“I much fear so too,” answered Luis. “But tell me, have you found the letter to his father, you spoke of? It has been so wonderfully preserved, that I fain would think it of importance.”
“I have it here. Is not this it?” answered the Friar, producing a much soiled packet. “Read the superscription, for my eyes are dim, and cannot well decipher it.”
“The same. Now will you undertake to forward this to Senhor Gonçalo Christovaö,” said the Count.
“It will not have far to go, then, for he is a prisoner within these walls,” answered the Friar.
“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Luis. “Then I may prove to him that I am not the murderer of his son. Does he know that the poor youth is here?”
“I have not myself spoken to him, though it is almost impossible he should discover it,” replied the Friar.
“Then, in pity to all, contrive to let him see his dying son, and I, too, long to converse with him. It is the greatest favour you can afford me, next to one which I scarce dare hope for, to aid me in my escape.”
The Friar shook his head—“Your last wish is impossible; the first I will endeavour to accomplish. You know not all the precautions taken to prevent escape. Were your life in danger, it might, perhaps, be done at the risk of both our lives, or of perpetual imprisonment in some loathsome dungeon, to which, in comparison, this is a palace.”
“For the purpose I have in view, I would risk death, torments, and imprisonment!” exclaimed Luis, vehemently. “Unless I succeed, all I value in life is worthless. Within a few days from hence, Donna Clara de Christovaö will be compelled to assume the veil, if I do not contrive to rescue her from the convent at Oporto, where she is confined. I vowed to her to attempt it, and if she hears not of me, she will deem me faithless, and yield without a struggle to her fate.”
Frè Diogo smiled, as he shook his head. “You might as well attempt to rescue the lamb from the talons of the eagle, as to carry off a fair girl from the clutches of those who have her in their power,” he answered. “In any possible plan I would, if in my power, aid you gladly. But consider a moment. If you could escape from hence, which is next to impossible, you manage to reach Oporto, though the chances are, that you are recaptured before you arrive there;—you demand the young lady;—you are refused even an interview. You then contrive to let her know you are in the neighbourhood;—she sends you word she is shut up, and cannot get out. Or suppose you have surmounted all difficulties, and you have managed to carry her off; whither would you fly? In each direction the Minister has his spies, who would soon restore you to your present abode, if not to a worse, and the lady to her convent. No, my dear Count, be advised by me, do not attempt an impossibility. You have but one course to pursue; practise your patience: when a man is at the bottom of a well, he cannot go lower.”