Gaspar was already supplied with a basket of the finest grapes, and a flask of medicated asses milk, (balm of Mecca being infused in it) by a servant of Kara Aziek’s: he had temperately partaken of these presents, and was even then revived by them.
The details which now took place between the King and his humble friend, were not unmixed with pleasure; Gaspar could not conceal the affectionate motive of his mad enterprize, nor could his royal master refrain from shewing the extent of his gratitude, by describing the scene which had passed between him and Ben Tarab—new plans for their mutual liberation were then canvassed, and these might all be summed up in a determination of seeking the favour of Kara Aziek, through whose interference perhaps they might prevail on the Almoçadem to permit some communication between them and the Christian forts.
At this prospect, Gaspar could not check a sigh purely selfish: his cruel disorder forbade him to indulge the fond hope of ever again beholding Portugal: this painful emotion burst forth, followed by a reflection far more grievous to Sebastian than it was to himself.
“I must submit,” he said, “if it pleases Heaven to deny me the joy of witnessing my sovereign’s restoration to his people: doubtless I sinned in deserting my poor mother and sisters for the mere sake of fighting against infidels; my wrong notions of duty perhaps, have left these dear relations to starve, for I was their only protector.—Jesu help me! I did not think then, what I have often thought since, that our blessed Redeemer must be better pleased with us when we seek to preserve lives, than when we go to destroy them!”
This artless remark made the King change colour: if Gaspar believed that to die in miserable servitude was only a just punishment for moral ignorance, what must be his destiny by whose powerful example multitudes had been allured into a similar error?—Sebastian’s heart was disturbed; and he paused at this question. Though he did not answer it to himself at that moment, he often repeated it afterwards; and the subject connected with it, was then attentively examined. His days of prosperity had been unreflecting days,—adversity now taught him to scrutinize the past, and to prepare stores of principle for the future: formerly, he had only acted of himself; now he began to think for himself.
Without suffering Gaspar to perceive the pain his remark had caused, Sebastian soothed the poor fellow’s self-accusing feelings, joined in an act of devotion with him, and did not leave him till he saw that he was tranquillized in sleep: he then repaired to a neighbouring chamber, where he spent nearly all the remaining hours of night in earnest supplications for an enlightened spirit.
From this period the attention of Sebastian was divided between so many objects of anxiety that he had not leisure for regret: though he was often wrung by the thought of Gonsalva’s too-probable grief, and apprehension for the fates of Antonio and De Castro, present cares forbade him to dwell on such considerations; he thought yet oftener of escape, and while so much was left him to hope, did not feel privileged to lament.
Each day now saw him incessantly occupied, each evening restored him to Gaspar; that poor youth’s slow-consuming disorder had not yet given way to the Moorish prescriptions,—unable to stand long upon his wounded limb, Gaspar could not be employed in field-work, but his grateful disposition taught him a new species of usefulness, and he amused his solitary hours by the manufacture of ingenious trifles, such as ornamental baskets, brocaded sandals, &c. with which Hafiz was to present Kara Aziek on her return to the cassavee.
Sebastian had found leisure intervals for the accomplishment of a trifling object with which he frequently lulled the depressed spirits of his friend; it was a flute formed of cane; he had contrived to furnish it with stops, &c. and had at length made it capable of “discoursing most excellent music.”
In the tranquillity of evening, when Gaspar was laid on his narrow pallet, and their minds equally exhausted by agitating conversation, Sebastian would take his flute and play Portuguese airs, till Africa was forgotten, and their native country alone remembered.—It was in these moments that love reigned absolute over the heart of the young King; he could not breathe a note that did not recal some song of Donna Gonsalva’s; her celestial voice seemed floating around him, till tenderness melted him into weakness, or impatience lashed him into agony, and the instrument would then fall from his hand.