Sarhamet and his brother rode on each side of the King; they were armed with guns and Moorish knives, and made signs to him, that if he attempted to escape, he must inevitably fall by the hands of the troops escorting them, whose naked weapons were placed in their girdles ready for that purpose:—Sebastian smiled, and motioned acquiescence; but it was a grievous smile, “as if he disdained himself” for so submitting to fortune.
Their journey was long and wearisome: the Alarbes, enured to every change of climate, travelled indifferently through nightly dews and noon-day heats; sometimes they halted after a burning day, upon the very summit of a snow-topt mountain, where they supped, and slept, with no other covering than the clouds; at other times they would journey through the night, and lay themselves to rest in valleys, among scorching rocks, that reflected thrice the heat of the sun.
Sebastian contemplated this iron strength, with something like envy: by rendering a man’s body independent, it gives additional stability to the freedom of his mind; he felt conscious that, had he been thus disciplined into invulnerable strength, he might have attempted, and perhaps effected his escape: but the intense heats had re-opened his last wound, and had in consequence so reduced his natural vigour, that he could not hope to succeed, though he should master two Alarbes who constantly watched him while the others slept. Completely unarmed, and cautiously removed from the spot where the horses were fastened, he was aware, that a contest with one Moor must awaken the others, and that he should perish under their daggers long before he could meet any shelter: by acquiescing at present, he might obtain his object hereafter; in the neighbourhood of a populous city, less hazardous means might be found, and Providence might again throw Abensallah in his way, or some christian friend, with whom he might share in an attempt at mutual deliverance.
These thoughts often occupied him, as he rested or rode among his ferocious companions; and still hope filled his sanguine breast, pointing to his country and to Gonsalva.
From the length of their journey, Sebastian conjectured that his late residence had been at the extremity of the Benzeroel mountains; he had therefore been in the same tract of country with the benevolent dervise, and was now far distant from him: at thought of never seeing him again, his feelings saddened, gliding naturally from Abensallah to the gallant Stukeley, and thence to the slaughter of Alcazar.
On the fourteenth day, Sarhamet exchanged his prisoner’s worn-out galebia for a coarse, but more becoming habit, telling him that they were on the point of finishing their career: Sebastian for the first time enquired the name and rank of the person to whom they were now going; he learnt in reply, that he was the Almoçadem of a cavila, (that is, governor of a province) high in favour of the reigning Xeriff, (having ably assisted in securing him the throne) and highly respected throughout Barbary. His dwelling was in the Valley of Palms, a delightful place, nearly three leagues beyond Mequinez.
After bathing, and re-dressing themselves, the whole party mounted their horses, and proceeded down a winding declivity into a most luxuriant vale: the country-house of El Hader lay before them. Having been a royal gift, the building was a moorish Cassavee of much magnificence, covering with its interior gardens, squares, piazzas, and baths, an extent of four miles. Sebastian paused awhile, admiring its rude splendor.
The high dome of green and gold, the tall cypress trees which appeared rising above the gilded railings of the squares, the fountains of white and azure marble, the gay piazzas chequered with coloured tiles, the lofty columns and massy arches, all presented a semblance of regal grandeur, which made his heart spring back to Ribera and Xabregas. The contrast of his situation now, with what it had been when in those beloved places, almost unmanned him; their scenes were so associated with the idea of Donna Gonsalva, that it was impossible for him not to heave some profound sighs as he entered the dwelling of a Moorish nobleman, a prisoner and a slave.
Sarhamet, with his brother and their captive, was admitted into a lower hall of the Cassavee, whence they were soon after led into the presence of the Almoçadim.
As the young and imperious King of Portugal passed through a crowd of Moors to the audience chamber of El Hader, and reflected that he was going to be sold for a price, like some ignoble animal, his heart might well be said to “grow too big for what contained it;” he was on the point of madly rushing upon all surrounding him, and so purchasing freedom with life. Had he not happily remembered that Portugal claimed a sacrifice at his hands, and that it was his duty to suffer, in the hope of living to repair the unintentional calamity he had caused her, his rashness must have transported him into violence that would have ended in his own destruction.