“I cannot be surprised that you should not recognise in these furrowed and care-worn features the countenance of him who was the friend of your youth,” said the latter.
“My recollection is not liable to be deceived,” said the Minister, scanning the stranger still more earnestly. “They recall the likeness of one long since dead, and truly mourned—one to whom I owed a debt of gratitude never to be repaid—the preserver of my life!”
A gleam of satisfaction passed over the stranger’s features. “I am not forgotten, then!” he exclaimed. “You see before you one long supposed dead—him, I trust, of whom you speak.”
“What!” cried the Minister, grasping the stranger’s hand. “Speak! are you the friend of my days of neglect and poverty,—does the Luis d’Almeida I loved so well still live?”
“The same, my friend,” cried the stranger, as they warmly embraced; “and great is my satisfaction to find that I am not forgotten.”
“’Tis a happiness I can seldom, if ever, enjoy, to call any one my friend,” said the proud Minister; and a shade passed across his brow, as he thought how completely he had isolated himself from his fellow-men. He had chosen his station—it was one of power and grandeur, but of danger and remorse. In each statesman of the country he saw a foe eager to hurl him from his post; and in no one who exhibited talent would he place confidence; he perceived treachery and hatred in the glance of every courtier around him, though he felt he could rule them but with a rod of iron.
The two friends talked long and earnestly together, forgetful of the flight of time.
“I have one petition to make to you,” said Senhor d’Almeida, for so we may call the stranger; “it is my first, and it shall be my last.”
“What! cannot I see my only friend without hearing that hateful word?” interrupted Carvalho, and a frown darkened his brow. “Yet let me hear it, for I would not willingly refuse you.”
“I would ask for the pardon of one in whom all my affections are centred—the young Count d’Almeida, my nephew.”