“And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
The days passed on until October. Fernando saw no more of Catalina, though he still laboured in her neighbourhood; and no incidents broke his life of toil, till one day the Portuguese were sent for to the presence of the prime minister. It was part of the humiliation laid upon him that he was now and then, forced to appear in the midst of the splendid court in his slave’s dress, his hands stained with toil and fettered, as they always were, except when actually engaged in working. But spite of all this, and though his stiff limbs moved slowly and feebly, there was no air of embarrassment, no consciousness of degradation. He walked up the great hall, and looked Lazurac firmly in the face, bowing to him with the courtesy of a superior, neither shrinking nor defiant.
Lazurac burst out in sudden accents of fury.
“Now, slave,” he cried; “now you are wholly in our power. What is to prevent us from flaying you alive, beating you to death, in revenge for the perfidy of your countrymen? And now no fleets will sail to deliver you; we need fear no more from the vengeance of Portugal.”
“And why?” said Fernando, as soon as Lazurac paused.
The Moor came and stood over him, his dark face convulsed with rage, a strange contrast, with his splendid dress and infuriated aspect, to his prisoner, whose clear calm eyes were raised to his without fear or falter.
“Because the king, your brother, has died while shilly-shallying over his intentions of freeing you. Here is the news of his death, and no word of keeping the treaty. Ha! I have moved you now!”
For Fernando staggered, and would have fallen but for Lazurac’s rough grasp.
“My brother—my brother!” was all he could utter.
“Ay, there is a letter for you also; but the news is enough for you, rest content.”