Part 7

The fight now turned into a slaughter: the Germans and Castillians were all cut in pieces, the knights and nobles lay in heaps over the plain, and among the vast army of Moors, but a solitary Portuguese was here and there to be seen vainly combatting for life.

Retreating towards the river, (allured by a distant figure like Sir Thomas Stukeley’s) Sebastian met his standard-bearer with the colours wrapped round his body; animated with the remembrance of Donna Gonsalva, the King exclaimed, “Brave Brito! let us die upon these.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when a body of infidels rushed tumultuously towards them; Sebastian fought with the desperation of love; De Brito and the colours were taken and re-taken repeatedly; but alas! the strength of the former, was exhausted, and his single arm could no longer encircle a faithful servant with protection. De Brito more solicitous to save his king than to obey him, contested at last but faintly, and suffered himself to be surrounded.

The Moors, clamourous in disputing the honour of having gained the royal-standard, hurried off their prisoner, regardless of a solitary individual covered with dust and blood, evidently on the point of sinking amongst the slain.

Fortunately for Sebastian, these accidental circumstances, together with the loss of his coronetted helmet and his horse, concealed him from suspicion: he remained standing where they had left him, supporting himself with difficulty upon the fragment of his sword. His strength now ebbed apace: the blood pouring from a large cut on his head, and oozing through the scarf with which his arm was bound, sickened and enfeebled him; his very thoughts partook of the mortal languor creeping over all his senses: a confusion of images, of Gonsalva, of Stukeley, of his page Diego, swam through his brain; he staggered a few paces, fell, and breathed no more!

CHAP. IV.

After the battle of Alcazar, there remained but fifty of the Portuguese troops alive in Africa: most of these were prisoners to the Moors, and the remainder gaining with difficulty the christian fortresses, at length escaped homewards. The Moors in return lost above one-fifth of their gigantic army, but the pillage of the christian camp, (filled with all the riches of the East and West,) amply atoned, in their opinion, for such a loss.

This memorable battle lasted from morning till long after mid-day, and the sacking of the field of fight, continued till the next morning’s dawn.

While the infidels were thus employed, a benevolent dervise, whose piety was his authority and his protection, came to seek for such christians as might yet remain capable of receiving assistance: on the bank of the Lucos, among a heap of tall Lentiscos, he caught a gleam of light as if the moon-beams fell upon arms: the dervise stooped, and pushing away the shrubs, applied his lanthorn to the object. It was the figure of a young man, in armour, which bore marks of heavy and repeated blows; over his forehead curled a profusion of hair steeped in blood; the white and polished brow was trenched with a gaping wound, and the countenance lovely in death, was yet embellished by a look of youthful sweetness, which melted the good Mahometan’s heart; he knelt by the body, and gently raising it, dropped balsam upon the wounds; he then poured a cordial into the lips.

Presently he thought the brows were contracted with returning sensation: animated by this, he cautiously unfastened the knight’s cuirass, and opened the silk shirt beneath it; under this he saw the picture of a woman, which carefully putting aside, he exclaimed, “alas! poor youth, here is one, doubtless, that will sorely lament thee!” As he spoke he gently rubbed an aromatic liquid upon the Christian’s chest; the experiment succeeded; by degrees the motion of the heart was apparent--it increased--the body began to glow--and at last the stranger visibly breathed.

Many minutes elapsed ere the benevolent mussulman saw the object of his anxiety unclose his eyes; when he did so, he knew not that in succouring a desolate stranger, he was bringing back to life the king of Portugal, that foe to Mahomet.

Sebastian felt as if in a dream, but the last feeling to which he had been conscious when he fell, was now the first he was sensible of: he thought himself still pressing towards the river in search of Stukeley, and impressed with that idea, uttered his name, and made an effort to rise. Too feeble for exertion of any kind, he fell back upon the breast of the dervise, who in bad Portuguese assured him that he was in safety.

The unfortunate monarch bowed his head with a mournful smile of bitter recollection, without speaking. Meanwhile a servant attending the dervise, formed a litter of oak-branches, covering it with some of these soft, high grasses, which grow abundantly throughout Barbary, and placing Sebastian upon it, assisted his master in bearing him to their dwelling.

This was a retired cave formed by nature’s hand in a rock almost wholly overgrown with flowering shrubs; the entrance was shaded by lofty sycamores, and above it was heard the cooling sound of waters issuing from numerous springs.

Tranquillity, the tranquillity of perfect solitude, surrounded this habitation; Sebastian found himself conveyed through one rocky apartment, into an interior cell where he was laid upon a mattrass, and having some weak cordial given to him, left to repose: his enfeebled powers overcome with this simple nourishment, soon sunk into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

The dervise now and then came to watch his slumbers, but staid not to disturb them: whenever his patient awaked, he administered to him small portions of Tourkia bread melted in wine, (which was easily swallowed thus dissolved) and gently replacing his head upon the cushion of the mattrass, watched to see him sink again into his medicinal slumber.

The sun was at its meridian height the next day, when the king of Portugal fully awoke: the good mussulman sat by his bed-side. “How dost thou feel, my son?” he asked with an air of compassion.

Sebastian drew a sigh from the very depths of his heart. “As one,” he said, after a long pause; “as one deprived of all that makes life precious. Tell me, father, what have become of the Christians? I have yet one Portuguese in Africa?”

“Alas, my son!” replied the dervise, “they are all slain or taken captives; but the great Muley Moloch is fallen--the Xeriffs who fought against him, are also dead; and now his brother reigns in Morocco.”

Sebastian answered by a heavy groan, and threw himself back upon his mattrass: the slaughter of his people, pierced him with unutterable grief; though the consciousness of pious motives, and the certainty that treachery alone had produced defeat, served to reconcile him to himself.

Oppressed with apprehensions for the fate of Stukeley, and overcome with the remembrance of many of his followers whom he had loved, and had seen fall, the unhappy King uttered such deep and doleful groans, that the dervise believing him concerned at the prospect of slavery, bade him be of good cheer, and rest assured that he was still free.

“You are not fallen into the hands of a master, but of a friend,” said the aged man, “I will but detain you, Sir Knight, till I have healed your wounds, and then, with the blessing of our holy prophet, we will journey together to the castle of Tangier: it will not be the first time that Abensallah has conducted an unhappy christian to his countrymen.”

“And art thou a Mahometan?” exclaimed Sebastian, half raising himself with surprise, “how is it that thou breathest the very spirit of our benevolent faith?”

“The same God which spake through the lips of thy _Sidie Messika_,” replied the dervise, “inspires the hearts of all good men: besides, we venerate thy prophet’s moral laws, though Mahomet, a greater prophet than he, arose to outshine his brightness, as he had before outshone that of Moses. We are not so unlike in our faith, young soldier, but we might live in brotherhood on the earth. Would to God! that thy king, Sebastian, had studied his prophet’s laws more, and his spiritual superior’s less!”

“Hold, Moor!” cried the King, “I must not hear you impeach the authority of the representative of St. Peter.”

“Ah, my son!” returned the old man, shaking his grey locks, “dost thou not remember, that when this Peter struck off the ear of Malchus, though in defence of his Lord’s sacred person, thy prophet rebuked his zeal, bidding him put up the sword! How, then, dare the pontiff of Rome turn his sheep-hook into a weapon of offence?”

Struck with the force of this remark, which he was not prepared to answer, and disdaining to parry it, by retorting the bloody intolerance of Mahometanism, Sebastian was silent.

The dervise continued: “But let us not talk of our different creeds at this period; thou art sick and weak, and I should think of thy suffering body.”

The good man then dressed his companion’s wounds afresh, and spread before him palm leaves filled with fruit, together with a cordial drink and some Pharouk bread: by moderately partaking of these, the King was so refreshed, that he found himself able to rise, and walk up and down the cell. As he walked, he conversed courteously with Abensallah, though his discourse was mingled with many sighs, and he frequently lost himself in other thoughts.

The dervise noted his dejected looks with benevolent curiosity. “Thou hast lost, I fear, some dear kinsman in this fatal battle--some brother, or father, perhaps; and thy young heart not yet enured to sorrow.”--

“O, dervise!” exclaimed Sebastian, bursting into an agony of grief, “every living soul in the Christian army were to me like fathers and brothers. My countrymen, my brave countrymen! when you marched on so gallantly, could I have foreseen that I was leading you to----,” he stopped, then suddenly actuated by one of his rash impulses, abruptly added--“Abensallah, you see before you, Sebastian of Portugal.”

The dervise prostrated himself at his feet, “Young monarch, I bow to the lord’s anointed! thy misfortunes are thy security. Let the conduct of Abensallah teach thee hereafter to believe that there may be charity among mussulmen.”

Inexpressibly affected, the King motioned for him to rise, “Abensallah,” he said, squeezing his hand between both his, “Africa has already taught me a lesson I shall never forget: but I did not wage war against your prince from a false notion that he ruled over miscreants. I was actuated by zeal for that religion which, by limiting the prerogative of kings and the obedience of subjects, bestows equal blessings upon both. I would have conquered Africa to have freed her people from tyrannical rulers and tyrannical errors, to have afforded them opportunities of understanding our holy faith; not to have established a new despotism, and swayed with the iron mace of persecution--these ardent hopes are over; you see me here a fugitive, but with God’s leave, a King still.”

As Sebastian spoke the last words, a noble imperiousness sat on his youthful brow, his heart swelled with it, but quickly sunk again at recollection of his companions in arms.

Anxious to learn the fate of Stukeley, he besought the dervise to assist him in ascertaining whether he were dead, or captive; by searching the field of battle he hoped to arrive at some certainty. Abensallah in vain remonstrated against this hazardous enterprize, but no arguments availed with the still imprudent Sebastian; he was therefore reluctantly induced to propose their going on the night of the ensuing day, when all the Moors would be engaged in the celebration of one of their feasts, and the Portuguese monarch might perhaps pass unnoticed in the dress of a servant.

During the remainder of the day, Sebastian carefully attended to all the prescriptions of the dervise, he went soon to rest, and at break of day rose to breathe the air in safety at the mouth of the cave.

But two short days before, how differently had the king of Portugal beheld morning dawn!--then at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by zealous friends, strong in youth, health, and hope: now, a solitary fugitive, like some desolate wretch escaped from ship-wreck or an earth-quake, sunk in despondency, and reduced to infantine feebleness.

As the light spread over the distant plain of Alcazar, and the grey mists rose, from the stream of the Lucos, he could not refrain from shedding some tears, they were sacred to the sorrows of all who had lost friends on that luckless field: his softened heart then turned fondly to the image of Gonsalva, a treasure which yet remained to comfort him under affliction. Its heavenly beauty, the dewy smile which sat upon the lips, the tearful tenderness of the eyes to which a skilful painter had given all the effect of sadness, renovated his fainting spirit; he kissed it repeatedly, exclaiming, “At sight of thee, will not all this be forgotten?”

The appearance of the dervise, checked this lover-like weakness, he concealed his picture, and advanced to meet him.

They proceeded together along a narrow valley, formed by the rocks near the cavern, where frequently resting awhile, they breathed the refreshing air of the trees, and gently returned homeward.

Whenever Abensallah and his servant went to their devotions in the mosque of a neighbouring village, he fastened the entrance of his dwelling, to prevent the intrusion of ill-intentioned persons: he now left his Christian guest, with many intreaties that he would recruit his strength with frequent nourishment, and continue to inhale the fumes of Tauz Argent, a fragrant weed which in those days was esteemed, when burned, sovereign for inward weakness.

Left a whole day alone, the King had leisure to revolve over the extraordinary revolution of his fate: the uprightness of his intentions (for it must be remembered that he measured his conduct by the rules of the church of Rome) seemed to warrant him in believing, that had not the treachery of Hamet interposed, his arms must have been successful, and half Africa rescued from its tyrants: he did not therefore account himself suffering under the wrath of Heaven, confident of whose favor he was again ready to risk his crown and his life if required. The kindness of the dervise appeared little less than a miracle worked for his preservation, and he fondly trusted therefore, that his present misfortunes were but passing trials.

Of the possibility of being betrayed by Abensallah he never once thought, convinced that the man who has performed one act of solid benevolence is incapable of being tempted by any reward to an act of baseness.

As returning strength and calmer reflection continued to banish the gloomy impressions under which he had first entered Abensallah’s cave, his spirit rose with his hopes; he felt as if he could hazard unheard-of perils for the sake of regaining Portugal, and ransoming his captive soldiers. Fain would the sanguine monarch have persuaded himself that most of his troops had escaped to the sea-coast; but amongst these he could not hope to find Stukeley.--Stukeley, who had sworn to follow him either into slavery or death!--

“And my poor little cousin!” he exclaimed aloud, “What is become of him?--Ah noble boy, thou hast gained thy wish-perhaps!--yet surely these barbarians would not kill a child!”--he sighed profoundly as he spoke, for his heavy heart denied the confidence of his words.

Racked with fearful impatience, to him the day seemed insufferably long: his devotions were merely short ejaculations breathed over a plain cross of the order of Christus, which he had worn under his cuirass, yet never at the foot of the golden crucifix in the church of his ancestors, and surrounded by all the religious in Portugal, had he prayed with such warmth or sincerity.

Abensallah did not appear to interrupt his meditations, till night was begun: cautiously entering, he crossed the first chamber, and advancing to the interior cell, saw with satisfaction that his guest was safe. “Alla be praised!” he exclaimed, “I had fears for thee my son; for the robbers of the mountains sometimes plunder even the dwellings of poor solitaries.--We may now venture forth; every one is enjoying the last hours of their feast, and we are, sure to pass unseen.”

Sebastian gratefully thanked him, and taking off the coarse vest and cloak with which the dervise had replaced his uneasy coat of mail, exchanged them for the still meaner attire of Ismael the servant. At the mouth of the valley he saw a mule tied to a tree, which Abensallah had provided for him to ride; this humane attention touched the King; he was, indeed, ill able to walk far, but it cost him an effort to accept such accommodation, when the venerable man had no other support than his staff.

It may truly be said, that at the period which brought him to the knowledge of Abensallah, Sebastian first tasted the sweet bitterness of obligation.--Gratitude is a sentiment unknown to Kings; for having all things in their power, they learn to believe that they have a right to command all things. Sebastian, now stripped of that power, began to feel the original equality of man, and found his heart warmed by a perception of pure benevolence, hitherto unknown: from this perception flowed nobler notions of human nature in general, which made him welcome his new emotion of gratitude, not only as honorable but delightful.

The moon shone cloudless above the rocks and rivulets which lay between the cave and Alcazar; brightening the tops of the high palms, while the ground beneath their branches was thrown into deep shadow. Some fortresses, (visible from afar,) gave an air of warlike severity to the scene. Sebastian proceeded in silence, for his thoughts were now busied with mournful anticipations: Abensallah spoke not, and nothing disturbed the universal stillness but remote bursts of rejoicing from the Moorish villages.

As they moved among steep and thickly-wooded hills, a new and horrid sound made the King pause, and look enquiringly at the dervise: “That comes from amidst the unburied slain;” Abensallah faulteringly observed--“It is the howling of hyenas and tygers.” While speaking, he took a small harquebuss from under his garment, and prepared to load it.

For the first time in his life Sebastian’s cheek was completely blanched and his nerves shaken; the ghastly image those words had raised, momentarily unmanned him, but recovering, by a violent effort, he quickened the pace of his mule, and came direct upon the plain of Alcazar.

The moon shining above the arms and armour of the dead, covered them with a sheet of light: Sebastian hastily put his hand to his eyes, and remained a few moments without courage to look again; but at the explosion of Abensallah’s harquebuss, he raised his head and beheld the beasts of prey which that sound had alarmed, hurrying away, with backward glare from their horrid banquet.

The dervise’s harquebuss was re-loaded and again fired, till every savage animal had disappeared; he then assisted his shuddering companion to dismount, and having fastened the mule to a tree, supported him across the plain.

Their steps were soon impeded by scattered groups of horses and riders, that had evidently perished in flight: these groups become more frequent, till at length the ground was no where visible.

As Sebastian knelt down among these perishing bodies, his senses were nearly overcome with their noisome exhalations and ghastly appearance: some of them were half devoured by the wolves, and every trace of the _divine image_ fearfully effaced: except by their shields and the caparisons of their horses, he could not have known his most intimate associates.

Grief and horror become now too strong for outward expression; Sebastian neither spoke nor sighed, but moved from heap to heap with fixed eyes and a wan cheek: sometimes he forgot his errand, and remained gazing on a confusion of bodies, banners, and arms, till the voice of the dervise recalled him. “This is a lesson for Kings!”--said Abensallah;--Sebastian shuddered, and at that moment felt as if his single hand had murdered every victim before him: his countenance expressed this sentiment so strongly, that the dervise sought to change the current of his feelings by suggesting, that his friend might have escaped, since they had not yet found his corpse.--Revived by this suggestion, the unfortunate monarch rallied his scattered spirits and proceeded in his painful task.

Advancing a little onward, he stumbled against the venerable bodies of the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, lying together, embracing the staff of a standard, which had belonged to the holy banner: a few paces beyond these, among a heap of swarthy moors,

“Like some white poppy sunk upon the plain, Whose heavy head was overcharged with rain,”

lay his page, Diego. The noble boy had been killed at the moment his master’s Arabian was shot, and now lay stretched out beneath it.

At this piteous sight Sebastian’s heart was wrung with an excess of regret; he burst vehemently into tears, and bending to the fair body as he raised it, repeatedly kissed the half-closed eyes: their conversation on the morning of the battle was present to him again.--Vain prophesy! here was its fulfilment!--

Overcome with this recollection, and with the thought of Diego’s parents, Sebastian staggered as he arose, and was forced to catch at the dervise for support; another shock awaited him; his eye fell on the mangled body of Count Vimiosa: his limbs now shook violently, and the idea of Donna Gonsalva’s grief, displaced every other image. Shocked by his looks, the dervise caught his arm and hurried him away.

Insensible to any outward sensation, the King suffered himself to be led along, till suddenly starting from his stupor, he found that they were many paces from the slain. Abensallah would not hear of returning, “We must pass three nights there instead of one,” said he, “before we can examine half that woeful field.--Let us return then, my son, trusting that the same merciful providence which succoured thee, has preserved thy friend. Sorrow and fatigue overcome thee--lean on my shoulder--if we can but reach yonder tower, its walls will shelter us.”

Without answering, Sebastian turned his head back and fixed an earnest look upon the wide scene of slaughter behind them: fire kindled on his cheek, and in his eyes:--it suddenly blazed out.--“Accursed beyond hope of mercy,” he cried, “is the soul of him whose treachery caused all these to perish! from this plain their blood will cry aloud for vengeance, even at the last dreadful day!”

Exhausted with this momentary transport, the enfeebled monarch suffered his head to fall against the shoulder of Abensallah, who seized the opportunity of drawing him towards a resting place. The watch-tower in ruins, and shaded by high cypress trees, stood dark and noiseless; as they approached it, the sound of their steps alarmed some goats that had lain down there, and they bounded away: in their flight they rolled along a broken helmet, which Sebastian immediately recognized; breaking from Abensallah, he flew to an object under the tower, and beheld the corpse of Stukeley.--Throwing himself on the body and clasping it in his arms, he exclaimed, “O gallant Stukeley, and art thou too, fallen!”

The accidental circumstance of having perished alone, removed from the contagion of other bodies, and sheltered from hot winds by the tower and the trees, had preserved the chivalric Englishman from any change: his features were indeed paler than when in life, but the same character of wild sublimity was impressed on them. It seemed as if the soul, in quitting its mortal habitation had left there the eternal impress of its own greatness.