“You may go—I want nothing.”
Pedro departed; but he had been some time in the room, and had overheard the whole of the commandant’s soliloquy.
Chapter Thirty Four.
It was a bright morning when the Portuguese vessel on which Amine was on board entered into the bay and roadstead of Goa. Goa was then at its zenith,—a proud, luxurious, superb, wealthy city—the capital of the East—a city of palaces whose viceroy reigned supreme. As they approached the river, the two mouths of which form the island upon which Goa is built, the passengers were all on deck; and the Portuguese captain, who had often been there, pointed out to Amine the most remarkable buildings. When they had passed the forts, they entered the river, the whole line of whose banks were covered with the country seats of the nobility and hidalgos—splendid buildings embosomed in groves of orange-trees, whose perfume scented the air.
“There, signora, is the country palace of the viceroy,” said the captain, pointing to a building which covered nearly three acres of ground.
The ship sailed on until they arrived nearly abreast of the town, when Amine’s eyes were directed to the lofty spires of the churches, and other public edifices; for Amine had seen but little of cities during her life, as may be perceived when her history is recollected.
“That is the Jesuits’ church, with their establishment,” said the captain, pointing to a magnificent pile. “In the church now opening upon us lie the canonised bones of the celebrated Saint Francisco, who sacrificed his life in his zeal for the propagation of the Gospel in these countries.”
“I have heard of him from Father Mathias,” replied Amine; “but what building is that?”