Next was brought forward Manoel Ferreira, and with him an effigy of Joseph Policarpio, who had escaped,—the former habited merely in a shirt and drawers. The unfortunate wretch was bound to one of the posts, seated on an iron chair, with the effigy opposite to him, two friars administering to him the consolations of religion. The boat was then unloaded of its cargo of wood and barrels of tar, which were placed under and upon the scaffold, he being surrounded by faggots, and a pan of sulphur placed beneath him. The executioners and workmen now descended from the scaffold; a friar, prompted by zeal for the welfare of the criminal’s soul, and feeling he might afford him comfort in his moments of agony, with noble intrepidity remained to the last moment, while the former, lighting their torches, set fire to the fabric in every direction. The wind having blown till now across the scaffold, it was expected that the flames would soon put an end to the wretch’s sufferings; but, suddenly changing, it blew them directly away from him; his shrieks and groans, while he thus slowly roasted, being dreadful to hear, the good friar remaining near him till he was himself scorched, and compelled to fly for his life, hitherto regardless of the shouts of the people to call him away.
The greater proportion of the populace were horrified at this dreadful event; but some were not yet satiated with blood. “What!” cried one ruffian, “are these all? I thought we were to have many more.”
“Stay patiently, my friend, till to-morrow,” answered another; “we shall have a fresh batch then. This is far better worth seeing than a bull-fight, or an Auto-da-fé. Our Prime Minister is a fine fellow; he does not do things by halves.”
“Thank Heaven, my dear master is still alive!” exclaimed Pedro, with a deep-drawn breath, as he hastened, sick with horror, to make further inquiries for the Count.
The flames burnt brightly up, and, after twenty minutes, the shrieks of the burning wretch ceased,—death had put an end to his sufferings.
At length, by four o’clock, the bodies of the ten human beings, who had that morning breathed with life, the scaffold, and all the instruments of torture, were reduced to one small heap of black ashes. One ceremony remained to be performed. The ashes were swept together by the executioners, and scattered upon the bosom of the Tagus, so that not a vestige remained on the face of the earth of those who had once been. People gazed upon the spot of the tragedy: one blackened circle alone marked it. All that had passed seemed like some dreadful dream of a disordered brain. People rubbed their eyes, and looked again and again, to persuade themselves of the reality.
When the account was brought to the Minister—“Tremble, haughty Puritanos!” he exclaimed. “Now I have ye in my power.”
The military band now struck up a martial air, the troops moving off the ground to their quarters, and the officers of justice to their homes.
That very evening, the King, for the first time since the attack, appeared in public, holding a Court for all his nobility. None dared absent themselves; but all wore an air of gloom and fear; for, feeling as they did, it was impossible to say who might be the next victims to the Minister’s policy.
The account of the above-mentioned dreadful execution we have translated from a very valuable manuscript work in our possession, written by one who was, we conceive, an eye-witness of the scene he describes, though we have rather softened and curtailed, than enlarged upon, its horrors. He was certainly no friend of the Prime Minister’s; but there is a minute exactness in his descriptions, and an upright honesty in his observations, which gives us no reason to doubt their correctness.