“I have one more request to make,” said Gonçalo: “I long, ere I die, to perform the last duties of religion, but I have, in vain, asked for a confessor. The Governor knows I have nothing to reveal. You may in this assist me, by desiring to see one yourself, and you may then, in the same way that you have come, conduct him hither.”
“I will use my utmost endeavours to do so,” answered Luis, “though I fear much I shall be unsuccessful.”
Gonçalo now made many inquiries about his family, to which Luis answered to the best of his knowledge; and when he told him that Clara was about to take the veil, his self-reproach knew no bounds.
“Alas, alas!” he exclaimed, “this has happened through my own mad obstinacy: had I not praised San Vincente to my father, she might even now have been your bride, and both might have been happy.”
“Heaven willed it otherwise,” said Luis, checking his rising emotion, when he endeavoured to console his unhappy friend; and so far succeeded, that he already appeared to have recovered strength—his spirits, more than his body, had suffered. The gaoler, now softly opening the door, beckoned away Luis, who, pressing Gonçalo’s hand, returned to his own cell, reflecting, that if he himself had suffered much, others had yet more to endure.
The following day the Governor thought fit to honour the Count d’Almeida with a visit. He entered, bowing and flourishing his little three-cornered hat, as usual, smirking as he seated himself on the bed. “I fear that you find your life in prison a very dull one, my young friend,” he began; “most people do, yet such is the fate of those who will disobey the laws. In the course of a year or two you will become more habituated to it, and then you will learn to like it, if—for I am sorry to say there is an alternative—you are not proved guilty of a crime of the first magnitude;—but, in the latter case, you must prepare for death! Ah, you start;—it is very sad to die, but, I wished to spare your feelings, and therefore concealed your fate from you till now; however, feeling a sincere friendship for you, I would point out the only means you have of escaping. Make a complete confession of all you know, and then, probably, a short imprisonment will be your only punishment.”
Luis watched the Governor’s eye while he spoke, and although he did not believe his assertions, he felt that they might too probably be founded on truth. Not disconcerted, however, by unmanly fears, he, recollecting his promise to Gonçalo, pretended to credit them; and, on the plea that, perhaps, his death was near, he petitioned to have the consolation of religion afforded him.
“I rejoice, my young friend, to hear you speak in so proper a frame of mind,” said the Governor, sententiously. “Even to the prisoner’s cell the Church extends her benign influence, and Heaven will be pleased if you confess your sins to the holy man I will send you. He shall visit you this very day, and, putting full confidence in him, let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to follow implicitly his counsels.” The Governor, flattering himself that he had gained the very point at which he was aiming, bidding his prisoner be of good cheer, withdrew.
The Governor was in this case true to his word; late in the evening the friendly gaoler entering Luis’s cell to inform him that a Friar waited without to see him.
“Beg him to enter,” said Luis.