Two hours after day light the grave was finished, Stukeley was buried with his sword and spurs, as the peculiar badges of knighthood, which was supposed swift to succour and strong to avenge; his body was wrapped in a coarse shroud of Moorish cloth, but his head was uncovered; the thick glossy hair gave beauty still to the now marble features:—Sebastian thought of the time when he had hoped to have decorated that majestic head with a crown.
When the grave was closed, he placed upon it a rude cross of wood which he had shaped during the night, and kneeling down by it pronounced a prayer for the gallant soul. Abensallah and Ismael moved away.
Rising from his knees, the young King attentively surveyed the place, that he might remember it at a future day; it was particularized by a few marks not easily forgotten: the place itself was a narrow recess turning out of the valley; it was half encircled by perpendicular heights of stupendous steepness, the sides of which were only clothed with mosses, and at their feet flowed an inconsiderable rivulet; towards the lower end grew a cluster of locust trees, between which and the mountain rose Stukeley’s grave.—So concealed, it was not likely that any human eye would ever discover or disturb the sacred cross.
Somewhat soothed by this thought, and the consciousness of having performed the last duties to a faithful friend, Sebastian rejoined the dervise with less emotion. “We must now dismiss painful recollections,” said the worthy Abensallah, “let us think of nothing, my son, but your perfect recovery and your safe conveyance from Africa.”
“Ah father,” exclaimed Sebastian, “you speak like a man without hopes and without regrets!—Your holy life, exempt from particular affections or selfish wishes, places you beyond the reach of that grief which renders it impossible for me to dismiss painful recollections.”
“I am not, therefore, free from sorrow,” replied the dervise, “heedless youth! I do mourn—but it is for human nature in general: alas, I mourn more for its frailties than for its miseries.”
“True—true—” repeated Sebastian, smiting his breast—“you say right, Abensallah; had we no errors we should have but few sufferings.”
Our dervise, more solicitous to impress humane sentiments than eager to propagate peculiar tenets, seized this opportunity of discoursing with much wisdom upon the duties of a sovereign: his companion listened with attention and replied with frankness.
He detailed with simplicity some of his own plans for diffusing comfort in more equal proportions through all ranks of his subjects, and noted the salutary reforms already made by him in the Portuguese government; he described the liberal mode in which he had intended to conduct his African conquests, mixing these details with so many just and noble observations, that Abensallah could not help lamenting the battle of Alcazar.
To have lived under the rule of a King (though Christian,) who would have ameliorated the Moor’s condition by parental care, and sought to win them into schools and churches, without prohibiting their mosques, appeared an object of desire, when compared with the grinding tyranny of their native Xeriffs, and the brutish ignorance to which their laws condemned them.