainted; and, believe me, I am grateful for your bounty. Adeos, senhor! It is growing dark, and I have a long way to go before I rest; but an humble friar has nought to fear.”
“Farewell, my friend!” said Don Luis. “I certainly have met none like you.”
“Oh, you flatter—you flatter,” was the answer. “Do not, however, forget your friend. Diogo Lopez is my name,—an humble one at present; but it may become some day well-known to the world. Adeos, adeos, senhor!”
Don Luis, without further parley, re-entered the Quinta, and, for some minutes, he fancied that he could hear the quiet chuckle of the friar echoing in his ears.
Early the next morning he ordered his horse, telling Pedro whither he was going; and, putting his pistols in his holsters, with his sword by his side,—for in those days nobody ever thought of riding, forth unarmed,—he set off for the chapel of our Lady of the Rock,—not forgetting the hundred milreas to redeem the casket, to which he added twenty more, to be expended for the benefit of the souls of those miserable men to whose deaths he had certainly contributed, though he in no way blamed himself on that account. It must be remembered that he had been brought up in a strict belief of the religion of his country; nor had he in any way learned to doubt the main points of that faith in which all those dear to him confided; so that he had full confidence in the efficacy of prayer for the souls of departed sinners; nor do we wish to dispute the point with those who profess the same creed.
The road he was obliged to take, scarcely deserving the name of one, was so broken, and cut up into deep ruts, and covered with loose stones, that nearly an hour elapsed before he reached the foot of the little rocky hill on which the chapel stood. There, perceiving a lad sitting on the top of a wall, “whistling for want of thought,” and without any occupation, he called to him, and bade him hold his horse, with the promise of a reward, while he climbed up the winding rugged path to the top of the rock. It was an isolated height, rising far above all the neighbouring hills,—thus commanding an extensive view on every side. The little chapel was built on the highest point, with a rude stone cross in front, and surmounted by five tall pine trees, their taper stems bent by the blasts to which they were exposed, without a branch below their broad, ever-verdant heads. The chapel was a rough building, of merely two gable ends, and a small porch in front, facing the west; but the view fully repaid the trouble of mounting the hill, even had he come without an object. To the south, over an undulating country, covered with fields and pine-groves, he could distinguish his father’s house and estates; on the west, in the furthest point in the horizon, was to be seen a thin bright line of blue, indicating the presence of the boundless ocean; while on the north appeared the heights of Coimbra, covered with its colleges, monasteries, and churches, below which ran the placid stream of the Mondego, on whose willow-covered banks once wept, with tears of anguish, the lovely and ill-fated Ines de Castro, for ever celebrated in the immortal song of Camoens. On the east, again, over a wide sea of pine-forest, which, indeed, extended on every side of the rock, rose hill upon hill, and mountain upon mountain, till the furthest ridges were lost in a blue haze.
Don Luis entered the chapel, which was, as the friar told him it would be, filled with country people, some beating their breasts, others kissing the ground, and licking up the dust, and the rest rapt in an ecstasy of devotion; while the little altar glittered with lighted tapers. The walls of the edifice were hung with offerings from the pious; among which were seen, carved in wax, what were intended to be representations of the arms, legs, feet, or hands of the human body, those members having been cured by the miraculous interposition of our Lady of the Rock, and the prayers of the holy hermit; these falling to her share, while he appropriated whatever was offered in the shape of money, observing, that such could be of no possible use to our Lady, who was supplied with all she could require. There were also pictures of her appearance in the bodily form, to comfort and assure her devout worshippers. A priest, whose features Luis could not distinguish, further than that he was an aged man, with a long flowing white beard over his breast, clothed in his vestments, was performing the ceremony of mass. It was, however, nearly completed; so, having knelt down, and offered up a short prayer, he again retired, to wait till the people had departed, in order to follow the priest to his cave, as he had agreed. While he was standing and gazing at the lovely view, he heard a groaning near him, and, turning round, he beheld a sight which might have caused a smile on his lips, had he not rather pitied the unfortunate sufferers. There were two old women, who appeared to have started together in a race, on their unprotected knees, in which they were endeavouring to make a certain number of circuits round the chapel, each strenuously trying to get as close to the walls as possible, to save her distance. A strong, sturdy-looking fellow soon after came out, and commenced the same penance; but he very soon distanced his aged competitors for absolution, quickly performing his rounds, at the same time vehemently beating his breast. Perhaps his knees were hardened by habitual kneeling in devotion; but Luis observed a most suspicious thickness about them, which might have been caused by their recent swelling, or he might have taken the precaution to pad them, suspecting to what his sins would condemn him. He, however, gained the credit of zealous penitence.
Before this ceremony was quite completed, the rest of the congregation came out of the chapel, and among them was a man whom Don Luis caught eyeing him very narrowly, but, the moment the man saw that he was observed, he disappeared hastily down the hill. Don Luis, therefore, concluded that he was merely astonished at seeing a gentleman there at that early hour of the morning. He had some time longer to wait before all the people had quitted the hill, when, as he was still admiring the view before him, he heard a slight noise, and his name whispered, and, on turning round, he saw the priest who had officiated at the chapel descending the rock by a steep path on the opposite side to that which his congregation had taken. Luis directly followed him, when he saw a signal for him to do so; but so quickly did the venerable person descend, that he could scarcely keep him in view without danger of breaking his neck, from his ignorance of the stepping-stones in the side of the hill, with which his guide, from his unhesitating pace, seemed perfectly familiar. He had proceeded about three-quarters of the way, and had yet some of the most precipitous part of the descent to make, when he perceived the priest, who had reached the bottom, after looking cautiously around, proceed a few paces at the base of the rock, and, again repeating his signal, disappear beneath an overhanging cliff. As soon as Luis had likewise reached the bottom, he followed the same course; when, as he was passing under the cliff, he again heard his name called by a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth, and, looking earnestly in that direction, perceived a small cavity in the side of the rock, but so shrouded by brushwood, that he might easily have passed it several times had it not been particularly called to his notice.
“Enter, my son, and fear not,” said the voice: “nought but what is holy is here to be found.”
Luis, putting aside the boughs which grew across the entrance, and stooping low to avoid striking his head against the rugged arch which formed it, entered the cave; but, on first leaving the bright glare of sunshine, his eyes were so oppressed by the darkness, that he could not venture to advance, until suddenly a small flickering light appeared before him, sufficient, however, to show him that he stood in a naturally vaulted chamber, or rather passage, in which he might stand perfectly upright, of some twelve feet in width, but of a length it was impossible to determine, the sides of the jagged and unhewn rock, and the floor, being covered with soft fine sand. In vain did his sight seek to pierce beyond the twinkling light, but it served to guide his footsteps, when it seemed to be in motion, and approaching him. He now saw the venerable figure of the hermit standing a short way up the cave, with snowy beard, the hair round his shaven crown and his eyebrows being of the same silvery hue. In his hand was a small taper, which he held before him.
“What seekest thou of me, my son?” he uttered, in the same low tones Luis had before heard. “If it is aught which my prayers can be of service to gain for thee, they shall, without intermission, be offered up.”
“In this case your prayers are not required, most reverend hermit,” returned Don Luis. “I understand that you have in your possession a casket of jewels which you are willing to deliver to me for a certain recompense.”
“It is the truth, my son. I have a casket, about which I was yesterday speaking to that most holy and devout brother, the friar Diogo Lopez, a man in whom the gifts of Divine grace shine most conspicuously, my most particular and esteemed friend, yet one whose fair fame the tongue of calumny has dared to slander; who has been accused of consorting with robbers and evil-doers, even to sharing in the profits of their mal-practices. Oft has he come to me, with tears in his eyes, mourning his hard fate; and, in the hopes of gaining the favour of Heaven to clear his fame, has he flagellated his back with the cord of repentance, till the blood has flowed in torrents to the ground. Oh! brother Diogo is truly a righteous man!”
“Your pardon, Father! I came to inquire for a casket of jewels, and not to discuss the character of Frè Diogo; about which the less said in his praise the smaller will be the chance of his actions contradicting your words,” answered Luis.
“You are severe, my son, you are severe on brother Diogo. But about the jewels; now you recall the circumstance to my mind, I do recollect that he told me that a young and estimable friend of his was anxious to obtain them; and that he was to come here this morning, with a hundred and fifty milreas, which he was willing to give for them, besides thirty more which he was anxious to offer for masses to be said for the souls of certain unfortunate men who were killed a few days ago.”
“You are under a slight error with regard to the amount of the sum I promised your respectable friend; but the hundred milreas I will give when you deliver the casket, and I will, beyond that, offer twenty more to be expended in masses.”
“That is acting like a true fidalgo,” answered the Hermit; “and I feel assured that the souls of the brigands will be highly obliged to you. Of course, I must have been mistaken with regard to the additional fifty milreas; but age has somewhat impaired my memory, and I cannot doubt the word of so honourable a gentleman. As you may, perhaps, be anxious to gain possession of these same jewels, if you will follow me to the head of the cave, you will find the casket on a little stone altar; there deposit the money, with any further trifling donation you, in your generosity, may be inclined to offer, take up the casket, and depart in peace. With the casket you will find a sealed packet, to whom directed I know not, never having been instructed in the profane art of reading a written hand; my breviary, and the lives of the saints, having occupied my whole attention. It was found within the casket; but being of no value to those who found it there, they honestly gave it to me, and I restore it to you. Follow me, my son.”
Having thus spoken, the hermit proceeded up the cave for several yards, when he suddenly stopped and placed the taper in a socket on the little altar he spoke of; but by the time Luis had reached the spot he had disappeared. Luis looked around in every direction, but it was impossible to pierce the surrounding gloom, the faint rays of the taper not extending to the sides of the cavern, by which he concluded it must have considerably increased in size; so that the holy man was yet watching him at no great distance, though himself invisible. The taper cast its light on the surface of the altar, and on a small stone cross, rudely carved, which surmounted it, a few rays alone throwing a faint gleam on the roof above, from which hung down long and transparent stalactites, the floor being here moist and slippery; indeed, a light murmuring sound gave notice that a spring ran through this part of the cavern. Two small steps conducted him to the altar, when he found that the hermit had not deceived him, for there were the casket and the packet. He opened the former, and letting the light of the candle fall on the interior, it displayed a glittering collection of various trinkets, such as were then worn by ladies; closing the case, he placed it securely about his person, and then examined the superscription on the packet. It was in a delicate female handwriting, and directed thus:—“To Gonçalo Christovaö.” Luis secured that also carefully in his bosom; and then, placing on the spot from which he had taken them three separate parcels of money,—two of the amount promised, and another of ten milreas intended for the hermit himself, the very great holiness of whose character he could not, however, help doubting,—he was about to take the taper from the altar, with the intention of finding his way to the month of the cave.—“Hold! impious man!” exclaimed the voice of the Hermit; though, from what quarter it came it was impossible to tell. “Take thy sacrilegious hands from off that candle, which must remain till I have counted thy gifts. Retire the way by which you came.”
Don Luis, though not particularly well pleased at this address, thought it would be of no avail either to answer or to disobey the order; and accordingly endeavoured so to direct his course as to reach the entrance of the cavern, hoping soon to see the light of day streaming in from the opening in the rock. Holding his sword in its scabbard before him, to prevent himself from running suddenly against the side of the cave, should he miss the right course, he slowly groped his way onward, but had not advanced far when he found the value of his precaution by its striking against the rock. He looked round, intending to take a fresh departure from the light, when he found that it had been extinguished, and that he was in utter darkness. He now felt convinced that some trick was being played off against him, at the bottom of which he strongly suspected was the holy Frè Diogo; though, had robbery been intended, it might have been committed at once, without delivering the casket or packet. It must be confessed that he was in a very disagreeable position; shut up in a dark cavern, and, for aught he could tell to the contrary, surrounded by robbers, or, at the best, in the power of some daring impostors. He was inclined, as well he might be, to be very angry; but he knew that losing his temper would not at all aid him to get out of the trap; besides, utter darkness, such as surrounded him, has generally a very soothing effect on the mind. The ground on which he stood was still hard and damp, so that he knew he could not yet have reached the passage by which he entered, and for some moments he could not resolve to proceed, fearful of becoming more confused, and of perhaps falling into some deep cavity, through which the water he heard must find its way. He determined, however, if violence was intended, not to be taken without a stroke for life; silently, therefore, drawing his sword, he grasped it firmly in his right hand, while with the scabbard he felt around on his left side. He fancied that he could hear the breathing of some one near him, but, as he swept his sword round, it met nought but the empty air. Now Luis was, as he had often proved, possessed of as much of that quality called courage as most men; but there are many who will face danger without shrinking in open daylight, and when they see and know the strength of their foe, who would feel very uncomfortable when shut up in the dark, and not at all knowing what to expect, which was exactly his case at present. His patience, also, was quickly worn out. “I beg, most holy hermit, that you will not consider me like a mole, with eyes to see, or claws to work my way out of this cave; but, as I am anxious to return home, that you will throw a light upon my path to enable me to do so,” he exclaimed, with some degree of anger in his tone.
“Turn, then, to the left as you face the rock, and you will soon see the bright light which shines on all men alike, the light of day;” said a voice at some little distance.
“If he does, he will plunge into the deep hole through which the stream flows; his feet are close to it already,” answered another voice.
“Then he is not where I thought he was,” said the first; “but let him turn to the right then, and he will be free.”
“I beg you will finish this mummery,” exclaimed Don Luis, “and show me the way out of this place.”
“Beware that you utter no blasphemy,” said the voice. “Now, look more earnestly, and you will behold the light before you.”
At that moment a small flame burst forth, towards which he immediately advanced, and found himself treading on the soft sand in the narrow passage. The light was again extinguished, but in its stead he saw, at some distance, the sunshine gleaming through the mouth of the cavern. Glad to escape from the place, he was hurrying towards it, when a loud noise resounded through the rocky vault, and he found himself again in complete darkness, and could distinctly hear a suppressed chuckle of laughter.
This was trying his patience too much. “Whether saint or devil,” he exclaimed, “let me go free from your abode.”
“Blaspheme not, my son,” answered the voice; “but your temper shall no longer be tried; only, remember in future to cast no reflections on the character of my esteemed friend, the holy Frè Diogo;” and a loud peal of laughter resounded through the vault, whose echoes had no sooner died away, than a door he had not before perceived was thrown open, and the sunshine again streamed in, when he saw, standing on one side, the venerable form of the hermit.
“Farewell, my son,” said the latter personage. “My devotions have been sadly disturbed by sounds of unwonted merriment, in which the spirits of darkness have indulged, even as they did in the hermitage of the most holy Saint Anthony. Ah! I see you were prepared to combat with the weapons of carnal warfare; but those avail not against the inhabitants of the infernal regions. ’Twas with his crosier and breviary, not to mention the pair of red-hot tongs, that the great saint put to flight the Prince of Darkness; and such are the weapons with which I fight. I will detain you no longer: again, farewell, my son. Your shortest way home is to mount the path by which you came here, and to descend on the other side of the hill. Above all things, do not speak ill of the holy Frè Diogo.”
“Farewell, most holy hermit,” answered Luis; “though, I suspect, if you allow such proceedings in your hermitage, its character for sanctity will be somewhat damaged.”
“No fear of that, my son,” said the venerable personage; “there is no character in the world so quickly gained, or so easily maintained, as that of sanctity, which is the reason so many people assume it who have lost all claim to any other. Remember that, my son, for I have full cause to know the truth of what I say. Now Heaven speed you, for you are a good youth!”
With these words, the hermit retired into the recesses of the cave, and Luis issued into the open air. As advised, he climbed up the hill by the steep path he had descended, which he found far less difficulty in doing; and crossing to the other side, he was happy to perceive his horse quietly grazing in a field below, somewhat impeded in the operation by the bit in his mouth, while the boy had gone to sleep by his side, wondering when the fidalgo would return.
Luis roused the boy, and gave him a piece of silver, probably a larger amount than he had ever before possessed, while he threw the reins over his horse’s neck and prepared to mount. The lad’s eyes glistened with delight, and in a moment he appeared to be brisk and intelligent enough. “A thousand thanks, for your charity to a poor lad, senhor,” he said; “and I have something to tell you. Some time after you were gone away, while I was lying down on the grass, thinking of going to sleep, some strange men came up to your horse, and, without saying a word, took your pistols out of the holsters, threw out the priming, and returned them quickly back again. They looked so fierce, that I was afraid to say anything; so I snored away, pretending to be fast asleep, and the men directly afterwards went away; but I forgot all about it till you gave me the piece of silver.”
Luis immediately examined his pistols, and found that they had been tampered with; then, carefully reloading them, and giving the boy another piece of money for his information, he mounted his horse, and regained the road, and had just done so when he saw a horseman galloping along to meet him, in whom he was by no means sorry to recognise his servant Pedro.
“Oh, senhor!” exclaimed the honest fellow, when he came up to him, “I am delighted to see you safe and sound; for my mind misgave me, ever since you told me you were going to meet an acquaintance of that rascally friar;—Heaven forgive me if I wrong him;—so at last I determined to take a horse and follow you; but now I have found you, it is all right, and I hope you will forgive me my fears for your safety.”
While Pedro was speaking, their path was leading them a little way round the base of the hill; and before his master had time to answer, several men sprung out from behind some large rocks, which lay scattered around, and seizing their bridles, attempted to drag them from their horses. Pedro, who was armed only with a thick stick, laid about him most manfully, keeping the robbers, for such they appeared to be, at bay; and Don Luis drew a pistol from his holster, threatening to shoot the man nearest him; but the fellow only laughed, daring him to fire, which he immediately did, and the man dropped. Upon this, the others, undaunted, rushed on him with loud cries of vengeance, and before he could draw his sword or use his other pistol, they grasped him by the arms, dragging him from his horse to the ground. Pedro fought on some time longer, proving that a good oak stick in the hand is better than a sword by the side, and had very nearly succeeded in rescuing his master, when the robbers, fearing that such would be the case, made a rush on him all together, and pinioned his arms behind him.
The report of Don Luis’s pistol had, at this juncture of affairs, called another actor on the scene, whom Pedro, at all events, did not expect to find in the character of a friend. This personage was no other than the worthy Frè Diogo, who was seen rushing down the hill, flourishing a cudgel very similar to the one he had used with such effect in their service at the inn, and shouting at the top of his voice, “Off, off you rascals! Is this the way you dare to treat my friends?”
He was quickly on the spot, dealing his blows with no gentle force on every side, soon emancipating Pedro from thraldom, and driving off those who held Don Luis. “How dare you, ye villains, attack a friend of mine, who came to visit me, with my word pledged for his security?” he cried. “I hope, senhor, you are not injured. Well, then, it does not matter, and I see you have punished one of them. Pick up that fellow, and away with you; for I see he’s more frightened than hurt.”
The men sulkily obeyed, raising their fallen comrade, who proved to be only stunned, the pistol ball having merely grazed his head.
So quickly had these incidents occurred, that Don Luis had scarcely time to speak before he found himself again at liberty; and when he turned to thank his deliverer, he could not help being amused at his appearance. The dark robes, the rim of carroty hair, and the red eyes were there; but above the eyes were a pair of thick, bushy, white eyebrows. “The venerable hermit!” he exclaimed.
“What, senhor, have you found me out?” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “Well, don’t betray me, or you will injure my character for sanctity, and ’tis the last thing I have now to depend on.”
“I should be ungrateful for the service you have just now afforded me,” answered Don Luis. “Though, for your own sake, my friend, I wish it were more justly established.”
“Oh! that is a trifle, senhor,—I mean, the service I have done you,” said the Friar. “What do you stand gaping there for, you rogues? Off with you,” he shouted to the robbers, who still stood at some little distance, while Luis and his servant mounted their horses.
“Come, Senhor Frade, pay us for our work, then,” answered one of the men. “We came to rob this young fidalgo by your orders, and we won’t, go back empty-handed.”
“Oh, you villains! you will ruin my character if you talk thus;—that was to be if the young fidalgo was not charitable; but he has won my heart; and remember, the man who injures him is my enemy. However, here is more than you deserve,” and he flung them the ten milreas Luis had left for the hermit, on which each of the men made him a low bow, and hurried away. Nothing abashed, he again turned to Don Luis. “You see, senhor, the truth of the saying exemplified, that charity brings its own reward. Now, if you had not been charitable, I confess the temptation to rob you was very great; but when I found the amount of your offering, I repented, and, as you see, came to rescue you. If you have a trifle about you, you can repay me at once;—well, never mind, if you have not; another time will do;—but don’t say a Capuchin is ungrateful, that’s all. Now, farewell, senhor; we shall meet again, I doubt not. You will not betray me, I know; and I am sure Senhor Pedro there will not, for he is an honest fellow; and if he does, I shall break his head some time or other. You had better make the best of your way home, and not encounter those men, as they have not the same feelings of honour that I have. Now, don’t answer;—I know what you would say, that I am a rogue in grain; but it cannot be helped... Adeos, senhor.”
Without waiting for an answer to this specimen of consummate impudence, which, indeed, Don Luis would have had some difficulty in making, he again began to mount the hill, indulging in a loud chuckle as he went. Don Luis and Pedro, however, followed his advice, though they could not admire his principles.
“That friar seems to be a very great rogue, senhor,” said Pedro, as they rode home.
“Not much greater, I suspect, than many others,” answered his master; “only he certainly does not take much pains to conceal it.”
We must apologise to our readers for occupying so much of their time with this rather unromantic adventure of Don Luis’s, and hope that his character will not have been injured in their estimation by it.
He remained some weeks longer under his father’s roof, without any very important event occurring to him; and, in the mean time, we must beg leave to fly back again to Lisbon.