Chapter XXIV: Part 24

Where is the man who can withstand a lovely woman's prayers, when, weeping, she pleads, and pleads for justice? The King could no longer resist her entreaties; he gently raised her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, he was about to pledge his kingly promise that none should suffer--the words faltered on his tongue--the door opened, he looked up, and beheld the commanding figure of the Prime Minister! The latter stopped, gazing with amazement. Donna Theresa saw not, heard not aught but her sovereign, as she waited eagerly for the words he was about to pronounce.

"You promise, then--you promise they shall be pardoned?" she ejaculated.

The King's eye sank before the searching glance of his potent Minister.

"Pardon me, your Majesty, for my intrusion, and will you graciously deign to explain the meaning of this lady's presence?" exclaimed the latter, advancing rapidly, for he had heard Donna Theresa's last words, and in a moment clearly comprehended the cause of her visit. He felt that his own power hung upon a thread, and he foresaw that, if she gained her cause, he must inevitably be the sacrifice.

In an instant he had arranged his plan. "I need no explanation,--Donna Theresa de Tavora has ventured hither against your Majesty's commands, to impose, with a false tale of her relatives' innocence, on your gracious clemency, and, for the sake of saving the guilty, would sacrifice your life and crown to their implacable hatred. Be not deceived, Sire, by the treacherous tongue of an artful woman. I come now from the trial of the once so-called Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, and their associates: the judges have found them guilty of the most atrocious of conspiracies, and have condemned them accordingly. Your Majesty's sacred life had nearly fallen a sacrifice to some unknown traitors. For months have I incessantly toiled, day and night, to discover the miscreants, and at length I have been successful, and they are about to receive the punishment of their deeds. Let not, then, all my exertions prove vain; and, above all, Sire, do not jeopard your own precious life by mistaken leniency."

The Minister watched the King's countenance, and saw that he had won his cause. He advanced to Donna Theresa, and grasped her arm: "Come, madam, you must no longer intrude upon his Majesty!" he exclaimed.

She started at his touch, and turned an entreating look towards the King. The Monarch's eye was averted. "All, all is lost!" she cried, and, uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless upon the ground.

"Pardon this seeming harshness, Sire," said Carvalho, deprecatingly, as he raised Donna Theresa in his arms. "It is necessary for your safety."

"You are always right, my friend," said the King. "Let every care and attention be paid her; and let some one be with her to console her for her disappointment;" and he turned away to hide his own emotion: he longed to hide his feelings from himself.

"'Tis another step gained towards supreme power," thought the Minister, as he bore his unconscious burden from the apartment, and committed her to the charge of his guards, with strict orders not to allow her to depart. He then returned to the King, with the fatal document in his hand,--the condemnation of the noble prisoners. His Majesty's signature was required; nor had he now much difficulty in obtaining it.

When nearly all of the most influential in the country were interested in the preservation of the accused, and all feeling that Donna Theresa was the most calculated to persuade the Monarch to pardon them, she had experienced but little difficulty, aided by high bribes, in penetrating to the apartments of the King; though, on Carvalho's endeavouring to discover the delinquents, every one solemnly averred that they had never seen her enter,--though, in her page's suit, she might have passed them unobserved.

Let her fate be a warning to others. Let those consider, whom passion would lead from the strict path of duty, that not themselves alone, but many others also, whom they once loved, and by whom they were beloved, they may drag down to perdition.

When Donna Theresa returned to consciousness, she found herself surrounded by her own attendants, and when she was pronounced in a fit state to be removed, she was conveyed to the Convent of Santos, where a large income was settled on her, and a retinue appointed to attend her. Though nominally a prisoner, she had perfect liberty. She did not die:--such was too happy a lot for her. For many, many years she lived on, a prey to remorse, hated and scorned by her few surviving relatives, till age had wrinkled her brow, and no trace of her former enchanting loveliness remained. Guilty of one crime she was, but not that of which she was accused; yet none would believe her assertions, when she had failed to procure the pardon of her husband. Such was her punishment!

For eighteen years did her father, the Marquis d'Alorna, his wife, and children, languish in separate dungeons, and scarcely one of his kindred escaped the like fate.

She became deaf and blind, and at length she died. On her tomb was found inscribed, "The Murderess of her Family."

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

We would gladly avoid detailing the following narrative, but no one who is writing the life of the great Prime Minister of Portugal can pass it over in silence; and while his name is mentioned in history, so will be the dreadful tragedy in which he was the principal actor, with the execrations of all who have a sentiment of pity for human suffering in their bosoms; even had the sufferers been proved guilty, which we, as Britons, and lovers of our own just laws affirm they were not. Guilty in the sight of Heaven, some of the accused too probably were, but by no law founded on common equity or humanity were they proved so.

The morning of the 13th of January broke dark and gloomy on the heads of a vast concourse of people, already assembled in a large open space on the borders of the Tagus, near the Castle of Belem.

In the background was the Quinta of Bichos, the entrance-door of which opened towards the river, and round it was now stationed a strong body of troops under arms. Here the noble prisoners since their condemnation had been confined, and thither also, during the dark hours of night, the Marchioness of Tavora had been removed from the Convent of Grillos. In front of the gateway, and close to the water, appeared a scaffold, which, since the setting of the sun, workmen had been incessantly employed in erecting, and on which the sound of their hammers was still heard. It was fourteen feet high by thirty long, and twenty broad, covered with black, without ornament of any sort; a wide flight of steps with balustrades leading up to it, on the side towards the Quinta. On the scaffold were seen two posts painted black, a chair, and a bench, on which were placed heavy iron mallets, and an instrument with a long handle, and an immense iron weight shaped like a quoit at the end of it; there were, besides, several large St. Andrew's crosses of wood, and the same number of wheels, and many other instruments of torture. Two regiments of infantry and two of cavalry were drawn up from the gate of the Quinta to the steps of the scaffold, extending their lines also on each side of the square; the embouchure of every street leading to the spot was also occupied by troops, companies of cavalry moving up and down them continually, and allowing no one to pass who wore a cloak, or could in any way have concealed arms about his person, without examining him. Notwithstanding, however, every impediment, thousands of persons pressed eagerly forward to the scene of execution, of every rank, age, and sex, mostly excited by that vulgar curiosity which has, among all nations, and in all times, drawn people together, however revolting the spectacle might be, one would suppose, to human nature.

Here were collected, mothers with children in their arms, whom they held up to behold the black scaffold, and the glittering arms, and gaudy uniforms of the soldiers, the little wretches cooing with delight, unconscious of the meaning of the scene: here were old men leaning on their staves, and discussing the late events with stoical indifference; sturdy ruffians, who longed eagerly for the commencement of the horrid drama; boys, youths with the down still on their lips,--ay, and young maidens too, listening to their tones of courtship, and smiling as they listened; many sat in groups discussing their morning meal, regardless of which they had hurried from their homes;--yes, there was love-making, laughter, and feasting; but dark Death, with his most terrific horrors, was the great actor they came to behold--all else, like a dull interlude, was insipid and tame.

The water also was covered with boats crowded with people, many too, of the higher ranks, anxious to behold the scene, yet unwilling to be observed by the common people, as they sat shrouded in their cloaks, waiting in silence for the commencement.

There was one boat which attracted great attention; it was a barge, moored to the quay, and loaded with faggots, wood, torches, and barrels of pitch.

"What, is all that firewood for?" asked a nursing mother of her husband; "there is enough there to supply us to the end of our lives."

"What, in that boat? Oh! that is doubtless the wood to burn the criminals."

"Jesu Maria!" exclaimed the woman, "they are not going to burn them alive?"

"Why not?" answered the man, "the holy office does so, and what they do must be right."

"Ay, yes, I forgot; of course, they are right," muttered the woman.

"Burn them, to be sure they will," chimed in a neighbour; "and will serve the regicides right. Do you know what they did? They tried to kill the King, the Queen, the Minister, and all the royal family, the wretches!"

"What! did they? Then they deserve to be burnt, doubtless," cried the woman.

"Ay, that did they, the haughty fidalgos!" exclaimed the neighbour; "we shall, now we have got rid of them, have some chance of becoming fidalgos ourselves."

"Oh! it will be a glorious sight!" cried another of the crowd, "full fifty fidalgos all burning and shrieking together; far better than any Auto-da-fe--the holy office never burns more than eight or ten at a time."

"Full fifty! gracious Virgin!" cried a girl. "Who are they?"

"Ay, and more than fifty. Let me see; there are the Duke and Duchess of Aveiro, and all their household and children, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tavora, the younger Marquis, his brother and their sisters, the Marquis of Alorna, and his family; the Conde de Atouquia, and Captain Romeiro. Let me see, there are many more--oh! there are Goncalo Christovao, who excited the rebellion at Oporto, and the young Count of Almeida, the Count of--"

"Who did you say?" exclaimed a young man, a stranger to the party, who was standing near. "Who was the last person you mentioned to be executed?"

"The Count of Almeida," answered the oracle of the party, coolly. "He came to Lisbon the very morning of the outrage, and has, it is said, the very look of an assassin."

"It is a vile falsehood, and anybody who says he is guilty, is a villain," exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "My master would never hurt a lamb, much more fire at a king."

"Your master? then you ought to be in his company, my fine fellow," answered the man, who was in a most loyal mood. "The masters and servants are all to be burnt together."

"Burnt! my dear master burnt alive!" ejaculated Pedro, almost unconsciously; for it was he, having wandered about the city, daily, unable to gain any tidings of the Count, till he, at last, heard his name mentioned among the captives, and had now, with sorrow and fear, come to the place of execution, expecting to see his beloved master among the sufferers. Not knowing the precautions taken to prevent a chance of escape, he watched, with feverish anxiety, the appearance of the prisoners, in the hopes of finding some means of rescuing him. Not liking the proposal of the people, near whom he was standing, and being unable to gain any further information from them, he moved away to another group, one of whom appeared to know a great deal about the matter.

"Can you tell me, Senhor, the names of the conspirators who are to suffer?" asked Pedro, with tears in his eyes, and a faltering voice.

"Of course, my friend, I shall be happy to enlighten you to the utmost of my power," answered the person he addressed, enumerating the same names as the former one, with a few additions.

Poor Pedro wrung his hands with agony.

"Alas, alas! are they to be burnt alive?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not all of them," said his informant. "Some of them are, for which purpose you see those black posts erected, to fasten them to. The ladies are to lose their heads, the leaders are to be beaten to death, and the others are to be strangled. A few only are to be burnt alive, to please the people; and then the scaffold, and all the bodies, will be consumed together and thrown into the river."

Pedro could listen to no more of the dreadful details, but, hurrying away to a distance, he sat himself down on a stone, and hiding his face in his hands, he gave way to the anguish of his feelings, in tears. Suddenly, however, recovering his presence of mind, he considered how he might yet afford some aid to the hapless young Count.

While the scene we have described was proceeding, one of violence and destruction was enacting in another part of the city. A vast mob were collected in and around the palaces of the Marquis of Tavora and the Duke of Aveiro; some employed in dragging forth the rich and valuable furniture, breaking it in pieces, and piling it in heaps to burn; some endeavouring to conceal the smaller articles about their persons; and others fighting and wrangling about the booty. A few minutes sufficed to accomplish the act of destruction, when workmen instantly commenced demolishing the entire edifices, and ere their once proud owners had ceased to breathe, already were they in ruins. When the palaces were completely razed to the ground, salt was sprinkled over their sites; and on that of the Duke of Aveiro a column was erected, on which was inscribed his crime and punishment.

To return to the former scene. At length, at seven o'clock, the gates of the Quinta were thrown open. "They come! they come!" murmured the crowd, as a body of horsemen were seen to issue forth, some in uniforms, being the chief military commanders of the kingdom, others in dark cloaks, who were the principal officers of the crown, the ministers of justice, the criminal judges, and others. The Prime Minister was not among them. He, it was said, contemplated at a distance the work he had ordered.

Forming in two lines, between them appeared a sedan-chair, painted black, the bearers dressed in the same hue, and on each side walked a friar of the Capuchin order. As they advanced towards the scaffold, the dragoons formed round them, and, at the same time, the chief executioner, with three assistants, mounted the fatal platform to receive the wretched occupant.

When the party arrived at the foot of the flight of steps, every voice was hushed, and every eye was strained to see the first victim. The door of the sedan-chair was opened, and a female form was led forward. "The Marchioness of Tavora!" ejaculated the crowd.

It was, indeed, that unhappy lady. Firm and composed, she advanced to the first step of the scaffold, where, kneeling down between her ghostly comforters, she performed the last duties of religion, employing thus upwards of half an hour, during which time some further arrangements on the dreadful theatre were being made. At the end of that time, the executioners gave a signal that all was in readiness for the first scene of the tragedy, and, rising from her knees, she mounted, without faltering, the fatal steps, appearing in the same robes of dark blue satin, her hair dressed with white ribands, and a circlet of diamonds, as when she had been apprehended. On the summit, the friars delivered her into the hands of the executioners, who first led her round to each side of the platform, to show her to the people, and then, with a refinement of cruelty worthy of the brain of an Eastern barbarian to conceive, they, according to their orders, exhibited to her the knife by which she was herself to suffer, at which she merely smiled. But when she beheld the rack, the crosses, the mallets, and other instruments of torture prepared for her husband, children, and the other partners of her fate, while the chief executioner explained their object, the intrepid spirit which had hitherto sustained her in that hour of bitter anguish, at length gave way in a gush of tears.

"As you hope for Heaven's mercy, oh! hasten with your work," she exclaimed.

Even the executioner was moved. "I perform but my orders, lady, and pray your forgiveness," he answered, as he hurriedly performed the hell-invented task, and led her to the chair in the centre of the platform.

Throwing off his cloak, he appeared in a close-fitting black vest. As he stooped down to fasten her feet, he raised her clothes slightly.

"Remember who I am, and respect me even in death!" she exclaimed, proudly; but the moment after, seeing the man had done so unintentionally, as he released her hand, she took the circlet of diamonds from her head, and presenting them to him, "Take this as a token of my forgiveness," she said, clearly. "Now Heaven receive my soul, and forgive my murderers!" These were her last words. The executioner, now securing her arms to the chair, took the handkerchief from her neck, and bound her eyes, the friars repeating the prayers of a parting sinner; he then, seizing a large knife, shaped like an eastern scimitar, took her long hair in his left hand, and lifting high the blade, gave one stroke on the back of the neck, for the sake of greater ignominy, the head falling on the bosom, a second being required to sever it from the body. The butchery being finished, he exhibited the head to the people, while his assistants untied the body, both being thrown on one side, and covered with a black cloth, from beneath which the blood flowed, trickling down the outside stage.

Thus died Donna Leonora de Tavora, once Vice-Queen of India, one of the most lovely, high-spirited, and most noble ladies of Portugal; the favourite of the former Queen, and the most admired dame of the Court! Either her own fatal ambition, or the envy and revenge of another, was the cause of her untimely end, which, no one can now determine.

During this time, the day still remained obscure, some thought, as a signal of Heaven's disapprobation at the bloody scene which was enacting. Alas! if the sun shone but when the land was free from crime, when should we enjoy a clear day? It was at last discovered that an eclipse was taking place.

This execution being concluded at half-past eight, the ministers of justice still remaining in their places, the sedan-chair, escorted by the dragoons, proceeded to the Quinta; from whence it again returned, a friar, as before, walking on each side. From it was led forth, trembling with agitation, the young Joze de Tavora, dressed in a suit of black; and supported by the friars, he mounted the scaffold. As he was led round to be exhibited to the people, wearing his long, light hair in curls, his youth, his graceful figure, and the sweet engaging expression of his countenance, gained him universal commiseration. He regained his courage, and spoke a few inaudible words; then petitioning pardon for his own sins, and for those of his enemies, he resigned himself into the hands of the executioners. His eyes being bound, he was fastened by the wrists and ankles to a cross, brought forward to the centre, and elevated nearly upright, the whole weight of the body hanging by the arms, increasing the agony of the sufferer, while the chief executioner passed the cord, to strangle him, round his neck, and the assistants with their iron clubs broke the eight bones of his arms and legs. His shrieks resounded through the assembly, drawing tears of pity from the eyes, and cries of sympathy from the breasts of many, even of the most hardened. The mangled corpse, being exhibited to the people, was placed on one of the wheels, and covered with a black cloth.

Poor Pedro watched this execution with the most dreadful anxiety; for in the young Don Joze he had recognised the companion of his master during the excursion on the fatal night of the attempt against the King's life. He turned his straining eye-balls towards the gate of the Quinta, as the third sad _cortege_ issued forth in the same manner as the first towards the scaffold; but instead of the Count the young Marquis of Tavora appeared.

With an impatient step he mounted the stage, dressed in full court costume though bare-headed; and, walking round, he attempted, in a loud voice, to address the populace with a declaration of his innocence.

"Hear me, Portuguese!" he cried. "My kindred and I have been sacrificed to the lust of a weak King, and the ambition and hatred of a tyrant Minister; but our blood will not cry in vain for vengeance; and for centuries, war, disorder, and wretchedness are in store for our hapless country. A dying man speaks."

"Silence, base traitor!" thundered forth the chief criminal magistrate. "Commend your soul to God, or you shall be stopped by a gag!" at the same time giving the signal to the executioner.

To spare him the agony his brother had suffered, he was seated on a chair, made fast to the cross, with his hands fastened above him, and being then strangled, and his legs and arms broken, the body was shown to the people, and placed on another wheel, likewise covered with a black cloth.

"Ah! my poor master will be the next," cried Pedro. "I will die with him; for I shall never be able to rescue him from their clutches, the barbarians!"

The next sufferer who appeared from the sedan-chair was the Count of Atouquia. He mounted the steps with a furious and indignant air, and when he attempted to speak, he was compelled to hold silence. He was executed with the same ceremonies as his brother-in-law.

Manoel Ferreira, the Duke's servant, Captain Braz Romeiro, of the Marquis of Tavora's late regiment, and Joao Miguel, the Duke's page, then followed in the order named, dressed in ragged and scanty garments, and were executed like the previous victims.

Carpenters were now employed to make several alterations in the scaffold, and two large crosses, without a centre-post, were brought to the front.

The body of Donna Leonora, with the head, were placed on a bench in the centre, so as to meet the view of her husband, who was destined to be the next victim.

As the unhappy Marquis appeared, the muffled drums of the military bands gave forth irregular sounds, the troops whom he had once commanded with distinction and honour, and through whose lines he was now led, turning their left shoulders as he passed. He mounted the steps with a quick and firm pace; but started with horror, a death-like pallor overspreading his countenance, as he beheld the mangled, body of his wife, whom he had last seen in all her pride and beauty before their apprehension. The lacerated bodies of his sons and servants were then exhibited to him, as well as the instruments of torture with which he was to suffer death. He was next led round to be shown to the populace, whom he did not attempt to address, and returning, as soon as he was permitted, he knelt down by the side of the cross. He then humbly confessed himself to his ghostly attendants, and, when they retired, boldly extended himself upon the cross laid flat on the ground, to which he was then bound; the executioner next lifting a vast iron mallet, with a long handle, struck him three blows on the chest, the stomach, and the face, besides breaking his arms and legs,--his sobs and pitiable groans of agony being heard for some minutes ere he expired.

It was past two o'clock when the Duke of Aveiro mounted the scaffold, dressed in the morning-gown in which he had been taken, bare-headed, and holding a crucifix in his manacled hand. The anticipation of an agonising death had somewhat humbled his once presumptuous pride, though, perhaps, even at that moment, indignation at the ignominy with which he was treated was his predominant feeling, as he gazed around with looks of rage and despair. He underwent precisely the same ceremony as the Marquis; but the executioner, through nervousness, struck the first blow on his stomach, causing him the most excruciating tortures, as was known by his heart-piercing shrieks, and it was some minutes ere, by this most barbarous method, life became extinct.

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-fe. 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.

The fidalgos of Portugal have never forgotten the lesson they that day learned. Alarm and mistrust entered into every social circle; no one dared write, or scarce speak, to another, for fear of treachery; and day after day the prisons were filled with fresh victims of the Minister's despotism. The most trivial expressions were remarked and punished with rigour. One day, a nobleman, a licensed favourite at Court, was conversing with the Queen and a party of ladies, when the subject of the lost King Sebastian was introduced, one asserting that the common people firmly expected his return. "Oh, they are perfectly right," exclaimed the Count: "King Sebastian reigns at present in Portugal."

A few days after this speech he found himself an inhabitant of a prison, in which he lived for many years.

The King now bestowed on his Minister the title of the Count of Oyeras, nor was he made Marquis of Pombal for many years afterwards.

Though the King still drove about as usual unattended, Carvalho never appeared abroad without a body-guard to attend him, so fearful had he become of the revenge of the friends of those he had slaughtered or imprisoned. The most beneficial act of his life to Portugal was the expulsion of the Jesuits, nearly all of whom he transported to Italy, the rest he imprisoned; among the latter was the Father Jacinto da Costa, who never more appeared in the world. He was too subtle a foe to be allowed to wander loose. He is supposed to have died in one of the solitary dungeons built by Carvalho's command.

Malagrida was also imprisoned; but three years passed before he was brought to trial. He was delivered up into the hands of the spiritual court of the Inquisition of Portugal, who found him guilty of heresy, hypocrisy, false prophecies, impostures, and various other heinous crimes, for which they condemned him to be burnt alive, having first undergone the effectual public and legal degradation from his orders. He obtained, by way of mitigation, that he should be strangled before the faggots were kindled around him. The whole ceremonial was adjusted according to the fashion of the most barbarous times. A lofty scaffold, in the square of the Rocio, was erected in the form of an amphitheatre, and richly decorated, convenient seats being provided for the most distinguished nobility, and the members of the administration, who were formally invited as to a spectacle of festivity. Fifty-two persons were condemned to appear in the procession of this Auto-da-fe, clothed in red garments and high conical caps, with representations of devils, in all attitudes and occupations, worked on them; but Malagrida, who walked at their head, was alone to furnish the horrible amusement of the day. Crowds assembled from all parts to witness the spectacle, and shouted with savage glee as the flames consumed the remains of the insane old man. Hypocrite and knave though he had been, he was then more fit for commiseration than punishment.

As his ashes were scattered to the wind--"Now!" exclaimed the Prime Minister, "I have no other foes to fear!"

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

Ours is a tale of human woe and human suffering; of blighted hopes, of disappointed ambition, of noble promise, and of bright aspirations doomed never to be realised; of crime, of repentance, of despair a description of a dark and gloomy picture, with but a few green spots to enliven it--a picture of the world!

We have long lost sight of the beloved of the Count d'Almeida, the fair Donna Clara Christovao, and we now return to her with delight, for we love to gaze upon a being young, innocent, and lovely as she was. On her return from Lisbon, her father had allowed her to remain at home for some months, to recruit her strength and spirits among the scenes of her childhood, after all the terror and danger she had undergone; nor did he, during that time, once refer to the monastic life to which he had dedicated her; indeed, he tried to forget it himself; and would, perhaps, though not addicted to changing his purpose, have deferred the fatal time from year to year till death had removed him from the world, had he not his father confessor by his side, who at length thought fit to remind him of his vow. It is needless to say, he had repented of it, though he would not acknowledge it to himself, and he strenuously endeavoured to persuade the father that he could in no way compromise his soul by deferring the commencement of the year of probation to a future period; but the latter was firm, painting the enormity of such conduct in colours so glowing, so that the unhappy father was obliged to yield, and promised to make no further delay.

For reasons known only to herself, Donna Clara had firmly refused to perform her confession before Father Alfonzo, and taking advantage of the privilege allowed to every member of a family, she had selected a venerable and worthy priest as her confessor, whose best qualification was his kind and simple heart, and his innocent and credulous belief in all the miracles, the relics, and the infallibility of his Church.

Father Alfonzo, who well knew his character, lost no opportunity of winning his regard, and thus making a tool of him in his plans on Clara, which, though delayed, he had not abandoned. No; the devil, in whatever shape he appear is ever treacherous, watchful, and persevering, and naught but the armour of innocence can turn aside his deadly shafts.

Clara had learnt to confide in the good priest, and flew to him on all occasions for consolation and advice; and now, when the fidalgo, urged on by his confessor, again proposed to her to fulfil her mother's vow by entering a convent, she requested permission, before determining, to consult her ghostly adviser on the subject.

She hastened to the aged priest, telling him her unwillingness to give up the world, and her feeling of unfitness for a life devoted wholly to the services of the Church.

"Alas! my daughter, it is hard for an old man, broken by infirmities, with one foot in the grave, to advise a young and joyous being to abandon all her hopes of domestic felicity, and the pleasures which the world affords, for a life of ascetic seclusion," he answered; and Clara felt her heart lighter at his words. "But," he continued, "as a minister of religion, it behoves me to advise you to obey your father's wishes, and to fulfil your mother's vow. There is but one course, my daughter, marked out for you to follow--the stern one of duty; and your duty demands the sacrifice of yourself; yet weep not, my child, a few years will quickly pass away, and you will no longer regret the world you have left, with all its vanities, while an immortal crown of glory will assuredly await you, the blessed reward of your virtue and resignation. Think of this world as it truly is, a vale of tears, and place your hopes of happiness in a heavenly future.--My fair daughter, you must become a nun."

Pale and trembling, Clara listened, and bent her head in meek resignation, while the tears stole down her fair cheeks. The advice, though good and pious, doubtless, was not such as to afford consolation to a lovely girl of nineteen, who might naturally and innocently hope to find some enjoyment in the world her aged confessor likened to a vale of tears; yet she had determined to abide by his counsel, and her fate was sealed.

She made no further resistance to the fidalgo's commands, consenting to recommence her noviciate whenever he should think fit. A day at a short distance was fixed, and Father Alfonzo saw with malignant satisfaction the commencement of his long sought for triumph.

The Convent of Santa Clara, at Oporto, is situated on the brow of a steep hill to the east of the city, overlooking the rapid Douro. It is a lofty and handsome building of carved stone, the windows looking towards the outer side being strongly barred; the church stands on one side of the entrance, which is through a court-yard with wide oaken gates. A long and steep flight of steps leads up to it from the river, but on the other side it is approachable by a broad though winding road, with the backs chiefly of some large houses and dead walls on each side, making it altogether a most secluded situation. The garden is surrounded by a high dark wall, with pointed battlements, exactly similar to the walls of the city; indeed, one side of it is enclosed by them, and at the end furthest removed from the convent is a summer-house, likewise, alas! securely grated, from whence a beautiful view is obtained both up and down the river. On the opposite side, on the summit of a precipitous cliff, at whose foot the river rushes with impetuous force, stands the Serra Convent, with its high cupola-roofed church, then surrounded by groves of fine trees and lovely gardens, and inhabited by the most wealthy and high-born monks of Oporto, that of Santa Clara receiving none but the daughters of fidalgos. On the right is a view of the city, and the town of Villa Nova, with the heights beyond, between which the river winds its way towards the sea; while on the left, a soft and smiling scene, with rich green banks rising from the water, is beheld, beyond a narrow gorge of dark rocks.

To this convent Clara was now conveyed, and, torn from the embrace of the good Senhora Gertrudes, notwithstanding all the old nurse's entreaties that her darling might be allowed to remain at home with her.

It must be confessed that Clara had but little to complain of during her noviciate in this lovely spot, and she had much to make her contented. She had many companions of her own age; merry, light-hearted girls, who laughed and talked all day long, hurrying over the daily ceremonials of their religion to laugh and talk again. Then their confessors would come, who never troubled them with too severe penances, entertaining them instead with many laughable stories. They would no more have thought of imposing any disagreeable task on the fair young fidalgas, than would a fashionable preacher in London of annoying the consciences of his hearers. Then the doctor would come and feel their pulses, while he detailed all the anecdotes he had collected during his professional visits, and indeed everything that was going forward in the world.

All, however, were not thus happy; the young love of some had been blighted in the bud, and they had retired thither in the expectation of finding peace and a solace for their woe in the duties of religion; others had been compelled by cajolery or threats to embrace a life they detested and despised, these invariably recompensing themselves by indulging in every license within their power, for they soon discovered "that where there's a will there's a way." We well recollect the Convent of Santa Clara, the most fashionable of our day, so we must not be scandalous.

The fair flower of his garden, as her father used to delight to call Clara, found naught congenial to her feelings and thoughts in this new life, and with fear and sad forebodings she looked forward to the time when it must irrevocably become hers for ever. She pined for freedom, and she thought of the love and devotion of her poor, though high-born, lover, Don Luis. In vain she tried, for she thought it her duty to banish his image from her mind, but she had engraven it too deeply to eradicate it. Each time it returned with greater beauty than before, till at last she gave up the attempt as hopeless; so she cherished it with greater fondness than ever.

About two months of her noviciate had passed, when one evening, as she was seated in the summer-house, inhaling the fresh breeze, and gazing on the lovely view, her companions having all quitted her, she heard a low strain of music, sounding as if it came from far down the cliff below her. She listened attentively for some minutes--it ceased--when it again sounded as if from directly beneath the wall. At one of the windows a bar had been loosened, so that it could be easily removed, as the fair birds were, it must be confessed, rather frequently in the habit of doing. She soon discovered the necessary way to do it, and, looking out, she beheld a graceful figure, with a cloak over his arm and a guitar in his hand. As he gazed up towards the window of the high tower, he struck a few low notes on his guitar, as if to draw the attention of any fair captive within. The eye of love was not slow in piercing the thickening shades of evening, and her heart beat with tender emotion as she distinguished Don Luis d'Almeida. He stood evidently uncertain whether he was known, or whether it was Donna Clara herself towards whom he was looking; he feared, she thought, to pronounce her name, lest it might in any way betray her, and she equally trembled to speak his. She held in her hand a handkerchief marked with her name, "Would it be wrong?" she let it drop, and had just time to see him spring forward, seize it, and press it rapturously to his lips, when the bell for vespers rang, and she was obliged to hasten into the convent.

The following evening she anxiously watched, from the window of the tower, the return of Luis. He at length appeared, having climbed, with great difficulty and danger, the steep heights from the river; but this time he had not encumbered himself with a guitar. Clara looked hastily into the garden below her--no one was within hearing.

"Oh, Luis," she cried, "your presence gives me both joy and pain; joy to know that you are near me, and pain that I feel it will soon be sin even to think of you."

"Say not so, my beloved Clara; I come to tell you to hope," answered Luis. "Resist to the utmost taking the fatal vows. Defer it in every possible way, and something may yet occur to favour our wishes."

"Heaven grant there may!" exclaimed Clara; "but, much as I delight in seeing you, for my sake, do not venture here. Ten months must elapse before the dreaded time arrives; ere that time, return again here, and believe me, I will trust in your constancy. I have seen and heard such things within these walls as make me almost doubt whether I am bound to obey my father's commands by remaining in them till released by death. It is treason to speak this; but thus much I must tell you, Luis. Hark! some one approaches. Farewell!"

"I will rescue you or die," whispered Luis, yet loud enough to reach her ears; and while she watched him, as he disappeared over the brow of the cliff, a young novice entered the tower.

"What! sister Clara, ever meditating in our bower?" exclaimed the girl, laughing, "I shall begin to suspect you have some lover among the gallant friars opposite, or perhaps some one has managed to fly to the foot of the tower; for Love, we are told, has wings, though he generally uses them rather to fly away; but in no other way could a human being contrive to get there, I am sure. I quite forgot--I came to bring you a message from the Lady Abbess, to say that your father and a certain Padre Alfonzo are waiting to see you."

"I will accompany you," answered Clara, taking the arm of Sister Amalia; and the two young ladies entered the convent together.

More trials awaited Clara. Her father received her with an angry brow, unusual to him, and chiding her, gravely informed her that he had received intimation that Don Luis had been seen at Oporto, whither he had doubtless been attracted for her sake, insisting on her promising never, without his leave, to see him. He little suspected that she had, within the last few minutes, both seen and heard him.

"Remember, too," concluded the Fidalgo, "that although he has not been convicted as the murderer of your brother, he has not proved his innocence, and he is without either fortune or influence; were it not so also, you are dedicated to the Church, and can never be his. Pass your word to me, therefore, that you will not see him; if not, you must, by the advice of the Lady Abbess and the good Father Alfonzo, be subjected to such a confinement as will preclude the possibility of seeing him, or receiving any account of him."

"I trust, my father, that the love and respect I hear you, and my own honour, are a sufficient guarantee of my not disobeying your commands when they are just and right; but no further promise will I make," answered Clara, firmly. "Pardon me, my beloved father, that I should ever have spoken thus to you; but I will not be unjust to myself, or to one whom I know truly as innocent of any crime except that of loving me."

Clara continued firm in her determination, notwithstanding all the Lady Abbess, her father, or the priest, could say to her; and at last, wearied out, they were obliged to desist from all further attempts to make her alter it. Their system of tactics then changed. She was from henceforth never allowed to leave her chamber, or to walk in the garden without an attendant; and though at first she bore up with spirit against this irksome species of petty tyranny, at last her health gave way, and it was not till she was allowed, as before, to wander alone in the garden that she at all recovered. It certainly did not increase her taste for a monastic life. Her father at length departed for Lisbon. Three months of her noviciate only remained to be accomplished, and she had not heard from Luis. Week after week passed by, yet he came not. With all a woman's trusting love, she felt confident he would come to see her, and bid her farewell, if not to bring proofs that her brother fell by another's hand, and to rescue her.

At last the alarming accounts reached her of the apprehension of the conspirators, among whom the name of the Count d'Almeida was mentioned. She believed him innocent; but he was in prison, and escape was hopeless. Then arrived the dreadful description of the cruel execution. She trembled as she listened, but his name was not among the sufferers. She thanked Heaven that he was preserved, though for herself she had ceased to hope.

At last came the stunning intelligence that her father also was a prisoner on the charge of high treason. It was the very day before she was to pronounce the final vows. She longed to fly to him, to comfort him in prison, but she was told such was impossible. With tears and entreaties she petitioned the Lady Abbess to allow her to depart, yet in vain. The fidalgo had committed his daughter to her charge, and by his permission alone could she allow her to quit the convent under any pretext. His confessor, in whom he placed implicit confidence, assured her such was his wish, and by him was she guided.

Despairing, therefore, of all human aid, Clara yielded to her fate, trusting, as she did so, that Heaven would afford her peace of mind, and reward her for obeying her father's commands and her mother's wish.

It was a bright and lovely morning, although in winter, when she rose from her couch, whereon she had spent a sleepless night; several attendants being in readiness to robe her for the last time in the garments of the vain world. Bright flowers were braided in her fair hair, glittering jewels decked her neck, and a robe of white satin, richly ornamented with lace, clothed her graceful form. She appeared as a bride about to be led to the altar--a lovely sacrifice to Heaven; say rather to bigoted superstition and priestcraft, the worst remnant of heathen idolatry and imposture: and let us bless the era, and the true patriot, who, with one daring stroke, banished for ever those vile institutions from his country. [Note.]

Before Clara left her chamber for the last time, her future abode being a narrow cell without ornament, and with but scanty furniture, old Gertrudes was permitted to visit her. Tears and sobs almost choked the poor nurse's utterance, as she embraced and kissed, over and over again, her young charge.

"Oh! and you look so lovely in that beautiful dress!" she exclaimed; "and they are going to cut off all that fair hair, and put you on a dull, ugly habit, which you must wear all the rest of your days--Oh dear! oh dear!" and she burst into a fresh shower of tears.

"Do not thus mourn for me, my good nurse; I care not for my change of habit," answered Clara, smiling mournfully; "and I trust I shall be happy in the consciousness of performing my duty."

A sister now entered to inform Clara that the procession was nearly ready to enter the church, so Senhora Gertrudes was obliged to tear herself away to witness the sad ceremony, while Clara accompanied the sister to the hall, where the whole community were assembled previous to entering the church by their private door.

Two other novices were that day to be professed, and a large assemblage of their friends, kindred, and acquaintances, besides many strangers, had collected in the church to witness the ceremony.

Preceded by the cross-bearer, with slow and measured steps, and singing the hymn, "O Gloriosa Virginum," the procession of nuns entered the sacred edifice, and took their allotted places. The holy Father Alfonzo, also the professor extraordinary to the convent, first preached a sermon from the altar, with the postulants seated before him, giving the most glowing picture of the religious life they were about to enter, so that not one of the audience could doubt they were peculiarly blest in their choice.

The Bishop of Oporto, in his full canonicals, standing before the altar, with his chaplains on either side, the postulants were next led up the steps to him, when he severally interrogated them, first addressing Clara.

"My child, what do you demand?" he said.

"The mercy of God, and the holy habit of religion," answered Clara.

"Is it with your own free-will that you demand the holy habit of religion?"

"Yes, my lord," faltered forth Clara.

"Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, turning to the Lady Abbess, "have you made the necessary inquiries, and are you satisfied?"

The Lady Abbess signified her assent.

Several other questions were asked, to which the young postulants responded satisfactorily, and they were then led forth to put off the garments of the world, and assume that of religion.

During their absence, the assembled monks and nuns broke forth in a solemn harmonious chant: "Who is she who cometh up from the desert, flowing with delights, leaning on her beloved?"

They soon returned, clothed in the habit of the order, yet wearing their long hair covered by their white veils, and again knelt before the altar, holding lighted tapers in their hands.

On one side was a bier, as if prepared for the dead, on the other a table, with the act of profession and implements for writing placed on it, while the black veil, which, once assumed, would separate them for ever from the world, lay upon the altar.