“You are mistaken, senhor,” said Luis. “I come as an old friend, a fellow-prisoner, to offer such consolation as is in my power.”
“Thanks, senhor, for your courtesy, but your name has escaped my memory,” said the Fidalgo, scanning him closely.
“Luis d’Almeida.”
“What! the murderer of my son?—the destroyer of my daughter’s peace?”
“Certainly not the murderer of your son, for he yet lives; and rather would I die a hundred deaths than cause one pang of grief to your fair daughter.”
“My son lives, say you?” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Bring him hither, then, that I may embrace him before I am led forth to death.”
“He lies himself upon a bed of sickness; but I trust, Senhor, to be able to conduct you to him,” answered Luis.
“In mercy then, without delay, let me hasten to my long-lost boy,” exclaimed the Fidalgo. “Is he within these cruel walls—a prisoner like ourselves?”—“He is, senhor, alas! and this good Friar will arrange an interview, which will require some precaution,” answered Luis; and turning to Frè Diogo, he requested him to learn from the gaoler, when they might visit the cell of the unfortunate youth.
“Pardon me, for the want of courtesy with which I received you, Senhor Conde,” said the Fidalgo, as soon as they were left alone. “I owe you much for the news you bring me; and my poor boy, does he know I am near him? and what crime has he committed to be confined within these walls?”
Luis described, in as few words as possible, the dreadful treatment his son had suffered, and the fatal results he apprehended. We need not describe the father’s grief, or his regrets for the manner in which he had treated his guest; but his emotion was far greater, when, on Luis presenting the long-lost packet, he tore it open, and his eye hurried over the contents.