“Alas! too true,” ejaculated Luis.
Just as he spoke the door opened, and the gaoler, whispering to them to walk carefully, beckoned them to follow him, while he led the way to the cell of the young Gonçalo. The son uttered a cry of joy, as he rose to embrace his father, and then sunk down languidly on his couch. For many minutes they remained in earnest conversation; the fidalgo seeming to forget his daughter in the joy of recovering his son, while Luis, in the mean time, explained to Frè Diogo the importance of the paper he had preserved, beseeching him to lend his assistance, either in aiding his escape, or in forwarding the fidalgo’s despatch to Oporto.
“I am happy to do all I can to mitigate the irksomeness of your imprisonment, my friend; but it is more than I can do to risk my neck in aiding your escape, or carrying any communication beyond the walls of the prison, which would, most certainly, be discovered, and punished with almost equal severity. Think better of it, Count; there is no use running so much risk for the sake of any girl under the sun. Let her take the veil, she will be happy enough; and, when you get out of this place, you can easily find another to make amends for her loss.”
“You have never been in love, to speak thus,” exclaimed Luis.
“No, thank Heaven, I never have,” answered the Friar. “I never saw any good come of such folly.”
“Then, have I no hopes of your assistance?” asked Luis.
The Friar shook his head.
Meantime the fidalgo rose from his son’s couch, over which he had been leaning, and took the Count’s hand—“Pardon me, for all the wrong I have done you!” he exclaimed; “but you see how severely I have been punished. My poor boy!” and he pointed to young Gonçalo, and his voice faltered—“and my fair daughter. Have you persuaded the good Friar to forward the letter I will write to the Lady Abbess?”
“He refuses to aid me,” answered Luis, again appealing, in vain, to the Friar.
“Then I have no hope!” exclaimed the unhappy father, sinking into a chair.