Harry was silent. The boiling indignation in which he had quitted Lisbon, the rage and hate that had proved his own undoing, sank away ashamed; and it was very meekly that at length he told his tale—told of the false accusation, the quarrel with Alvarez, the anger of Sir Walter, the hasty banishment, adding, as he had never done before—
“My lord, had I been patient, it might have been otherwise with me.”
“Ah, dear friend, there is no remedy but patience for all the evils brought on us by our own rash folly. Repentance and patience. But now, have you tablets?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then—your arm again for a moment, and I will Write—for Moussa will soon return.” So saying the prince wrote—
“I, Fernando of Avis, declare that Harry Hartsed was my most faithful friend and servant, and that no charge of treason can be proved against him, and I beg my dear brother, Dom Enrique, to look once more into the matter.”
“Go, Harry,” said the prince, “at once to my brother. And now I have a matter to tell you. I have found Catalina Northberry, Sir Walter’s lost child.”
“My lord! Where?”
“Here, in the royal palace of Fez. She is the slave of the Princess Zarah; but happy and tenderly nurtured. Alas! I know not whether escape is possible for her; but she knows her name and has a kind heart. I dare not write of her; but you might, through Paolo, obtain speech with her, and take welcome news to Sir Walter,” said Fernando, concluding with a smile.
Harry looked as if he could hardly believe in so startling a coincidence.