Ml 
 
 3^ : 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 FOUNDED BY 
 CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 VICTOR EMANUEL 
 
 OF THE CLASS OF I919 
 
<//-. 
 
 THE 
 
 CONSPIRATORS, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 EOMANCE 
 
 OF 
 
 MILITARY LIFE. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD QUILLINAN. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LOI^DOINT : 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1841. 
 
 1)0 
 
 *) 
 
 i k^ 
 

 K 
 
 M/«a=^=3qt 
 
 
 LONDON: 
 F. SHOBERL, JUN., PRINTER, 51 , RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET. 
 
TO 
 
 BOBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., L.L.D., 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 My dear Siii^ 
 
 Several years ago^ a passage in your History 
 of the Spanish War excited my curiosity about 
 the Philadelphian Conspiracy in Napoleon's Ar- 
 mies, and directed me to the French work to 
 which I am indebted, in the Supplement to the 
 two following stories, for most of the details re- 
 lating to it, and for much of the account of the 
 remarkable person whose mind was the main- 
 spring of its curious machinery. 
 
 While making this acknowledgment, I gladly 
 avail myself of the opportunity of inscribing these 
 Philadelphian Narratives to you ; and of thus 
 showing, even by ever so slight a token, that I 
 am one of those who rejoice to honour learning, 
 genius, and virtue. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Sir, 
 
 Your'^s most sincerely, 
 
 Edward Quillinan. 
 
 Canterbury, May 13, 1S39. 
 
.<^^ 
 
 K. 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924104104017 
 
THE 
 
 SISTEES OF THE DOURO 
 
 a ^torj? of 3PortusaL 
 
 Poor Portugal, 
 In us thou harbouredst no ungrateful guests ! 
 We loved thee well ; mother magnanimous 
 Of mighty intellects and faithful hearts, .... 
 For such in other times thou wert, nor yet 
 To be despaired of. 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 1809. 
 
 March 20. Marshal Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, commanding 
 the 2nd corps of the French army in the 
 Peninsula, won the battle of Braga over the 
 Portuguese. 
 
 29. He took Oporto from them. 
 
 The Portuguese General Silveira retook Chaves 
 
 from the French. 
 
 April 22. Sir Arthur Wellesle}'^ landed at Lisbon from 
 
 England. 
 May 12. He drove Soult out of Oporto, and in a few 
 days, having cut off his intended retreat 
 eastward to Salamanca, pushed him to the 
 north, through a most difficult country, into 
 Gallicia. 
 
THE 
 
 SISTEUS OF THE DOURO, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^^ Bill-stickers^ bew are !" 
 
 The bells of Oporto, seldom quiet, were all 
 night in much more than their customary agita- 
 tion. From every church and convent-belfry in 
 the town the clamour was indefatigable ; and the 
 churches were filled with women and children^ 
 who were imploring the Virgin and saints to be 
 their guardians. Soldiers and civilians, armed 
 friars and half-armed peasants, crowded the streets 
 in all the confusion of excitement without plan. 
 An equinoctial gale was blowing in their teeth ; 
 
 b2 
 
4 THE SISTERS 
 
 the night was black ; and peals of thunder occa- 
 sionally rattled and echoed against the walls and 
 rocks of the hill-built city and its craggy suburbs; 
 and sometimes, when a furious gust of wind came 
 rushing along, the cry of " They are coming V 
 would be raised, and volleys of musquetry and 
 an aimless discharge of artillery would flash and 
 roar upon the night, as vividly as the lightning 
 and louder than the thunder, showing that Man 
 in his fear can be more noisy than Nature in her 
 rage. 
 
 What was all this hubbub of the people in 
 Oporto ? It was the effect of consternation pro- 
 duced by the arrival of the French before their 
 walls, and a consciousness that all their defiances, 
 all their crude projects of defence, all their long 
 line of entrenchments, all the boasts and promises 
 of their bishop and his intriguers, would avail 
 them nothing against Napoleon's arms, now that 
 the hour of trial was at hand. It was the night 
 of the 28th of March, 1809? the eve of the storm- 
 ing and capture of Oporto^ by a part of the 
 second corps of the French army under the Duke 
 of Dalmatia. It was not therefore without cause 
 
OF THE DOURO. 5 
 
 that they were alarmed ; though all that clatter 
 and waste of ammunition were useless, for the 
 French were now quiet on their posts, and had 
 no intention of molesting; them for some hours. 
 
 The tempest passed off with the darkness, and 
 the day broke calmly and brightly. Then it was, 
 when Nature was in her gentler mood, that the 
 foe became fierce, and that the real time of peril 
 had arrived for Oporto and its tens of tnousands. 
 The bray of trumpets, and the roll of drums, and 
 the lustre of arms, announced the enemy's advance 
 at daybreak : long before the day was over, the 
 city, with all its suburbs and its diffuse works, was 
 in their power ; the river was red with the blood 
 of thousands of both sexes and of all ages, victims 
 to the ferocity of the conquerors, or trampled 
 down and crushed by their co-fugitives ; the 
 streets and squares were covered with dead and 
 dying ; and, when darkness again spread over the 
 devoted city, the real horrors of that night far 
 exceeded the visionary ones of the preceding. 
 Imagination had not prefigured what a hell that 
 city could be made by an infuriated rabble of 
 brigand soldiers. For three days and nights it 
 
6 THE SISTERS 
 
 was given up to plunder. Yet the French com- 
 mander has been praised for his humanity ; so 
 was Titus, the crucifier of the Jews, even by a 
 Jewish historian: all successful injustice and 
 cruelty have their apologists. But the French 
 marshal's triumph was of short duration. 
 
 It was at a late hour on the first of those three 
 dreadful nights that Colonel Champlemonde, an 
 officer on the staff of Marshal Soult, was pro- 
 ceeding from the Caranca palace, his generaPs 
 quarters, to his own, the Casa de Bandeirinha, 
 near the nunnery of Monchique. Both houses 
 are in the upper town, and at no great distance 
 from each other. The French colonel's attention 
 was suddenly roused by piercing cries of " Help 
 in the king'^s name !'' and the report of a musket 
 from a lone house near the Criminals' Burying- 
 Ground. The door was open: he darted up 
 stairs into an open apartment, where, by the light 
 of a solitary lamp that stood in a niche under an 
 image of the Blessed Virgin, he perceived a young 
 Portuguese lady, struggling to extricate herself 
 from the grasp of a French soldier. An old 
 female servant lay dead on the floor : the ruffian 
 
OF THE DOURO. 7 
 
 had shot her, to silence her outcries ; he had 
 thrown aside his musket, and had just seized the 
 intended victim of his more brutal fury, when 
 Colonel Champlemonde sprung forward, and in 
 a loud voice commanded him to desist. The man 
 looked round, and stared for a moment at his 
 officer, not with any intimation of submission, 
 but with the look of a demon resolute of purpose. 
 Before the colonel could draw his sword, he 
 snatched up his firelock, but had not time to bring 
 it into a proper position to enable him to use the 
 bayonet against his officer, when the latter closed 
 with him, and held him so strictly in his arms, 
 that he dropped the musket, and exerted all his 
 strength to release himself. Both were young 
 and vigorous men, and the contest was for a while 
 doubtful ; but the colonePs scabbard, becoming 
 displaced, caused him to stumble, and the wrest- 
 lers went down together, the soldier uppermost. 
 Taking instant advantage of his position, the 
 soldier planted one knee upon his adversary, freed 
 one of his hands, extended his arm for the musket, 
 detached the bayonet, and was about to use it 
 with a good will that must have been fatal to the 
 
8 THE SISTERS 
 
 officer, when a severe wound under his lifted arm 
 made him relax his hold, and turn with a furious 
 oath upon some new assailant. It was the Por- 
 tuguese lady ! She had watched this unseemly 
 strife with all the agony of hope and terror ; till, 
 seeing the critical peril of her champion, she had 
 disengaged his sword from the sheath, and urged 
 it without a moment's deliberation into the sol- 
 dier's side. 
 
 Colonel Champlemonde quickly rose, half- 
 smothered, from his humiliating posture, and 
 stamped and puffed about the room with rage 
 and vexation. But a few moments recalled his 
 manlier feelings, and he hastened to offer his 
 services to the lady. She looked at the prostrate 
 soldier, who was writhing in his blood ; then 
 raised her eyes to heaven, and clasped her hands 
 in anguish. 
 
 " Reassure yourself/' said the colonel, " the 
 fellow is not mortally hurt; it would be pity if 
 he were, for it would defraud the gallows. I will 
 send to have him removed, and the provost- 
 marshaPs men shall dispose of him to-morrow on 
 a tree." 
 
OF THE DOURO. 9 
 
 The colonel hurried her from the house, and 
 lost no time in conducting her to his own quar- 
 ters, the Casa de Bandeirinha already mentioned. 
 This house is enclosed on three sides by a high 
 wall, and there were centinels at the gates, besides 
 which there was in the court a lodge, which had 
 been converted into a guard-house. Here, there- 
 fore, she was perhaps in safety ; but, after half 
 an hour'^s repose had in some degree restored her 
 to reflection, she could by no means reconcile 
 herself to so equivocal a situation. She entreated 
 the French colonel to conduct her to the nearest 
 nunnery : but he represented the impossibility of 
 obtaining admittance for her at that late hour, 
 and the danger to which she would be exposed, 
 even under his escort, while in dubious search of 
 such an asylum ; for many of the convents were 
 deserted, and some of them already occupied by 
 French soldiers. It was clear that she must re- 
 main where she was till the morrow, and to this 
 alternative she submitted, longing for the morning- 
 She informed the French colonel that she was 
 a daughter of a gentleman of the Upper Douro, 
 Senhor Diogo Coelho, (which, translated into 
 
 B 5 
 
10 THE SISTERS 
 
 English, would be Mr. James Rabbit) who would 
 be grateful for the honourable treatment which, 
 she was confident, she should continue to receive 
 from him. She had been for some weeks at 
 Oporto, on a visit to a relative, who resided in 
 the Pra^a das Virtudes. For several hours after 
 the capture of the city, their door had not been 
 attempted ; and they were encouraging faint 
 hopes of safety, when ten or twelve French sol- 
 diers burst into the house. Favoured by the 
 obscurity and confusion, her relative and herself, 
 accompanied by one woman servant, made their 
 escape. They knew not whither to direct their 
 steps : presently they were pursued by a soldier ; 
 in the hurry of their flight they lost their relation ; 
 the soldier was at their heels. Observing a door 
 unclosed and a light glimmering, they sought 
 refuge in that house, but it had already been 
 visited by plunderers ; not a human being was 
 there to assist them. They rushed up the stair- 
 case; and what followed the colonel already 
 knew. 
 
 Colonel Champlemonde, who had recovered 
 his self-complacency, was all smiles, sympathy. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 11 
 
 gesture^ admiration, and condolence. He was a 
 brave and handsome man ; he spoke Portuguese 
 hke a native; and his gallant bearing was not 
 lost upon the interesting dark-eyed maiden in 
 whose behalf he had struggled so stoutly, and in 
 whose cause he would have perished but for her 
 own prompt intervention- Refreshment having 
 been procured, he left her in the safest apartment 
 in the house, promising that he would himself, 
 with another centinel, keep guard in the only 
 passage that led to it. On this assurance, having 
 locked her door and barricaded it with table and 
 chairs, she sought such rest as a hard sofa and 
 the tumult of her mind might permit to her weary 
 limbs. 
 
 Slumber was but just stealing over her half- 
 conscious senses, when she was roused by the 
 reveillte of the French bugles. It was daylight. 
 She lost no time in claiming Colonel Chample- 
 monde'^s promise to bestow her in more suitable 
 quarters, which was effected with little delay, 
 though not without much reluctance on the part 
 of the colonel, who went down with her to the 
 neighbouring convent of Monchique, where she 
 
12 THE SISTERS 
 
 was hospitably received, and where she had the 
 gratification to find the relative from whom she 
 had been separated on the previous night, as well 
 as several other ladies of her acquaintance. The 
 colonel often visited her at the grate : but in this 
 sanctuary we must leave her. 
 
 It was not till an hour or two after daybreak 
 that Colonel Champlemonde ordered search to be 
 made for the wounded soldier, the ruffian hero 
 of the preceding nighty's adventure- He was not 
 in the house ; if dead, he had probably been 
 buried; if alive, it was likely that he liad been 
 carried to the hospital. A pressure of other 
 duties and engagements prevented the French 
 colonel from following up the inquiry in person, 
 but he commanded a sergeant of the regiment 
 to which, from his uniform, he supposed him to 
 belong, to make a strict examination of his men 
 in hospital, and to discover the rascal, if possible. 
 It might perhaps have been possible^ had there 
 been no disposition among the soldiers and sub- 
 officers to screen the delinquent. The result, 
 however, was a report that he was not to be 
 found. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 13 
 
 In a few days, something like military disci- 
 pline was restored among the French soldiery. 
 The commander-in-chiers proclamations had in- 
 duced many of the fugitive inhabitants to return 
 to the city : Marshal Soult received some com- 
 plimentary addresses^ and many private assurances 
 of the respect, and even attachment, of trai- 
 torous fidalgos, and others of the anti-Braganza 
 party who were in favour of the French : and 
 he was already dreaming of becoming King of 
 Northern Lusitania ! To win the hearts of the 
 simple and credulous among his intended sub- 
 jects, he became conspicuously devout too, after 
 the laudable example of his master when in 
 Egypt, though the process of his self-sanctifi- 
 cation was not quite so violent ; for the stern 
 marshal had not, like Napoleon, to proclaim 
 himself a Mussulman, but only to appear an 
 ultra- worthy disciple of the Catholic church. 
 He attended sermons and processions, kissed 
 relics, prostrated himself duly in the streets 
 whenever the bell announced the passing sacra- 
 ment, and even rode, followed by all his staff, 
 v^ith a pomp of holiness worthy of St, Louis in 
 
14 THE SISTERS 
 
 Syria, to the village of Matozinhas, on the anni- 
 versary of St. Nicodemus. Arrived there, he 
 dismounted at the gate of the area in which 
 stands the church of Nossa Senhora das Bougas, 
 and made the genuflective circuit outside the 
 church, and then, entering, approached the altar, 
 and cast himself in edifying reverence on his 
 knees, under the miraculous wooden image of 
 our Saviour, which was sculptured by St. Nico- 
 demus in Palestine, and cast ashore at Le^a. 
 His devout staff followed their chief's example 
 with a wonderful power of face, and thousands 
 of Portuguese witnesses opened their visual orbs 
 to their utmost expansion, as if in implicit de- 
 light at so unquestionable a proof of the mira- 
 culous influence of the wooden statue, and of 
 the odour of sanctity with which the hearts of 
 the French chief and his officers were penetrated. 
 But, while Soult was trying to smooth his way 
 to a throne, there were spirits at work in his own 
 army who were meditating the dethronement 
 even of his master, and he was in danger of 
 having his baton wrested out of one hand at the 
 moment that the other hand was clutching at a 
 
OF THE DOURO. 15 
 
 sceptre. An extensive conspiracy, with a hun- 
 dred ramification S5 pervaded the French army, 
 and the conspirators, under the title of Phila- 
 delphians, were especially active in the second 
 corps of the grand army. The Duke of Dal- 
 matians peril was the greater, because he was 
 utterly unsuspicious of the existence of any 
 such combination against Napoleon's authority 
 or his own. One startling hint he did receive, 
 but its eifect was momentary, and he relapsed 
 into inattention. It was thus : true to the policy 
 of his master, it was his system to pervert, 
 modify, exaggerate, or suppress, facts, according 
 to the expediency of the case: therefore, while 
 all the rest of Europe was speculating on the 
 German war against France, the French army 
 in Portugal, and the northern Portuguese them- 
 selves, were not aware that such a war had been 
 declared, much less that it was in active operation. 
 A proclamation, however, with an intercepted 
 despatch from Kellerman to Soult, a document 
 discouraging to the French, had been published 
 by Beresford ; and a copy of it was one morning 
 found affixed at the very hall-door of Soult's 
 
16 THE SISTERS 
 
 quarters. An investigation was set on foot, and 
 a sub-officer informed the marshal that he 
 would produce a man who had seen the ob- 
 noxious proclamation posted, and who knew the 
 offender ; but, one condition was attached to the 
 disclosure : that the individual making it should 
 be absolved from punishment for any irregularity 
 of which he might have been previously guilty, 
 and that he should be protected against the re- 
 sentment of the person whom he had to accuse. 
 The terms were granted; the man came forward 
 and denounced Colonel Champlemonde, to the 
 extreme astonishment of the marshal and of 
 many others. The colonel was confronted with 
 his accuser, in whom he at once recognised the 
 assassin-soldier from whom he had rescued the 
 Portuguese lady, though the man'^s features were 
 now somewhat altered by the absence of mous- 
 tache and whisker. The colonel related some of 
 the circumstances : they were sturdily denied by 
 the man, who as obstinately persisted in declaring 
 that he had that morning, just before daybreak, 
 being on guard at the palace, seen Colonel 
 Champlemonde in the act of affixing the procla- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 17 
 
 mation. On being asked why he had not then 
 interposed, his answer was, that, knowing the 
 colonel to be an aide-de-camp of the Duke of 
 Dalmatia, he could not at the moment suspect 
 the character of the paper, nor call in question 
 the authority for placing it there. 
 
 Colonel Champlemonde acknowledged that he 
 had that morning put up a printed paper at Mar- 
 shal Soult^s door ; but it was, he averred, one of the 
 marshal's conciliatory addresses to the natives, and 
 he treated the charge with contemptuous indig- 
 nation. He did not choose to produce the lady, 
 or perhaps she had already returned to her 
 friends in the country; but yet he had a wit- 
 ness, while his accuser had none ; for the gre- 
 nadier who had relieved the latter as sentry at 
 the marshaPs gate, after daybreak, stated that 
 he had seen the colonel post a proclamation, 
 that he had read it, and that it was, as the 
 colonel had stated, that address from his chief 
 to the natives, which called upon them to confide 
 in the French, and fear nothing, and which was 
 still on the wall. The accuser said that he could 
 not contradict that circumstance, and knew no- 
 
18 THE SISTERS 
 
 thing about it, but that, true or false, it did not 
 at all weaken his deposition to the fact of Colonel 
 Champlemonde having posted the other procla- 
 mation before sun-rise; that there had been 
 hght enough even then to make it impossible 
 that he could mistake the colonel or the Beresford 
 notice that he had put up on the side of the 
 gateway opposite to that on which Marshal 
 Soult'^s appeared. Besides, had he not been 
 quite sure of the individual, he would of course 
 have challenged him, as would have been his 
 duty. The marshal, however, utterly disbe- 
 lieved, the fellow, and was inclined to treat him 
 with severity ; but the man reminded him of his 
 solemn promise of protection, and was accord- 
 ingly sent away with a detachment that was about 
 to set off with despatches for Marshal Ney, in 
 Gallicia. The ruffian's name was Pierre DuvaL 
 Marshal Soult thought no more of this inci- 
 dent, and continued to prepare his ladder to a 
 throne. — One glorious morning, it was the 9th 
 of May, he had held a levee, which was splen- 
 didly attended, not only by the officers under his 
 command, but by Portuguese nobles, decorated 
 
OF THE DOURO. 19 
 
 fidalgos, and dignified priests and fradres, some 
 of whom smiled while they would have killed. 
 Bands of military music assisted at this pageant, 
 which was the prelude, as he hoped, to the more 
 stately ceremony of heijo de mdb^ when he should 
 extend his kingly right hand to be touched by 
 the lips of kneeling subjects. 
 
 He had just executed the last smile to the 
 last sycophant, and was reposing on his laurels 
 in a boudoir adjoining the Sola de respeito^ 
 when he was roused from a reverie of royalty 
 by the announcement of General Le Febre. 
 Somewhat impatient of the intrusion, the mar- 
 shal received him fretfully, but the visit was 
 quickly understood to be of no trivial nature. 
 Colonel D'Argenton, one of the most active of 
 the conspirators, had mistaken General Le Febre 
 for a friend to the Philadelphian projects, be- 
 cause he knew that he had no love for the 
 emperor, and he had rashly made overtures 
 which the general lost no time in reporting to 
 his chief, in his blunt manner, and with his 
 strong, racy, German accent. 
 
 Soult now first felt, with a shock of profound 
 
20 THE SISTERS 
 
 amazement, the quaking ground on which he 
 stood. D'Argenton and others were arrested- 
 It was ascertained that the evil was vast, but 
 it was found impossible to strip it of the mys- 
 tery in which it was involved by the fidelity 
 of the arrested to their confederates. Colonel 
 Champlemonde, notwithstanding the affair of 
 the proclamation, was not one of the suspected : 
 he continued to enjoy the favour and confidence 
 of his commander, and was even entrusted, a 
 day or two afterwards, with an important mission 
 to General Loison, at Amarante. 
 
 The Duke of Dalmatia, thus certain of his 
 danger, but uncertain who were his foes in French 
 uniforms, was '^ perplexed in the extreme.''^ This 
 was not all : he was perhaps the ablest of all 
 Napoleon's generals, yet his own ambition and 
 the ill agency of the disaffected seem to have 
 blinded him at this time to the true bearings of 
 his position. Wellesley was within hail of his 
 outposts, yet he credited the reports that assured 
 him he was at a distance. Even when he thought 
 his approach probable, he stood, telescope in 
 hand, leaning against the stone balustrade that 
 
OF THE DOURO. 21 
 
 fences the l^dge of the flat roof of the Caranca 
 palace, and from that lofty station watched the 
 bar and the sea^ in hourly expectation of seeing 
 the English transport-ships. 
 
 When it was reported to him that the British 
 were crossing the river, above the city, on his 
 left as he stood, he turned an almost deaf ear 
 to the warning, and continued to look to 
 the sea on the right, readily contented with a 
 vague assurance from some officer, perhaps a 
 Philadelphian, that there was no foundation for 
 the rumour. It was, however, true enough. 
 While the French duke was thus gazing at the 
 sea from that commanding eminence on the right 
 bank of the river, another glance, as keen as his, 
 was better directed from the left bank. The 
 English commander, not yet a duke, was watch- 
 ing with strong but subdued delight the success 
 of his bold enterprise from the height of the 
 ttltl$0tlltK0 Monastery of the Serra, a building 
 which was long after to become, in ruins, a noble 
 monument of successful Portuguese valour. 
 
 Before night the Duke of Dalmatia and his 
 army were in full retreat for the north, and the 
 
22 THE SISTERS 
 
 gladdened city of Oporto had opened its arms to 
 its deliverers. 
 
 Soult's short dream of royalty was thus over; 
 and he found himself encompassed by doubts and 
 difficulties of no ordinary magnitude. Surprised 
 into a precipitate retreat, forced to take a most 
 arduous course through a wild unknown dis- 
 trict, the British in pursuit, Silveira in his front, 
 Wilson and other leaders of partizans on his 
 right, the sea and the red-cross flag of England 
 on his left, guerilla in every direction, hostile 
 peasantry behind every field-wall, and, worst of 
 all, his own troops discontented, many audibly 
 murmuring, and many, more dangerous because 
 unheard and undistinguished, plotting to undo 
 him, and perplexing his arrangements with pes- 
 tilent activity. But here the stern and prompt 
 resolution of the great soldier bore him through ; 
 and a more masterly, though miserable, retreat, 
 has seldom been conducted. He spiked his guns, 
 sacrificed the military chest and baggage (Sir John 
 Moore was avenged), and, directed by a Spanish 
 smuggler, led his army over the rude heights, 
 called the Serra de Santa Catalina^ to Guima- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 23 
 
 raens, where he met with the division of General 
 Loison, whose strange abandonment of Ama- 
 rante had forced Soult to this northern course. 
 The division of the intrepid Borges also joined 
 him here. Their guns, too, baggage, and am- 
 munition, he destroyed, and again turned to the 
 mountains, and worked his way through storm 
 and rain, day and night, till he came to Sala- 
 mondi, a village standing high,lhough sheltered, 
 on the Serra de Vieyra. 
 
 From this place the road he took is at first 
 partly cut through sand-stone, which banks it on 
 both sides. It then opens out, over a space 
 purple with heather, and green with ilex and 
 fern (arborescent heather and tall fern), and gum- 
 cistus. Here is an open view, for some distance, 
 all round, with, here and there, steep and deep 
 ravines and gullies — some of these pits filled 
 with woods of ilex. Then the road becomes 
 steeply tortuous down towards the Cavado, that 
 flows between this serra and the grander and 
 more rugged Serra de Gerez : the way thus 
 drops crookedly through wilds of tall heath, in- 
 termingled with dwarf oak, in some places going 
 
24 THE SISTERS 
 
 sheer down, as if much ploughed by torrents. 
 Presently, the bridge of Ponte Nova, the Sal- 
 tador, is seen deep below, through a grove of 
 olive-trees, that stand among lofty and luxu- 
 riant fern. The Rio de Ruivaens, that runs 
 under the Saltador, or Ponte Nova, is, in dry 
 weather, a mere shallow, brawling brook, 
 tumbling along over a channel of smooth stones, 
 and between large blocks of grey and white 
 granite, the upper parts of which are tinged 
 with lichens. The views from its borders, up 
 from both sides, have a wild richness : on the 
 left are castle-like crags, of which, the foreground 
 are hills and slopes, verdant with ilex, and 
 rough with stones and gorse : on the right are 
 rude hills, where oaks grow among smooth 
 stones and rugged rocks. The banks of this 
 torrent-stream, the Rio de Ruivaens, which joins 
 the Cavado a little below the Ponte Nova, are 
 margined with yellow-flowering broom, ever- 
 green oak, heather, gum-cistus, and other plants ; 
 the water is white and transparent, and a mere 
 plaything for an angler. But how different was 
 it on that dismal night of storm and rain, when 
 
OF THE DOURO. 25 
 
 Soult and his thousands were hurrying over it, 
 while the floods were out, and '^ the angry spirit 
 of the water shrieked/' and Enghsh cannon 
 was thundering upon them, and ploughing into 
 their serried masses ! It was in truth but a single 
 piece of ordnance that was brought to bear upon 
 them, but the echoes and the night gave it the 
 voice of twenty. 
 
 The bridge Ponte Nova is of one arch, and of 
 solid stone ; the arch is by no means lofty, and 
 there is nothing in its appearance to account for 
 its name of Saltador, the Leaper ; so it is no 
 wonder that some historians of the Peninsular 
 War have made a mistake in transferring this 
 name to another bridge, the Miser ella, to which 
 we shall come presently. 
 
 Having passed along the left bank of the Rio 
 de Ruivaens, up stream, the traveller, who fol- 
 lows the route by which the French retreated, 
 crosses the bridge, turns sharp to the left^ down 
 stream, on the right bank, and then the road, 
 leaving this stream, winds off* to the right, up 
 the left bank of the C^vado. Here the road is 
 good and level, of fair white sandstone, and its 
 
 VOL. I, C 
 
26 THE SISTERS 
 
 breadth may vary from four to six feet ; it leads 
 through a grove of oaks and old chestnuts, then 
 over a stone causeway and little bridge that spans 
 a winter torrent course, dry in summer. Where- 
 ever it winds to the left, the rocky mountains of 
 the opposite side of the river, the right bank of 
 the Cavado, face the traveller closely ; while, 
 when it winds to the right, he is always greeted 
 by the richer mountains of the left bank, on 
 whose side he rides ; so the road curves in and 
 out, now along a level, now down a steep slope, 
 then again through a grove of chestnuts, and 
 again over a torrent-course, bridged with rough 
 stones, and shortly afterwards, another where 
 the road roughens ; the herbage of the hills now 
 becomes more scanty, till on the left (right bank 
 of the river) is a picturesque waterfall, whose 
 accompaniments are both striking and pleasing, 
 for^ above the rocky chasm, from which it flows, 
 is a brave embattled crag, so exactly like a for- 
 tress, that the delusion is complete for an instant ; 
 that water tumbles through, and, as it were, into, 
 a little steep wood, behind which it is lost, and 
 on the lower skirt of this wood (on its left 
 
OF THE DOURO. 27 
 
 proper) hang some fresh httle pastures. A few 
 paces beyond, the valley expands, the verdure 
 becomes richer, olive trees, oaks supporting 
 vines, and even fields of maize, appear, in gay 
 relief to the severe serra behind them. 
 
 Here, leaving the Ckvado, and turning to the 
 right, up the left bank of the Rio de Venda 
 Nova, another stream tributary to that river, the 
 traveller goes through the village of Os Fradres 
 do Pinheiro (where stands, not a pine, but a single 
 chestnut tree of grand girth), up and down a 
 winding, narrow, and rough road, which twists 
 through masses of great rocks^ till he reaches the 
 lofty bridge of Miserella, where one tall arch does 
 indeed leap boldly across the roaring water, and 
 might, therefore, well be mistaken for the Sal- 
 tador. The power of this mountain stream, or 
 rather torrent, when swollen, is attested by the 
 enormous piles of granite, through which it has 
 worn and drilled holes and cavities, and among 
 which, even in summer, it foams and rattles with 
 fierce impatience. The view up and down it, 
 and on every side, from the bridge of Miserella, 
 is rocky and savage, but not without the grace 
 
 c 2 
 
28 THE SISTERS 
 
 of evergreen oaks and cork trees, that do not at 
 all detract from the wildness of the scene. This 
 wild country is so little known, except to the 
 Almocreves, the mule-drivers, of Montealegre, 
 Chaves, and the Spanish frontier, that the mi- 
 nuteness and, perhaps, tediousness of this de- 
 scription may, on that account, be excused, as 
 well as for the sake of the historical interest that 
 attaches to these " passes of peril,*^' since that 
 fearful night when Soult and his battalions 
 crushed through them in their escape to Gal- 
 licia, so soon after their ruthless triumph at 
 Oporto. 
 
 Of the number of those who fell, severely 
 wounded, was Colonel Champlemonde, who had 
 been sent back by Marshal Soult with orders to 
 the rear, when most of the army had passed the 
 bridges. It was night when a shot struck him 
 down into a hollow among the rocks, near the 
 Ponte Nova. The cold air stanched his wound, 
 and the darkness screened him from the notice 
 of the peasants, who were prowling about to 
 stab and spoil. Thus he lay till daybreak, 
 when, looking about him, he perceived on the 
 
OF THE DOURO. 29 
 
 ground, at a few yards from him, a dead Portu- 
 guese officer of militia. He had strength enough 
 to crawl towards him, and, after ridding him- 
 self of his own uniform, he assumed that of the 
 Portuguese as his only chance of escaping death 
 by torture at the hands of the peasantry. His 
 exhaustion did not enable him to withdraw to 
 any great distance, and he remained among the 
 dead and dying, to abide his lot, whatever it 
 might be. As no such officer was named among 
 the prisoners, and as the French return of killed 
 included him among the slain, there could be 
 little doubt that he either died of his wound, or 
 that he fell a victim to Portuguese revenge, ex- 
 cited by the atrocious cruelty of his own country- 
 men. Among the many disasters of that night, 
 the French marshal was not insensible to the loss 
 of so enterprising an officer of his personal staff. 
 How would the dark-eyed Lusian girl, whom 
 he had rescued at Oporto, have deplored him, 
 could she have known the fate of her deliverer ! 
 It has been already intimated that this young 
 lady had returned to her parents before theFrench 
 retired from Oporto. But the night of her me- 
 
so THE SISTERS 
 
 morable adventure in that city had been doubly 
 fatal to her peace of mind : she shuddered at the 
 blood that she had spilt, though it was shed 
 righteously. It was too much against her nature 
 to consider such an achievement without horror 
 and remorse, though it had been the just and 
 generous impulse of the moment; and, not doubt- 
 ing that the man was dead, she inwardly avowed 
 herself a murderess, though of an assassin, and 
 brooded over the dark consciousness with all the 
 trouble and mystery of guilt. 
 
 To no friend nor relative did she confide her 
 secret ; she even abstained, for a period consider- 
 ably longer than she had ever done before, from 
 conferring with her confessor. She had tried to 
 consider the whole incident as a fearful dream, 
 but the remembrance of Champlemonde made 
 that impossible. He had sunk too deeply into 
 her heart to be forgotten ; and none of the cir- 
 cumstances of their first meeting could be disso- 
 ciated from the recollection. 
 
 It had indeed been her intention, while yet 
 under the immediate excitement of her adventure, 
 to relate to her parents all that had passed, as much 
 
OF THE DOURO. 31 
 
 to prepossess them in favour of Champlemonde, 
 as to relieve herself from the oppressive weight of 
 herown sensations. Butafter-thoughtchangedher 
 purpose. She could not avow what she had done ; 
 forj though her father and all her kindred so cor- 
 dially detested the French that they would have 
 applauded her for having destroyed a Frenchman^ 
 she was not formed for a heroine, and their praise 
 would only have shocked her sensitive delicacy. 
 Then, as to the notion of producing a favour- 
 able opinion of Colonel Champlemonde, he was 
 a Frenchman too, and she felt that it was imprac- 
 ticable. She herself, until the night when he 
 protected her, partook of the family feeling, which 
 was at that time a patriotic feehng, of unmitigated 
 hatred of all the French, without one exception. 
 Even now she thought her bosom traitress in 
 harbouring a kindly sentiment for an invader, 
 though he was one to whom she was so much a 
 debtor. But was he not also her's ? For his 
 safety, as much as for her own, had she stained 
 her soul with blood, and, though she detested 
 herself for the deed, she felt but the deeper 
 interest in the object for whom she had done it. 
 
32 THE SISTERS 
 
 But she had destroyed a Frenchman to save 
 a Frenchman. How could she avow that to her 
 father, to her mother, to any of her friends ? 
 Their zeal of hatred against all their invaders 
 was as implacable as the invasion itself was un- 
 justly aggressive, and as the conduct of the inva- 
 ders was on too many occasions monstrous. 
 
 When the news arrived of the French retreat 
 into Spain, she was inexpressibly pained at the 
 thought that she should, in all probabiUty, never 
 more behold Colonel Champlemonde, and she 
 vainly tried to stifle her regrets as unworthy of 
 a daughter of Portugal. While her family joined 
 with their neighbours in celebrating the event with 
 all possible demonstrations of gladness, she retired 
 to her chamber to hide her tears, and when her 
 younger sister, Francisca, sought her, and inquired 
 the cause of those tears, she only snatched her to 
 her breast, and wept the more. But the cause 
 remained untold and unsuspected ; the excuse of 
 illness and nervousness, which indeed was hardly 
 a pretext, served to silence inquiry, and her 
 entreaty to be left undisturbed was complied with. 
 When she did appear in the family circle^ her 
 
OF THE DOURO. o3 
 
 reserve was maintained : she was silent and spirit- 
 less ; but she was naturally serious, and her 
 friends, enraptured with the recent occurrences, 
 had scarcely leisure to detect the shades that were 
 deepening her thoughtfulness into profound me- 
 lancholy. 
 
 c 3 
 
34 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much ano- 
 ther man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, 
 will, after he hath laughed at such shallow folHes in others, 
 become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 It was still in the spring of the same year, 
 1809, and not long after the recapture of Oporto 
 by the English and the retreat of the French out 
 of Portugal, that the vale of Teixeira, above 
 Mezao Frio in the Upper Douro, was enlivened 
 by the arrival of a body of cavalry, about noon. 
 The flourish of trumpets, echoing among the hills 
 of that fine pastoral valley, had given notice of 
 their approach, and the people of the little town 
 and neighbourhood had eagerly turned out to 
 witness their appearance. 
 
 It was a squadron of English dragoons from 
 Villa-Real, and the English were at this time 
 doubly welcome to the good-natured people of 
 
OF THE DOURO. 35 
 
 the Tras os Montes and the adjoining western 
 province, because the natives had suffered much 
 barbarity and extortion from the French, and had 
 but just got rid of their worst oppressor, Loison, 
 their one-handed tyrant, whom they called Manila, 
 
 Another squadron of British horse had halted 
 at Mezao Frio. They had been attached to 
 Beresford's army, and had been left in the north 
 for a while, at the request of the Portuguese 
 authorities, or for some other reason best known 
 to the English commanders. 
 
 While some of the people of Teixeira were 
 admiring the accoutrements and fine horses of 
 Major Wilmot's squadron, others the noble effect 
 of their broken files among the steep and rugged 
 passes, the English soldiers were making the best* 
 of their way, some growling at the wretched 
 roads and broiling sun, others lauding the good 
 wine of the high Douro country. Their officers 
 were ever and anon acknowledging the greetings 
 of the natives by a stately inclination of the head, 
 or a careless wave of the sword-hand ; unless 
 some pretty damsel caught their eyes, and then 
 there were " nods, and becks, and wreathed 
 
36 THE SISTERS 
 
 smiles'" enough from the cavaliers, with store of 
 compliments in broken Portuguese; fragments 
 of gallantry most drolly dislocated, yet perhaps 
 as acceptable to their object as the most fluently 
 turned phrases of admiration may be to the lady 
 in vogue in a Parisian saloon, from a professed 
 master of minauderies. The remote maidens of 
 the Tras os Montes and of the Minho e Douro are 
 not dull at comprehending a stranger'^s courtesy. 
 
 One or two of the officers, however, were more 
 attracted by the beauty of the long narrow valley 
 than by that of its women, among whom indeed 
 there were but few at all remarkable for their 
 charms. 
 
 " How do you like this vigorous little moun- 
 tain river?''' said Major Wilmot to a captain of 
 one of the two troops of his squadron, the Hon. 
 Vincent Stanisforth, the second son of an English 
 Roman Catholic peer. " Do you hear how it 
 brawls among the rocks, and observe how it capers 
 along, and twists and plunges in the very wan- 
 tonness of freedom P*^" 
 
 " It is pretty enough,'^ answered Stanisforth, 
 indifferently. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 37 
 
 '' Pretty V^ rejoined Wilmot. " You left your 
 taste at Villa-Real, where you parted with your 
 heart. The stream is beautiful — and still more 
 so at this turn,''' added he, as they proceeded, 
 ^^ overhung by those fresh-leaved fig-trees.''' 
 
 Wilmot could get only cold monosyllables of 
 
 assent from Stanisforth ; but, nothing checked, 
 
 he continued to point out to his attention the 
 
 various and capricious sinuosities of the river, 
 
 which was now smoothly gliding in a deep bed, 
 
 half shaded by lines of wild cherry-trees, along 
 
 which vines were trained and interlaced. It was 
 
 now gambolling among large grey stones, open to 
 
 the full glare of the sun ; now prattling over a 
 
 shallow bed, and rippUng upon pebbles under a 
 
 partial screen of osiers; and now, after hiding itself 
 
 between the hills, emerging from under a clump 
 
 of oaks, or a group of walnut-trees, or of olives, 
 
 or of mountain-ash ; and, taking some fantastic 
 
 sweep among the bright green meadows that 
 
 sloped down to its sides. These little meadows, 
 
 only here and there interrupted by stairs of vines, 
 
 were most refreshing to the sight, after the eternal 
 
 vineyards and the hot walls among which the 
 
•^8 THE SISTERS 
 
 troops had been marching for the last twelve or 
 thirteen miles, reheved only by occasional glimpses 
 of the Douro, and now and then a breeze from 
 the mountain Marron. 
 
 Groves of chestnuts, as yet ahnost leafless, and 
 having the appearance of being powdered with 
 a hoar frost, covered the declivities above those 
 precipitous green fields. Pines and oak-trees were 
 mixed with them, and the ground was rich and 
 gaudy with the lofty white and golden broom, 
 high, shrub-like heaths, and various aromatic 
 plants and wild flowers in full blossom. Com- 
 panies of goats and kids were browsing upon these, 
 and upon the lichens and mosses of the rocks ; 
 and flocks of sheep, a large proportion of which 
 were black and all of the smallest breed, were 
 feeding on whatever patches of herbage they could 
 find so near the mountain tops. 
 
 '' Every thing here," said Wilmot, " has the 
 air of peace and fearless innocence. Surely, Stan- 
 isforth, you must allow that this is a little Arca- 
 dian vale.''' 
 
 " Oh yes V answered Stanisforih, " and we 
 liveried homicides are gentle shepherds truly in 
 your vale of Arcady the Blest.''' 
 
OF THE DOURO. 39 
 
 " Why, dragoons are certainly out of place 
 here,^^ replied Wilmot ; " especially such a mere 
 dragoon as you are now become — a goodly animal 
 indeed, well appointed for ornament and use, but 
 very solemn and dull withal, fit only to perform 
 the sword-exercise, and charge to the front when 
 duly ordered •''^ 
 
 " Be merciful, Wilmot ! I am sorry I have 
 not your spirits ; and I do not know the sword- 
 exercise/' 
 
 " Really, Stanisforth, more shame for you, 
 then, a cavalry officer, and captain of a troop. 
 But you are too young for this affectation of 
 indifference to every thing in nature. What a 
 pity it is that men who have hearts will pretend 
 to have none, because they must be superfine 
 gentlemen ! Any thing Hke exhibition of feeling 
 is a cardinal sin against the laws of supreme ton. 
 Yet flashes do break out from you occasionally, 
 in spite of your fine education. That lovely 
 Portuguese at Villa-Real, for instance, struck fire 
 from the flint — did she not, Stanisforth ?^' 
 
 Captain Stanisforth took no notice of this speech 
 but by a more studied composure of his features 
 
40 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 to perfect apathy. Wilmot went on, as if deter- 
 mined to tease him into better taste. 
 
 "I always admire oak-trees in this month : their 
 yellow leaves, with all the freshness of young 
 vegetation, have the beauty of autumnal tints. 
 See that venerable oak yonder — how rich it is 
 in its new foliage!''' 
 
 '' Yes,'' said Stanisforth, '« a wrinkled and 
 crooked old oak in its new spring leaves is like a 
 ridiculous old maid in her new spring silks.'' 
 
 They now, after having ascended a very steep 
 bank, were on the brow of a craggy hill, covered 
 with short but richly flowering heath. From this 
 height they first caught a view of the handsome 
 church, which, though situated on an eminence 
 just above the populous little town of Teixeira, 
 seemed from that spot to lie in the pit of the vale, 
 with nothing near it but two tall cypresses, as 
 lofty as its steeple. Behind it rose a mountain, 
 all purple with heath ; and the upper mountains 
 on either side were covered with chestnut trees, 
 pines, and cork-trees ; the lower hills were still 
 vividly green down to the edge of the river, 
 which, in its winding vagaries, was even more 
 pleasing than before. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 41 
 
 The captain of the other troop, Horton by 
 name, ^^a jolly joker "" from the West-Riding of 
 Yorkshire, now rode up from the rear. He was 
 rather intimate with Stanisforth, on account of 
 their mutual fondness for field-sports, though no 
 two men could be otherwise less suited to each 
 other, 
 
 " Vincent,'^ said he, (he always would call the 
 honourable captain by his Christian name, though 
 the aristocrat rather disliked the familiarity) ^^Vin- 
 cent, my boy, this river is the only thing worth 
 seeing since our march began. I am told it is 
 full of trout ; you and I must try our flies to- 
 morrow.**^ 
 
 " Agreed,*^' said Stanisforth, who was a patient 
 and persevering disciple of Cotton, the fly-fisher. 
 
 The squadron now struck into a grove of chest- 
 nuts, above which, on their right, was a wood of 
 pines. Most of the officers could not but admire 
 in their passage through this grove the remarkable 
 size of the chestnut-trees, which is hardly equalled 
 by the finest of those near the town of Villa-Real, 
 and not even surpassed by the grand wood of 
 them about a league beyond Lamcgo. They 
 
42 THE SISTERS 
 
 cannot properly, perhaps, be called stately trees, 
 because most of them have the appearance of 
 having been pollarded, but their trunks are of 
 prodigious girth ; many of them are so hollow, 
 and their large branches are so venerably hoar, 
 that they would seem to be past the age of fruit- 
 fulness, which is by no means the case. On the 
 contrary, one of the numerous spectators on the 
 way, a young Franciscan friar, with a huge, 
 quaintly-curled white hat, and a rope-cinctured 
 brown robe, rightly informed the strangers that 
 these ancient trees were famed for the quantity 
 and quality of their produce. 
 
 As the troops emerged from the grove, they 
 saw, at some distance below them, the humble- 
 looking townlet of Teixeira. Wilton continued 
 to rally his friend Stanisforth, and to descant on 
 the picturesque, when suddenly he exclaimed — 
 
 '^ Look, Stanisforth ! do look at the matchleas 
 form and face of the damsel standing under those 
 dark olive-trees ! Is she the true Minerva of the 
 olive bowers of this valley, the goddess of peace 
 and wisdom ? or is she the Pallas of arms, who 
 comes to cheer us on to battle ? You do not con- 
 descend to look.'''^ 
 
OF THE DOURO. 43 
 
 There was a triumphant smile, and an expres- 
 sion of a meaning more than met the ear on the 
 face of Major Wihnot as he said this. Stanisforth 
 turned his eyes neghgently in the direction indi- 
 cated by the major. But he had no sooner done 
 so than he turned very pale, and bowed his head 
 down to his charger'^s mane, with the most cere- 
 moniously scrupulous attention, to a beautiful 
 girl, hooded in the ugly black silk mantilha of 
 Portugal. 
 
 She acknowledged the compliment with a blush 
 and a sweetly earnest smile ; and afterwards cor- 
 dially, though in a manner rather less particular, 
 showed her recognition of Major Wilmot. 
 
 The major was a much handsomer man than 
 Stanisforth, who, except the decided air of a gen- 
 tleman, had nothing in his exterior at all attractive, 
 but, on the contrary, had rather plain though 
 sensible features. Major Wilmot was a model of 
 manly beauty, with as true a look of blood as 
 Stanisforth. 
 
 " Did you never see that face before ?'''' said 
 he to his friend, eyeing him with good-humoured 
 malice; ^^did you never see that face before, 
 Stanisforth ?^^ 
 
44 THE SISTERS 
 
 " Why do you ask what you know so well ?^' 
 answered Stanisforth. " You are my rival, 
 Wilmot; a rival too powerful, but you are 
 also my friend. Why will you torment me ?'** 
 
 " Friends we are, and we will be,"*^ said the 
 major, " in spite of war and women ; but re- 
 member that it is not my fault that we are 
 rivals. While this young lady, Senhora Dona 
 Francisca, of Teixeira, was on a visit in the 
 house where I was billeted at Villa-Real, I was 
 doing her homage for a whole week before you 
 ever beheld her. Considering my opportunities, 
 I certainly made less progress with her than 
 I expected, but I am convinced that I should 
 have got on well enough, if I could have spoken 
 Portuguese with half the fluency that you do. 
 Unluckily, though I comprehend something of 
 the substance of what is said, I cannot initiate 
 my tongue in the barbarous mysteries of Lusi- 
 tanian elocution ; and, therefore, if you should 
 chance to bear away the myrtle from me this 
 time, Staniijforth, the advantage that you have 
 over me, by your ability to converse with her, 
 will furnish me with an apology to my self- 
 esteem, and I will bear my defeat with patience.**"* 
 
OF THE DOURO. 45 
 
 ^' You pretend to be decently humble, Wil- 
 mot.'' 
 
 " Have I not reason ? For a whole week, 
 I tell you, my loves and graces were fluttering 
 about her, dumb ones indeed, but, I did per- 
 suade myself, not wholy inexpressive. Jejmsais 
 Us heaux yeux from morning till night; for 
 that good sensible old dame, with whom she was 
 staying, did not forbid herself and her young 
 friend to the profane gaze of a he-^stranger^ as is 
 too often the case in Portuguese houses. Yet 
 I sighed, and looked, and sighed in vain. For, 
 though she was certainly pleased, (and where is 
 the woman, be she weak or wise, that is c/i^pleased 
 with admiration ?) yet I could never feel assured 
 that I had made anything like an impression. 
 She always looked me full in the face, and never 
 gave me any sly sidelong glances. Now, to be 
 a week in the same house with a Portuguese 
 beauty, and never once catch her taking a fur- 
 tive glance at one, is, you will own, as discou- 
 raging as possible/' 
 
 " I can own no such thing, Wilmot, having 
 no experience in that way. I am not a man of 
 
46 THE SISTERS 
 
 bonnes fortunes^ like you. I know nothing 
 about the sidelong glances of Lusitanian ladies." 
 
 ^' Then you are either blind or wilful ; for 
 you had plenty of them the only time you ever 
 saw this sweet Francisca before; and, to say the 
 best of it^ whatever may be her other virtues, 
 gratitude is not among them, or she would not 
 have turned at once from me, the familiar of 
 seven days, to you, the acquaintance of an 
 hour."*' 
 
 ^' With what nonsense would you mystify me, 
 Wilmot !'' 
 
 " Sense or nonsense, it is too true. You step 
 in, and in one day secure more notice, I repeat 
 to you, than fed my hopes for seven ; but lovers'* 
 hopes are like mountain sheep, they will subsist 
 on scanty herbage ; and so mine shall live on, 
 though fed with mere niggardly civihties, while 
 your's are rioting in ^ fresh fields and pastures 
 
 new.' '' 
 
 ^^ All this is mockery. That I was struck 
 with that lovely girl at your lodging-place at 
 Villa-Real, is very true ; but I could not help 
 that; nor did I know that you were already 
 
OF THE DOURO. 4/ 
 
 Steeped to the lips in ' the charming agonies of 
 love.' Then what followed? The very day 
 after my arrival at Villa-Real, away went the 
 lady back to her own home among some un- 
 known mountains. This was strong evidence of 
 her being pleased with my company."*^ 
 
 " That circumstance,"" answered Major Wil- 
 motj ^' is no evidence, either one way or other ; 
 for, as I intend to demean myself like a generous 
 competitor, I will now tell you that the day of 
 her departure had been fixed above a week be- 
 fore, and that her father brought a liteira for 
 her early in the morning, and took her away 
 before you were up. If I know any thing of 
 women, you were carrying the day against me 
 quite hollow ; but your victory is not secured, 
 and I will do my best to outgeneral you yet, in 
 a fair and soldier-like manner."" 
 
 " You are incapable of anything unfair, Wil- 
 mot; and you are, to do you justice, much less 
 selfish than I. Had I been on the ground first, 
 I should have pleaded a prior claim to the chance 
 of the manor, and you would have admitted it,"" 
 '' No such thing ; I should have done as you 
 
48 THE SISTERS 
 
 did; got to windward with my pointers, and 
 beat for my game with the best skill I could : 
 for, much as I like to please you, I like to please 
 myself still better. But what were you saying, 
 Stanisforth, about her home among unknown 
 mountains ? You see that she is here.*" 
 
 '' Yes ; I have seen her with surprise. Is her 
 home, then, in this neighbourhood ?'' 
 
 " In a village, or small town, to which we are 
 marching,^^ answered Wilmot ; " this was the 
 undiscovered country of life or death to us lovers; 
 these are the unknown mountains; that water 
 on our left, below us, is the rivulet Teixeira; 
 before us, about a mile distant, is the townlet of 
 the same name; and in that little town is the 
 residence of Francisca, the divinity of Villa-Real, 
 the staid nymph of this headlong stream, the 
 Pastora of these flocks, the Minerva of these 
 olive bowers, the Pallas of war, whose aegis, I 
 hope, will protect us, her trusty horsemen, from 
 all dangers but those of her own eyes/*^ 
 
 " You talk with the gaiety of a suitor con- 
 fident of success. Your humility is gone, Wil- 
 mot; I am provoked to hear your banter, so 
 
OF THE DOURO. 49 
 
 careless and self-complacent. You seem well 
 acquainted with your subject, too. You know, 
 beyond doubt, all that it is desirable to know, 
 about the relations, mineral and botanic, geolo- 
 gical and statistical, of these mountains, and are 
 familiar with their population, biped and four- 
 footed. You can even, I dare say, find your 
 way, without a guide, to any particular house of 
 any particularly interesting person — Dona Fran- 
 cisca, for example.*^' 
 
 '' I can f' said Wilmot. " She lives very near 
 the bridge of Teixeira; the stream murmurs 
 over its rocky channel almost at her door. From 
 the three centre windows of the first story of the 
 house, a covered wooden gallery, or balcony, 
 projects; and, exactly opposite to that centre, 
 still nearer to the river, is a little gable-ended 
 edifice of stone, surmounted by a belfry and 
 cross at one end, and by a cross at the other, 
 and furnished at the four corners with small 
 pinnacles. It is called the Chapel of our Lady 
 of Health.^' 
 
 " ' Be she a spirit of health or goblin damned, 
 yet I will speak to her,''' muttered Stanisforth, 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 in a tone that was meant to be gay, but which 
 betrayed his annoyance at the precision of the 
 major's information; and showed that he was half 
 suspicious, with the jealousy of a young lover, 
 that his friend had been quizzing him, and held 
 more intelligence with the lady than he had 
 chosen to avow. 
 
 "Do you suppose,'' said Wilmot, "that I could 
 be in the company of such an angel and her 
 father for several days, and be so stupid as not 
 to obtain, in spite of my ignorance of the lan- 
 guage, some particulars relative to her place of 
 residence ?" 
 
 Stanisforth made no answer; they were now 
 close to the town, for so we must call it, though, 
 but for its stone cross in the market-place, it 
 might be more properly termed a village. The 
 billet-serjeants met them, and the major halted 
 his squadron. On reading his own billet, he de- 
 sired to be shown those of the other officers, and, 
 having looked at them, said to the serjeant-major 
 of one of the troops : " This won't do ; I per- 
 ceive that your captain is billeted on the house 
 of Senhor Coelho; that gentleman happens to 
 
OF THE DOURO. 51 
 
 be a friend of mine^ and I wish to be at his 
 house. Call Captain Horton.'' The Yorkshire 
 captain appeared. 
 
 '' Captain Horton/' said the major, " have 
 you any objection to change your billet with 
 me ?'' 
 
 ft 
 
 ^* Objection,'' replied Horton, discontentedly, 
 " would be of little use, as you have the privilege 
 of selection, major.'' 
 
 '' It is a privilege of which I seldom avail 
 myself," said Wilmot, '' and you will lose no- 
 thing by the exchange, for my billet is on the 
 Abbade's house, the best in the place." 
 
 " Best or worst," answered Horton, still more 
 peevishly, " I should say, you are heartily wel- 
 come to your choice, were I your senior. But, 
 as to the Abbade's house," added he, sotto voce, 
 or rather in an under-grunt, " I believe I shall 
 have the worst of the bargain, for it is Friday, 
 and there will be nothing but fish and trash in 
 the house of a priest on a Friday, and I shall 
 have to turn-to on the ration beef, which is 
 always so tough that a man's teeth might as well 
 try to meet through a bull's hide as the cow's flesh ; 
 
 D 2 
 
52 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 and buying better fare for one'sself is an expensive 
 mode of foraging. I am from too far north for 
 that, where it can be avoided.**' 
 
 Major Wihuot, moving aside with Stanisforth, 
 said to him : '^ You are in a moody humour; 
 you had better come with me to the lodging 
 I have chosen ; my friend will willingly accom- 
 modate us both.'' 
 
 " I thank you," said Stanisforth ; " but I 
 am tired, and would prefer being alone." 
 
 " Very well, Stanisforth ; I hope your lonely 
 meditations will be agreeable. But, have you 
 no tender message, no soft saudades^ for the 
 fair Francisca ? Do teach me some impassioned 
 sentiment from Camoens, that I may whisper it 
 in her ear to-day, in your behalf." 
 '^ To-day ! what do you mean .?" 
 " I mean, that I am going to dine, sup, and 
 sleep, under the same roof with Dona Francisca, 
 in the house of her father, Senhor Diogo Coelho." 
 '^ Her father !" echoed Stanisforth, and bit his 
 lip. '' And a friend of your'^s, too ? You have 
 fooled me more than enough. Well, go and 
 enjoy your good fortune, and laugh as you may, 
 at my expense.'' 
 
OF THE DOURO. 53 
 
 " I will,*^' said Wilmot ; " but you had better 
 agree to my proposal ; come with me, and join 
 in the laugh.**" 
 
 " You are not serious, Wilmot !'' 
 
 " Not when I laugh ; but I am in earnest 
 when I say, come with me to Senhor Coelho'^s.'*'* 
 
 " Be it so/' replied Stanisforth ; " but it is 
 strange that you should choose to have a rival, 
 however insignificant, in your way. You are 
 either very generous, or very arrogant/" 
 
 " I am neither. I think it fair that you 
 should have your chance ; but I want to make 
 use of you ; and I will only take you with me 
 
 on a stipulation."' 
 
 " What may that be ?"" 
 
 ''That you translate accurately, and honour- 
 ably, for my sole use and benefit, whatever 
 I may wish to understand, or may desire to say 
 to the lady, or to any other person in that house."" 
 
 " That will I, verbally and literally."" 
 
 " No, no, Stanisforth, that would be a clumsy 
 and absurd method of doing one language into 
 another. You must give the spirit, not the 
 letter."" 
 
54 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 ^^ I will do my best to serve you.*" 
 
 " And to serve yourself.*" 
 
 '' And to serve myself.'' 
 
 " I shall be as vigilant,'' said Wilmot, '^ to 
 detect your wanderings from my meaning, as a 
 wolf of Valenfa, or of Marron, when he listens 
 to the bleat of a straggling kid." 
 
 " And I shall watch her," answered Stanis- 
 forth, " as a Douro wine-farmer peruses the face 
 of the commissary of the royal company, or the 
 merchant, or the merchant's clerk, whose opinion 
 is to decide upon the quality or purchase of his 
 wine, Ht the moment when the important wine- 
 spitter is blackening his lips out of his silver 
 
 saucer." 
 
OF THE DOURO. 55 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The troops were now billeted off, and Major 
 Wilmot and Captain Stanisforth dismounted at the 
 house of Senhor Diogo Maria Manoel Balthazar 
 Moniz Coelho, who stood on the stone steps, 
 without his door, to receive his guests. He was 
 a short, brown old gentleman, of good features, 
 with a figure not unlike a tub ; he w^as dressed in 
 a grey linen jacket, and black satin trowsers, and 
 tan-coloured shoes and stockings, and he wore no 
 neckcloth. Notwithstanding his odd dress, which 
 would certainly hardly pass muster at White's, 
 and though his mansion was none of the most 
 imposing, nor his establishment on a scale of 
 luxury, or even comfort, proportioned to our ex- 
 travagant notions, and though indeed his fortune 
 was very small, this worthy old man was de- 
 
56 THE SISTERS 
 
 scended from most illustrious ancestors, which he 
 was well aware of, as we shall presently discover. 
 He greeted Major Wilmot as a known friend, by 
 putting his arms round his waist, and patting 
 him on the back, and saluted Stanisforth with 
 much good humour, telling them both that he 
 and his family, and house, and servants, and all 
 that he possessed, were entirely at their disposal 
 — a common Portuguese compliment, generally 
 signifying nothing, but in this instance the wel- 
 come of honest good-will. 
 
 There were two pair of bright black eyes peep- 
 ing behind agelosia^ one of those contrivances of 
 Moorish origin for windows or doors, formed of 
 small laths laid across each other chequer-wise, 
 so that those persons within can see what passes 
 in the street without being distinguished them- 
 selves. Stanisforth was sure that one pair of 
 eyes belonged to Francisca ; but he could not 
 decide which, for both pair seemed equally black 
 and equally brilliant. He and Wilmot followed 
 Senhor Coelho into the house, and were imme- 
 diately put in possession of a pretty spacious 
 apartment, with two small bed-recesses adjoining. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 57 
 
 As soon as the baggage-mules arrived, the 
 officers changed their dusty uniforms for fresher 
 apparel. Stanisforth dressed himself with scru- 
 pulous nicety. The handsome Major Wilmot 
 took less trouble at his toilet, perhaps not un- 
 conscious that he needed less than his friend. 
 They found Senhor Coelho waiting for them in 
 their sitting-room, and were rather disappointed 
 that he was there alone. 
 
 Presently, however, they had visiters enough, 
 though not of the sex that they wished to see. 
 Every presentable man in or near the village, 
 that is, every idle male individual of the valley, 
 came to pay his respects to Major Wilmot, as 
 the commanding officer of the squadron. Among 
 these was Captain Horton's patrao^ the Abbade, 
 an aged priest, with a jovial eye and sleek face, 
 a fine bald front, a profusion of white hair flow- 
 ing from the back of his head over his shoulders, 
 and a voice of mirth that annoyed Stanisforth by 
 its sonorous powers. Then there was a swart^ 
 well-featured savage, of middle age, who quite 
 overpowered Stanisforth by his obstreperous civi- 
 lities. He was in a dark brown uniform, and 
 
 d5 
 
58 THE SISTERS 
 
 was no less than the Illitstrissimo SenJior^ Jose 
 Alves, Captam of Ordonan9a5 Trained Bands, or 
 Militia, and Doctor of Laws to boot, from the 
 University of Coimbra : he always carried a book 
 under his arm. There were, also, a fat old Ca- 
 puchin friar, who was a Guerilla leader, and the 
 young Franciscan friar before mentioned, besides 
 several gentlemen wine-farmers, and others. 
 
 There was much talk, and loud; and poor 
 Captain Stanisforth'^s new office of interpreter 
 to and from Wilmot was no sinecure. The Ab- 
 bade soon retired to return to his guest. Captain 
 Horton, and the other visiters dropped off by 
 slow degrees, all but the indefatigably civil Cap- 
 tain of Trained Bands, who seemed determined to 
 talk Stanisforth to death. Major Wilmot en- 
 joyed his friend's distress, and increased it by 
 making him translate almost every syllable that 
 was uttered. Whenever Stanisforth tried to 
 evade the service, Wilmot reminded him of his 
 engagement, and kept him to the task till he 
 almost repented that he had entered the house, 
 even though it were the dwelling of the lovely 
 Francisca. At last, however, the man did g(^ 
 
OF THE DOURO. 59 
 
 away, and the two officers were left with their 
 host. 
 
 By the conversation that ensued, Stanisforth, 
 being for the most part still the medium of com- 
 munication, found that Major Wilmot and Sen- 
 hor Coelho had met, on a former occasion, at the 
 house of the Conde d*" Amarante, at Chaves, where 
 Wilmot had been a guest, and that they had re- 
 newed their acquaintance at the house of Senhor 
 Coelho' s sister-in-law, at Villa-Real, on the morn- 
 ing when he came to fetch his daughter away ; 
 the major, early as it was, having taken care to 
 be up, as he had been apprised of his expected 
 arrival. It was at the house of this lady, a rich 
 and patriotic maiden dame, with whom the Eng- 
 lish were much in favour, that Wilmot had be- 
 come acquainted with Francisca. Strangers have 
 usually but little opportunity of cultivating in- 
 timacy with Portuguese females of the upper 
 class, even when, by chance, for a few days, 
 under the same roof. But the friendly disposi- 
 tion of the aunt, and the necessity of doing the 
 honours of her house, made her relax from the 
 Moorish system of seclusion, to which the ladies of 
 
60 THE SISTERS 
 
 the Peninsula were accustomed. Wilmot had seen 
 Francisca depart from Villa-Real with as much 
 regret as might be expected from a light-hearted 
 rover. He had even approached her again at 
 Teixeira with more emotion than he outwardly 
 betrayed. Perhaps his vanity had been a httle 
 roused by the rapid progress that Stanisforth ap- 
 peared to have made in gaining her good opinion. 
 But he was too well-tempered and too truly well- 
 bred to manifest displeasure to either party. Be- 
 sides, he was scarcely in earnest, which made it 
 the more easy for him to be amiable. 
 
 Stanisforth had really '^ fallen in love/' or 
 rather risen to the elevation of a true passion — a 
 marvellous incident in the history of a fine gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 To which of her two admirers, if to either, 
 Francisca might seriously incline, we are yet to 
 discover. 
 
 Soon after the departure of the Captain of 
 Trained Bands, the gentlemen were informed 
 that dinner was served. Conducted by their 
 host, the two officers entered the eating-room with 
 revived hopes of seeing his wife and daughters : 
 
OF THE DOURO. 61 
 
 but no ladies appeared, and Stanisforth saw in 
 an instant that the table was prepared for three 
 persons only. Two slow, solemn-faced Galicians, 
 servants of Senhor Coelho, were in attendance. 
 Stanisforth requested that one of them might 
 call his own valet, with whose services at table he 
 seldom dispensed. 
 
 The contrast between the sober march and 
 manner of the Spaniards, and the short step and 
 abrupt, though noiseless, activity of the English 
 servant, might have excited a smile in an observer 
 of this repast ; and droll enough were the awk- 
 wardnesses occasioned by the Briton's assiduous 
 interference with the arrangements of the Ga- 
 legos^ which he seemed determined to resist to 
 the uttermost, because they were not according 
 to the London customs. The consequence was 
 that the two Spaniards soon stood stock still, and 
 left the John Bull to manage it all his own way, 
 while they stared at him with sullen dogged ad- 
 miration of his assurance. Their master, too, 
 looked up with surprise now and then, when he 
 found himself served with such unwonted ala- 
 crity, but so much out of the order of the cus- 
 
62 THE SISTERS 
 
 tomary arrangements of his table. He took all 
 in good partj however, and did the honours well 
 both by precept and example^ for he ate prodi- 
 giously, and urged his guests to do the same. 
 
 The table was abundantly supplied, especially 
 with soupe-maigre, and fish, dressed in various 
 ways, the day being Friday. But the supposed 
 carnivorous propensities of English heretics had 
 not been overlooked, for there was also a reason- 
 able allowance of flesh-meat for the officers. 
 Major Wilmot was not indisposed to obey his 
 entertainer's injunctions, but Stanisforth was in 
 no humour to eat; and he could hardly be 
 tempted even to partake of some fish, which 
 Wilmot rightly assured him was as good as if it 
 had been prepared by a burgomaster's cook of 
 Amsterdam or the Hague. Nor could even the 
 lighter delicacies, more suited to a lover's sickly 
 taste, attract him : sweet plates of rice and vermi- 
 celli^ confections from the nunnery of Santa 
 Clara at Villa-Real, preserved quince, and other 
 marmalades and fruits, from the sisters of Santa 
 Clara at Lamego, oranges from the sunniest 
 banks of the Upper Douro, sweet lemons and 
 
OF THE DOURO, 63 
 
 limes of bergamot fragrance, and many other 
 baits for fastidious palates, were successively pro- 
 posed to him ; but none of these sweets, simple 
 or compound, could dulcify the spirit of spleen 
 that possessed him. Not even the purest old 
 wine of that favoured land of Bacchus could 
 enliven him, though, contrary to his practice, he 
 drank rather freely. Major Wilmot proposed 
 the health of Senhora Dona Coelho and her 
 daughters, for which the master of the house 
 thanked him with great respect, though he did 
 not appear to understand the custom. The 
 rival cavaliers had, several times in the course of 
 the day, alluded to these ladies, and the old gen- 
 tleman had as frequently assured them, with the 
 utmost politeness, that his wife and daughters 
 were at their service, but had manifested no in- 
 tention of letting them speak for themselves. 
 
 Almost immediately after dinner the two offi- 
 cers rose, and Senhor Coelho retired to take his 
 sesta. 
 
 Major Wilmot had no sooner closed the door 
 of their apartment, than he laughed heartily at 
 Stanisforth's chagrin. Captain Stanisforth was 
 
64 THE SISTERS 
 
 not given to laughing, though he sometimes 
 smiled with a sweetness so uncommon, that, 
 plain as he was, few ladies, to whom his eyes 
 might be directed on such occasions, could think 
 his countenance otherwise than agreeable. But, 
 alas ! here were no ladies to smile at. He repaid 
 Wilmot with a smile for his unseasonable mer- 
 riment; but it was not one of his captivating 
 smiles. His solenmity only augmented Wil- 
 mot^s vivacity ; and, as a superlative gentleman 
 cannot endure ridicule, he retreated to his bed- 
 room, though without the least expression of ill- 
 humour, locked his door, and threw himself on 
 the bed. 
 
 Oppressed as he had been by the heat of the 
 morning's march, and weary as he was with the 
 drudgery of converting Portuguese into English^ 
 and English into Portuguese, for Wilmot, he in- 
 effectually tried for nearly two hours to compose 
 himself to rest. His pillow was now too high, 
 then too low ; every position to which he could 
 twist his frame was still uneasy ; he tried every 
 sedative charm he could think of; he counted a 
 thousand, went through every item of his laun- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 65 
 
 dress's last bill, said the alphabet three times, re- 
 peated twenty lines of the last ^' sweet new poem ;^' 
 but nothing would do — till he remembered that 
 his troop-book of regimental orders was on a table 
 within his reach. He began to peruse the orders 
 of the preceding month with laudable diligence ; 
 the first week he got through without winking ; 
 at the tenth day the ungainly pothooks of the 
 Serjeant began to dance like motes before his 
 eyes; at the eleventh he was reading through his 
 eyelashes ; and at the twelfth he fell into a doze, 
 in the middle of an ill-spent sentence. But even 
 this narcotic, powerfully as it might have acted 
 elsewhere, was here but of moderate effect. His 
 slumber was light, and broken by every minute 
 sound that occurred ; for, if a mouse was running 
 under the floor, or a window was ever so lightly 
 agitated by the air, he fancied that he heard the 
 footfall of Francisca in the next room, " tripping 
 lightly like a fawn.'' 
 
 It was near sunset when he rose. He inquired 
 for Major Wilmot, and was told that he had 
 gone out to see his horses. He thought that 
 the major's absence gave him a good opportunity 
 
66 THE SISTERS 
 
 to try whether one or both of the two pair of 
 black eyes that had sparkled on him when he 
 was ascending the stone steps to the house were 
 again to be discerned through the lattices of the 
 gelosia. 
 
 He stepped softly to the street-door, opened it 
 without noise, and placed himself on the head of 
 the stone stairs, partly screened from the window 
 by a projection of the wall. He immediately 
 saw the four black eyes behind the trellis- 
 window, but they did not see him. They were 
 stedfastly fixed on some other object. What 
 could it be ? He waited for some moments in 
 anxious expectation of attracting their notice. 
 But no — those four black eyes remained riveted 
 to something near the river. 
 
 He grew impatient, and, protruding his head 
 a little beyond the jutting wall, and turning it 
 towards the water, he espied Major Wilmot in 
 the very best station that could have been se- 
 lected, seated on a grey stone, under the arch of 
 the bridge, and looking unutterably amorous at 
 the four black eyes. Stanisforth stepped forward, 
 and stood discovered to both parties. He felt 
 furious^ but looked calm. 
 
OF THE DOURO. &J 
 
 Two of the black eyes instantly disappeared. 
 The other two remained ; and, after observing 
 him for a few moments, and slightly acknow- 
 ledging his bow, were again directed to Major 
 Wilmot, and fixed on him with increased com- 
 placency : at least, so he, as well as Stanisforth, 
 thought. 
 
 Stanisforth was painfully eager to learn whe- 
 ther it was Francisca, or her sister, our Oporto 
 friend, Leonora, that thus kept her ground ; but 
 it was impossible to distinguish the eyes, for 
 both brace were just alike, and no other features 
 could by any visual effort be accurately made 
 out athwart that African device of lathe-work, 
 the gelosia. He addressed himself to Wilmot, 
 who sat grinning with satisfaction at his dis- 
 composure. 
 
 ^' I was told that you were gone to visit your 
 stables.**^ 
 
 " I have been there,**^ answered Wilmot, 
 
 '^ And how long have you been here ?'' 
 
 '' Where ?'' 
 
 " Under the bridge, in that romantic attitude, 
 as if you were sitting for your picture, in the 
 
68 THE SISTERS 
 
 character of a sheep in wolfs clothing ; a Cory- 
 don in martial costume.'" 
 
 '' I have been here about an hour/' replied 
 
 the major. 
 
 '^ AndTiow long,'*' rejoined Stanisforth, "have 
 those black eyes and your confounded blue ones 
 been commercing together ?" 
 
 ^' All the time/' said Wilmot. 
 
 '^ The deuce !'' muttered Stanisforth, and he 
 stalked into the house. Wilmot followed him. 
 
 At this moment, a figure rose from the foot of 
 a tree behind the bridge where Wilmot had been 
 seated, and just in a line with him and the 
 window, and vanished behind a wall. It looked 
 very like the Captain of Trained Bands. It was 
 possible, therefore, that all this time the black 
 eyes had been directed, not to Major Wilmot, 
 but over his head, and across the bridge, to the 
 said figure : but it was not probable that a person 
 like Senhor Jos6 Alves could make such a hand- 
 some man as Wilmot serve him for what the 
 Portuguese call a Pdo de Cabelleira^ a barber's 
 block, sometimes a convenient piece of furniture 
 for lovers, drawing off the attention of the curious 
 
OF THE DOURO. 69 
 
 from the party who is really the favoured object, 
 and is making love behind him or over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Let us ask for tea, Stanisforth,"' said Wil- 
 mot. " Perhaps the ladies will come and take it 
 with us, or even make it for us.''' 
 
 '' I suppose you know whether they will or 
 not,''^ drily answered his friend. '^ Do as you 
 please.'^' 
 
 Major Wilmot asked for tea. Lights and tea 
 
 were brought. Senhor Coelho returned to his 
 
 guests, but no ladies made their appearance. 
 
 Stanisforth made wry faces over his tea without 
 
 cream, which the Portuguese did not approve 
 
 with that beverage. He would not, however, 
 
 take the trouble to ask for some. Most of the 
 
 visitants of the morning poured in again, and 
 
 Stanisforth was again obliged to talk and translate. 
 
 The Captain of Trained Bands was, as before, 
 
 the most garrulous. Stanisforth endured all 
 
 " in sad civility ,**" till the little militant Capuchin, 
 
 redolent of garlic, took him by the sleeve, and 
 
 thrust his face close under the captain's nose, 
 
 with the air of a story-teller who has secured his 
 
70 THE SISTERS 
 
 listener, and is about to be prolix. Stanisforth 
 
 could not stand the detestable odour of the 
 
 plant which is, however, in spite of Horace 
 
 and the Arabian Nights, and all detractors, 
 
 ancient and modern, 
 
 ^^an injured name. 
 The glory of the kitchen, or the shame," 
 
 according to the discretion of the cook in its 
 use. He forcibly effected his liberation, stam- 
 mering some hurried excuse, and, twisting through 
 the crowd to the open door, stole into the blessed 
 fresh air, and went wandering down the banks 
 of the stream, under the broad moon. 
 
 His ramble was meditative and short. As he 
 had eaten nothing at dinner, the unusual, though 
 not immoderate, quantity of wine that he had 
 taken was more than enough. He had flushed 
 and fretted himself into a fever, which the plea- 
 sant breeze of the evening had not power to 
 allay. It suddenly struck him that he might by 
 a bold movement penetrate as far as the mys- 
 terious room of the gelosia^ surprise the owners 
 of the four dark eyes, effect a parley with Fran- 
 cisca, and take his revenge on Wilmot, who had 
 
OF THE DOURO. 71 
 
 hitherto, this day^ been so much the better tac- 
 tician of the two. 
 
 He did not pause to weigh the delicacy of 
 such a proceeding. Wine, love, and jealousy, 
 inspired him. He had left Senhor Coelho and 
 Major Wilmot fully occupied with their visiters. 
 But where might the mother, Senhora Coelho, 
 be? Nevermind! He returned to the house 
 with perhaps more speed than he had ever 
 exerted on foot in his life, for it was a maxim 
 with him never to do any thing in a hurry. He 
 entered by a side door, which opened under a 
 staircase. His object was to reach the first floor ; 
 he ascended the stairs, without meeting any one ; 
 he gained the landing-place, hastened along a 
 passage, and found a door open ; it was the third 
 on his left hand. The full light of the moon 
 showed him that he had not got to the room of 
 the gelosiUj but into the centre apartment that 
 opened into the covered wooden balcony alluded 
 to by Wilmot in the morning. It showed him 
 more ; Francisca was seated near the open win- 
 dow, looking at the moon ! 
 
 He paused for an instant at the entrance, 
 
72 THE SISTERS 
 
 looked round the apartment, satisfied himself 
 that no other person was there, and then walked 
 as hghtly as he could towards her ; he stood be- 
 hind her chair, gazed on her beautiful neck, and, 
 when he perceived that she was so deeply ab- 
 stracted as to be unconscious of an intruder''s pre- 
 sence, he whispered the words, " Senhora Dona 
 Francisca !'' 
 
 She was startled, turned round, recognized 
 him, and rose in confusion. He uttered not a 
 syllable more, but snatched her hand and kissed 
 it repeatedly. What would Zimmermann have 
 said to such a lover? He seems to prescribe 
 four years of courtship before a single kiss of 
 the hand should be adventured by the enamoured 
 youth. And was this Captain Stanisforth, the 
 frigid fine gentleman? Yes, ladies, it was; 
 beware of your cold fine gentlemen. 
 
 And how did the Portuguese beauty bear this 
 audacity ? Very quietly. She struggled for a 
 moment to release her hand, but, failing in the 
 effort, left it with a sigh to its fate. Let her not 
 be too rashly despised. There is as much female 
 virtue in the south of Europe as in the north, 
 
OF THE DOURO- 73 
 
 notwithstanding the misrepresentations of tra- 
 velled coxcombs, who boast of easy victories 
 that never were achieved- It would be no very 
 charitable judgment that excluded Francisca from 
 the number of the correct in conduct, because 
 she neither screamed nor fainted on this occasion. 
 I would not wantonly raise a blush of offended de- 
 corum on the cheek of the strictest pretty puritan, 
 whether her saintly eyes peruse love-pages, or are 
 averted with scorn from those pages and their pe- 
 rusers. But I have not chosen to omit this anec- 
 dote, because it was necessary to my purpose, and 
 because I think it, on her part, perfectly innocent, 
 and am sure that it is true. Captain Stanisforth, 
 who was no vain Gascon to rifle visionary lips, 
 has recorded the fact, to the lady's praise, and to 
 his own condemnation, in a journal, from which 
 many particulars of this history are faithfully 
 transcribed. 
 
 His delirium did not last long ; for he was 
 recalled to reason by the sound of approaching 
 feet, and the gleaming of a lamp along an inner 
 corridor that led to the apartment. He set his 
 prisoner free, and she glided from the room as 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
74 THE SISTERS 
 
 silently as a swan glides along the water. He 
 also made the best retreat he could^ and got out 
 undiscovered to the street-door ; but there he 
 observed a man in a dark cloak, who looked at 
 him closely. It was Senhor Jose Alves, the 
 omnipresent Captain of Trained Bands, Doctor 
 of Laws, &C.5 with his large book under his 
 arm. Stanisforth thought it somewhat singular 
 that the man should be planted there, but it 
 could be of no consequence. He re-entered the 
 house at the main door, went back to the room 
 where he had left his friends, apologized for his 
 absence of about half an hour, was civil to 
 everybody, and assiduous in interpreting for 
 Wilmot ; made courteous obeisances to every 
 one of the strangers when they took their leave, 
 supped with Senhor Coelho and Wilmot, was 
 very hungry and very convivial, delighted old 
 Senhor Coelho, astonished Wilmot, and went to 
 bed, and slept as soundly, though not so long, as 
 any of the Seven Sleepers. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 7^ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Him^ piteous of his youth and the short space 
 
 He has enjoyed the vital Hght of heaven. 
 
 Soft disengage, and back into the stream 
 
 The speckled captive throw. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 The trumpet-call under his window at day- 
 break had just awakened Stanisforth, but he was 
 relapsing into slumber, when a thundering thump 
 and a Yorkshire voice at his door reminded him 
 that he was engaged to fish with Captain Horton. 
 He now wished Horton and the trout were swim- 
 ming together, and attempted to evade the en- 
 gagement. But his brother-angler did not choose 
 to accept any excuse ; so up he got ; and, when 
 they had taken some coffee, they walked off to 
 the water, leaving Wilmot in bed. Stanisforth 
 glanced at the window of the gelosia and at the 
 wooden balcony, but no dark eyes were beaming 
 there so early. ^ 
 
 E 2 
 
76 THE SISTERS 
 
 '' Well. Horton/' said he, " I suppose you 
 were starved yesterday at the Abbade's house ; 
 and, as this is also a fish-day, you are determined 
 to have fresh trout instead of hacalhaby 
 
 ^^ No, no," said Horton ; ^' the Abbade is a 
 prince of priests, and should be Patriarch of 
 Lisbon with my consent. I never dined better 
 in my life, nor drank better wine, nor supped 
 more to my satisfaction. He is a fine old fellow, 
 that Padre. He gave me for dinner brown rice- 
 soup, capital fish, something like haddock, p^5- 
 cado^ fresh from the Douro ; boiled beef and 
 pickled pork on a huge platter, garnished with 
 boiled cabbages, stalks and all ; a pilau in brown 
 gravy, with three boiled fowls on the top of it, 
 the poultry rather tough, being just killed; boiled 
 sausages, salpicoes^ a leetle strong of garlic, but 
 exceedingly good, and a boiled leg of mountain 
 mutton. I was just thinking it was a pity that 
 among so many boiled things the mutton was 
 not roasted, when the table was cleared, and 
 in came a second course : a roasted turkey ; a 
 roasted lomho^ as they call it, of beef, being the 
 best piece of the loin without the bone; a roasted 
 
OF THE DOURO. '^^ 
 
 chine of pork, a huge pigeon-pie, and some trout 
 fried in oil, the best I ever tasted. These were 
 followed by pastes and puddings, and sweet con- 
 diments of all sorts, and loads of fruit. Bless 
 his prodigal old heart ! It was an awful waste of 
 good cheer, for which you, Vincent, who are a 
 Catholic, will have to pray him out of purgatory. 
 For all this provender was for two persons, him- 
 self and your undeserving servant ! And he ate 
 no meat either ; but he fed well, notwithstanding, 
 and drank better. Then, at supper, among many 
 other things we had a Melga9a ham, smoking 
 hot ; and a sucking-pig, the pride of all roasts. 
 Talk of your days of abstinence ! Give me to 
 dine with such an Ahbade every Friday of my 
 life, and sup too. He is such a pleasant Padre, 
 too ; though I own I could not understand above 
 a word or two he said in two hundred. But then 
 I laughed whenever he did, which was almost all 
 the time ; and I said ' sta bom' to every thing.'*^ 
 So Captain Horton indulged himself in the 
 recapitulation of his feasting, and had all the 
 talk to himself, while they walked to that part of 
 the river where they were to commence fishing. 
 
7S THE SISTERS 
 
 and while they put their tackle together. He 
 then walked speedily down stream, and left Sta- 
 nisforth to do his best after him. 
 
 The beauty of this stream and of its banks 
 has been already noticed. But one of the de- 
 lights of the angler is that he is admitted to all 
 the shyest and least suspected charms of river- 
 scenery. None but an angler toils over rough 
 and smooth, following the windings and meander- 
 ings and steep falls of a mountain-stream with 
 un tired perseverance. In spite of a noble bard's 
 flippant tirade against Izaak Walton, it may be 
 maintained that every poet should be an angler, 
 though God forbid that all anglers should turn 
 poets ! To be sure, old Izaak fished with the 
 worm, which is an uncleanly method and unne- 
 cessarily cruel, besides being dull work, demand- 
 ing small skill. Any old woman can fish with a 
 worm. But it requires art and activity to throw 
 the artificial fly lightly and naturally, far or near, 
 in spots overshaded with trees, or among the 
 eddies in rocks; to strike at the right moment 
 when the fish is touched, and, if he is a heavy 
 fish, to play him cleverly down stream, give him 
 
OF THE DOURO. 79 
 
 line, and wind up discreetly ; and, lastly, it is 
 not the least critical part of the business to land 
 the prisoner, if slightly hooked ; for, as " between 
 the cup and the lip,^^ so between the hook and 
 the pannier " there is many a slip.'' 
 
 With respect to the cruelty of this matter, 
 there still may be something not altogether to be 
 vindicated : it may be a sin in man to- take plea- 
 sure in killing any thing. When you hook a 
 trout, you are but balking him of his prey, and 
 making an intended executioner the victim : but 
 this is certainly a somewhat unsatisfactory argu- 
 ment. He was only following his instinct, and 
 the necessity of his nature. An angler would 
 not hke, perhaps, to be excused by the plea that 
 he is only following his instinct ; which is to 
 catch all he can, and throw back the small ones. 
 
 But no more on fly-fishing ; except that Dr. 
 Johnson,^ who knew as little of such small affairs 
 as an elephant does about dancing a quadrille 
 (though we have seen Miss Djeck dance at the 
 Opera), is welcome to his joke of ^' a stick with 
 
 * Or, perhaps^ Swift ; for it is not clear which of the 
 two sages invented this stick of au epigram, with a sting 
 at one end and himself at the other. 
 
80 THE SISTERS 
 
 a String at one end and a fool at the other/' in- 
 asmuch as it has not the least application to the 
 professor of fly-fishing, but only to the impaler 
 of worms, who stands sentry over his quill or 
 cork for hours on the river's edge with all the 
 gravity and quiescence of a heron. Then let him 
 hook ever so minute a troutling, he cannot save 
 him ; for, the hook being gorged with the bait, 
 has inflicted a death-wound. 
 
 Horton, sly old soldier as he was, having taken 
 the lead, and so fished the best places first, and 
 being also the experter artist, was more successful 
 than his companion, or rather follower. Both, 
 however, exhibited a numerous though sorry 
 show of small fry on their arrival at Mezao-Frio. 
 
 " Horton,'' said Stanisforth, '^ I thought it 
 was only for inferior sportsmen like me to con- 
 descend to make prey of fish less than at least 
 six or eight ounces in weight. Some of your 
 trout are hardly bigger than the lastsprings of 
 the Wye." 
 
 '^ True, Vincent,^' replied the Yorkshireman ; 
 ^' but I found mercy unprofitable, and, after 
 throwing back some two or three dozen of these 
 babies the first half hour, and not raising a single 
 
OF THE DOURO. 81 
 
 respectable fish, I resolved to accept whatever 
 the river-nymph might offer, for I don't believe 
 there is a good trout in her keeping. I wonder 
 where the Abbade got his. But let us examine 
 your's. Why ! Vincent ! you are a pretty fel- 
 low to take me to task : here are some of your's 
 not larger than white-bait. You have out-heroded 
 Herod in your slaughter of the Innocents. But, 
 in truth, the river is good for nothing." 
 
 He had hardly pronounced this judgment, be- 
 fore a woman with a basket on her head accosted 
 them. 
 
 '^ Older em comprar trutas^ mens Senhores f" 
 
 " What does she say, Vincent ?" 
 
 '^ She asks whether we want to buy any trout.'' 
 
 " Tell her we will sell her some, if she likes/' 
 growled Horton ; ^' but let us look at her trout : 
 they are of course of the dwarf breed, like our's." 
 
 The woman, by Stanisforth's direction, put 
 down her basket ; and, lo ! there were six brace 
 of highly-conditioned trout, the smallest of them 
 a foot in length, and a full pound in weight ! 
 They were yet alive. Horton stared. 
 
 '' Where in the world did she get these beau- 
 tiful fish .?" said he. 
 
 E 5 
 
82 THE SISTERS 
 
 Stanisfdrth, having asked her, answered — 
 '' From that river." 
 
 " When? how? impossible!" said Horton. 
 '' She says that her husband caught them just 
 before we came down/' said Stanisforth. 
 
 ^^ But where? where?" impatiently asked 
 Horton. 
 
 '' She says — ' in the deep pools;*" quietly 
 responded Stanisforth ^ 
 
 " Well, well, but how ?" continued Horton. 
 ^' She says with a net," replied Stanisforth, 
 with provoking composure. 
 
 '^ A net !" roared Horton ; " perdition seize 
 the woman and her poaching rascal of a husband 
 with his net ! This is always the way that fair 
 sport is spoilt. Who would have thought of 
 these Portuguese having wicked wit enough to 
 take trout with a net?" 
 
 '' Very strange, indeed,'' said Stanisforth, '^ that 
 they should understand the best way of getting 
 the best fish in their own rivers." 
 
 Horton turned away, much disgusted ; and 
 both the anglers, after calling on their brother 
 officers at Mezao-Frio^ mounted the horses which 
 
' OF THE DOURO. 83 
 
 they had ordered to meet them, and returned to 
 their respective quarters. 
 
 Captain Stanisforth was alone in his room, 
 glad to rest after his morning toil, and he was 
 deep in meditation on the charms of Francisca, 
 when three of his most assiduous visiters came 
 to plague him : the young Franciscan, with the 
 fine family eyes ; he was Leonora's and Fran- 
 ciscans cousin : Senhor Candido, the country sur« 
 geon, a man of pompous phraseology without 
 point, and insufferably a bore ; and Senhor Jose 
 Alves, the eternal Captain of Trained Bands, 
 with his book under his arm. 
 
 These gentlemen examined the Englishman's 
 fishing-tackle, tossing it about with wonder, mix- 
 ing his flies, and tangling his hair-lines. They 
 walked up and down with vivacity, all bawling 
 together with the lungs of stentors, and spitting 
 about the room with a free and easy simplicity 
 somewhat too characteristic of male manners in 
 these rural districts and elsewhere. But they 
 were unconscious of any transgression of deco- 
 rum ; they were even over-polite in their way ; 
 and their extravagant eulogies pressed hard upon 
 
84 THE SISTERS 
 
 the modesty of Stanisforth ; but he would suffer 
 nothing to annoy or disconcert him now in this 
 abode of his deity of the mountain-stream. Two 
 of the worthies retired, leaving only the Captain 
 of Trained Bands, with his ponderous volume 
 under his arm. Stanisforth, who had been forced 
 into something like familiarity with this person, 
 now said to him : — 
 
 " Senhor Jose Alves, I observe that vou alwavs 
 carry a book under your arm. May I ask what 
 it is.?" 
 
 '' I have been surprised," said the other, 
 eagerly, " at your not having asked that ques- 
 tion before." 
 
 He opened it with as mysterious an air as if 
 he was unfolding the original leaves of the sybiPs 
 oracles. The book was in French, and the title 
 ran thus : — '' Thresor de Chartes, Contenant les 
 Tableaux de tous les Pays du monde, enrichi de 
 belles descriptions." 
 
 It was a quaint old book, though not so rare 
 or precious as its owner pretended ; it was full 
 of droll fictions and popular errors ; the worthy 
 Captain-Doctor took them all for gospel^ and 
 
OF THE DOURO. 85 
 
 seemed to have the work by heart, for he gene- 
 rally quoted before he turned to the page. One 
 story, from Giraldus Cambrensis, was especially 
 honoured by his faith. It was no other than the 
 marvellous account of " the Birds called Barna- 
 cles,'' which are produced in an uncommon man- 
 ner, not altogether natural ; first, appearing in 
 the form of gum, such as exudes from trees, 
 they are found sticking to stray masts and spars 
 that float on the sea-shores : presently, these vis- 
 cous substances are transmuted to sea-shells, 
 which, in process of time, shoot out beaks and 
 then gradually become furnished with feathers 
 and wings ; being, at last, according to Du Bar- 
 tas, true Scotch barnacles, 
 
 *' Meme corps fut jadis arbre verd, puis vaisseau^ 
 Nagueres champignon, at maintenant oiseau!" 
 
 For two hours, that seemed to Stanisforth im- 
 mortal, though he betrayed no impatience, did 
 Senhor Jose Alves hold forth on the treasures of 
 information to be found in his Thresor de Cartes^ 
 which seemed to be the only book in the world he 
 knew any thing about, except one or two works 
 in Portuguese, that he promised to show Sta- 
 
86 THE SISTERS 
 
 nisforthj as rich repositories of remarkable facts 
 and choice miracles. " But/' said he, suddenly 
 checking himself, '^ you would take no interest 
 in such books, having no behef in the mysteries 
 of our holy rehgion. How much it is to be 
 lamented that our Enghsh friends who come 
 hither to fight in our good cause, and whom we 
 love so well, are all sure to go to hell ; and that 
 those who are so kind as to die in battle for us, 
 only arrive there so much the sooner than if they 
 staid peaceably at home. Is it not a woful con- 
 sideration, captain ? '' continued he, regarding 
 him with good-natured compassion. 
 
 ^' Undoubtedly,*' answered Stanisforth, " if 
 such be really the case. But, are you quite 
 certain that we are all such unbelievers? And, 
 if you are, are you quite sure of your right to 
 condemn us to eternal perdition ?"' 
 
 ^^ Alas,'' replied he of the Thresor de Cartes^ 
 '^ it is not I, it is our holy and infallible church 
 that condemns you ; but, paciencia T'' and with 
 this comfortable ejaculation he retired, appa- 
 rently unconscious how unmercifully he had put 
 Stanisforth 's paciencia to the test. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 87 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, during which 
 nothing noticeable occurred, Stanisforth's door 
 being accidentally ajar, he overheard part of a 
 conversation between Senhor Coelho and a per- 
 son whom he could not doubt to be his wife. 
 He and Wilmot were the subject of discourse, 
 and Senhor Coelho was liberal in his praises of 
 both. " But," said he, " que pena que nao sad 
 Christaos! What a pity they are heretics !" 
 
 ^' Qiie pena que nao sad Christaos ! What a 
 pity they are heretics V said the lady, exactly in 
 her husband'^s words. 
 
 " Siy siy estes Inglezes sad tad bnnitos^'''' said 
 the senhor ; " mas que pena que nao tenhad 
 almas. True, true ; those Englishmen are so 
 handsome ; what a pity they have no souls !**' 
 
 '^ Si^ si^ estes Inglezes sad tao honitos^'' echoed 
 the senhora ; ^' mas que p^na que nad tenhad 
 almas. True, true ; those Englishmen are so 
 handsome ; what a pity they have no souls !'' 
 
 Stanisforth smiled. ^^ That is a mistake/' 
 thought he, ^^ in relation to me, at least ; for I 
 am neither handsome nor a heretic : and as to 
 my friend, the major, though he is a protestant, 
 I think he has a soul.**^ 
 
88 THE SISTERS 
 
 The next day being Sunday, he watched for 
 the moment at which the ladies saUied forth for 
 the parish church, and followed them to mass ; 
 at which, to the astonishment and gratification 
 of the Abbade, whose curate officiated, and of 
 Senhor Coelho and his wife, who observed him 
 narrowly, he demeaned himself with the most or- 
 thodox propriety, kneeling and rising and making 
 the sign of the cross at the prescribed times, with- 
 out looking about him at all, and being evidently 
 perfectly informed of the ceremonies of the ser- 
 vice. The reader will recollect that he was the 
 son of a Roman Catholic peer, and he had been 
 brought up strictly in his father^s creed, though 
 he sometimes availed himself of a soldier's dis- 
 pensation from the rule of abstinence from flesh 
 meat on certain days. 
 
 When he returned from the church he found 
 all the family assembled, ladies included, radiant 
 with smiles ! He made his bow to the senhora, a 
 stately, magnificent, dame of about forty, whose 
 deference to her much older husband was made 
 whimsically remarkable by her repetition of his 
 words whenever she spoke at all, which was not 
 
OF THE DOURO. 89 
 
 often, in his presence, for she did not seem to 
 pretend to any ideas of her own. He glanced at 
 the two sisters, whose frightful hoods had almost 
 hid them from view in walking, and perceived 
 that Leonora was nearly as lovely as Francisca, 
 and very like her. The Abbade came in, and, 
 embracing him, exclaimed with exultation — 
 " Elle e mais catolico que nos I He is more a 
 catholic than ourselves !'' and he embraced him 
 again. 
 
 Stanisforth was now in high favour, and they 
 all entreated him to convert his friend the major ; 
 an attempt, however, which he did not mean to 
 make, for he knew that it would be labour lost, 
 even with the co-operating eloquence of the four 
 black eyes. 
 
 Major Wilmot, having returned from the Sun- 
 day morning's parade, where, in default of a 
 chaplain, he had read prayers to his officers and 
 men, was not a little surprised to find the ladies 
 present, and on such good terms with Stanisforth ; 
 who, on his side, was highly diverted by the ma- 
 jor's puzzled looks. But Wilmot was not long 
 in the dark. 
 
90 THE SISTERS 
 
 " How does it happen that you are a Catholic, 
 Captain Stanisforth ?'' said Senhor Coelho; "- I 
 think I understood that you are not an Irish- 
 man, and I have heard that there are few Catho- 
 lies in England." 
 
 Stanisforth explained that the body of English 
 catholics was by no means so inconsiderable as he 
 supposed it, and related just enough of his own 
 family history to convince the inquirer that there 
 were persons of high rank in England who ad- 
 hered to the ancient faith. 
 
 '' So !'' said Senhor Coelho, with evident satis- 
 faction, " you are the son of an English peer — 
 very respectable. But I am not surprised to hear 
 it ; your look denotes it.'^ 
 
 '' Yes,'' said his wife ; " the senhor's look de- 
 notes it.'' 
 
 The young ladies said nothings but, perhaps, 
 like the boy's dumb magpie, they thought the 
 more : for even Leonora now cast a doubly com- 
 placent look on the English peer's son. Fran- 
 ciscans eyes blazed with fond triumph. Women 
 are all aristocrats. 
 
 " Perhaps you are not aware,'' continued 
 
OF THE DOURO. 91 
 
 Senhor Coelho, " that we too are of an ancient 
 race, and of a name as distinguished as most of 
 the names of mark in Portugal. We are of an 
 historical family 5 sir ; an historical family : none 
 of your upstarts of yesterday. I tell my children 
 that they are not worms of the earth .'^^ 
 
 ^^ Yes/' said their mother, ^' we tell our chil- 
 dren that they are not worms of the earth ."^^ 
 
 By the subsequent conversation, or rather dis- 
 sertation, of the old gentleman, Stanisforth per- 
 ceived that Senhor Coelho was not only very 
 proud of his ancestry, but that he was deeply 
 versed in Portuguese genealogy; the dry details 
 of which he seasoned with so much curious na- 
 tive literature and le^endarv anecdote, that never 
 was the garrulity of age on its favourite topic 
 less tedious. Stanisforth listened with curiosity 
 strongly excited, particularly by the references 
 to old Portuguese poets and historians, most of 
 whom he had never even heard of, but an ac- 
 quaintance with whose works he now resolved to 
 make on every opportunity. 
 
 That a still more interesting possessor of such 
 lore than Senhor Coelho might perhaps, with a 
 
92 THE SISTERS 
 
 little address, be drawn out, and was within his 
 view, in the person of the lovely Francisca, he 
 was far from discovering on this occasion; though 
 her animated and intelligent features showed that 
 she followed her father's train of thought with 
 lively pleasure. It is very rarely, indeed, that 
 Portuguese ladies receive such an education as is 
 likely to make them conversant with such sub- 
 jects ; but Senhor Coelho, having a turn for lite- 
 rary pursuits, had taken no small pains to make 
 his daughters congenial associates for himself, 
 and he had been rewarded with some success. 
 
 Captain Stanisforth, finding that his attendance 
 at mass had so ingratiated him with this worthy 
 family, thought it an auspicious juncture for a 
 request to them that he and his friend, Wilmot, 
 might not thenceforth be deprived of the society 
 of the ladies, and that they would institute a re- 
 form in that respect, by being of the party at 
 dinner that very day. Senhor Coelho made 
 several objections on the score of Portuguese 
 customs ; but they were feebly made, and still 
 more feebly echoed, by his gracious parrot- 
 spouse, while the laughing Abbade decidedly 
 
OF THE DOURO. 93 
 
 1. 
 
 urged compliance. Stanisforth was of their reli 
 gion, and the son of a noble ; weighty conside- 
 rations with even the most single-minded of pa- 
 rents ; the order of the day was changed, and 
 thenceforward the intercourse between the two 
 officers and the ladies was almost as little re- 
 stricted as even Stanisforth could have desired. 
 
94 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the story does not advance one step, and which 
 may therefore be ^^ skipped" by young ladies with ad- 
 vautage. 
 
 It was on the following morning, while Major 
 Wilraot was gone on duty to Mezao Frio, and 
 while there was a most fortunate absence of 
 visiters for several hours, that Captain Stanis- 
 forth first acquired some adequate notion of the 
 intellectual character of Francisca. As he was 
 lounging in front of the house, he saw the ladies 
 at their balcony, and asked permission to pay 
 his respects to them there, which was readily 
 granted. 
 
 A French viol lay upon a table in the room. 
 He asked her whether she played upon that in- 
 strument. 
 
 " No,'" said she ; " I prefer the guitar, which, 
 however, is much the same thing ; and neither of 
 them produces very effective music. But that is 
 
OF THE DOURO. 95 
 
 ' Leonora'^s viol ; she has lately taken a fancy for 
 
 it, and really touches it very delicately •""' 
 
 ^' Do you sing, Senhora Dona Francisca P^*^ 
 
 ^' Oh, yes; almost all Portuguese ladies sing, 
 ill or well/' 
 
 " Would it be too much to ask you to favour 
 me with a modinha ?'' 
 
 '' Not at all ; I will sing for you with plea- 
 sure, if Leonora will accompany me on her viol. 
 But it shall not be a modinha." 
 
 " What shall I play?'' said the sister. 
 
 ^' Figuaredes emhora^'' was the reply. 
 
 Thus accompanied, Francisca sung, and sung 
 delightfully. But neither the air nor the words 
 were known to Stanisforth. The latter, indeed, 
 were absolutely unintelligible to him. He in- 
 quired in what language she had been singing. 
 
 '^ You may well put that question,'' said Fran- 
 cisca, smiling ; ^^ it has puzzled antiquarians." 
 
 '^ But what is it.?" 
 
 '^ It is the farewell of a lover to his mistress, 
 in old Portuguese. You do not know the story 
 of my ancestor, Egaz Moniz Coelho, cotempo- 
 rary of Gonzalo Hermiguez. These knights are 
 
96 THE SISTERS 
 
 the earliest of the known lyric poets of Portugal ; 
 their two or three short cantigas being the most 
 ancient lyrical compositions extant among us. 
 Egaz flourished in the reign of Affbnzo I/' 
 
 " And he was your ancestor ?'' 
 
 '' So we are told ; and my father says that 
 two old family escutcheons, which he will show 
 yoUj prove it. I am little versed in heraldry, 
 but I believe that he was our ancestor ; and, if 
 it be an error, neither Leonora nor I would be 
 undeceived for the world. '^ 
 
 " My faith in the fact is too firm to be shaken,^' 
 said Leonora. 
 
 " But his story ? " said Stanisforth. " Was 
 he the same Egaz Moniz who was tutor to the 
 Prince, Dom Affonso Henriques, and whom 
 Camoens describes as the very model of a good 
 and chivalrous knight ?'' 
 
 '' No ; he has been confounded with him ; but 
 he was the cousin of that celebrated hero, and 
 his own story is hardly less remarkable. He was 
 a gallant warrior, a fervent poet, and a true and 
 constant lover. He was enamoured of Dona 
 Violante, or Briolante, as he calls her, a beautiful 
 
OF THE DOURO. 97 
 
 lady, one of the maids of honour to the queen 
 Mafalda ; and his affection was encouraged. 
 Being obliged to leave Canavezes, where the 
 court was then held, on a mission to Coimbra, 
 where he was likely to be detained a considerable 
 time, he wrote, and sent to his mistress, the 
 parting song which you have heard.'' 
 
 " Will you be good enough to tell me its 
 meaning, for I could hardly comprehend a syl- 
 lable of it;' 
 
 '' Nor should we, if my father, after puzzling 
 at it himself for a long time, had not taught us 
 what he supposes to be its signification ; for of 
 some passages he is doubtful even now. This is 
 his version. 
 
 I give you greeting, lady, but in sorrow, for 
 I am going hence for a weary season. 
 
 Yet it is not I that am going, but only that 
 which seems to be my living form ; for my lieart 
 remains lifeless at your feet. 
 
 If you think then that I depart, undeceive 
 yourself; for I still linger about you, and you 
 do not see it. 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 THE SISTERS 
 
 You are the resting-place of my love, which 
 in you is buried — in you whose beautiful tresses 
 the day is fond to gaze on. 
 
 I should weep were I to recount all the pains 
 that I have endured since the commencement of 
 my passion for you : but these eyes must not 
 indulge in such weakness. 
 
 Yet, while I go to the Mondego (and go I 
 must), may some loathsome pest consume my 
 eyes if I go with a good- will. 
 
 Such are the torments within me raging, that 
 if the cold grave be, as it is said, a cure for love 
 in anguish, I would that I were dead. 
 
 Violante, your truth must shine as clearly as 
 the light, or dark will you find me, and stormy. 
 
 If you prove faithless, God be my refuge ! I 
 burn, already ! heap not fire on fire. 
 
 Do not, do not forsake me, I implore you ! 
 You who are so beautiful. If you fail me, 
 Chfiste eleison ! Christ have mercy on my soul ! 
 
 '' That is the song, or something like it. 
 What do you think of it. Captain Stanisforth ?"' 
 ^^ It is spiritual and impassioned. There is 
 
OF THE DOURO. 99 
 
 an old English song, exceedingly like the first 
 part of it, and just as metaphysical, though, per- 
 haps, more strained and less earnest. It was 
 written near the close of the sixteenth century, 
 about three hundred and fifty years after the 
 time of your Egaz Moniz. 
 
 Soul's joy, now I am gone. 
 
 And you alone, 
 
 (Which cannot be, 
 
 Since I must leave myself with thee), 
 
 Yet when unto our eyes 
 
 Absence denies 
 
 Each other's sight. 
 
 And makes to us a constant night ; 
 
 O give no way to grief. 
 
 But let belief 
 
 Of mutual love 
 
 This wonder to the vulgar prove. 
 
 Our bodies, not we, move. 
 
 Stanisforth gave the sense in Portuguese, on 
 which Leonora and Francisca both objected that 
 it must have been stolen from their knight. 
 
 " That is just possible/' replied he ; " for the 
 author, John Donne, who was afterwards dean of 
 our great church of St. Paul's in London, accom- 
 panied the Earl of Essex in the expedition against 
 
 r2 
 
100 THE SISTERS 
 
 Cadiz, in 1596^ and remained some time in Spain, 
 where he might have heard or seen the cantiga of 
 your ancestor. But I suspect, though he was then 
 a very young man, that he had already made his 
 song, while a student at the University, or at his 
 chambers in Lincoln'^s Inn, where it was unlikely 
 that the Portuguese should have fallen in his 
 way. Besides, it is very improbable that, even 
 if it had, he would have stooped to pilfer. Donne 
 was too rich in wit to condescend to such petty 
 larceny. Such was the subtlety of his imagina- 
 tion, and his power of combining the most fan- 
 tastical notions, and bending them to his pur- 
 pose, when he fashioned his strange love-verses, 
 that it has been characteristically said of him, 
 
 ^' ^ There Donne, whose Muse on dromedary trots. 
 Is twisting pokers into true love-knots.' 
 
 But, unlike your knight, it is his head, not his 
 heart, that seems to dictate his amatory con- 
 ceits. " 
 
 ^' But why does his muse ride a dromedary ?'^ 
 said Francisca. " Our poets^ or their muses, 
 ride winged horses." 
 
 " Because his verse is so rough ; his rhythm 
 
OF THE DOURO. 101 
 
 is so rugged and disjointed^ that his lines are 
 probably harsher to our ears, than those much 
 more ancient ones of Egaz Moniz are to your^s, 
 if, indeed, those can be harsh which you have 
 contrived to modulate to such flowing harmony. 
 But how did the lady Violante behave after such 
 an anxious parting admonition P'^ 
 
 '^ Ah, that is a sad tale,'' said Francisca ; 
 " the knight's fears were prophetic. On his re- 
 turn from the banks of the Mondego, he found 
 his false beauty married to a Castilian gentleman 
 of Queen Dona Mafalda's court. This infidelity 
 so weighed upon his heart, that he actually died 
 of sorrow, but not before he had sent her another 
 and a more aff*ecting farewell. It ran thus. 
 
 Rest you now contented, my treasure of gold. 
 Be happy, for you may see that I am dying. 
 
 Call to mind, I charge you, that you were my 
 well-beloved, and that from me you never suf- 
 fered wrong. 
 
 You have changed your love ; rejected Por- 
 tugal for Castile. What pang is this that seizes 
 
 me ! 
 
* 102 ^ THE SISTERS 
 
 You have discarded me for the Castilian. 
 Pest and fury ! You have fooled me with twenty 
 treasons. 
 
 See me dying, see me dying, Violante ! But 
 avaunt so sinister an augury from you ! 
 
 May you live prosperously to a far old age ; 
 though the thirty mournful masses for the souPs 
 repose must be so early chanted for me. 
 
 ^Tis even so ; and if ever I again in this life 
 present myself to your notice, you may say — 
 '^ See, Egaz Moniz still in quest of pleasures V 
 
 When you hear the death-bell toll from yonder 
 belfry-tower, you may then revolve in your mind 
 all that you have made me suffer. 
 
 And whenever you hear the funeral-bell here- 
 after, remember that it has already knelled the 
 corse of Egaz Moniz. 
 
 Do not forget that he fondly loved you ; and 
 how fondly ! and that he never, never, in the 
 smallest thing, did you a displeasure. 
 
 I can say no more; I gasp for breath ; what 
 my condition is, you well may guess. For you 
 drove the lance well home into my breast ; while 
 I saw and heard you in my heart. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 103 
 
 My hour is come. Laugh now, my love; 
 laugh, laugh, and take your pleasure. 
 
 " Poor knight !'' said Stanisforth ; ^' that is 
 still more touching than the other. So much 
 bitterness, tenderness^ generosity, and sarcasm. 
 How did the lady bear it ?'' 
 
 " Grievously enough, to do her justice; for, 
 after the perusal of that letter, she fell into a 
 stupor, and did not survive her victim many 
 days. It was suspected that she had hastened 
 her end by poison ; but I am unwilling to believe 
 it ; grief for such a lover might well kill her^ 
 especially if, as was probably the case, she had 
 married the Castilian against her own will, and 
 at the instances of her friends, and even of the 
 Queen Mafi^lda, who was herself a Castilian. "^"^ 
 
 '^ Where did you get the two cantigas, and 
 those particulars .^^^ 
 
 '^ My father transcribed them from an old 
 writing at the famous Bsiiwlii^iwe monastery of 
 
 Santa Cruz at Coimbra, where there are many 
 rare books and manuscripts. * The cantigas 
 
 * Transferred, in 1834, to the Public Library at Porto. 
 
104 THE SISTERS 
 
 were printed in the Europa Portugueza of Faria 
 y Sousa, but apparently from another copy, for 
 there are many variations, though few that are 
 less obscure than the words in our copy, for 
 which they are substituted.''^ 
 
 '' You mentioned a knight who was brother- 
 in-arms, and brother-lyrist to Egaz.**^ 
 
 " Yes; Gonzalo Hermiguez. The only relic 
 of him which I have heard of, is a random sort 
 of strain, that seems to be addressed to his wife ; 
 and which has often been pronounced by reason- 
 able persons to be without any sense. Thus it 
 runs : but I will write it ; and even so, I am sure 
 it will puzzle you. Here it is.**' 
 
 Stanisforth received the scrap of paper, on 
 which Francisca had copied what follows. 
 
 Tinhe rabos nom tinhe rabos 
 
 Tal a tal ca monta 
 
 Tinhe radesme nom tinhe radesme 
 
 De la vinherasdes de ca filharedes 
 
 Ca amabia tudo em soma 
 Per mil goyvos trebalhando 
 
 Oy, oy, vos lombrego 
 
 Algorem se cada folganpa 
 
 Asmey eu porque de terrenho 
 
 Nom ha hi tal perchego. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 105 
 
 " I cannot make out a line of it/' said Stanis* 
 forth. 
 
 '' No wonder,**' replied the young lady, " for 
 it has perplexed our shrewdest interpreters. But 
 my father lately became possessed of an old and 
 rare book, in which this cantiga is printed, with 
 marginal explanations of a few of the words, by 
 the aid of which he thinks he has made it out. 
 We will get him to give you his version in mo- 
 dern Portuguese. But I tire you with this sub- 
 ject. Perhaps we attach more importance to 
 those two cantigas, which I have translated to 
 you, than is their due, because we have a family 
 interest in them 3 but they are all three really 
 curious, as the oldest relics of Portuguese lyrical 
 verse/' 
 
 ^' You are far from tiring me ; but I admire 
 your acquaintance with subjects so remote from 
 the ordinary track of female inquiry. In Eng- 
 land you would be set down as a Blue Stocking, 
 and innocent young gentlemen and ladies would 
 shudder at you as at something beautifully 
 dreadful.'' 
 
 " Oh, I am but the echo of my father. I know 
 
 r 5 
 
106 THE SISTERS 
 
 nothing but what I have learned from him, and 
 that, alas, i» little enough. But I thought the 
 English ladies were so much better educated than 
 we are. Can it be a reproach among you that 
 women should cultivate their minds ?" 
 
 " Why, the truth is, that Fashion, our blind 
 despotic queen, commands our ladies to hide 
 what they know, after infinite pains have been 
 taken to instruct them ; they therefore affect to 
 be fools, though they are often far from being 
 so ignorant as they pretend to be. The Scotch 
 ladies are in this respect superior to the EngHsh, 
 for they are not so much taught ' to hide their 
 light under a bushel,' so that they are often more 
 agreeable in society than their neighbours. But 
 I need not praise them, for Scotchmen are said 
 to be the loudest and most persevering trum- 
 peters of themselves, and all that belongs to them. 
 But to return to your nation : we English are, 
 with few exceptions, Uttle acquainted with Por- 
 tuofuese hterature, and none less so than I ; how 
 grateful I should be if you would condescend to 
 give me a little instruction." 
 
 '^ Oh, my father must do that. I tell you, 
 
OF THE DOURO. lOJ 
 
 Senhor, I have no voice on these subjects but as 
 the mocking-bird of the American savannahs. 
 I only repeat the notes of others/' 
 
 '^ Pardon me, then,'' said Stanisforth; *^ I have 
 trespassed on your patience/' 
 
 '' Not at all ; Leonora and I will teach you 
 all the little we know, but we will dismiss you if 
 you are inattentive to your lessons/^ 
 
 ^' Agreed ; there is little chance of my incur- 
 ring the punishment. Shall we begin now ?" 
 
 " Now, if you like; but I shall make a sorry 
 schoolmistress/* 
 
 ''* First be so good as to give me a brief account 
 of your most admired authors, for we hardly 
 know the name of any but Camoens/^ 
 
 " Then I think you have much good fruit to 
 gather. We have many excellent writers ; ex- 
 cuse my national vanity ; I suppose you Great 
 Britons are quite free from such a blemish. We 
 pretend to rival the Ancients, of whom, by the 
 bye, I know nothing but the names. Bernardim 
 Ribeyro is our Ennius; Saa de Miranda our 
 Theocritus, and much more ; Gil Vicente our 
 Plautus and Terence ; Camoens our Homer ; 
 
108 THE SISTERS 
 
 Antonio Ferreira our Horace ; Rodriguez Lobo 
 our Cicero in his prose, our Virgil in his pastoral 
 verse ; Fra Fructuoso is our Martial ; Joam de 
 Barros is our Livy ; Affonso d' Albuquerque, 
 though not the historian of his own, but of his 
 father's exploits, our Caesar ; Gonzaga, the Bra- 
 zilian, our Anacreon ; Antonio Diniz our Pin- 
 dar ; Pedro Antonio Correa Gar9am our second 
 Horace ; Father Paulino is our Propertius ; and 
 so I might go on till you would be dazzled with 
 the galaxy.'' 
 
 " Bravo ! I shall be happier than any as- 
 tronomer : these are almost all new stars to 
 
 me/' 
 
 " But we claim competition, too, with moderns. 
 Jorge Ferreira de Vasconjellos is our Shake- 
 speare." 
 
 " Halt there," cried Stanisforth, smiling ; '' I 
 cannot allow that. There has not been, is not, 
 and never will be, a second Shakespeare in the 
 world.**' 
 
 '' Ha, ha ! I am much obliged to you for that ; 
 it relieves me from the fear of being condemned 
 for boasting, like the Scotch, whom you just now 
 
OF THE DOURO. 109 
 
 Stepped out of your way to censure. I see we are 
 all alike ; all our geese are swans.*^^ 
 
 " But the Swan of Avon is the true vara avis^ 
 the matchless bird. Besides, if the English and 
 Portuguese will have their geese swans, the Scotch 
 will have their ducks swans, which is too pre- 
 posterous.*^" 
 
 '' I know nothing about the Scotch ; but I 
 suspect that they must be worth knowing, for 
 you are jealous of them/' 
 
 " Perhaps so. What has Vascon9ellos written T'' 
 
 ^' All that is left of him are three admirable 
 comedies, in prose — the Aulegrafia, Euphrosina, 
 and Olysippe. The severe censorship of the In- 
 quisition has destroyed much of our dramatic 
 wealth. Oh, I forgot ; there are also extant, by 
 Vasconjellos, a New Romance of the Round 
 Table, a Dialogue on the Glory of Solomon, and, 
 I believe, a work called Peregrino^ which is, if 
 extant, still in manuscript.'' 
 
 " When did he hve ?'' 
 
 '^ In the sixteenth century." 
 
 " But let us begin at the beginning, if you 
 please."*^ 
 
1 10 THE SISTERS 
 
 " Well, then ; we were in the twelfth century.'' 
 
 '^ Yes ; you were speaking of Gonzalo Her- 
 miguez ; who was he ?'' 
 
 " He was, like his cotemporary, Egaz Moniz, 
 a personage of distinguished race ; but all that 
 remains of his composition is that fragment which 
 you have seen." 
 
 " And which seems all jargon,^' observed Sta- 
 nisforth. 
 
 " So say our own critics. But my father, 
 who was curious about the brother-bard of our 
 Egaz Moniz, flatters himself that he has pene- 
 trated the heart of the mystery ; but he owns that, 
 after all, there is not much in it. You shall judge 
 for yourself by and by. I can give you no more 
 of that early date, nor can I say any thing of the 
 thirteenth century, nor of the Cancioneiros of 
 King Diniz, which are said to be in manuscript; 
 where, I know not. But Vasco de Lobeira, the 
 author of the renowned romance of Amadis de 
 Gaul, lived about the end of the thirteenth cen- 
 tury, and died about 1325.'' 
 
 '' Are you sure that romance is of Portuguese 
 origm r 
 
OF THE DOURO. Ill 
 
 " I see no reason to doubt it ; besides, I have 
 Portuguese faith. In the fourteenth century we 
 have three royal poets : Aiffbnso IV. , his son 
 Pedro 1.5 the latter the fond stern lover and hus- 
 band of poor Inez de Castro. Alas ! for our 
 hard-hearted ancestor, Coelho ! he was her mur- 
 derer ; that is a terrible blot on our escutcheon.'''' 
 
 " Don't talk of that/' said Leonora, hastily. 
 '^ You have forgotten the other poetical son of 
 AfFonso IV., Affonso Sanchez.'' 
 
 " True ; but neither his verses nor his father's 
 are^ I believe, preserved. But the songs of the 
 royal lover of Inez are to be found in Garcia de 
 Resende's Cancioneiro, which is, however, a very 
 rare work. The Cancioneiro Geral, too, is said 
 to contain some poems of the fourteenth century, 
 with the author's names, but I have not seen that 
 miscellany. In prose, we have the chronicle of 
 Nun Alvarez Pereira, our famous Condestahre. 
 The fifteenth century was in Portugal, as in 
 Spain, the period during which the greatest 
 number of the old national songs and romances 
 were produced. Our neighbours, the Galicians, 
 were then, perhaps, the most romantic and senti- 
 
112 THE SISTERS 
 
 mental people in the world. I should like to tell 
 you the story of the Galician poet and knight, 
 Macias, styled ' the Enamoured and the Great/ 
 It is remarkable.''" 
 
 ^^ It will, no doubt, be a charming digression,'' 
 said Stanisforth. 
 
 The young lady hesitated, " But no, I will 
 not digress. You are, by your own account, 
 in your A B C of our native literature. Let us 
 attend to that." 
 
 " I will attend to any thing that you deign to 
 teach me/' 
 
 " What a docile pupil ! Leonora, give him 
 some sweetmeats." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear sister; go on. We are 
 now coming to the sixteenth century ; that is the 
 era of our literary glory." 
 
 ''^ True," resumed Francisca. '' There is Ber- 
 nardim Ribeiro ; he was mogo fidalgo, groom of 
 the chambers, to King Emanuel. We have his 
 works here. You must read them. If you can 
 get through his four eclogues, your patience will 
 not be unrewarded ; they are the most ancient 
 bucolics preserved in Spain, and beautiful in 
 
OF THE DOURO. 113 
 
 spite of repetitions that weary. His prose ro- 
 mance, Menina e Moca, the Young Maiden, or 
 the Melancholy Reveries of Ribeiro, is a most 
 curious, tedious, and mystified, yet eloquent and 
 tender, history of the romantic author'^s feelings 
 and love-adventures, under the disguise of feigned 
 names, and a labyrinth of involutions ; for he 
 dared not to express himself clearly — the matter 
 was too dangerous. The aspiring heart of this 
 enthusiast soared, like Tasso'^s, at lofty game, but 
 his caution preserved him from a similar doom ; 
 and the Menina e Mo^a was not even published 
 till after his death. No less a person than the 
 daughter of his king, the Infanta Dona Beatrice, 
 was the object of his passion. He would often 
 pass his lonely nights in wandering in the forest, 
 venting his despair in song, with no listeners but 
 the winds and waters. It was, possibly, on one 
 of these occasions, that he witnessed, by one of 
 our glorious moonlights, a little sylvan incident, 
 which he very delicately relates. 
 
 " ' I had not,"* says he, ' been long pausing in 
 this mournful mood, when I saw a nightingale 
 perch upon a bough that hung over a brook, and 
 
114 THE SISTERS 
 
 it began singing so richly, that I listened with 
 entranced attention ; and it went on with its 
 passionate music, still increasing the force of its 
 pathetic tones^ till, as if exhausted, its voice lan- 
 guished to a murmuring cadence ; but then again 
 it raised its notes as powerfully as before. At 
 last, poor little rapturous bird, in the very midst 
 of song, it fell dead into the stream, carrying 
 down with it many of the fresh young leaves. 
 Such a disastrous chance seemed a sad omen in 
 that lonely grove. The little bird and the green 
 leaves floated down the current together, and I 
 would have snatched it up, but the swiftness of 
 the stream hurried it from my sight, behind the 
 intervening bushes at a turn of the water, just 
 below. It so touched me to witness the sudden 
 fate of the feathered melodist, who was singing so 
 earnestly but a moment before, that I could not 
 repress my tears.' 
 
 '^ After all, this fervid spirit was sobered down 
 to a rational domestic character, by marriage 
 with a lady of his own rank ; and he is reported 
 to have been a good and attached husband, though 
 his wife was not handsome, and in spite of certain 
 
OF THE DOURO. 115 
 
 occasional aberrations of his rause, in which he 
 pretends to be inconstant. His wife died while 
 he was yet in the prime of lifcj and he cherished 
 her memory in singleness for the rest of his 
 days. 
 
 '' In the writings of Bernardim Ribeiro there 
 is little or nothing that can be called sublime j 
 but they breathe the very genius of melancholy 
 tenderness. 
 
 '' Christovam Falcam also flourished in Ri- 
 beiro'^s time, and was a poet of eminent reputa- 
 tion. He was a gentleman of birth, and loved 
 the fair Maria Brandon, whose family claim to 
 be of royal English lineage. Under the name 
 of Crisfal he wrote a long and much admired 
 eclogue on his love, and so won the heart of his 
 lofty beauty. ' A Dryad,' he says, ' who over- 
 heard his songs, carved the choicest thoughts on 
 the bark of a young poplar, saying that her in- 
 tention in inscribing them there was, that with 
 the growth of the tree they might rise above the 
 reach of abject eyes. He married his Maria 
 clandestinely, for which, at the instance of her 
 incensed relations, he suffered durance for no less 
 
116 THE SISTERS 
 
 a term than five years ; and he beguiled part of 
 his captivity by composing lyrics in honour of his 
 stolen bride. He was afterwards distinguished 
 by the favour of his king, honoured with the 
 Order of Christ, and made an admiral of the fleet 
 and governor of Madeira. 
 
 " But now we come to still more illustrious 
 names. 
 
 '' Of Gil Vicente, our earliest and most famous 
 dramatist, I can say little ; for I know nothing 
 about his works, and next to nothing about him- 
 self. He is said to be the parent of the Spanish 
 drama, an honour which the Spaniards refuse 
 him in favour of their own Torres Naharro, who 
 was, however, his contemporary ; and, as the 
 matter is dubious, I would by no means give up 
 his claim, if my countrymen were less strangely 
 indifferent about it. Erasmus learned Portu- 
 guese on purpose to read Gil Vicente, whose 
 fame was European ; yet, to the Portuguese of 
 the nineteenth century, our countryman's works 
 are as a sealed letter \'^' only two or three copies 
 
 * And so they continued to be till the year 1834, when, 
 from the copy at Gottingen, two spirited young Portuguese 
 
OF THE DOURO. llj 
 
 are known in the world, I believe. My father, 
 who has energy in such researches, has read some 
 of his numerous productions in the only copy in 
 Portugal, at the royal library at Lisbon ; there 
 is another at Rio Janeiro, in the possession of the 
 king; and the university of Gottingen is reported 
 to have a third. His collected works were pub- 
 lished after his death by his son Luis ; and of 
 his daughter Paula, whose beauty and accom- 
 plishments were of celebrity in her day, an in- 
 teresting account may be found in a volume that 
 we will shew you — Dieze''s edition of Velasquez. 
 It is supposed that Gil Vicente was born in 1470, 
 and died about 1536 ; but the dates are not 
 certified. 
 
 " Saa de Miranda, who was also of a noble 
 family, was born at Coimbra in 1495, and died 
 
 o^entlemen^ Senhors Barreto Feio and J. G. Monteiro, 
 transcribed^ with their own hands, all Gil Vicente's works, 
 and published them in three volumes, at Hamburg, 1834; 
 a patriotic service, for which their country should hold them 
 in honour. Gil Vicente's comedy abounds in wit and 
 humour, and is exceedingly curious, but much of it is too 
 coarse and extravagant for polite taste. The Aut0s are 
 by far the best of his productions. 
 
118 THE SISTERS 
 
 in 1559. He^ too, like Gil Vicente, was brought 
 up to the civil law, which, like him, he speedily 
 abandoned for the muses when he became his 
 own master. He went to Spain, where he culti- 
 vated the Castilian language, in which too much 
 of his poetry was afterwards written ; so that he 
 is more a Spanish than a Portuguese poet. He 
 likewise travelled a good deal in Italy, and Ita- 
 lianized his taste to a degree of elegance then 
 uncommon in his native land, to which, however, 
 he returned, and where he became a favourite at 
 court. He was of a sensitive and rather morbid 
 temperament, and would often weep without any 
 obvious cause, even in company ; and he was of 
 such an absent and pensive mind, that he would 
 sit mute and musing for hours when among 
 friends, and even strangers. Though he was of 
 a gentle temper, a dispute with a nobleman, who 
 was too powerful to be called to personal account, 
 caused him to leave the court of Lisbon, and to 
 retreat to his own estate of Tapada, near Ponte 
 de Lima, in our district of Entre Douro e Minho, 
 in which delicious country, and in the bosom of 
 his family, he gave himself up to poetry, philo- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 119 
 
 sophy, music, and agriculture ; frequently, how- 
 ever, laying aside these peaceful employments to 
 assist in the chase of the wolf, a manly exercise 
 in which he delishted/' 
 
 " What has he written in Portuguese?" 
 " A few moderate sonnets 3 the prettiest of 
 canzonets on Psyche ; two rather tame eclogues ; 
 several letters in verse, one of which, addressed 
 to King John III., is much admired ; two hymns 
 to the Virgin ; a fine elegy on the death of his 
 son, who was killed in Africa, probably on the 
 18th of April^ 1553, certainly not with Sebas- 
 tian, as it has been conjectured, for Saa de Mi- 
 randa died twenty years before the battle of 
 Alca^er Kibir. He also wrote in his native 
 tongue two comedies in prose, which are, how- 
 ever, not national, being, it is said, excellent 
 imitations of ancient classical models. Most of 
 his pastorals, and by far the best, are in Castilian, 
 though the scene is always laid in Portugal. It 
 is a great regret to us that this elegant and phi- 
 losophical old poet should have chosen a foreign 
 tongue for so many of his valuable compositions. 
 '^ Jorge de Montemayor is also of this era. He 
 
'20 THE SISTERS 
 
 Avas born in ISSO, at Montemor, a small town 
 near Coimbra. He was one of the few of the 
 Portuguese poets of this age who could not boast 
 of a noble origin."' 
 
 " But no one can deny," here interposed 
 Leonora, " that the greater is his glory for 
 having lifted himself to a level with those bright 
 and noble names.'"' 
 
 " Unquestionably,'' continued Francisca; ^^and 
 there seems no doubt his own name was humble, 
 for he suppressed it, and adopted that of his 
 native town, Montemor — and even that he cas- 
 tilianized into Montemayor — indeed, he may be 
 said to belong to the Spaniards more than to his 
 countrymen, for all his works are written in the 
 Spanish language, and therefore I will say little 
 about them, though they are worthy of par- 
 ticular consideration. His Diana, the most cele- 
 brated of them, is also the earliest pastoral 
 romance of Spain, and perhaps the first of 
 Spanish pastorals in merit, though not in method. 
 It contains two Portuguese songs, which are, I 
 believe, the only verses he has left us in his own 
 tongue. The history of his life is curious. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 121 
 
 While yet very young, he entered, or was 
 pressed into, the Portuguese army, in which he 
 served as a private soldier. He had received no 
 education, but nature had endowed him with a 
 genius for poetry and harmony, and that energy 
 of will which now and then makes such gifts 
 available for great results in spite of the want of 
 fortune. How he became released from military 
 service, whether by desertion or discharge, is un- 
 recorded, so far as I know ; but he wandered into 
 Spain, and there his fine talents for instrumental 
 music, aided by a magnificent voice, to which, 
 too, he could adapt his own impassioned verse, 
 soon brought him into a repute so happy as to 
 attract royal notice. The Infant Don Philip, 
 afterwards the second Spanish monarch of that 
 name, the husband of your Queen Mar}^, ad- 
 mitted him into his band of court-musicians, 
 whom he took with him in his travels into Italy, 
 Germany, ^and the Netherlands. But, consi- 
 derable as were the advantages that he must 
 have derived from so easy an introduction into the 
 world, and fortunate as he might have accounted 
 himself under the patronage of the prince, 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 THE SISTERS 
 
 Montemayor left Spain with keen regret, for he 
 was fondly attached to a beautiful Castilian, 
 This lady he had celebrated in many an amorous 
 verse before his departure; and her gratitude, 
 perhaps, or her coquetry, encouraged him to be- 
 lieve that his love was requited. But, on his return 
 from his travels, he found Marfida married. He 
 no doubt considered this the severest of mis- 
 fortunes, yet he owes his brilliant reputation to 
 the disappointment ; for he poured out the an- 
 guish of his mind in prose and verse ; he pro- 
 duced the Pastoral of Diana, and the result was 
 fame, honour, emolument — and the indirect, 
 but not unflattering, tribute, of a thousand 
 imitations. All Spain was charmed with the ro- 
 mantic work, (what pride and pain must his in- 
 constant mistress have felt !) and the Queen of 
 Portugal reclaimed her inspired vassal. He. re- 
 turned to Lisbon, therefore, sure of welcome 
 and distinction among the loftiest of his own 
 land, after having left so glorious an impression 
 of his genius in the country that he had so long 
 adopted. What a contrast between the poor 
 unknown soldier crossing the Portuguese borders, 
 
OF THE DOURO. 123 
 
 in precarious hope of earning sustenance in Spain, 
 and now recrossing the same frontier, regretted by 
 the prince royal and the nobles of the kingdom he 
 quitted, to be received with welcome and respect 
 by the sovereign-lady who had summoned him 
 to her presence in his native country ! But, 
 alas, we lose him here — for all that is recorded 
 of him is, that he met with a violent death about 
 1561 or 1562, but whether in Italy or Portugal 
 is doubtful, for the accounts of him differ on 
 that point. By the bye, he has been incorrectly 
 charged with having copied his Pyramus and 
 Thisbe from Marino. Though inferior to the 
 Diana, it is not at all in the inflated style of the 
 fantastical Italian. 
 
 ^' Antonio Ferreira, another of our first-rate 
 poets, was born at Lisbon in 1528, of an eminent 
 family. It has been asserted that Oporto was 
 his native place. I would gladly believe it, for 
 the honour of our beloved city,but he says himself, 
 in the first epistle of the tenth book of his poems — 
 
 Esta cicade^ em que naci^ fermosa, 
 Esta nobre^ esta chea, esta Lisboa^ 
 Em Africa, Asia, Europa tao famoso. 
 
 g2 
 
124 THE SISTERS 
 
 This fair, noble, populous city, this famous 
 Lisbon^ in which I was born. 
 
 ^' Like Falcara, Vincente, and Miranda, he 
 studied jurisprudence^ and was intended for a 
 public functionary; and, hke them, as soon as 
 he could, he deserted that dry and dusty road to 
 distinction, for the fresh and blooming wilds of 
 imagination. While a student at Coimbra, 
 where he attained, however, the Degree of Doc- 
 tor of Civil Law, he was charmed with the lec- 
 tures of Diogo de Tieve, professor of ancient 
 literature, and fondly attached himself both to 
 the professor and his subject. He read the 
 ancient classical poets with delight, especially 
 Horace, but he loved his own native land and 
 lancTuao^e too well to follow the current fashion 
 of writing: Latin verses. He learned to think in 
 Greek and Latin, but persisted in writing in 
 Portuguese only ; never even in Spanish, for 
 which we thank him. At the university he not 
 only composed, in the intervals between his 
 college exercises, very spiritual and graceful 
 verses ; but he incited others among the imagi- 
 native of his fellow-students to follow his ex- 
 
OF THE DOUEO. 125 
 
 ample, and some of them were so successful that 
 we are to this day proud of Antonio Ferreira's 
 poetical friends and disciples. 
 
 " Thouo-h Saa de Miranda and others discarded 
 our one soft, and sweet, and flexible language, for 
 the stately, or stiff and guttural, Castilian, not so 
 did Ferreira. He was a true Portuguese, and 
 both by practice and precept honoured his 
 native tongue. He inveighed loudly and forcibly 
 against the growing custom, among writers, of 
 excluding their own idiom for that of their neigh- 
 bours, and he made a vow, which he kept, never 
 to write but in Portuguese. His familiar know- 
 ledge of the Greek and Roman classics, the re- 
 fined taste that they had communicated to him, 
 his success in catching their spirit, which almost 
 gives him the air of too close a copyist, the purity 
 of his language, and the wealth with which he 
 adorned it from those classical stores, established 
 his fame among all the frequenters of the court, 
 and all the literary recluses of the college or the 
 convent, the only readers of his day. 
 
 ^' Though he is ever honoured among us as a 
 great name, I suspect he is not much read now ; 
 
126 THE SISTERS 
 
 and some will have it that his Latin predilections 
 have made his style pedantic. My father, no 
 incompetent judge, is not of this opinion, though 
 he admits the probability that Ferreira, but for 
 his extreme reverence for the ancient classics, 
 would have taken bolder flights than he ever 
 did, and that, with less learning, he would have 
 been a still greater poet. 
 
 ^' His sonnets are for the most part cold, 
 though some, to ' the Lady of his Thoughts,' 
 are delicately tender* Several passages of his 
 ecloo:ues are admirable. His odes are said to 
 possess the true Horacian ease and elegance, and 
 to be as philosophical in matter as graceful in 
 manner. His epistles are also much prized ; and 
 his elegy on May has been pronounced exquisite. 
 
 '' As for moral purity, high patriotism, and 
 enthusiastic love of all that is noble and virtuous, 
 every page that he ever wrote bears testimony in 
 his favour. 
 
 " He has left two comedies, Bristo, and the 
 Jealous Man, both valued for their style, though 
 the many long soliloquies are tedious, being more 
 like homilies than the audible musings for which 
 they were intended. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 127 
 
 ^' But the crowning glory of Ferreira is a 
 tragic wreath. His Inez de Castro, though 
 composed so early, and on a subject till then un- 
 approached by Portuguese poets, however com- 
 mon to them since, is still the noblest drama we 
 possess. It is cast in the Grecian mould, and 
 my father says that the chorusses are unsurpassed 
 by the grandest examples of antiquity. The 
 tragedy is far from faultless ; there is not a 
 single scene between Inez and her lover ; and 
 there is some want of action. But what vigorous 
 bursts of sentiment ! For instance, when Inez, 
 in the presence of the king and his three re- 
 morseless counsellors, has her cruel sentence an- 
 nounced to her by the chorus, what does she 
 say ? An inferior writer would have made her 
 immediately break out in lamentations of despair 
 or horror for herself: but, no; the doom she' 
 hears only suggests the dread that her husband, 
 he for whom alone she would live, the only prop 
 of her life, is already no more ; and she asks, 
 ' Is my lord dead ? my prince ?** 
 
 '' Let critics dispute as they will about the 
 greater or smaller degree, if any at all, in which 
 
128 THE SISTERS 
 
 Ferreira may be indebted to the play of the 
 Spanish Dominican, Bermudez, composed on the 
 same subject, about the same time, and bearing, 
 it is pretended, a great likeness to our tragedy 
 in the plot ; let them invidiously point out sus- 
 picious resemblances in Ferreira's drama to pas- 
 sages in the Sophonisba of the Italian Trissino, 
 which it is not clear that he ever saw ; still, every 
 true Portuguese should be proud of Antonio 
 Ferreira, had he written nothing else but this 
 tragedy of Inez de Castro.'' 
 
 Leonora. '^ I think the very name of Inez 
 ought to be unpronounceable by us^ for it is im- 
 possible to separate her image from that of our 
 inhuman ancestor and the dreadful retribution 
 that overtook him." 
 
 '^ Perhaps you are right, Leonora, but, un- 
 happily, it has also inspired the finest and best 
 known poetry in our great national epic, so that, 
 alas, the actors in that catastrophe are painfully 
 immortalised.'' 
 
 ^^ Too true," replied Leonora; '^ but do not 
 dwell on it any longer ; introduce your next poet 
 to Captain Stanisforth." 
 
OF THE DOURO. 129 
 
 " Jeronymo Cortereal was another of the 
 chivah'ous poets of the sixteenth century, and, 
 like most of them, was a gentleman of dis- 
 tinguished birth. In his youth he bore arms in 
 Asia, and served with all the ardour for mili- 
 tary distinction then prevalent among the young 
 fidalgos of Portugal. Several years after his 
 return to his native country, where he married, 
 his martial and poetic spirit was still eager with 
 loyal ambition, and he accompanied Sebastian to 
 Africa, taking with him his son, the heir of his 
 illustrious house. The youth perished with the 
 young king and all the flower of his nobles, in 
 the ruinous catastrophe of AIcajer-el-Kibir, and 
 the unhappy father was made prisoner by the 
 Moorish victors. Being at last liberated, after 
 such sufferings of mind and body as must have 
 tamed his fiery nature, he retired to the romantic 
 solitude of his own home, a beautiful estate near 
 Evora. Here he devoted himself to the muses, 
 and here he received a visit from the haughty 
 usurper of the Portuguese throne, whose feelings, 
 not easily touched, were surprised into admi- 
 ration by the bold precipices and wide prospects 
 
 g5 
 
130 THE SISTERS 
 
 seen from the mansion of the poet. Whether 
 the tribute of laudatory verse with which Cor- 
 tereal, with more pohc}^ than patriotism , greeted 
 his royal visiter, was as favourably appreciated, 
 is unrecorded. 
 
 ^^ You will find a list of CortereaPs productions 
 (as well as of many more of our old authors) 
 in Barboso Machado'^s Bibliotheca Lusitana. 
 Among them is a Spanish epic, the Battle of 
 Lepanto; of this I will say nothing, for it always 
 disturbs me to find so many of my great country- 
 men of this age masquerading their thoughts in 
 the starched language of our neighbours, instead 
 of trusting them in the dress of their own. 
 
 " CortereaPs Cerco de Diu, Siege of Cambayo, 
 is in Portuguese. It is also an epic poem, but 
 not very interesting ; the narrative wants anima- 
 tion, and the poetry is much less rich than the 
 diction ; it is, however, a remarkable literary 
 monument, and contains some striking descrip- 
 tions. But the Shipwreck of Sepulveda, another 
 of his great efforts, is not without some that are 
 even sublime ; and though it wearies by its length, 
 and is insipid when Cupid, and Venus, and Pan, 
 
OF THE DOURO. 131 
 
 and ProteuSj mar the severe truth of a highly 
 tragical story, it has passages of great and pa- 
 thetic strength. Witness the death of the lady 
 Leonora, who, with her husband, Manoel de 
 Souza, on their return from India, was wrecked^ 
 and perished among wild beasts, or as wild 
 savages. Cortereal has described their fate with 
 the fine hand of a master. 
 
 '' Pedro de Andrade Caminha, a gentleman, 
 in the household of Don Edward, brother to 
 John III., was another of the songsters in vogue. 
 He was an intimate friend of Antonio Ferreira, 
 whose taste he shared, but not his genius. He 
 wrote eclogues, epistles in verse, elegies, epitaphs, 
 and epigrams. I fear we must be content to call 
 him only an easy versifier, and, perhaps, the 
 least meritorious of the fashionable poets of his 
 time. 
 
 " But, while so many of the noble and courtly 
 poets of Miranda's school were luxuriating in the 
 smiles of royalty, and flattered with public ap- 
 plause, and for the most part enjoying the pri- 
 vileges of rank and affluence, where was their 
 great cotemporary, the man superior to them 
 
132 THE SISTERS 
 
 all ? Where was Luiz Camoens ? Far from 
 the brilHant court of Lisbon, not one of whose 
 prosperous bards, except Diogo Bernardes, even 
 mentioned him, Camoens, a soldier of fortune in 
 India, acquired a name for valour and adventure 
 long before his intellectual pre-eminence was 
 famous. But why should I tell you his chi- 
 valrous and hapless history, which must be 
 alread}^ so well known to you, and which it 
 should cause the cheeks of every Portuguese to 
 burn with shame to think of. It makes one 
 shudder with indignant disgust but to glance 
 at the fact that the greatest genius that the 
 Pyrennean Peninsula ever produced, struggled 
 through a long agony of life uncheered, save by 
 his own elevated and enduring spirit ; that, 
 where he was not overlooked by the supercilious 
 stupidity of power, he was only noticed to be 
 the victim of official insolence and oppression ; 
 and that he died at last in a common hospital, in 
 the metropolis of his own land, without a friend 
 to close his eyes but the poor creature who had 
 been his servant ; and that faithful noble fellow 
 was one of the despised and injured race of 
 negroes. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 133 
 
 " You are acquainted with the Lusiads. But 
 you must not confine your admiration to his 
 epic work, nor even be content to extend it to 
 his songs. Read his sonnets, his odes, his sex- 
 tains, his octave stanzas, his elegies^ his eclogues, 
 and his three comedies. You will find, in all 
 these, abundant evidences of the wonderful elas- 
 ticity of mind possessed by this most unfortunate 
 and most triumphant of illustrious poetical suf- 
 ferers. 
 
 *^ I have told you that Diogo Bernardes was the 
 only one of the poets in fashion who even noticed 
 the name of Camoens. Do you know any thing 
 about him. Captain Stanisforth ?"'' 
 
 '^ I never even heard his name till you spoke 
 of him.'' 
 
 " Yet he is one of the sweetest minstrels of 
 our land, and his history is not devoid of in- 
 terest. We of the northern provinces ought to 
 be especially proud of him, for he is our own. 
 He was born at Ponte de Lima, and is therefore 
 called the poet of that delicious river Lima, 
 which the Romans, it is said, named the River 
 of Oblivion, because their legionaries, on its 
 
134 THE SISTERS 
 
 pleasant banks^ forgot their duty^ and even mu- 
 tinied when they received the order of recall to 
 their own country. Bernardes was sent from 
 the court of Lisbon to Madrid, where he resided 
 some time as Secretary of Legation at the court 
 of Philip 11. He was recalled by Sebastian to 
 accompany him on that fatal expedition to Africa, 
 where it was intended that he should witness, 
 and record in verse, the triumphs of his country, 
 men. He only saw their ineffectual gallantry 
 and their total overthrow, and the destruction of 
 his monarch, and of almost all the chivalry of 
 Portugal. Bernardes, after fighting courageously, 
 fell into the hands of the Moors, among whom, 
 like Cortereal, he remained prisoner for a consi- 
 derable time, during which he fed his melancholy 
 by the composition of elegies and dirges. He 
 was at last restored to his country, where he lived 
 till 1596, having survived his country's glory, 
 both historical and literary ; for, again like Cor- 
 tereal, he had lived to witness the withering 
 usurpation of Spain ; and he had outlived his 
 familiar fellow-poets and friends, and also our 
 great Camoens, who died in 1579. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 135 
 
 '^ With regard to Camoens, a stain has been 
 wantonly thrown on the character of Bernardes 
 in the accusation of his having appropriated and 
 pubhshed as his own some of the minor manu- 
 script poems of our peer of poets. Nothing Uke 
 grave evidence of the fact was ever adduced, so 
 that the reproach redounds to his honour^ for 
 none but a superior person could be untruly 
 suspected of having stretched a furtive hand so 
 high. Those poems, so injuriously pretended to 
 be thefts from such a store, must be good, or 
 they would not have suggested the calumny. 
 To this day it is undecided whether he or Ca- 
 moens be the author of the finelv told legend of 
 Saint Ursula. 
 
 > '' Francisco Rodriguez Lobo (who must by no 
 means be confounded with an inferior namesake 
 of the same age, Fernando Rodriguez Lobo de 
 Soropita^ who edited the miscellaneous poems of 
 Camoens, and wrote humorous verses and peri- 
 odical works) is another, and one of the last, of 
 the lights of this shining age ; or rather he may 
 be said to belong to a somewhat later period, for 
 he did not enjoy celebrity till after the beginning 
 
136 THE SISTERS 
 
 of the seventeenth century. He also was of 
 noble family^ but few details of his life have been 
 preserved. He was born at Leiria, was remarked 
 at Coimbra as a collegian of prominent talent, 
 resided in the country during the greater part of 
 his after-life, and was drowned in the Tagus. 
 And is this all that can be told of a man to whom 
 our language is said to be indebted more than 
 to any other author, excepting the great trium- 
 virate, Miranda, Fereira, and Camoens ! 
 
 " Lobo is an admirable prose writer, for which, 
 as I believe I have told you, he is called our Cicero. 
 ' The Court in the Country, or Winter Nights,' 
 is the first classical prose work produced in Por- 
 tugal in our own tongue. But Lobo's highest 
 dignity is poetical. His epic poem, O Conde- 
 stabre, few foreigners, I fear, would patiently 
 read through ; for even we natives are too apt 
 to consider it as merely a rhymed chronicle of 
 the principal occurrences in the life of our re- 
 nowned constable, Nun Alvarez Pereira. Yet 
 many of the descriptions are excellent, and 
 among them that of the famous battle and vic- 
 tory of Aljubarrota. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 137 
 
 " But I doubt even whether the three celebrated 
 pastoral romances of Lobo will not be too much 
 for your patience ; yet seldom, perhaps, has as- 
 siduity been better rewarded than your's will be 
 if you persevere in their perusal from beginning 
 to end. You may find them prolix, but you 
 will also find them rich in truth and freshness. 
 The prose parts are elegant, combining links of 
 still more elegant and exquisite verse. As a 
 describer of Portuguese, always Portuguese, 
 scenery, Lobo is unsurpassed, probably une- 
 qualled. His shepherds are real shepherds, and 
 his language is that of rural life, which can 
 hardly be said of the style of most of his imitators, 
 of whom he had a superabundance. I will for- 
 give you if you do not read one in a hundred of 
 our other pastoral poets, after Lobo ; not that 
 they are all deficient in merit, but that we are 
 overstocked with that sort of composition, into 
 which the natural sweetness of our idiom, and 
 the pensive tenderness of the Portuguese poeti- 
 cal character, seem to flow naturally. 
 
 " I have now mentioned^ I think, all the chief 
 poets of our golden age of poesy. After Lobo^ 
 
138 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 the seventeenth century is far from being rich ; 
 for the Spanish despotism seems to have impo- 
 verished both the soul and body of the country : 
 from the date of Phihp's usurpation, Portuguese 
 patriotism, poetry, and glory, were eclipsed and 
 almost extinguished for sixty years ; and they 
 have never since regained their former splendour, 
 though bright glimpses occasionally shew that 
 glory would fain return to her once favourite 
 land of love and enterprize. 
 
 '^ If the very meagre sketch which I have 
 given you of our poetical pretensions so ftir, 
 should induce you to study our literature, you 
 will find enough to engage you for some time 
 down to the end of the sixteenth century. And 
 if you should choose to vary your reading with 
 history, you will find some of our best chronicles 
 in the same age — Joam de Barros, for example, 
 whose work, entitled Asia, an account of the 
 oriental conquests of the Portuguese, is con- 
 sidered a masterpiece of eloquence. There is 
 reason, however, to believe that Fernam Lopez 
 de Castanheda, his contemporary and most in- 
 dustrious fellow-labourer in the same wide field, 
 
OF THE DOURO. 139 
 
 is the more faithful, though much the less splen- 
 did, narrator of the two. And this opinion is 
 strengthened in my father's mind by his having 
 perused, at the Santa Cruz Convent at Coimbra, 
 a very curious manuscript, which is nothing less 
 than a log-book of one of Vasco da Gama's ships; 
 and in several instances where there are discre- 
 pancies between the two chroniclers, the entries 
 in this log-book are exactly corroborative of 
 Castanheda'^s statements. 
 
 '^ The life of the great AfFonso d^Albuquerque, 
 by his son of the same name, is another work 
 relating to our eastern triumphs, which will re- 
 ward your attention. 
 
 " Bernardo de Brito is also an esteemed writer 
 of this prolific age. But his Monarchia Lusi- 
 tana was planned on the strange idea of going as 
 far back as was possible to the imagination, so he 
 fairly began the History of the Portuguese 
 Monarchy at the beginning of the world ; and a 
 thick folio volume, which contains the first four 
 books, only brings him to the birth of our 
 Saviour. He nearly completed, however, a se- 
 cond volume ; but that had got him no further 
 
140 THE SISTERS 
 
 than the commencement of modern Portuguese 
 history, and there death put an end to his labours. 
 His style is good, and his descriptive powers 
 considerable. 
 
 " Ferdinand Mendez Pinto is likewise of this 
 age.^' 
 
 " That name has obtained a proverbial but 
 not enviable celebrity in Europe,'^ said Captain 
 Stanisforth ; " he has been stigmatized as a liar, 
 possibly with as little justice as our own most 
 enterprising and much injured Abyssinian tra- 
 veller, Bruce, who was scouted for relating 
 things improbable, but most of whose starthng 
 assertions have, since his decease, been proved to 
 be facts." 
 
 " Very likely ; but I was not aware that 
 Pinto'^s veracity was impeached. We Portu- 
 guese, you know, are good believers ; perhaps 
 it is more for our happiness, both as to things 
 earthly and spiritual, that we should believe too 
 much than too little. 
 
 " But it is time to give you respite ; and I am 
 ashamed of having played the Corinna so long. 
 You must not suppose, though, notwithstanding 
 
OF THE DOURO. 14] 
 
 what I have said, that we have absolutely nothing 
 of literature to show in the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries. I only wished to skim over 
 the surface of the sixteenth, our best era, with 
 you, to excite your appetite for our neglected 
 feast of letters. 
 
 " By the bye, I have said little of the old 
 romance of our countryman Lobeyro, the ori- 
 ginal Amadis de Gaul ; nor have I noticed the ^ 
 Palmerin ^imf^mmt^fmiimmmmmmkmikb^^ 
 though even Cervantes is tender to both those ^ 
 productions in his sweeping ridicule of romances 
 of chivalry.''^ 
 
 " Of course,'' said Stanisforth, ^^ though you 
 appear to confine your admiration of literary 
 efforts almost entirely to your own countrymen, 
 you admire Cervantes." 
 
 " Pardon me,'' replied Francisca ; '^ you ap- 
 pear not to understand why I limit my notices to 
 my own countrymen. My apology would be 
 complete if I merely reminded you that all this 
 talk was in consequence of your request that 
 Leonora and I should tell you something about 
 Portuguese books ; and she, as you know, like 
 
142 THE SISTERS 
 
 an idle girl, threw the task entirely on me. But 
 there is another reason for my restricting myself 
 to our native literature. I know nothing, or next 
 to nothing, of any other. A little Italian, and 
 more Spanish, I can read; but even the authors 
 in those languages I know best by Portuguese 
 translations. As to your northern literature, I 
 am deplorably in the dark ; I hope it is not too 
 late for me to learn. 
 
 " But you askednnff'^hetlieY I admired Cer- 
 vantes. Who can be so insensible as not to be 
 delighted with Don Quixote, and, by fancying 
 his history all true, to forget the author ? But 
 Cervantes in that work, I think, uprooted the 
 tree of Spanish chivalry of sentiment. Their 
 chivalry of action they had lost before. After 
 that work flourit?hed, almost all the real dignity 
 that yet remained of the old Castilian character 
 disappeared. The Spaniards were laughed out 
 of their best and noblest feelings ; and they have 
 retained a stiff and stately pride of manner, and 
 an obstinate egotism, after sacrificing at the altar 
 of ridicule all the energy and enthusiasm of sen- 
 timent that made their eccentric haughtiness re- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 143 
 
 spectable, I think that Cervantes, their greatest 
 genius, has been their worst friend. 
 
 '^ But I told you I would not be tempted 
 over the Spanish borders ; and here am I, a poor 
 ignorant Portuguese lady, tilting at Cervantes !^' 
 
 " Will you then return for a moment to one 
 of your own authors^ about whom you said but 
 little, and yet much excited my curiosity — the 
 dramatist whom you called the Portuguese 
 Shakespeare P***^ 
 
 " Yes; Vasconjellos. I will not again shock 
 your sensitive nationalism by likening him to 
 your Prodigy. Little is known of the biography 
 of Vascongellos, and not many of his productions 
 are extant. It is doubted whether he was a 
 native of Coimbra or of Montemor. He was a 
 Knight Professed of the Order of Christ, and 
 was for some time attached to the house of 
 Aveyro, from which he was preferred to a place 
 in the royal Treasury and in the India-house. 
 He was a man of singularly shrewd wit, vast 
 erudition, and an elegant turn of mind ; and his 
 intellectual quaUties are fully developed in his 
 writings, which charmed his contemporaries, and 
 
144 THE SISTERS 
 
 won for him a renown that will not die, though 
 he is just now httle known except among our 
 literati^ and hardly, if at all, known beyond the 
 boundaries of Portugal. 
 
 '' He married an heiress, Dona Anna de Souta, 
 a lady of birth equal to his own. He had a son, 
 Paulo Ferreira, who, while yet a youth, was 
 killed in the ruthless fight of Alca^er-el-Kibir. 
 He also had a daughter, Dona Briolanja, who 
 married Don Antonio de Noronha. 
 
 " Vasconjellos died towards the close of the 
 sixteenth century, and was buried beside his 
 wife, in the court-chapel of the convent of the 
 Holy Trinity. 
 
 " Nicolas Antonio says that he was a man 
 whom his companions held in the highest regard 
 for the urbanity of his disposition, his easy attic 
 wit, and the liveliness and grace of his plea- 
 santry. 
 
 '^ Diogo de Tieve, one of the most distin- 
 guished men of learning of the age (I have 
 already casually mentioned him as the literary 
 instructor of Antonio Ferreira) addressed to 
 Vasconfellos a Latin epigram, in which he com- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 145 
 
 mends his modesty for suffering his works to be 
 circulated only in manuscript and anonymously, 
 but tells him that he suppresses his name in 
 vain, for that Fame, just to unobtrusive desert, 
 follows those who would avoid her, and will 
 surely carry his name from pole to pole. 
 
 " But enough for one day'^s lecture : here is 
 my father ; pity that he had not come in long 
 ago ; he would have interested you much more 
 than I have done.**' 
 
 Captain Stanisforth did not think so. 
 
 VOL. T. H 
 
146 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Farewell^ then, most gallant Captain^ 
 
 Farewell, too, my heart's content; 
 
 Think not Spanish ladies wanton. 
 
 Though to thee my love was bent. 
 
 Percy. 
 
 A DAY or two afterwards, just when Stanis- 
 forth thought himself very fortunate in having 
 obtained another quiet sitting with the young 
 ladies, with no other addition to the party than 
 Senhor Coelho, who was explaining some portion 
 of an old genealogical family manuscript, he was 
 most disagreeably interrupted by a summons 
 from Major Wilmot, to whom an orderly dra- 
 goon had just arrived with a despatch from head- 
 quarters. The major, as soon as Stanisforth 
 presented himself, looked at him with an un- 
 feigned expression of regret, the omen of evil 
 tidings. '^ I have bad news for you, Stanis- 
 forth,^" said he ; "a route for C troop/^ 
 
OF THE DOURO. 147 
 
 '^ A route for C troop !^' echoed the surprised 
 captahi. 
 
 '' Yes ; orders for your troop to march to- 
 morrow morning at five o'^clock.'^' 
 
 '' And where to, in the name of misfortune?" 
 
 " To Fontellas;' 
 
 " And where is Fontellas?'' 
 
 '^ Not far ; about eight or ten miles off, I am 
 told. The quarter-master, it appears, made a 
 mistake in directing your billet-serjeant hither. 
 Only one troop was intended for this place." 
 
 ^' Was ever any thing so provoking !''' ex- 
 claimed Stanisforth, his mask of indifference ut- 
 terly thrown off. " Cannot you send Horton'^s 
 troop instead of mine ?" 
 
 " Stanisforth," answered Wilmot, " a mo- 
 menta's reflection must remind you that I have 
 no such power. But I tell you what I will do : 
 I will go to Horton, and ask his consent ; and, 
 if I can obtain it, I will ride back directly to the 
 colonel, at Mezao-Frio, and request his leave to 
 make the change."' 
 
 '' Don't give yourself the trouble — write to 
 Horton and then to the colonel." 
 
 H 2 
 
148 THE SISTERS 
 
 " N05 no^ that won't do. It is easier to pen a 
 refusal than to give it, face to face." And away 
 he went. 
 
 Finding Horton, who was luxuriating in the 
 enjoyment of the best of billets under the roof of 
 the most hospitable of padres, he said to him — 
 
 " Horton, one of the troops is ordered off/" 
 
 The Yorkshire captain stared and reddened. 
 But, immediately recovering himself, said — 
 '' Then, of course, Stanisforth^s goes, as he is 
 the junior captain." 
 
 '' Even so," said Wilmot, " for it is C troop 
 that is ordered." 
 
 " Oh, that is as it should be," 
 
 " We don't think so, Horton. Will you ex- 
 cuse me? I have a favour to ask." 
 
 The Yorkshire captain looked uneasy. '' Well, 
 what is it ?" 
 
 " Stanisforth and I are particularly anxious 
 to remain together just now. Among other 
 reasons, I find his knowledge of the language of 
 much service to me here in my capacity of com- 
 manding-officer. He is the only one of the six 
 or seven officers here who speaks Portuguese 
 
OF THE DOURO. 149 
 
 with any readiness. Will you do me the kind- 
 ness to take his place at Fontellas, and consent 
 to my application to the colonel to sanction the 
 
 arrangement ? 
 
 5> 
 
 ^^ Impossible/' said Horton 3 " that is really 
 too good a joke — what ! give up such a berth as 
 this ; and lose ray fishing, and the Abbade, and 
 his dinners and suppers ! It would be uncivil to 
 the Padre. Then I want him to teach me Por- 
 tuguese. An excellent opportunity. Besides, it 
 would be unfair to my subalterns, who are, no 
 doubt, as well satisfied where they are as I am. 
 No, no ; I don't stir without positive orders. 
 Very sorry ; but really must decline."*' 
 
 ^* I perceive," said Wilmot^ " that any further 
 discussion, then, of the matter is useless.'^ 
 
 " Quite SO5 my dear major. You know how 
 ready I always am to do any thing reasonable ; 
 there is nothing in the world I would not do to 
 serve you ; but, in this case, you must really ex- 
 
 cuse me." 
 
 So they parted, and Wilmot returned with his 
 ill tidings to Stanisforth, whose only observation 
 was — '' Just what might be expected from such 
 
1^0 THE SISTERS 
 
 a selfish personage as Captain Horton. But I 
 have no right to complain. He is strictly in 
 rule." 
 
 He might have added that he had often^ at 
 Horton's request^ when it was the latter's turn 
 on the roster, taken duty for him. But Stanis- 
 forth was essentially a gentleman ; he would not, 
 even to indulge his spleen, boast of such petty 
 favours conferred by himself, as if he kept a 
 debtor and creditor account of the civilities of 
 life against his friends. 
 
 The surprise imparted to the Portuguese fa- 
 mily, by the order for the so early departure of 
 their English guest, was evidently painful to 
 them all. On one in particular it threw a gloom, 
 which Stanisforth could not remark without 
 pleased gratitude. It is so sweet to a lover to 
 be persuaded that his absence will make his mis- 
 tress wretched ! Such is the generosity of male 
 tenderness ! 
 
 The rest of the day passed off dully, though 
 the ladies were of the evening party, to which 
 also came the Abbade, with Captain Horton and 
 two or three other officers, besides the Captain 
 
OF THE DOURO. 151 
 
 of Trained Bands, with his Thresor de Cartes ; 
 to which, however, he could draw no attention. 
 A kind hint from Major Wilmot drove these 
 visiters away early ; and the family also retired 
 pretty soon^ after every friendly assurance of re- 
 gard to Stanisforth, and repeated intimations to 
 him, that, as Fontellas was not far off, they 
 hoped to see him as often as his duty allowed 
 him leisure to ride over to Teixeira. Here was 
 some little alleviation to his banishment ; but 
 then the last look of Francisca, when the last 
 '^ good night^^ was said, and the door was about 
 to close on her, stung him to the heart with a 
 fresh sense of his mischance in being driven away 
 from such an angel • 
 
 " Well, Stanisforth,''' said Wilmot, when they 
 were gone, " this is very unlucky ; but you are 
 not the only loser : what am I to do for an in- 
 terpreter ?'^ 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say you will have ingenuity 
 enough to supply my place : with the ladies, at 
 least, you will require none ; for with those in 
 this house the eyes seem eloquent ministers for 
 the thoughts. Besides, you speak French.'' 
 
1'32 THE SISTERS 
 
 " And of what use is that to me here ?^ 
 
 " That militant Doctor of Laws, the man with 
 his eternal ' Thresor de Cartes,' speaks French." 
 
 " Oh 5 true; I did not think of that ; he may 
 be of use ; but to be bored with such a babbler ! 
 besides — but, Stanisforth, tell me truly, are you 
 jealous ?"'' 
 
 " Have I not reason to be so," answered Sta- 
 nisforth, rather peevishly, '' leaving such a rival 
 as Major Wilmot under the very roof of " 
 
 " You pause, Stanisforth ; I will finish the 
 sentence for you : — under the very roof of the 
 lovely lady of your love. Be reasonable ; I will 
 console you. As far as regards me, you have 
 nothing to fear. I am quite convinced that, 
 against me, you are master of the field ; and I 
 have already beat a retreat, and turned my arms 
 against another object, who does not seem quite 
 so bewitched with you and your poetical quota- 
 tions as the other. In short, I think I have a 
 better chance with Francisca's sister, and I mean 
 to be in love with her. But I am a little per- 
 plexed even there ; and, though I assure you 
 honestly that I am no longer your rival, either 
 
OF THE DOURO. 153 
 
 you or I have yet a rival, and all my penetration 
 is baffled as to which of the two sisters he is ma- 
 noeuvring for/^ 
 
 '' You are not in earnest V* 
 
 " I am, indeed." 
 
 '' Who is the interloper ?*' 
 
 " The very man whom you recommend to me 
 for an interpreter. Your friend with the Thresor 
 de Cartes.'^ 
 
 " Nonsense ; if I was sure of leaving no more 
 formidable rival than that behind me, I should 
 sleep in peace. The man is a fool.*^' 
 
 " More knave than fool, I suspect. But I 
 may be wrong. There is something very singu- 
 lar about that individual.'' 
 
 " Hush !" said Stanisforth, " what is that ?'' 
 
 The two friends listened. All was silent with- 
 in doors ; but a slight coughing, once or twice 
 repeated, was heard from without. 
 
 " Come into my room,'' said Wilmot — '' that 
 is a signal which must mean something ; though 
 I suspect it is not made for us — softly — my win- 
 dow is open ; it projects into the street. Leave 
 the hght alone. Look there !" 
 
 h5 
 
154 THE SISTERS 
 
 Wilmot had entered the room, closed the door 
 inaudibly, and advanced to the window with his 
 friend. " There!" he whispered. 
 
 " Where?— what?'' 
 
 " There !" he repeated. 
 
 Stanisforth now perceived a man under the 
 wall, opposite to the Ladies' Gallery. The night 
 was still and lovely, and the moon was shining 
 brilliantly ; the shadow of the masonry, against 
 which the man stood, made his features undis- 
 tinguishable. He now struck a guitar, and, in a 
 low, melodious, manly voice, sung one of the 
 tender melancholy modinhas of Brasil. When 
 he had concluded it, the gelosia of the Ladies' 
 Gallery was cautiously opened, and a white 
 handkerchief fluttered approbation. He again 
 touched his guitar, and began another of those 
 lays of love ; but he had not accomplished the 
 first couplets before a casement was thrown open 
 from the farther end of the house, and a rough 
 call of "^ Quem e ?" Who is there? disturbed the 
 serenader and his audience. The gelosia was 
 closed. The musician struck his instrument 
 more loudly and to a bolder measure, and walked 
 
OF THE DOURO. ]55 
 
 away, chanting a right valorous strain in praise 
 of the brave Portuguezes and Inglezes, and de- 
 nouncing death to the Frmiceses. He moved 
 sturdily and carelessly away ; but, as he passed 
 under Major Wilmot's window, he cast a look 
 upward. It betrayed him by exposing his fea- 
 tures to the moon. It was indeed no other than 
 the poor, credulous, simpleton, the Doctor of 
 Laws ! 
 
 Wilmot and Stanisforth returned to the room 
 where they had left lights, and looked at each 
 other for some seconds without speaking. The 
 expression of Major Wilmot's face was tragi- 
 comic ; that of Captain Stanisforth 's more tragic 
 than comic. At last, Stanisforth exclaimed, 
 " Confound all women !'' Wilmot replied, "^ Con- 
 found that Captain of Trained Bands !'' and each 
 retired to his bedroom. 
 
 The reveillee at four o'^clock in the morning 
 did not awake Stanisforth, for he had not slept ; 
 but it roused him from his bed. In half an hour 
 he was ready for the march. In the adjoining 
 apartment he found his kind host, Senhor Coelho. 
 He expostulated with him : saying, '^ My dear 
 
^56 THE SISTERS 
 
 sir, did you not take leave of me last night, and 
 promise that you would not get up at this un- 
 seasonable hour ?" 
 
 " I did so/' answered the Portuguese gentle- 
 man, " at your reiterated instances, and I in- 
 tended to keep my promise ; but some idle vaga- 
 bond began torturing a guitar in accompaniment 
 to his cracked voice, under my window, just as I 
 had fallen asleep. I never can get a second sleep 
 when my first is disturbed in that manner. It 
 has happened often lately. I was therefore glad 
 to rise at the sound of your trumpet, and I for- 
 give the ballad-singing rascal, as he has been the 
 cause of my seeing you once more." 
 
 Stanisforth had little to say in reference to 
 this sore subject. Chocolate was brought in. 
 Wilmot put on his dressing-gown and came 
 out to wish him good-morning. Senhor Coelho 
 embraced Captain Stanisforth, whose horse was 
 ready at the door, and whose troop already 
 awaited his orders. Stanisforth mounted, gave 
 the word, and marched off. A white hand- 
 kerchief was waved behind the gelosia as he 
 passed under it. He saw it as one that did 
 
OF THE DOURO. 157 
 
 not see, and rode on with the frigid air of 
 Death on the pale horse. Yet it was Fran- 
 cisca by whom that white handkerchief was 
 now waved. 
 
158 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 He galloped north, he galloped south. 
 
 He galloped east and west. 
 But only heard a singing-bird, 
 
 That kept him from his rest. 
 
 FoNTELLAS is an inconsiderable village, on 
 the left bank of the Douro, on the high road 
 between Mezao Frio and Regoa. It creeps up 
 one of the several picturesque gorges that here 
 and there intersect the steep border of the river. 
 In the upper part of this gorge are a few de- 
 tached farm-houses; and in the best of these 
 houses Captain Stanisforth was quartered, in a 
 most pleasant and sheltered bank, overlooking a 
 very pretty dingle, called " O Val das Lavan- 
 deiras,'' wh:ch we will rather poetically translate, 
 " the Valley of the Water Nymphs.''^ 
 
 The English officer had now been here two 
 days, as forlorn and discontented as a lover 
 
OF THE DOURO. 159 
 
 under such untoward circumstances ought to 
 be, in spite of the civihties of the farmer and 
 his servants, which^ indeed, were an annoy- 
 ance that was sometimes insufferable : for they 
 would intrude upon him continually, to offer 
 services that were not required, or to stand 
 staring at him, as if he were some choice monster. 
 His greatest plague in this way was a female do- 
 mestic, a grim little withered hag, who appeared 
 to be at least seventy, though probably, to judge 
 by her activity, she was not more than forty- 
 five. She was always in his way. 
 
 The first night that he passed at Fontellas 
 was a night of wakefulness and suffering, as the 
 romantic reader might naturally expect. But 
 one of the causes of his insomnolence was any 
 thing but romantic. He was tormented with a 
 legion of those brisk little evil spirits, (vulgarly, 
 fleas) that dance and revel away the hours of dark- 
 ness on the prostrate hmbs of wayworn strangers 
 in the souths and who seem to have an especial 
 commission to inflict martyrdom on the bodies 
 of travelling fine gentlemen. These biting 
 black imps would have made it impossible for 
 
160 THE SISTERS 
 
 him to rest, even if the threatening buzz of 
 mosquitoes, and, that bee in the bonnet, his 
 own ill-humour, would have suffered him to 
 slumber. 
 
 In the morning he complained of the nuisance 
 to the furrowed witch above mentioned, and she 
 teazed him for an hour with assurances that he 
 was mistaken, in spite of countless wounds which 
 the enemy had inflicted on him ; but, the next 
 morning, at the drowsy hour of four, just as Sta- 
 nisforth, quite exhausted after another night of 
 equal persecution, had sunk at last to sleep, 
 he was awakened by his door being suddenly 
 opened, and the shutters of his windows thrown 
 wide. 
 
 Stanisforth started, rubbed his eyes, and be- 
 held at his bed side that dark wrinkled beldame, 
 and, behind her, three swarthy ferocious-looking 
 men. He was confused, and inquired in some 
 alarm the meaning of such an intrusion, all the 
 tales of Portuguese assassinations he had ever 
 heard crowding upon his mind. 
 
 '' What are you all here for?**' he asked, in a 
 menacing tone, and trying to reach his pistols. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 161 
 
 " Para matar os pulgas, meu senhor ! — To kill 
 the fleas, sir !"' 
 
 So he was to get out of bed at four o'clock in 
 the morning, because he had complained of fleas, 
 in order that three sturdy farm-servants might 
 assist the housemaid in hunting them up for an 
 hour or two before they commenced their more 
 regular work. 
 
 Stanisforth, relieved from his fears, and half 
 provoked to anger, half to laughter, requested 
 them to return in five minutes, during which he 
 hastily dressed, and walked forth into the fair 
 day. 
 
 The preceding night had set in with heavy 
 rain after a storm. It was but a passionate 
 shower, after the heat of the day and the growl 
 of the thunder. The morning was beautiful, 
 and even Stanisforth was not proof against its 
 influence, at once animating and soothing. He 
 wandered for an hour or two about the pleasant 
 valley, listening to the songs of the birds, and 
 the sonffs and laughter of the Lavandeiras, who 
 were already at their work. 
 
 After breakfast he returned to the Valley of 
 
162 THE SISTERS 
 
 the Nymphs, and screened himself from the now 
 powerful sun under a large citron-tree, that at 
 once satisfied the eye by the deep luxuriant ver- 
 dure of its leaves, gratified the smell by its fra- 
 grant germs and blossoms, offered pleasure to 
 the taste by its pale yellow clusters of large 
 mature fruit, and gave promise to the hope by 
 other fruit yet crude and green. 
 
 The birds were singing and sporting in the 
 golden perfumed orange-trees, in the black olives, 
 among the fruit-laden lemon-trees, on the fresh 
 broad -leaved fig-trees, among the homely elder- 
 trees, and on the ivied walls, and among the 
 crooked vines^ where the large-winged crickets 
 {grillos) rung their merry chimes. No creaking 
 of wheels on the dry axles of oxen-drawn cars 
 was heard from the quiet lanes. 
 
 Hard by where the English soldier sate, 
 under the citron -tree, with ground ivy and 
 flowering periwinkle at his feet, a bubbling 
 fountain joined its drowsy under-song to the 
 chorus of birds ; and there was, below, a stone 
 basin to receive its tribute. Hither the young 
 nymphs from their neighbouring dwellings came 
 
OF THE DOURO. 163 
 
 to draw water in red clay vases of antique shape, 
 which, when filled to the brim, they carried 
 away poised upon their heads, without other 
 support, yet so steadily, that not a drop would 
 fall, so erect is their attitude in walking. Among 
 them came Eulalia, the loveliest in form and 
 face of all the dark-eyed maidens of Fontellas. 
 Her'^s was a southern face of perfect beauty, 
 sweetness, and intelligence, and so exquisitely 
 harmonized, that such a face is not often seen, 
 through a long life, by the wandering mariner, 
 the adventurous soldier, the persevering mission- 
 ary, the men that visit many climes. She had 
 the black eyes and jet-black hair of her country- 
 women, teeth purely white, an oval face, with 
 features for a Grecian sculptor. Her cheeks 
 were clear brown, but not too brown; they 
 were glowing with as rich a hue as the famed 
 peach of Amarante, but delicately glowing, and 
 changeably. There was a rich and sweetly- 
 tempered smile about her lips as she conversed 
 with her companions, but some meaning so sad 
 chastened the expression, that it was impossible 
 for the observer not to suspect that she was un- 
 happy. 
 
164 THE SISTERS 
 
 So thought Stanisforth as he regarded Eulalia, 
 himself unnoticed behind his leafy screen; and 
 he was right. And what sorrow, thought he, 
 but a lover's sorrow, could be in the heart of so 
 young and beautiful a maiden, in so sweet a 
 valley, on so fair a morning, in that pleasant 
 clime ! 
 
 The story of her love was short and mournful^ 
 as it was related to him in that same valley by 
 a young Franciscan friar. Her lover, a young 
 boatman of the Douro, was drowned, with three 
 of his companions, coming down the river, by 
 their boat being broken on some rocks at a 
 dangerous pass, called the Olho de Cabra. The 
 floods had come down from the Spanish moun- 
 tains, and concealed the rocks of the river. The 
 Olho de Cabra, and the rock called Cachucho, 
 the Scylla and Charybdis of the Douro^ were 
 hidden by the swell of the brown waters. Her 
 lover and his mates were coming down with 
 their boat, laden with the wines of Pinhoe and 
 Valenca. Bacchus and the Nymphs of the Upper 
 Vines had maddened them for their destruction. 
 They came down the roaring waters, singing 
 
OF THE DOURO. 165 
 
 boisterous hymns in praise of wine and lawless 
 pleasure; and the lover of Eulalia had for- 
 gotten^ in the wildness of bacchanal excitement, 
 the quiet valley of Fontellas, the abode of the 
 maiden to whom his troth was phghted. 
 
 He and his companions were suddenly sobered 
 by the sense of danger, when they found their 
 boat eddying round and round in a whirlpool 
 among the rocks of the Olho de Cabra. They 
 invoked loudly and piteously the aid of our 
 Lady of Mount Carmel, whose little white 
 oratory, gable-ended, and surmounted with a 
 stone cross, stood near the base of the preci- 
 pitous mountain that overlooks the place of peril. 
 They called loudly and piteously in vain. Their 
 broken boat was sucked in by the eddy. The 
 mangled body of Eulalia'^s lover was found the 
 next day, washed ashore on a little sandy bay 
 below the town of Regoa. It was brought up 
 to Fontellas, and buried in the church that 
 stands just above the Valley of the Nymphs. 
 
 Two years had elapsed. Eulalia, tranquil 
 and uncomplaining, pursued her humble avo- 
 cations J the intensity of grief had passed away 
 
166 THE SISTERS 
 
 and her beauty was undiminished, or had as- 
 sumed, perhaps, with a shade of suffering, a 
 more touching character than formerly belonged 
 to it. But the youths of Fontellas sighed in vain 
 for her beauty : the young and wealthy fidalgo 
 of an adjacent district had stooped to offer mar- 
 riage to her, in vain ; though he was of a much 
 more comely person than her former humble 
 lover, though he rode abroad on one of the 
 finest mules from Andakisia, though his vines 
 covered the craggy hills of half a parish, and 
 their produce fraught several barks in their 
 spring passage down the Douro to Oporto, and 
 though the arms of his ancient family were 
 carved in stone over the stately gateway of his 
 less stately quinta. 
 
 "Poor girl !^' mused Stanisforth, when he heard 
 this mournful story, '' what a noble feeling heart 
 is in that breast ; what an elevated spirit of en- 
 during love lifts her above her lowly destiny ! 
 Would that Francisca possessed such a heart ! 
 That girl^ too, is so like her ! But every thing 
 lovely is like Francisca ! Yet, what is Fran- 
 cisca to me, with her black eyes for every body. 
 
OF THE DOURO, 167 
 
 and her moonlight flirtations for any body! 
 Pshaw !" 
 
 He rose, and returned to the house with the 
 young friar who had narrated the story of 
 Eulalia. This was no other than the cousin of 
 Francisca, the young rehgioner already spoken 
 of as a visiter to Stanisforth at Teixeira, his 
 host's nephew with the family eyes. He had 
 goodnaturedly walked over to see the English 
 captain in his new quarters. On inquiring for 
 him at the farm^ he said, he was told that he 
 was out on foot, and had followed, and found 
 little difficulty in tracing him in that narrow 
 valley. He brought kind greetings, as he as- 
 sured him, from all and each of his Portuguese 
 friends at Teixeira ; and he presently took his 
 leave. 
 
 The charm w^as broken, or Stanisforth would 
 have been more delighted than he was with a 
 visit from any one at Teixeira, especially a re- 
 lation of Franciscans. That odious Captain — 
 Doctor of Laws, and his Thresor de Cartes, and 
 his guitar, and his love-ditties, and that un- 
 pardonable flutter of the white handkerchief to 
 
^^ THE SISTERS 
 
 the midnight musician! No, no, it would he 
 folly and madness — it would be worse — it would 
 be meanness, to think any thing more about 
 Francisca ! 
 
 But, was he quite sure that it was Francisca 
 whom the Doctor of Laws serenaded ? Might 
 it not have been her sister ? Certainly, it might 
 have been — yet, even so, what was he to think 
 of one whose sister encouraged the presumption 
 of such an odd, and somewhat vulgar, sort of 
 person, as that Doctor of Laws? There was 
 a bad taste in it, an under-breeding, which 
 might be, probably was, a family failing. He, 
 too, the son of a peer of the English realm, 
 ought he to chain his soul down to a village flirt, 
 who, for aught he knew, had played the artillery 
 of her eyes upon half the commissaries of the 
 Oporto Wine Company ! 
 
 So meditated Captain Stanisforth, when the 
 young Franciscan had left him, and, so medi- 
 tating, he ordered his horse, and, so continuing 
 to muse, he rode along, at a canter where he 
 could, at a walk where the villanous road for- 
 bade a brisker pace, till he had passed Mezao 
 
OF THE DOURO. 169 
 
 Frio, without calling on his colonel, and rode up 
 the valley of Teixeira, without glancing at the 
 spots in the river likeliest for trout. 
 
 He was now and then greeted on the way by 
 the respectful smile and grave salute of some 
 sauntering dragoon of his regiment. He was 
 greeted by a salutation much more interesting, 
 and, in spite of his suspicious mood and his 
 indignant self- questionings, (with which, indeed, 
 the direction that he took was not quite con- 
 sistent) he heard it with profound emotion. It 
 was the note of the nightingale ! the first that 
 he had heard that year — and he had not yet 
 heard the cuckoo, either ! Reader ! do you 
 know the importance of this omen ? Do you 
 remember Milton's sonnet to the Nightingale? 
 
 O Nightingale^ that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve^ when all the woods are still. 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 
 
 4 
 
 While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
 ThT/ liquid noteSy that close the eye of day, 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill. 
 Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will 
 Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay. 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
J 70 THE SISTERS 
 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 For my relief, yet hadst no reason why : 
 Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate. 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am L 
 
 Stanisforth had the sonnet by heart, and he 
 had faith in poetical omens. He tightened his 
 rein, and Hstened with rapture to the rich tones 
 of the bird of birds, 
 
 Its murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 
 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all. 
 
 Till now it had always been his lot, at least for 
 the last three years, since first he began to feel 
 that strange mental yearning which the French 
 call '^ le besoin d'aimer," it had always been his 
 lot to hear the cuckoo first. He remembered ex- 
 actly when and where : the first time he noticed 
 the mischance was at Roehampton, the second 
 was in his father's park in Lancashire, and the 
 third on the banks of the Wye, as he rode out 
 of Wales into Herefordshire. 
 
 Pardon this minuteness, reader ! It is the 
 lover, not I, who detains you with these trifling 
 reminiscences. But hark, singularly enough, 
 the voice of the cuckoo now challenges him from 
 
OF THE DOURO. IJl 
 
 that pine wood to the east ! But it is no longer 
 grating to his ear. ^^ I defy thee now,"^ he says, 
 or thinks, '' I defy thy omen, flaunting cuckoo ; 
 and I hail thy vernal voice with pleasure, for I 
 have already heard ' the dear good angel of the 
 spring, the Nightingale.*^ ^^ 
 
 Thus cheered by Milton, and Coleridge, and 
 Ben Jonson, he eased his hand, and pressed his 
 horse's flanks, and trotted forward, and presently 
 halted at the house of Senhor Maria Manoel 
 JDiogo Balthazar Coelho, the father of Senhora 
 Maria Francisca Coelho. But his heart failed 
 him — Stanisforth really had a heart — and he 
 dismounted with some trepidation. " A soldier, 
 and afraid V 
 
 He inquired, not for Senhor Coelho, but for 
 Major Wilmot, who was riding out. He had 
 not dared to cast a glance at the gelosia. He 
 was, however, informed by a servant that the 
 family were at home. He was introduced to 
 the apartment where they usually assembled, 
 and the first person he beheld was Senhor Jose 
 Alves, the Doctor of Laws, with his Thresor de 
 Cartes under his arm. 
 
 I 2 
 
172 THE SISTERS 
 
 A flush of disgust came over him, but he re- 
 turned the Doctor's welcome with the impassive 
 poHteness that freezes the approaches to fami- 
 Harity. Senhor Coelho immediately entered and 
 embraced him with cordiality. His wife fol- 
 lowed. Two young black eyes also welcomed 
 him kindly, but they were not the eyes of 
 Francisca, though very like them : they were 
 Leonora's. But, where was Francisca? He 
 longed to ask, but could not muster courage, till 
 he locked again at the Captain of Trained Bands, 
 and the sight of that man restored him to the 
 self-possession which suppressed jealousy some- 
 times gives. He hoped, therefore, in a cool, care- 
 less tone, that Senhora Dona Francisca was well. 
 '' Oh, quite welV*^ was the answer, '' but she 
 is not at home : she is gone on a visit for a few 
 days to a friend in the neighbourhood.'*' 
 
 No sooner had Stanisforth heard this, than he 
 longed to be on horseback again, not knowing 
 why, feeling exceedingly disappointed at the 
 absence of the young lady, yet somewhat re- 
 lieved to think that she was absent when that 
 detestable Doctor of Laws was present. He 
 
OF THE DOURO. IJS 
 
 could not, however, refuse the refreshment that 
 was offered to him, nor show any impatience to 
 be gone ; he therefore waited for the return of 
 Wilmot, and hstened to the Doctor'^s jargon, 
 watching him and Francisca'^s sister all the time 
 with covert, though persevering, attention, but he 
 could discover no signs of any particular intelli- 
 gence between them. 
 
 When Major Wilmot returned, Stanisforth 
 requested him to ride back a little way with him^ 
 and bade good day to his Portuguese friends, 
 leaving his compliments for the Abbade, and 
 promising to return as often as he could. 
 
 Major Wilmot informed him that Francisca 
 went away the day before, and that he was so 
 convinced, from his observation of the Doctor of 
 Laws, that the said Doctor was the favoured 
 swain of her sister, though he had not been 
 able to obtain any thing like full confirmation of 
 the fact, (women are so sly!) that he already 
 began to be somewhat weary of Teixeira, where 
 what Stanisforth called his honnes fortunes had 
 so entirely deserted him. He had not the least 
 doubt whatever that it was the handkerchief of 
 
174 THE SISTERS 
 
 the sister that fluttered thanks to the moonlight 
 guitarist. 
 
 Stanisforth felt happier at this assurance : but 
 still he was not quite assured, and he was mor- 
 tified that Wilmot could not tell him where 
 Francisca was. The major quitted him near 
 Mezao Frio, and Stanisforth rode thoughtfully 
 back to Fontellas. 
 
 The antique Abigail of the farm was on the 
 look-out for him, and, meeting him in the door- 
 way^ led the way to his sitting-room, and casting 
 a very tender look at him, and then a sig- 
 nificant one at the table in the centre of the 
 room, and then another tender glance at him, 
 withdrew, heaving a deep sigh. 
 
/ 
 
 OF THE DOURO. 1/5 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Vem ca, minha companheira, 
 
 Vem^ triste e mimosa flor^ 
 Se tens de saudade o nome 
 
 Da saudade en tenlio a dor. 
 
 Come hither^ my companion^ 
 Come, sad and tender flower, 
 
 For thou art Sorrow's namesake, * 
 And mine is Sorrow's dower. 
 
 BORGES DE BaRROS. 
 
 '^ What can that old fool mean P'*^ murmured 
 Stanisforth, as the sighing Abigail slowly, very 
 slowly closed the doon " I do believe she is 
 making love to me. The shrivelled pest ! What 
 has she left here ? '' he continued, approaching 
 the table. ^' Flowers symbolical, as I live ! 
 Alecrin do Norte and Amor Perfeito for true 
 love ; myrtle for love and grief ; a lily for me- 
 mory ; suspiros for sighs ; mournful widow and 
 saudade for tears (or for all sorrow^ and tender- 
 
176 THE SISTERS 
 
 ness, and anxiety combined) ; and anemone for 
 caution. And very prettily arranged, too, and 
 set in a crystal goblet of curious shape and 
 quaint graving. Now, had this come from a 
 young lady, it would be flattering enough. What 
 delicate food for sentimental contemplation ! But 
 from that old hag ! How nauseous and ridi- 
 culous !'' 
 
 Tired of himself and the slow march of time, 
 Stanisforth descended before sunset to the main 
 road, and^ while listlessly strolling along the 
 river-side, was struck with the air of a brawny 
 mendicant, calling himself a hermit, or a pilgrim, 
 or Heaven knows what, who stood on the side of 
 the road, holding a painted waxen or wooden 
 image, dressed up in odds and ends of silk and 
 tinsel, intended to represent Saint Ildefonso, in 
 whose name he most importunately demanded 
 contributions. 
 
 The road was alive with people, on their way 
 to and from Regoa, where the wine-fair was 
 going on. Nothing could be more common than 
 beggars in God's name on such an occasion j but 
 there was something in the air^ the voice, the 
 
OF THE DOURO. iJJ 
 
 oily face, the bushy brow, and the cunning car- 
 nal eye of this tall fellow, that arrested Stanis- 
 forth'^s attention, as he gravely held up his 
 trumpery pence-trap to the bye-passers, espe- 
 cially to the women. He was rarely heeded by 
 the men ; but many of the women gave their 
 five or ten reas^ and scarcely any of them, whe- 
 ther they gave or not, failed to stop and kiss the 
 feet of the saint m the doll-house. One lot of 
 nine women, all old, and black, and withered, 
 came up together, and all successively and most 
 reverentially went through this ceremony, but 
 not a rea did they leave behind them. 
 
 Stanisforth was diverted with the scowl and 
 grunt of the hermit, when the ninth and last old 
 crone left her kiss without her copper. Having 
 considered him for a while, Stanisforth was con- 
 vinced that he knew him, and that he was no 
 other than the Captain of Trained Bands in 
 disguise. He therefore drew nearer, and offered 
 him money, that he might examine him closely. 
 The mendicant received his alms, and mumbled 
 a blessing, not at all shrinking from Stanisforth's 
 inspection, and, on the contrary, looking him 
 
 I5 
 
178 THE SISTERS 
 
 full in the face : but the features seemed to have 
 undergone some sudden transformation, for the 
 expression no longer in the least resembled that 
 of the Doctor of Laws, and the voice, too, was 
 as different as possible. 
 
 " Strange,'" thought Stanisforth, as he turned 
 away ; " love and jealousy have surely bewitched 
 me ! This morning I imagined that a girl at the 
 fountain was like Francisca, and now I have 
 been mistaking this beggar for my rival.**' 
 
 At this moment a boatman hailed him with 
 his " Do you want a boat, senhor ? let us 
 go." 
 
 Stanisforth stepped into his boat from sheer 
 ennui, and desired him to row up the river. 
 Presently he carelessly asked the man where 
 there was a good place for bathing. 
 
 Answer. " Are you going to bathe to-day ?" 
 
 ^' Senhor Barqueiro^' [Mister Boatman], said 
 Stanisforth, '' I asked you where there was a 
 good bathing-place in this part of the Douro.'' 
 
 Boatman. ^' But, sir, are you going to bathe 
 at this time of the year ?'' 
 
 Stanisforth. " Perhaps not ; but only tell 
 
OF THE DOURO. 179 
 
 me where I could conveniently bathe if I had 
 such an inclination.*^' 
 
 Boatman. '' It is too cold yet*^^ (The air 
 was at blood-heat.) 
 
 Stanisforth. " You have not yet answered 
 my question. Where is there a good retired 
 place^ with a firm sandy bottom, for bathing ?^' 
 
 Boatman. " Oh, some people bathe higher 
 up the river ; some lower down, in summer.*^' 
 
 - Stanisforth'^s patience was soon exhausted, and 
 he ordered the man to land him, which, being 
 done, he, through ignorance, paid him a new 
 crown, much more than the waterman would 
 have been contented with from a native ; and it 
 was not without some difficulty and some stern- 
 ness that he escaped from his importunity for 
 more, as wise as to the subject on which he had 
 questioned him as when he got into his boat. He 
 pursued his way, or rather wandered whither 
 hazard led him, making a circuitous ascent to- 
 wards Fontellas. 
 
 At last, having rambled, or scrambled, heed- 
 less of boundary and fence, Stanisforth found 
 himself very near his quarters, on a rocky bank, 
 
180 THE SISTERS 
 
 just above a deep large draw-well, not covered 
 at top, but walled round with stone about two 
 feet and a half high, so as to be quite secure, 
 and literally overarched with roses in full bloom, 
 trained over the wall with the appearance of 
 much art. 
 
 The place where this well was situated was a 
 small level plot of garden terrace, not too trim, 
 cut into the heart of a hill overlooking the plea- 
 sant valley, of which, and of the distant moun- 
 tains to the east, it commanded a fine prospect. 
 The terrace was shut in on three sides ; on one 
 by the natural rock, on the other two by the 
 scarped sides of the hill, out of which sprung 
 fig-trees, quince-trees, now in blossom, and wild 
 flowers in profusion ; here and there, an orange, 
 or a lemon, or a lime-tree, all richly loaden, orna- 
 mented the flat surface ; and trellises of vines, 
 trained on poles above hedges of periwinkle, had 
 been managed with much taste ; the whole form- 
 ing a beautiful, though fantastic and somewhat 
 forced, combination of shade, and fruit, and 
 flower^ in this laboriously excavated recess. 
 
 Stanisforth stood awhile enjoying the lovely 
 
OP THE DOURO. 181 
 
 prospect;, and listening to the chirping grillos^ 
 whose myriad voices, blended into one, were far 
 from inharmonious, while the whistling cry of 
 the toad not unmelodiously aided their concert. 
 
 '' The melody of the toad's voice I'** exclaims 
 the reader ; " surely the writer of such extrava- 
 gance must be a madman !"''' 
 
 Gentle reader, you are ungentle : he is not 
 mad ; and he has withal a moderately just sense 
 of harmony. It is much more true of this ugly 
 reptile that he has a sweet voice, at certain sea- 
 sons, and in certain moods unknown, than that 
 he has '' a precious jewel in his eye."'* The 
 sound alluded to is like the fall of heavy drops 
 of rain from trees, after the shower, into a smooth 
 water ; and not unlike to, though much softer 
 than the pipe of the startled snipe, when he 
 mounts up the wind, and whistles defiance to the 
 fowler. 
 
 This is one of the small mysteries of nature, 
 which those who roam in lonely places, and who 
 have ears, may hear if they will use them. 
 Stanisforth heard and admired the sound, though, 
 with all his love of nature, he was not so nicely 
 
182 THE SISTERS 
 
 versed in those mysteries as to be aware that it 
 proceeded from so unpoetical an organ. Then 
 the nightingales poured their flood of melody 
 over the vale, and the moon and stars seemed to 
 become brighter over that delicious music, of 
 which they were the appropriate auditors. 
 
 Those wakeful birds 
 Had all burst forth with choral minstrelsy, 
 As if one swift and sudden gale had swept 
 A hundred airy harps. 
 For never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales ; and^ far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide groves^ 
 They answered, and provoked each other's songs 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
 
 " Alas r'^ sighed Stanisforth, glancing at his 
 uniform, for he was becoming sentimental, " a 
 soldier'^s presence seems profanation in such a 
 scene. But, oh, if Francisca had a heart, and 
 were now present, it would indeed be 
 
 ^ All Elysium in a spot of ground !' *' 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by fresh 
 music, more delightful even than all that he had 
 heard. It proceeded from the well, on the steps 
 of which, hitherto unobserved^ sat a damsel, who 
 
OP THE DOURO. 183 
 
 sang, in the most delightful manner, to a very 
 sweet and tender air, some exquisite verses, by 
 Borges de Barros, on the flower Saudade^ a song 
 worthy to be classed with Waller's to the Rose. 
 
 Nothing could be more touching ; she seemed 
 rather to sigh than to sing, yet every word was 
 distinctly articulated. All heroines sing per- 
 fectly, or ought to sing, let critics croak as they 
 will. 
 
 No sooner had she finished, than Stanisforth 
 was at her side. It was Eulalia ! She hastily 
 rose in confusion ; but he apologized so ear- 
 nestly for his intrusion, that she lingered and 
 listened. When he addressed her bv her name, 
 she inquired by what miracle he had learnt it. 
 
 He told her that he knew her story ; on which 
 she turned away, and appeared doubtful whether 
 to depart or remain ; but he urged her so re- 
 spectfully to stay for a few moments, that she 
 recovered courage, and said — " But, senhor^ by 
 what means did you gain admittance to Padre 
 Manoel's garden T'' 
 
 " Indeed," replied Stanisforth, '' I hardly 
 know how to answer that question. I find my- 
 
184 THE SISTERS 
 
 self here by chance after few obstructions ; though 
 such as they are^ I might have considered that 
 they were intended to keep out strangers. But 
 who is Padre Manoel ?''' 
 
 ^' He is my cousin, the poor, but good and 
 honest, curate of Fontellas.'^^ 
 
 '^ Poor,'' said Stanisforth ; ^' he is rich in such 
 a garden and such a sweet, sweet cousin.'' 
 
 " Oh, senhor !" and she averted her face for a 
 minute ; but, when she ventured to look on him 
 again, there was a brilliancy in her eyes, a flush 
 upon her cheeks, an expression of flattered 
 beauty, and yet of reproach, that enchanted and 
 puzzled the English captain. 
 
 For an instant he was ungrateful enough to 
 say, or rather to think to himself, " Is this the 
 melancholy of the broken heart ? oh, woman ! 
 woman V 
 
 But he had not time to muse and moralize, 
 for the damsel sighed, and Stanisforth hated 
 himself for an ungenerous thought, which he now 
 attributed to the blindness of his self-conceit. 
 
 '^ Do sing me that song again, I entreat you," 
 he said. 
 
OF TPIE DOURO. 185 
 
 '^' Pardon me, senhor, that song was not sung 
 for you.**' 
 
 " I know itj alas, I know it ; but do sing it 
 
 again/'' 
 
 " That song, senhor, was sung to a star. 
 
 " To a star !'* 
 
 " To a star, senhor ; do you see that star in 
 the north ?'' 
 
 " Yes, yes ; that large bright star/^ 
 
 " No, not that, but the one below it ; not the 
 brightest, yet bright and beautiful.'^' 
 
 " Poor girl !" murmured Stanisforth. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; you say you know my story ;^ 
 and she darted a lustrous glance on him, in- 
 stantly withdrawn ; " perhaps you are deceived. 
 But is my story, such as you may have heard it, 
 a happy one .?^' 
 
 " It is, indeed, a most mournful one,""^ said 
 he ; '' but you are too young and lovely to pine 
 for ever for what is irrecoverably lost.**' 
 
 ^^ If what you say were true, or if I were cer- 
 tain of its truth, I might learn resignation. But 
 doubt and suspense are at times intolerable, yet 
 not always without their consolation of hope.'^^ 
 
186 THE SISTERS 
 
 '' Hope ! you talk in riddles. I thought that 
 he was quite and for ever lost to you.*"' 
 
 '' Not quite, perhaps ; when yonder star shines 
 clearly, I sing to it in hope and sadness, and it 
 sometimes answers me with bright assurances 
 that I am not forsaken ; but in its brightest mo- 
 ments, when not a cloud is near it, it wavers and 
 grows pale, and my spirits sink within me.*" 
 
 " What a lovely unhappy visionary is this !**' 
 murmured Stanisforth; ^^ would that Heaven had 
 accorded half her sensibility to Francisca !^' 
 
 ^^ I think you named Francisca, senhor,^' re- 
 joined the damsel; " of whom do you speak?**' 
 and she looked at him eagerly, and there was 
 again the smile of exultation, but it was momen- 
 tary, and her countenance settled into a sad and 
 somewhat anxious expression. 
 
 " Pardon me,**' said he ; " it was an idle fancy 
 of mine ; I have a trick of muttering unmeaning 
 
 words to myself/^ 
 
 '^ But, senhor, who is Francisca ?" 
 '^ Who^ indeed ? I know not. I only know 
 that all that is interesting, all that is lovely, all 
 that is worthy of the interest of the heart of 
 
OF THE DOURO. 187 
 
 man, is before me at this moment in the mind 
 and person of Eulalia/' 
 
 '' The heart of man truly !^' she replied, with 
 somewhat of a sarcastic air and displeased tone ; 
 " but who is Francisca ?" 
 
 At this moment they were interrupted by a 
 call from a distance for Eulalia. 
 
 " That is my cousin, the curate,'^ she said ; 
 ^' senhor, I must wish you good evening."*'' 
 
 ^' Surely I may be permitted to make my ex- 
 cuses to him for having trespassed on his ground.''"' 
 '' As you please, sir;'' and she moved away, 
 followed by Stanisforth. 
 
 After getting over some steps in a wall, they 
 were in a small field, in which stood the curate's 
 humble mansion, at the side of which was a road, 
 that Eulalia pointed out to the Englishman as 
 the way to the village. But he followed her to 
 the door, where the venerable curate was stand- 
 ing, and made his bow to the Padre, who eyed 
 him with curiosity not overpleased. 
 
 Eulalia drew the priest aside, and gave some 
 explanation, which caused the father to advance 
 frankly, and receive the intruder's apology with 
 
8 THE SISTERS 
 
 kindness. Stanisforth was about to retire, when 
 the padre invited him to enter. He did not re- 
 quire a second invitation. 
 
 The padre, after the usual Portuguese com- 
 pliments, which were as usual no less than assu- 
 rances that he himself, his house, and all that ii 
 contained, were at the disposal of his visiter^ 
 quitted the apartment which they had entered, 
 and an old woman came in, and, by the order oi 
 Eulalia, brought in tea. While Eulalia prepared 
 it, Stanisforth asked her who taught her to sing 
 so divinely ; to which she only answered : 
 
 '* Who is Francisca ?" 
 
 Stanisforth was perplexed by this reiterated 
 question, and the steady scrutinizing look that 
 now accompanied it. 
 
 " Shall I confess ?""' said he. 
 
 ^' Senhor, our acquaintance has been short, 
 and its formation informal, yet you have asked 
 me many questions, some of them embarrassing 
 enough, and I have answered them all. I ask 
 you but one — Who is Francisca .?''' 
 
 " Well, then, lovely Eulalia, Francisca is the 
 very image of yourself. I could not have be- 
 
OF THE DOURO- 189 
 
 lieved in the existence of two sisters so like to 
 each other in figure and features. She is as lovely 
 as yourself; has as sweet a smile, as large and 
 dark an eye, as small a foot, a form as delicately 
 rounded, and of as fine proportions, and a voice 
 — no, not such a voice as your'^s ; but, as to your 
 hearts, I trust that there is no resemblance be- 
 tween them.**^ 
 
 '^ Why so, senhor P"^^ 
 
 " Because her'^s is frivolous and insensible — 
 she is a flirt/' 
 
 " Take heed, senhor ;"*' said Eulalia, in a soft 
 voice, and with a perfectly amiable smile ; " be- 
 ware of what you say — perhaps I know her.'^ 
 
 " How !^' 
 
 ^' Perhaps she is my friend.**' 
 
 " What !^' 
 
 " Perhaps it was she who taught me to sing." 
 
 " Incredible !'' 
 
 '^ Perhaps her name is Francisca Coelho.*^*^ 
 
 " Do you practise sorcery ? This is bewilder- 
 ing. Who and what are you ?" 
 
 " Oh, senhor, beware, I say,'** (her voice trem- 
 bled as she spoke) '' how you judge of women 
 
190 THE SISTERS 
 
 hastily and rashly ! They are generally better 
 than they seem, until your sex teaches them to 
 seem better than they are. On what do you 
 found your ill opinion of Francisca'^s heart ?^' 
 
 " It is a long story, and, perhaps, one which 
 I ought not to tell.''^ 
 
 '' Then do not tell it ; or, if you choose to 
 relate it, let me hear it to-morrow morning. I 
 shall be early at the well."'^ 
 
 '' Thanks for that, delightful Eulaha ; but 
 reveal to me what you know of Francisca.**' 
 
 '' At another time. Put no more questions to 
 me to-night : only remember that I inform you 
 that it was Francisca who taught me to sing; 
 and she was taught by the nightingales, and the 
 stars, and the running waters, and her own earn- 
 est spirit. Wild and strange of heart is that 
 Francisca. She is not to be known in a day or 
 in a week. I ought to know her well, for she 
 too is my cousin, which may account for our re- 
 semblance. My mother and her^^s were of the 
 same blood, though you see me in an humbler 
 station of life ; my connections are respectable, 
 and Francisca and I have been friends from 
 infancy." 
 
OF THE DOURO. 191 
 
 Never was man more puzzled than Stanisforth. 
 The curate now returned ; Eulalia rose, and, 
 having served him and his guest with very feeble 
 tea, remained in the room, standing behind the 
 curate's chair ; though even this famiharity is 
 not in conformity to the customs of the country, 
 the females of the house being rarely visible on 
 such occasions, especially to a stranger. 
 
 In all his wanderings through the scenes of 
 life, in all the varieties of enjoyments that he had 
 ever experienced, perhaps Stanisforth was never 
 better pleased than during this simple meal, 
 shared with an old man, to whom, such was the 
 tumult and perplexity of his mind, he scarcely 
 addressed three intelligible observations. What 
 was the charm ? The beaming eyes, the suffused 
 cheeks, the arch simplicity of lips, the softly rich 
 yet malicious smiles of that girl behind the cu- 
 rate^s chair, who stood there and listened, and 
 occasionally joined in the attempts at conversa- 
 tion, and amused herself with Stanisforth"^s other- 
 wise frustrate efforts lo be amusing. That mys- 
 terious rustic behind the chair, in whom there 
 was no rusticity except of garb ; there was 
 
192 THE SISTERS 
 
 nothing ilUbred or forward about her ; all was 
 modesty in her winning, playful, good-nature, 
 in spite of the equivocal position in which she 
 had ventured to place her conduct before a 
 stranger. But grace vindicates the propriety of 
 measures the most extraordinary, and herV was 
 the grace of nature, perfect in its kind, and of 
 all kinds the best. She was. the friend and rela- 
 tive of Francisca, too ! 
 
 Here follows a description of her dress. 
 
 A chemise of purest whiteness, made with very 
 full long sleeves, fastened with a narrow worked 
 wristband, clasped by a small gold button, and 
 ending with a frill. 
 
 A chemisette, or habit-shirt, with two broad 
 frills, supported by a very gay yellow silk hand- 
 kerchief, just open enough to show the stays, 
 which were of coloured chintz, and lace in front, 
 like a stomacher. 
 
 A white full petticoat, with a frill at the 
 bottom. 
 
 A jacket, with long sleeves, in form exactly 
 like an Enghsh lady's habit, but the material 
 dark cloth, with a great deal of braid and a 
 j^umber of little gold buttons, 
 
OF THE DOURO. 193 
 
 The outer petticoat of rough dark cloth, cut 
 the same width at the top and the bottom, and 
 of great fullness ; the hem of the dress about 
 three inches deep, of different stuff from the 
 dress, and of bright scarlet. 
 
 The waist of the jacket was long, and the 
 skirt of the dress arranged in very full, regular, 
 plaits round the waist. The dress was rather 
 short; just above the ancle, discovering a stock- 
 ing of snowy whiteness, knitted of the thread of 
 the country, and open-worked, like lace. 
 
 She wore the wooden shoes of the country, 
 made without heels, and the fronts of gay velvet, 
 worked in bright colours. 
 
 A round black beaver hat, with an immense 
 brim, on which were a number of little tufts, or 
 short tassels, crowned this costume ; which, how- 
 ever strange or grotesque it may seem to the 
 fashionable modiste who may glance at these 
 pages, was in fact of a pleasingly picturesque 
 effect. She wore also earrings and chains of 
 massive gold, roughly worked ; and on her neck 
 a rosary. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 They were interrupted by a hoarsely whining 
 voice at the outer door. 
 
 '^ Give a night's shelter, for the love of God 
 and of Saint Ildefonso, to a weary hermit who 
 has lived for fifteen years, in a cave in Mount 
 Marron, on nothing but acorns and water, ex- 
 cept on the days of the Nativity and the Car- 
 nival, when a shower of quails, ready roasted, 
 has always dropped at the entrance to his rock ! 
 He is seeking alms to pay for masses in honour 
 of the miraculous quails. Open your door, for 
 the love of God and Saint Ildefonso !'' 
 
 " That is a fellow,''' said Stanisforth, '^ whom 
 I saw begging on the road-side to-day.'^ 
 
 " Very likely," said the curate; " there are 
 numbers of such poor creatures;*" and he rose 
 and admitted him. 
 
 The gruff and sturdy hermit made his obei- 
 sances with little ceremony enough, and took 
 possession of a chair near the door, having first 
 placed St. Ildefonso on a stone seat under a win- 
 dow. Eulalia poured out some tea, and, by a 
 movement of her hand, invited him to take it. 
 He rose, approached the table, whence he took 
 
OF THE DOURO. 195 
 
 some bread, which he put into a wallet, and the 
 tea, which he took off at a draught, standing. 
 
 Eulalia, after examining him for an instant, 
 now that he was near the light, exclaimed — 
 '^ Heavens ! who is this man?^^ 
 
 He was returning to his chair, when Stanis- 
 forth, on whose mind the suspicion of the after- 
 noon flashed again, said to him, " Pray, sir, do 
 you happen to have such a book as the Thresor 
 de Cartes about you ?" 
 
 " Senhor General/' replied the beggar, in a 
 snuffling cant, " books would be of little use to 
 me, as I do not know how to read. Thanks to 
 my blessed patron. Saint Ildefonso, I have no 
 occasion for such toys V^ 
 
 " Truly,'' said the curate, placidly smiling ; 
 ^' the worthy man's answer seems more reason- 
 able than your inquiry, captain ; for how should 
 such a poor creature carry books about him ?" 
 
 ^' Pardon me,'' said Stanisforth, after staring 
 at the man, '^ it was an idle question. I thought 
 I had seen this individual before, under a very 
 different habit." 
 
 " So did I," said Eulalia, '* but it cannot be.**' 
 
 K 2 
 
196 THE SISTERS 
 
 " Strange," said Stanisforth, " that such an 
 imagination should have seized us both at the 
 same time. In what character, senhora, did you 
 suppose that you had seen him ?" 
 
 " Oh, it is a dream," answered Eulalia; " it 
 is not worth talking; about." 
 
 " This good nian,'' said the charitable curate, 
 " wants rest ; I will show him his mat trass.'' 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, do not !" cried Eulalia. 
 
 " How," said the priest, " my cousin, is it that 
 you would have me refuse the charity of a Chris- 
 tian to a poor benighted servant of God ?'^ 
 
 '^ The Lord forbid that I should wish you to 
 be uncharitable !" said Eulalia, recovering her- 
 self ; but she hesitated, and cast a beseeching 
 look on Stanisforth^ who immediately interposed. 
 
 ^' My good man," said he, addressing himself 
 to the mendicant, " you perceive that it is not 
 quite convenient to afford you the shelter you 
 require in this house. If you will follow me, I 
 will take care that your wants are attended to." 
 
 The beggar frowned and grunted, which made 
 the English captain the more resolute to remove 
 him ; and he effected it after some friendly re- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 197 
 
 monstrances from the curate about the trouble 
 which he was unnecessarily undertaking. 
 
 Eulalia thanked him by a look, and, advancing 
 to the door to light them out, held up the lamp 
 to the hermit's face, and then whispered to Sta- 
 nisforth — " Be cautious of this man !'''* 
 " Why ? do you know him ?^ 
 " No, nor can I tell you why : but I have a 
 presentiment against him,**" 
 
 " Fear nothing — good night ;'' and the two 
 men departed, the beggar having resumed his 
 doll, St. Ildefonso. 
 
198 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Well fare you, gentlemen ; give me your liand ; 
 We must needs dine together. 
 
 Timon of Athens. 
 
 Captain Stanisforth'^s first inquiry in the 
 morning was for the hermit, whom he had com- 
 mitted to the care of his own servant. He liad 
 risen and departed before daylight. Stanisforth 
 repaired after breakfast to the well in Padre 
 ManoePs garden, where he had not been many 
 minutes, when he was gratified by the approach 
 of Eulalia, who came, blushing, smiling, and 
 lovely as the morning, and eagerly asked what 
 was become of the mendicant. At the intelli- 
 gence that he was gone, her countenance became 
 so animated with pleasure, that nothing could b 
 more unlike the Eulalia of this morning and th( 
 same melancholy girl when first seen by Stanis 
 
OF THE DOURO. 199 
 
 forth at the Fountain of the Nymphs, which, 
 with its hvely groups of female water-carriers 
 and laundresses singing at their work, they could 
 survey from Padre ManoePs garden. 
 
 Stanisforth had seated himself on the well- 
 steps with his companion, who seemed as deeply 
 engrossed with the conversation as he could wish 
 her to be, and two or three hours had flown un- 
 counted ; when, all at once, at the sound of the 
 mid-day bell, the girl, whose eyes were beaming 
 on him, whose ears seemed to have no employ- 
 ment but that of listening to him, whose lips, 
 no longer voluble, were speaking to him in mono- 
 syllables, but whose smiles and blushes were 
 answering him in volumes — all at once, this 
 lovely, lounging, laughing coquette was standing 
 erect, with eyes abased and motionless, with hands 
 upraised to her breast palm to palm ; and, as 
 she stood unwavering for a few minutes in this 
 solemn attitude, one might, but for the sHght 
 quivering of the lips while she prayed, have mis- 
 taken that warm incarnation of beauty for the 
 frigid statue of a maiden saint. The same still- 
 ness and the same devotion prevailed at the 
 
200 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 fountain below : all stood and reverentially prayed 
 for a few minutes ; then fell again gaily to their 
 occupations and their singing. 
 
 '^ Eulalia/' said Stanisforth, to whose feelings 
 as a CathoHc this impressive custom was grate- 
 fulj '' everything that I witness in this happy 
 valley almost makes me regret that I too was not 
 born to a lowly and peaceful destiny in a cottage 
 of the Tras os Montes/' 
 
 " Whatj senhor ! a gallant cavalier^ like you V'' 
 
 " Yes, Eulalia ; for where shall I find, in 
 camp or court, such simple manners, such un- 
 pretending piety, as I see here ? and where, in all 
 the glittering circles of refined society, shall I see 
 a being so graceful and bewitching as yourself?*^' 
 
 " Shame on you, senhor ! You have not far 
 to go, if you are not the most inconstant of 
 cavaliers — and though I own I do not see in my- 
 self one hundredth part of the perfections with 
 which you would invest me, I am quite sure that 
 an acquaintance of your's of Teixeira possesses 
 as many attractive qualities, good or bad, as I 
 do ; and she has a prior claim on your regard. 
 Have you already forgotten Francisca ? '' 
 
OF THE DOURO. 201 
 
 '' I wish I could forget her — or that I could 
 seize your heart and place it in her bosom.'*' 
 
 " Thank you, senhor ; I cannot part with my 
 heart to Francisca.'' 
 
 " Nor tome, Eulalia?'' 
 
 " To you, senhor !'' 
 
 ^^ She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh^ 
 With a smile ou her lip, and a tear in her eye." 
 
 Stanisforth observed her emotion with triumph, 
 for he could not but perceive that it would be no 
 difficult task to teach Eulalia to love him, in spite 
 of the account given him of her by the young 
 Franciscan friar. But he was too generous to 
 triumph long. A pang of remorse came over him. 
 He felt all at once the cruelty and dishonesty of 
 exciting sentiments in his favour in one whose 
 humble station in life made it impossible for 
 him to think of marrying her. A stanza in 
 Burns's Cotter's Saturday Night came to the 
 aid of his reviving sense of virtue, and con- 
 firmed it. Yet insensible churls tell us that 
 poetry is, at best, useless to morahty, and most 
 frequently injurious to it. 
 
 K 5 
 
202 THE SISTERS 
 
 " You are right, Eulalia/' said he. " Let us 
 talk of Francisca.'' 
 
 ^' Do you love her, senhor?"^^ 
 
 '' Unfortunately for my own peace of mind, I 
 fear I do but too well ; for I know not what to 
 think of her, Eulalia.'' 
 
 ^' Then think of her charitably, sir. I know 
 her better than you do." 
 
 '' Do you know an officer of militia, calling 
 himself a Doctor of Laws, a man who has always 
 a book under his arm, a Senhor Jos6 A Ives?" 
 
 " I have seen him. What of him ?" 
 
 " To which of Senhor Coelho'^s daughters 
 does he pay his court ?" 
 
 " To both;' 
 
 " To both ! — the compound coxcomb ! And 
 by which of them is he encouraged ?" 
 
 " Francisca cannot endure him.''' 
 
 ^' Whom does he serenade then, and who 
 waves her white handkerchief to him from the 
 casement?'' 
 
 " Senhor Captain; you seem to have been 
 vigilant. Be assured that it was not Francisca." 
 
 " How can you know that .?" 
 
OF THE DOURO. 203 
 
 ^^ Do not be too inquisitive, captain. Rely 
 upon my word ; I do know it.^' 
 
 " You probably know also where she is 
 then ?^' 
 
 ^^ I do; but I will not tell you.'' 
 
 " Eulalia !'' 
 
 '' Senhor !'' 
 
 '' I entreat you !'' 
 
 " In vain ; I have not her permission to betray 
 her secrets/' 
 
 " Why should that be a secret ?" 
 
 " She is best acquainted with her own reasons. 
 But do you wish very much to see her?" 
 
 " Do I wish it ! do I not long to see her with 
 all the impatience of passion in suspense ?" 
 
 •« Very good ; you shall see her." 
 
 " When ?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 '' Here." 
 
 '^ Ecstacy ! at what hour ?" 
 
 '^ At eleven." 
 
 '^ Kind, beautiful, charming Eulalia." 
 
 '' Very well; and, in the meantime, I will 
 
204 THE SISTERS 
 
 take an opportunity of telling her that you have 
 been making love to me these two days. Fie, 
 fie, Mr. Enghshman !'' 
 
 '^ Pray, Eulalia, do not tell her that — my ad- 
 miration of you does not in the least interfere 
 with my affection for her. It is only an inno- 
 cent and fervent friendship.'^ 
 
 '' Nevertheless, I am angelical ; I have the 
 finest eyes and feet and figure in the world ; I 
 sing like a seraph, and Francisca has no voice 
 and is a heartless flirt. You cannot deny that 
 you have asserted all this, and you cannot justly 
 object to my giving a faithful report of your 
 eloquence.''^ 
 
 '' Now, Eulalia, I almost hate you — who 
 could have thought you so perfidious.?" 
 
 ^' Thank you, captain ; but you mean to say, 
 who could have thought me so exact a chronicler 
 of your perfidy !'' 
 
 Stanisforth was confused ; but a smile, very 
 sweet and ingenuous, reassured him that he was 
 safe, and Eulalia glided away, leaving him to 
 blissful anticipations. 
 
 As he sauntered homewards, pondering what 
 
OF THE DOURO. 205 
 
 he had heard, '^ Poor Wilmot/" said he, '' so 
 he has no chance even with the elder sister ! — 
 Think of such a fine fellow as Wilmot being suc- 
 cessfully rivalled by such an animal as the 
 Doctor of Laws, who has the impudence to 
 divide his patronage too between both sisters !'*'' 
 
 Thus musing, Stanisforth arrived at his 
 quarters, and there he was greeted by the ineffa- 
 bly and hideously languishing ogle of the old 
 Abigail, and there also he found the two men 
 whom he had been thinking of — Major Wilmot 
 and the Doctor of Laws ! 
 
 After the first greetings, " We have come to 
 dine with you,**"^ said the major. " Our friend 
 here^ Senhor Alvesjis about to quit us, and was 
 unwilling to leave this neighbourhood without 
 seeing you, and I have gladly accompanied him 
 thus far.*"' 
 
 " Are you going back to Coimbra then, 
 Senhor Jose?*^' said Stanisforth, rather surprised 
 and not at all sorry to learn that the Doctor of 
 Laws was to depart. 
 
 '' No, captain,'" replied the doctor. '^ I shall 
 sleep at Regoa to-night, in the house of a friend 
 
206 THE SISTERS 
 
 of whom I must take leave ; and to-morrow I 
 shall go down the river to Oporto, whence it is 
 my intention to embark for England.'' 
 
 " For England ! Why, surely^ this is a sud- 
 den resolution, Senhor Jose/' 
 
 ^' Senhor Captain/' replied the Doctor some- 
 what pompously, " every progress made by a 
 traveller is a step towards the mansion of truth. 
 Men who never quit their own country are like 
 ships that are never launched from the stocks. 
 Wisdom, when she descended from heaven, be- 
 came a pilgrim upon earth ; she is seldom met 
 with but by those who travel. The wanderer 
 over the globe instructs his judgment not to be a 
 wanderer. Vapours, that here below were mud, 
 absorbed, become stars on high. Men who wish 
 to become illustrious should leave their country 
 as the planets quit their cradle in the horizon, 
 and, soaring to the highest region, purify their 
 ascendant powers and double their strength of 
 light. Where would be the fame of Socrates, 
 Pythagoras, and Plato, and of the other sages 
 of antiquity, if, instead of seeking abroad for the 
 information not to be found at home, they had 
 
OF THE DOURO. 207 
 
 remained dully on their native soil^ like acorns 
 that take root and rot where chance has sown 
 them, Hercules would not have won trophies 
 had he not gone forth into the world to find the 
 monsters that he slew. The Argonauts would 
 never have obtained the golden fleece^ had they 
 not undertaken a long voyage. Ithaca would 
 have been the narrow boundary of the glory of 
 Ulysses had he not adventured into distant 
 climes. Men who are always at home are but 
 as poultry that know nothing beyond the perch 
 of their own roost. Intelligent travellers are 
 like those streams that run over veins of silver 
 and of gold, and over gems of emerald and 
 sapphire, and carry away with them some por- 
 tion of their precious qualities.''' 
 
 The orator paused for breath. 
 
 " You have taken a sublime flight, Senhor 
 Jose,'' said Stanisforth, " but I think I have 
 read all that before, and not in the Thresor de 
 Cartes!''' 
 
 '^ Perhaps so," said the doctor ; " but it is 
 none the worse for that." 
 
 '' Senhor Jose," said the major in French, 
 
208 THE SISTERS 
 
 ^^ as far as I can make it out, there is something 
 very much like what you have just said in my 
 Portuguese and English grammar.*"' 
 
 " Exactly so,'** replied Senhor Jose, not in the 
 least disconcerted ; " it was out of vour Portu- 
 guese grammar that I learnt that passage by 
 rote ; there is nothing like fortifying one'*s-self 
 with good reasons for travelling when one has 
 resolved to make a voyage.**' 
 
 '' Then you may add to your reasons those of 
 the Cosmopolite,'' said Wilmot : " life is a book, 
 of which he who has only seen his own country 
 has only read the first page." 
 
 " Precisely so — thank you, major ! Life is a 
 book — life is a book. What follows next ? Life 
 is a book — " 
 
 " Of which," said the major, helping him out, 
 " he who has only seen his own country has only 
 read the first page." 
 
 '' Just so ; that is excellent. Life is a book 
 of which — at what time do you dine, cap- 
 tain ?" 
 
 " At five." 
 
 " Rather late — very good. Life is a book of 
 
OF THE DOURO. 209 
 
 which he who — I must go and look after my 
 mule,'^ and the doctor disappeared. 
 
 Wilmot and Stanisforth could now converse 
 freeljj and the first inquiry of the latter was 
 about the Coelhos of Teixeira. He heard every 
 thing that was flattering in compliments to him- 
 self from the family ; " but,*^' said Wilmot, " I 
 do not know whether to be glad or sorry that 
 this odd fish, the officer of Trained Bands, has 
 taken his departure from Teixeira. He has cer- 
 tainly made a deep impression on the heart of 
 Senhor Coelho's daughter.*^' 
 
 " Which? which?'' 
 
 " The elder, of course ; the only one who is 
 at home; she was in tears when he came away 
 this morning."'' 
 
 '' How many tears,''" said Stanisforth, '^ are 
 sometimes shed for objects totally unworthy of a 
 tear !"" 
 
 " But this man is not such an ass as we 
 thought him ; he is a very amusing fellow ; and 
 you know how well he sings.'' 
 
 " Yes," said Stanisforth, smihng, ^^by moon- 
 light."" 
 
210 THE SISTERS 
 
 '' Oh, I forgive him that,'' said Wilmot, " and 
 he is welcome to his conquest if I could be sure 
 that he would make a handsome use of it ; but I 
 cannot make him out/^ 
 
 ^' Then I will help you,'' said Stanisforth. 
 '^ That half-witted half-witty buffoon is not con- 
 tented with one conquest, but he must have two 
 at a time. What do you think of his making 
 love to both sisters?'' 
 
 '^ You cannot be in earnest ! There is your 
 jealousy peeping out again.'' 
 
 " Not at all ; I assure you I know the fact 
 from competent authority/' 
 
 ^' If that be truly so, it is well that he is on his 
 march ; for Senhora Francisca is coming home 
 in a day or two." 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? '' 
 
 " Her father told me so; I suppose you will, 
 on this information, find time to pay us a visit 
 ' again in the course of the week." 
 
 ".^ Did Senhora Coelho tell you where she was ?" 
 
 " No ; and what is very odd, I have not been 
 able to ascertain : all that I could learn is, that 
 she is, as you have been already informed, on a 
 
OF THE DOURO. 211 
 
 Visit to a relation in the neighbourhood of Teix- 
 eira ; but whether east^ north, south, or west, I 
 know not. It is of no consequence, as she is 
 coming back so soon.'' 
 
 ''Of none whatever; but will you walk, 
 Wilmot? I want to ask a neighbour to dine 
 with us, and to shew you his very pretty place, 
 &c. &C.5 as you are an admirer of the pic- 
 turesque/^ 
 
 The two friends strolled up to the curate's 
 house, and inquired for Padre Manoel, to whom 
 they were admitted by the old female domestic. 
 The good curate received them with all courtesy, 
 and readily accepted Stanisforth's invitation to 
 dine ; and then led them out into his garden, 
 which Wilmot, for its singularity and its pleasing 
 prospect, thought worthy of high commenda- 
 tion. 
 
 But Stanisforth missed its fairest ornament — 
 Eulalia did not appear — yet the assurance that 
 he should to-morrow not only meet her, but one 
 more interesting to him, on that spot, made 
 him linger at the well, till Major Wilmot pro- 
 posed to change the scene, on which they bowed 
 
212 THE SISTERS 
 
 to the curate, and sauntered elsewhere, till the 
 hour of dinner re-united the four at Stanis- 
 forth's. 
 
 A frugal meal under ordinary circumstances 
 was not likely, however satisfactory and pleasant 
 to the individuals concerned, to be signalized by 
 any incident worth notice. It was scarcely over 
 before the Doctor of Laws rose to depart ; he 
 took his leave of the two Englishmen in a most 
 affectionate Portuguese manner, clasping each of 
 them in his arms, and kissing both on both 
 cheeks : he also saluted Padre Manoel with much 
 deference. They saw him start on his mule, and 
 returned to their wine. 
 
 At about eight o'^clock in the evening, when 
 they were complacently sipping their coffee, and 
 Wilmot was congratulating himself on the fine 
 moonlight for his homeward ride, and while 
 Stanisforth was persuading him to stay all night, 
 and return, if he chose, early in the morning, 
 a tumult without and a sudden irruption into the 
 room by the people of the house and others, 
 filled them with surprise. 
 
 '' Oh senhores, senhores ! Aqui del Rey ! Here 
 
OF THE DOURO. 213 
 
 in the King'^s name ! help in the King's 
 name ! ^' 
 
 What was the matter ? It was some time 
 before any thing like an explanation could be 
 extracted out of the confusion of voices. But 
 the matter was serious enough. A party of 
 French horse, about twelve only in number, had 
 penetrated as far as the upper end of the village, 
 and had forced some person into a liteira borne 
 by mules, and had hurried off with their prize, 
 whom two or three peasants, who had screened 
 themselves behind a wall on hearing the tramp of 
 the retiring horses, knew to be a woman by her 
 screams. 
 
 Not a moment was lost by the major in or- 
 dering the trumpets to sound to ^^ Boot and 
 saddle ; ^' and in ten minutes Stanisforth's troop 
 was ready. 
 
 Stanisforth himself, followed by the curate and 
 the villagers, and directed by one of the pea- 
 sants, had hurried up to the curate's house. 
 It was locked, and no key was in the door. 
 They knocked loudly, but no answer was re- 
 turned ; on which they burst open the door, and 
 
214 THE SISTERS 
 
 found no one in the house but the old female 
 servant, who was gagged and tied to a fixture in 
 a back room. As soon as she was released, and 
 able to speak, she confirmed the dreadful suspi- 
 cion which had already almost overwhelmed the 
 curate and Stanisforth. Eulalia was gone ! 
 
 Major Wilmot now came up with the troop, 
 and a few words from Stanisforth to him sufficed 
 for an exposition of the case. He divided the 
 troop into three divisions, widi one of which he 
 ordered a lieutenant to scour the country to the 
 left, taking care not to go too far, nor without 
 sending videttes forward, making as much haste 
 as prudence and the difficulty of such a country 
 would permit. Another division he sent away 
 to the right, under the charge of the young 
 cornet, with similar instructions, sending with 
 him the troop-serjeant-major to assist his inex- 
 perience. With the third division he and Stanis- 
 forth rode off as fast as they could along the 
 course indicated by the peasants, but had not gone 
 far till they came to three roads, and there they 
 were at fault. They listened anxiously, but 
 could hear nothing; Major Wilmot dismounted. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 215 
 
 and carefully examined the roads, on one of 
 which he perceived, by the moonlight, the fresh 
 traces of horses'" hoofs. 
 
 " This is our way/' cried Wilmot, vaulting 
 on his horse. " What road is this?'' he cried, 
 perceiving that some of the villagers had now 
 come up on horseback. It was the road to Villa- 
 Real. 
 
 " The rascals cannot have gone that way, 
 then," said the major, " for Silveira's people are 
 there ; but I have forgotten one thing — Captain 
 Stanisforth, send an intelligent orderly off to 
 Mezao Frio to inform the colonel of what has 
 occurred ; for it is impossible to know how many 
 of these Frenchmen may be loose in the country, 
 and there is no time to write. ^' The order was 
 instantly obeyed. " Send also two men to bring 
 back Senhor Alves, for I begin to suspect foul 
 play from that quarter. But no, it is useless, 
 and we can send to inquire for him before day- 
 break.'' 
 
 He now ordered two dragoons to ride but 
 a short way along the roads on either hand, 
 while he still resolved on pursuing the middle 
 
216 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 road to Villa-Real. The two scouts were to 
 return to him, and report as quickly as possible : 
 but on no account to go on above a mile. He 
 gave the word, " Trot, march ! '' and on they 
 went at a brisk pace ior about a mile and a 
 half. 
 
 " Halt;' said Major Wilmot. " What is this 
 small object in the middle of the road?" 
 
 A dragoon dismounted and picked it up. 
 
 ^' Phsaw ! '' said Wihuot; '' a wooden image 
 in a box." 
 
 ''By Saint Ildefonso," exclaimed Stanisforth, 
 " we are right ! On, on, major, I will explain 
 as we go ;''^ and they moved forward, while 
 Stanisforth in a few words related to Wilmot the 
 visit of the Marron pilgrim, with this very image 
 of St. Ildefonso, to the curate^s the preceding 
 night, and the suspicious circumstances attend- 
 ing it. The major doubted the inference ; but 
 on they rode. 
 
 They had advanced about a league, and were 
 now breathing their horses up a hill through a 
 pine wood, which they cautiously examined right 
 and left, when, at a turn of the road, they were 
 
OF THE DOURO. 21/ 
 
 suddenly charged by small bodies of horse from 
 the rear and on both flanks. A few pistol-shots, 
 wildly exchanged, did little injury to either 
 party ; but the clash of sabres was more serious ; 
 three or four of the English dragoons went 
 down, and not fewer of the enemy. But such a 
 contest could not last long. Wilmot and the 
 rest of his party were surrounded, and, with the 
 exception of two dragoons, who cut their way 
 out, were made prisoners ; for Wilmot'^s sword- 
 arm was disabled by a sabre-cut from an officer, 
 who then cried out, " Rendez vous^ Monsieur ^y 
 
 ^' The Doctor of Laws, by all that is mar- 
 vellous !*' exclaimed Wilmot, who had no alter- 
 native but to surrender or be butchered. 
 
 " The Doctor of Laws, by all that is infernal !'" 
 echoed Stanisforth, furiously thrusting his sword- 
 point at his treacherous enemy''s face ; but it 
 only grazed his shoulder ; on which, a French 
 chasseur fired a pistol at Stanisforth, which, 
 passing through his chaco, just missed his life, 
 but so stunned him that he fell senseless. 
 
 On this, the French officer, venting furious 
 imprecations, not on Stanisforth, but on Stanis- 
 
 VOL. !• L 
 
218 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 forth's assailant, jumped off his horse, and lifted 
 the English captain from the ground. The lat- 
 ter quickly recovered, and, on opening his eyes, 
 and beholding the face of his supporter, and, 
 perhaps, unconscious of his humane interposi- 
 tion, grasped him by the throat, and attempted 
 to strangle him ; in which he would perhaps have 
 succeeded, such was the strength of his rage, had 
 not two of the French soldiers forced him to 
 forego his hold, without, however, offering him 
 any farther violence, taught forbearance by their 
 leader**s previous conduct. 
 
 As soon as the French officer could recover 
 breath, he cried out, " Mille tonnerres ! a thou- 
 sand thunders, Captain Stanisforth ! you have a 
 powerful gripe; you have almost choked me. 
 But it is a proof that you are not the worse for 
 that rascaPs lead ; I thank }ou for the hint, 
 though rather a strong one; for I would as soon 
 be strangled as have you hurt. Major Wilmot, 
 I am sincerely sorry that I have wounded you ; 
 but it was in self-defence, for you plied that 
 sabre of your'^s with skill and vigour. I trust 
 you will not be seriously incommoded.**** 
 
OF THE DOURO. 219 
 
 Neither of the English officers made any reply, 
 
 for both were, naturally enough, stung with 
 
 vexation. Our quondam friend, the Doctor of 
 
 Laws, now organized his party, which consisted 
 
 of about four and twenty chasseurs, placing his 
 
 prisoners, the two officers and four privates, 
 
 mounted, but disarmed, in the centre, two of his 
 
 men in the rear leading each a horse of the four 
 
 whose riders had been killed, and of which two 
 
 had galloped away into the wood. Short as 
 
 was the time for these preparations, the cold 
 
 moon, when they departed, looked upon the 
 
 nude bodies of the French and EngUsh killed ; 
 
 for in these cases the work of divestiture is 
 
 usually performed with dramatic rapidity. There 
 
 lay several gallant fellows, who had probably 
 
 mothers, wives, children ; but march, march — 
 
 no more is to be thought of that. 
 
 When they had proceeded some time in silence, 
 Stanisforth said, " Wilmot, I fear you are 
 badly hurt.'' 
 
 " No ; I think not ; I have only a pretty 
 severe gash on my arm ; but the blood is already 
 stopped by the air, and T believe it will be of no 
 
 l2 
 
220 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 consequence. But these poor fellows of our's ! 
 I am afraid that some of them are worse off than 
 I am;' 
 
 " Oh, no, major !'' cried the brave fellows, 
 though one of them had a slash across his cheek, 
 and another could hardly sit his horse for a 
 sword-point wound in the leg. Some of the 
 French were as ill at ease, but, like brave sol- 
 diers, said not a word about the matter. 
 
 " I wish,'' said Stanisforth, " I could know 
 what has become of the poor girl, but I cannot 
 ask that soldier — doctor— devil." 
 
 " Then I will," said Wilmot, " Monsieur du 
 Thresor de Cartes J^ 
 
 The French officer was immediately at his 
 side. 
 
 ^' What have you done with that poor girl, 
 the curate's niece ?" 
 
 " She is before us, Major Wiimot, in a liteira^ 
 under a guard of twelve men." 
 
 Not another word was uttered till they entered 
 Villa-Real, from which Silveira^s troops had been 
 driven, and which was now occupied by the 
 French. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 221 
 
 Very tolerable apartments were provided for 
 the two English officers, and a surgeon immedi- 
 ately attended to Major Wilmot. About half 
 an hour after their arrival^ a note from the soi- 
 disant Doctor of Laws informed Captain Stanis- 
 forth that he might go and visit his men, with a 
 guard, if he thought proper. 
 
 Stanisforth lost not a moment in availing him- 
 self of the permission, and was gratified to see 
 that they were in every respect well treated. 
 He returned to the quarters assigned him, and 
 found all requisite refreshment provided ; while 
 Major Wilmot, in an apartment communicating 
 with his own, had a hospital attendant, and every 
 comfort that was proper for him. Stanisforth, 
 feeling that it might be imprudent to disturb 
 him with conversation, affectionately pressed his 
 hand, and withdrew. They had not arrived at 
 Villa-Real till two o^clock, so that it was nearly 
 dawn when Stanisforth retired to such rest as his 
 anxious situation would allow him. 
 
222 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Our plot is a good plot as ever was laid ; our friends true 
 and constant : a good plot, good friends, and full of expec- 
 tation. 
 
 King Henry IV. 
 
 The wound of Major Wilmot was unimpor- 
 tant, but his sense of the misfortune of having 
 been made prisoner was perhaps even keener 
 than Stanisforth^s. The latter was a soldier of 
 fashion, and had little ambition for the honours 
 of his profession. In his own corps, though 
 known to be a brave as well as an able and 
 honourable man, he was by no means estimated 
 as a particularly good officer. But Wilmot^s 
 character stood justly high in the service, and he 
 had looked up with eagle ardour to the attain- 
 ment of rank. His hopes were all at once dashed 
 to the earth, for there is no promotion for officers 
 taken by the enemy, till they are released. Here 
 
OF THE DOURO. 223 
 
 they were, just as the Fortune of War was be- 
 ginning to stoop to the star of Wellesley and 
 England, on the eve of being consigned, perhaps 
 for years, to the obscurity of some wretched 
 depot for miUtary prisoners in France; and this 
 by the result of an affair in which Major Wil- 
 mot felt that he had rather obeyed the impulse 
 of his feelings than consulted his usually steady 
 judgment. 
 
 Stanisforth's reflections, however, were bitter 
 enough. What a contrast did the reahty of his 
 condition on the next day present to the romantic 
 vision of love and happiness with which he had 
 deluded himself! His spirit was chafing itself 
 almost to frenzy against the mysterious person 
 who was the author of his calamity, when a note 
 from that individual, couched in the most con- 
 ciliatory terms, informed him that both the major 
 and he were permitted, at his request, by the 
 General commanding in the place, to be at liberty 
 in the town, on giving their parole not to quit it. 
 
 Desirable as such an indulgence might be, 
 Stanisforth rejected it with indignation, stating 
 in his reply that he scorned to accept a boon 
 
224 THE SISTERS 
 
 granted to the solicitation of a man whom he 
 would consider his deadly foe, till he could wreak 
 on him the vengeance that his infamous conduct 
 deserved, and adding that he considered any 
 overtures from such a source as only adding 
 insult to injury. 
 
 Major Wilmot approved of his answer, which 
 had not been despatched many minutes when 
 Colonel Champlemonde was announced ; and to 
 their extreme surprise the Doctor of Laws stood 
 before them, with an air at once easy and erect, 
 and clad in a rich uniform, which his handsome 
 and martial person well became ; so that nothing 
 but the keen sagacity of hatred would have 
 enabled Stanisforth to recognize him at a glance 
 for the drolling Brutus of Teixeira. Stanisforth 
 instinctively put his hand to his side, forgetting 
 that he had no longer a sword. 
 
 " Captain Stanisforth,'" said the Frenchman, 
 '^ our account shall be settled another day. I 
 have too much the advantage over you at 
 present ; we will not therefore now discuss the 
 contemptuous terms in which you have done 
 me the honour to reply to my communication. 
 
OF THE DOURO. 225 
 
 But perhaps Major Wilmot, (bowing to him) of 
 whose health I was happy to receive so favour- 
 able a report this morning, will condescend to 
 weigh matters with more patience.*^' 
 
 " Sir,'*" observed Wilmot sternly, " situated as 
 I am, I can enter into no parley with a '' 
 
 '^ Stop, sir!" hastily interposed the French- 
 man. " Major Wilmot — I have already, to my 
 unfeigned regret^ one quarrel on my hands, and 
 I promise Captain Stanisforth that it shall be 
 fairly fought out in due season : I promise him 
 that on the word of a soldier/' 
 
 " On the word,'' angrily cried Stanisforth, 
 ^' of a spy, a brigand, a warrior against women, 
 a disgrace to the name of a soldier !" 
 
 *' Enough, enough, sir,^' exclaimed the other 
 haughtily, '' and much more than enough : it 
 is not to you that I now address myself. Major 
 Wilmot, listen to me. You have already suf- 
 fered much through my means, and nothing on 
 earth shall induce me to do you further violence: 
 you have not yet insulted me — would to Heaven 
 that I could say the same of Captain Stanisforth ! 
 After this declaration, I leave it to your sense of 
 
 l5 
 
226 THE SISTERS 
 
 delicacy whether you choose to proceed in the 
 tone that you were beginning to assume.'*' 
 
 " After what you have said^ sir^**' the Major 
 replied coldly, " I shall do my best to refrain 
 from offering you provocation ; but the most 
 convenient check on my temper will be your ab- 
 
 sence/' 
 
 ^' Well, sir, I shall trouble you with few ob- 
 servations. Your displeasure seems to me more 
 natural than reasonable, for I am not aware that 
 to have seized my enemy even by stratagem 
 would have been at all incompatible with fair 
 warfare; but it was a matter of course that I 
 should do so by force if I could, when pursued 
 by them as I was by you. As for the young 
 woman, perhaps some of you Englishmen think 
 more seriously about such trifles than I do. 
 Vive la guerre^ vive V amour ! A damsel more 
 or less in your quarters should be no such sub- 
 ject of commotion. But I am already more than 
 half conscious that I have possessed myself of a 
 useless treasure, for I fear I am not to be the 
 Paris to this Helen after all, unless her humour 
 changes.'* 
 
OF THE DOURO. 227 
 
 '' If so,^' said Wilmot, '^ why not at once 
 make all the atonement in your power by re- 
 storing her to her friends ? Do this, and vindi- 
 cate the character of your nation and the honour 
 of your cloth." 
 
 " Ha, ha,'' said the French colonel, somewhat 
 piqued, and not without emotion, which he tried 
 to hide under an air of sarcastic levity, '^ the 
 honour of the French army is mightily con- 
 cerned in that of a damsel of the Tras os Montes ! 
 Your EngUsh morality is truly amusing ; espe- 
 cially after both of you have been doing all you 
 could to outmanoeuvre me in securing the good 
 graces of the loveliest girls in the province — ab- 
 solutely poaching on my manor ; for I was in 
 possession of the field at Teixeira before your 
 arrival.'' 
 
 Hitherto Wilmot and Stanisforth Ustened only 
 in disgust : but '' Well, well," continued the 
 Frenchman, talking himself into a better strain 
 of feeling : ^' I repeat to you that I suspect I 
 am to gain nothing by my motion with this ob- 
 durate Portuguese captive. So far she has been 
 impracticable, and, whatever opinion you may 
 
228 THE SISTERS 
 
 have formed of me, I am not the disloyal monster 
 you may take me for ; and I swear to you, by the 
 honour of the tricoloured flag to which you have 
 appealed, that I am incapable of forcing her in- 
 clinations, and that she is as yet perfectly imma- 
 culate for me.'^ 
 
 Stanisforth shuddered and looked incredulous. 
 
 " Captain Stanisforth ,'" said the colonel 
 proudly, " you doubt me. Would you be- 
 lieve such a declaration from her own mouth ?"" 
 
 '' Loth as I am,'' replied Stanisforth earnestly, 
 '' to accept any civility from you, I own that I 
 would gladly avail myself of your permission to 
 see the poor gir].'' 
 
 '' You shall see her, sir : but on one condition. 
 The General is coming to pay you a visit, Major 
 Wilmot, and to ask Captain Stanisforth to dine 
 with him. The staff-surgeon says he must not 
 extend the invitation to you, major, for a day or 
 two. You must both promise me that neither 
 of you will make any complaint to the General 
 to-day about her ! He is aware that I have 
 made such a prize, which is no business of his ; 
 but he has intimated to me his notion that I 
 
OF THE DOURO. 229 
 
 might have made better use of my chasseurs and 
 of my skill at a tour deforce against your troop, 
 if I had not hampered myself with a lady in a 
 liteira. Your odd way of representing the mat- 
 ter might strengthen that notion, and I desire 
 not to be compromised.'^ 
 
 ^' We can have no hesitation,'' said Wilmot, 
 ^* in making you the required promise on the un- 
 derstanding that it is not to hold good for more 
 than twenty-four hours, after which we shall be 
 free to act according to circumstances, you under- 
 taking to let Stanisforth speak with her in the 
 interval." 
 
 " Good," said the colonel. '^ I shall now leave 
 you, and inform the General that he can pay his 
 respects to you." 
 
 " Yes," said Wilmot drily, '^ he will be sure 
 to find us at home." 
 
 The Frenchman smiled at the truism, and, 
 making the most graceful of patronizing Parisian 
 bows, retired. 
 
 " What do you think of this ?" inquired Sta- 
 nisforth. 
 
 " I think," said Wilmot, ^^ that he now means 
 
230 THE SISTERS 
 
 fairly by us : but Heaven only knows how soon 
 the ejected devil may find his way back to the 
 brain of such an incomprehensible fellow as 
 that !" 
 
 '' And I think/' said Stanisforth, '^ that he is 
 only temporising with us for some vile purpose; 
 for do we not know that he is a consummate 
 actor ?'' 
 
 " We shall see,"^ said Wilmot; " the worst of 
 men retain some human feelings ; and probably 
 this is not one of the worst of men." 
 
 " Appearances are fearfully against him," said 
 Stanisforth, despondingly. 
 
 '^ No, no,"^ said the other^ ^' he is a fine manly- 
 looking person.'^ 
 
 " I do not speak of his exterior, Wilmot ; 
 now that he has thrown off his other disguises, 
 that is well enough ; but so much the worse if, 
 as I fear, it be only the fairer cloak to his dissi- 
 mulation.'' 
 
 The General was announced ; a spare, resolute- 
 looking little man, not devoid of grace and even 
 dignity of deportment. If Wilmot had been his 
 son, he could not have condoled with him with 
 
OF THE DOURO. 231 
 
 more kindness of manner than he did on his 
 wound, nor have expressed livelier satisfaction at 
 its being so slight. After some complimentary 
 conversation, and some questions as to thedistri* 
 bution of certain parts of the English force, which 
 were politely evaded^ he requested the honour of 
 Captain Stanisforth's company at dinner, and 
 Major Wilraot's pardon for excluding him from 
 the invitation, in obedience, he said, to the orders 
 of that despotic personage, the staff-surgeon. 
 
 " If that be the case,'' said Wilmot, " as I do 
 not like solitary meals, my best chance of dining 
 in any comfort is to ask the favour of the sur- 
 geon's company.'' 
 
 "^ I am sure he will accept it with pleasure," 
 said the General gaily, " and I will myself be 
 the bearer of your summons to him. But, as he 
 is somewhat of a gastronome^ he will require 
 something less simple than the diet to which he 
 probably restricts you. I must claim your leave 
 to desire my chef-de-cuisine to contribute to the 
 repast." 
 
 Major Wilmot bowed his thanks. The Ge- 
 neral then informed the two prisoners that they 
 
232 THE SISTERS 
 
 would be at perfect liberty in Villa-Real on their 
 parole. 
 
 " Pardon me. General," said the major ; '^ my 
 friend and I have determined to take leave of 
 you if possible with less ceremony than Colonel 
 Champlemonde brought us hither. We will not 
 throw away a chance of escape by giving our 
 j)arole.*' 
 
 '' If SO5" said the General, without any symp- 
 torn of displeasure, '' I must do my best to de- 
 tain such welcome guests ; I do not get such 
 every day. Captain Stanisforth, a grenadier will 
 do himself the honour of following you to my 
 quarters at six o'^clock. Major Wilmot, I salute 
 you ; good morning. I hope we shall become 
 much better acquainted.'' 
 
 Well as Wilmot might have felt disposed to 
 the cultivation of acquaintance with a person 
 of so much affability, he could not at present 
 but heartily pray for the non-fulfilment of the 
 General's hope. 
 
 Colonel Champlemonde now returned, and re- 
 quested Captain Stanisforth to follow him. Sta- 
 nisforth, who rightly understood that he was 
 
OF THE DOURO. 233 
 
 about to be conducted to Eulalia, felt his heart 
 moved with a thousand undefined sensations. 
 About this very hour, for it was yet but mid-day, 
 he was to have met Eulalia, by her own appoint- 
 ment, on the curate's terrace at Fontellas, and 
 then and there too he was to have beheld another 
 and a dearer. 
 
 He followed his guide through a long passage, 
 at the extremity of which the Colonel opened 
 the door of an apartment, through which also 
 they passed, when, coming to another door, the 
 Colonel knocked at it slightly, and entered the 
 room. A person rose from her seat, but it was 
 not Eulalia: it was a young lady in a black silk 
 dress. Stanisforth gazed in utter bewilderment. 
 It was Francisca ! Was it a vision ? No, no ; 
 it was Francisca ! In a moment Stanisforth was 
 at her side, and she sank into his arms ; but, 
 quickly recovering some portion of her self-pos- 
 session, released herself from his embrace, and 
 raised her hands to her face to hide her tears and 
 blushes. 
 
 ^' How in the name of Heaven is this !'' said 
 Stanisforth, whose penetration was perhaps in- 
 
234 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 ferior to the reader's, having been in all probability 
 blinded by his love as well as by female ingenuity : 
 '^ surely Senhora Dona Francisca is not likewise 
 a prisoner ! But where is Eulalia ?'' 
 
 Receiving no answer from the lady, he turned 
 fiercely to the French Colonel and repeated his 
 question. 
 
 The Frenchman, who had been hitherto more 
 affected than he would have chosen to avow, 
 stared at this demand, and, on its being reiterated 
 with vehemence, laughed outright. 
 
 ^' Captain Stanisforth,'' said he, '^you play 
 comedy with such a serious air ; you do indeed 
 seem in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! You English- 
 men are the strangest fellows ! You make me 
 laugh when I was half inclined to cry.*" 
 
 " Explain yourself. Colonel Champlemonde, 
 or, by the God of heaven, you do not quit this 
 room alive I**' 
 
 ^' For Heaven's sake, sir, be calm,'' cried Fran- 
 cisca in an agony. 
 
 '' Hush, hush, sir," said the Colonel, in a more 
 imperative tone : " you will alarm the guard." 
 
 Stanisforth clasped his hands together in an- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 235 
 
 guish : " True^ true, I am in his power ! in 
 every way defeated, baffled, insulted !'' 
 
 Chaniplemonde was now convinced that this 
 was no acting, for which, indeed, the occasion 
 would have been ill-selected, but that his English 
 prisoner was under a strong delusion. 
 
 " Captain Stanisforth,'' said he mildly, ^' what 
 do you desire to know ?" 
 
 '' Is this lady your prisoner ?" 
 
 " Yes/' 
 
 " Then, sir, we have indeed an account to 
 settle," 
 
 '' I know it," answered the other with some 
 sadness, " but not now. Have you any further 
 question ?" 
 
 " Where is the curate's cousin ? 
 
 " There." 
 
 " How ! Eulalia ! Francisca ! Oh, fool, fool 
 that I was ! how could I have been so duped !" 
 and he gazed at her with dismay and self-con- 
 tempt for having been so dull of perception. 
 
 '' Captain Stanisforth,*' said Francisca, with 
 profound emotion, and not venturing to lift her 
 eyes from the ground, '^ how shall I dare to 
 
236 THE SISTERS 
 
 implore your forgiveness for the misfortune into 
 which my foolish assumption of that disguise 
 has betrayed you and Major Wilmot ? Oh, 
 would to Heaven that I had not visited Fon- 
 tellas ! I must say nothing of the dreadful 
 situation into which it has brought myself, for I 
 am perhaps justly punished ; but what must my 
 friends at Teixeira be suffering ? and my poor 
 sister too ! For the love of Heaven, sir/' turn- 
 ing to the Colonel, " if, as your conduct this 
 morning makes me hope, you have still any 
 feelings left that become a gentleman and a 
 man, undo this horrid tissue of wickedness in 
 which you have entangled us ! You alone can 
 save us," 
 
 She threw herself on her knees before the 
 Colonel. Stanisforth haughtily raised her, while 
 Champlemonde folded his arms and hung his 
 head in sorrow and thoughtfulness. 
 
 After a pause of a few moments, he said, 
 briefly, " Senhora Dona Francisca, you shall be 
 restored to your parents to-morrow : that is cer- 
 tain. Captain Stanisforth, you and Major Wilmot, 
 too, shall be free, if I can effect your release ; 
 
OF THE DOURO. 237 
 
 that, however, may not be so easy/' He quitted 
 the room abruptly. 
 
 During the half hour that he absented him- 
 self, leaving Francisca with Stanisforth, the 
 latter learned enough to convince him that, 
 however rash and ill-fated might have been her 
 disguise, it proceeded from a motive which he at 
 least could not heavily condemn, as he was the 
 hero of her romance. Her cousin, the young 
 Franciscan friar, who had escorted her from 
 Teixeira to the house of her other relative, the 
 curate of Fontellas, whom both she and her 
 sister were in the habit of visiting frequently, 
 had, at her desire, deluded Stanisforth with the 
 story already told of Eulalia and her sorrows, 
 which was, however, a true history of a maiden 
 at Fontellas. 
 
 Whether he was in her secret, or only attri- 
 buted the young lady's fancy to some freak of 
 romance without a meaning, or whether even the 
 rest of her family were aware of the motive of 
 her visit to Fontellas so soon after the English- 
 man went thither, I have not been able to dis- 
 cover in the family biography. Certain it is. 
 
238 THE SISTERS 
 
 that Stanisforth was a favourite with them, and 
 the more so, because he was not " a heretic;" it 
 would require no dispensation from the Pope to 
 enable him to wed one of '^ the true faith." I do 
 not, however, believe that she assumed the cha- 
 racter of Eulalia with the connivance, or even 
 knowledge, of her father. It was a deception 
 excusable only in a mind very young, and not at 
 all aware of the censoriousness of the world. 
 But, with all the palliation that can be offered for 
 it under any circumstances, it was a fault, and a 
 great one ; and Francisca now felt bitterly that 
 it was so: but Stanisforth was far from judging 
 so severely. 
 
 It seemed but a moment since Colonel Champ- 
 lemonde left them : 
 
 '' How softly falls the foot of Time, 
 That only treads on flowers!" 
 
 But there he v^as again, and with him the Gene- 
 ral, who gravely approached Francisca, and, in 
 the most respectful manner, expressed his sor- 
 row that she should have been exposed to so much 
 alarm by the misconduct of a French officer. 
 " If," said he, '' there can be any excuse for 
 
OF THE DOURO. 239 
 
 him, it must be in the extreme beauty of the 
 lady whom I see ; and, if any atonement could 
 be made for such an outrage, it might be found 
 in the frankness of his self-condemnation, which 
 I have just heard. But I am far from admitting 
 that any excuse or any atonement can wipe away 
 the foul stain from the Colonel's achievement. 
 By his own confession he is convicted. It is well 
 for him that he has treated you with respect 
 since your arrival here, and that he had the 
 delicacy to give you at least the protection of a 
 female servant, for such I understand to be the 
 case.'^ 
 
 '' Yes, sir,'^ said Francisca; " so far I can 
 acknowledge his courtesy. She is in the ad- 
 joining room, and has not left me since I was 
 brought to this house." 
 
 " But you will probably,^^ continued the 
 General, " be better pleased with better com- 
 pany. I shall recommend your removal to the 
 Franciscan nunnery. The abbess and her sister- 
 hood are, I believe, no friends to the French ; 
 but that will only make her the more willing to 
 receive you.'' Francisca gladly acceded to this 
 
240 THE SISTERS 
 
 proposal. "As for you. Captain Stanisforth, 
 and your friend the major, you cannot fairly be 
 considered prisoners of war. I shall only detain 
 you and your men till I can let you go without 
 prejudice to my own service. But, Captain 
 Stanisforth, you must now give me your word 
 that you will not attempt to escape.'^ 
 
 Stanisforth at once gave him his word that he 
 would not. The General now told Colonel 
 Champlemonde that he might retire, which he 
 did, without uttering a syllable, but not without 
 making a profound obeisance to Senhora Dona 
 Francisca, and a somewhat ceremonious one to 
 Captain Stanisforth. The lady was then in- 
 formed by the General that he was ready to 
 attend her to the convent. She called to the 
 woman in her room, and her cloak and veil were 
 brought and put on without delay. The General 
 led her out, and requested Captain Stanisforth 
 to accompany them. A sedan was at the door, 
 and Francisca hurried into it, the two gentlemen 
 attending her on foot. Care had been already 
 taken to apprise the abbess^ by a note, of the 
 guest for whom her hospitality was desired. In 
 
OF THE DOURO. 241 
 
 a few moments they were within the convent 
 gates, where the General, after receiving her 
 hurried thanks of warm gratitude, and Stanis- 
 forth, after he had acknowledged a look elo- 
 quent enough to make him happy, left her in 
 security. 
 
 Captain Stanisforth, as soon as he could civilly 
 leave the General, hastened to inform Major 
 Wilmot of the happy change in their prospects ; 
 but he was anticipated. The Staff-surgeon, in- 
 formed of all, and deputed by Colonel Cham- 
 plemonde, good-natured even in his disgrace, 
 had already been there, and communicated the 
 welcome tidings. Time passed swiftly with the 
 two friends, for it passed happily, till the return 
 of the Staff-surgeon, who came to dine with 
 Wilmot, warned Stanisforth to make his toilet 
 for the General's repast. In due time he was 
 seated at the French Chief ^s right hand, at a 
 well arranged and better served table, among 
 officers of Napoleon's army, many of whose 
 names, some for good and some for evil, but all 
 for gallantry, are well known in the history of 
 the Peninsular warfare. 
 
 VOL. T. M 
 
242 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 I will not repeat what was said by these gen- 
 tlemen, because nothing would be less ill us- 
 trativeof their characters than their conversation. 
 The sternest-featured and stifFest-mannered man 
 of the party was among the gentlest and most 
 humane in conduct, in an army where mildness 
 and mercy were not the fashion, and the most 
 inexorably ruthless among them, in the field and 
 after the battle, was here the gay and jovial good 
 companion. But, for tb^ most part, they were 
 only reserved and civil; and it would have 
 puzzled Lavater and Spurzheim to vindicate 
 their several theories by pronouncing on the real 
 characters of any of these individuals, without a 
 much more studious investigation of features and 
 bumps than civility could warrant on such an 
 occasion. 
 
 Stanisforth was struck by the formality of 
 the party, for, with one or two exceptions, there 
 were no careless pleasant talkers; even the General 
 was now starch and stately; there was a repression 
 of the national vivacity which would have been 
 chiUing to Stanisforth, but for the attentive 
 courtesy to himself, by which the dulness was 
 
OF THE DOURO. 243 
 
 relieved. A band of military musicians in the 
 ante-room also did important service in passing 
 the dinner off. 
 
 But such dinners are seldom gay when a 
 stranger is present. Witness our own, where 
 the General is usually as pompously stupid as 
 possible, where the Aidecamps invite you to take 
 win'e as if they were propounding some affair of 
 strategy, where profound nothings are asked 
 with solemnity and as deep no-meanings oracu- 
 larly responded : dinners of staff-smiles, and stiff 
 neckcloths. But though the French repast was 
 long, the sitting after it was short ; coffee was 
 introduced, and soon afterwards the party 
 broke up. 
 
 Stanisforth found Wilmot discussing with his 
 guest, the French surgeon, the merits of repub- 
 licanism, the demerits of Napoleon, the glory of 
 the Grand Army, and the superb character of 
 Colonel Champlemonde ! The doctor was an 
 orator, and Wilmot, with occasional short inter- 
 ruptions of surprise or dissent, an amused lis- 
 tener. Stanisforth was well content for some 
 time to play the part of mute, for he, too, was 
 
 M 2 
 
244 THE SISTERS 
 
 astonished as well as interested by the force, the 
 levity, and the startling freedom, of the medical 
 man's notions. 
 
 According to him, the French Revolution was 
 so far a splendid failure; inasmuch as its glo- 
 rious tendencies were for a while misdirected from 
 their course by the selfish perfidy of the man 
 who had been hailed as " the Child and Cham- 
 pion of the Revolution.**^ But in what did the 
 power of this evil giant consist? In the thews 
 and sinews, in the hands, armed with iron, and 
 the hearts, more true than steel, of the youth of 
 beautiful France. Those very hearts and hands 
 would strike him down from his bad eminence ; 
 and with Napoleon, the whole tribe of pettier 
 despots, the demi-gods of his creation, the Mar- 
 shals of the Empire, great as they were for vic- 
 tory, and glorious to their flag, Avould be swept 
 away : for they^were false to the mystic meaning 
 of the tri-coloured emblem, which Avas Liberty, 
 Equality, and Peace. The very words Emperor 
 and Empire were gall and wormwood to the 
 virtuous hopes of revolutionary France. 
 
 " Why have Frenchmen,'' continued he, " up- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 245 
 
 rooted their lily, and scattered to the four winds 
 its flowers, sacred to their loyal prejudices by a 
 thousand years of regal splendour, but that they 
 were sickened of the very name and sign of 
 King ? Sickened by misgovernment, by oppres- 
 sion, by the weaknesses and wickednesses of roy- 
 alty, and the more intolerable nuisance of a pam- 
 pered, insolent, and worthless oligarchy ; a race 
 of privileged bullies, now bullying their master, 
 now his subjects, but always bullies ? Sickened 
 by princes, parasites, and priests, who fattened 
 the land with the sweat of our brows, battened 
 on its produce, and spurned us for our pains ? 
 And who were we that bore these things ? Men. 
 And who were they that did these things ? Men, 
 too, until our servility made them demons. We 
 rose, and expelled the demons ; and bloody, alas, 
 was the exorcism ! 
 
 " Then arose the kings of Europe, and impe- 
 riously bade us to resume our chains ; we flung 
 them in their faces, and left some pleasant scars 
 that will not soon wear out. A young transcen- 
 dent Impulse, its name Napoleon, started up and 
 cheered us on : Alps and Appennines melted 
 
246 THE SISTERS 
 
 away, thrones and towers were shaken from their 
 pride, and republican France was in the majestic 
 attitude to say to the trembling nations — ' Be at 
 peace; be free, and equal !' But no : she turned 
 to her adopted Corsican, to him who might have 
 been the most sublime of the sons of men, and 
 she fell down and worshipped him ; and he, in- 
 toxicated with incense, sunk into an Emperor. 
 If angels of light and darkness had conspired in 
 unholy union for his perdition, they could not 
 have insured it better than by wounding his 
 brave plebeian forehead with the subtle pressure 
 of the diadem. But he is mad, and must be 
 quieted. To what purpose are these wars of 
 conquest, if they are to be interminable? This 
 God of War may die^ and where wilf be his con- 
 quests then ? Are they to be divided among his 
 Marshals ? Glorious Alexander ! But let us 
 look to the spot. Soult shall be the lord, the 
 anointed lord, of Northern Lusitania ! And the 
 gallant chiefs who have led our eagles to victory 
 shall bend the knee and kiss the gracious hand 
 of his Majesty King Soult the First, who must 
 borrow the five quinas for his arms, having none 
 
OF THE DOURO. 247 
 
 of his own that will pass any herald's college in 
 Europe. 
 
 " N05 sir, this is not to be. All the choicest 
 spirits of the French army are at this moment 
 united in a sacred cause ; and the irresistible 
 power of our arms will force the nations of Eu- 
 rope and of the world to be happy ; for here 
 even we must be despots, because we are the or- 
 gans of Truth and Justice. The mummeries of 
 priestcraft, the wily iniquities of law-craft, and, 
 finally, the redeeming evils of war-craft, must be 
 annihilated ; and, when the French army has 
 done this, it will lay down its arms at the altar 
 of Liberty, Equality, and Peace, and Truth and 
 Justice will be at hand to sanction the surrender; 
 and the three-coloured flag shall then wave inno- 
 cuously triumphant over the world. 
 
 " The means, you will say, are less obvious 
 than the intentions. Is not Champlemonde a 
 gallant and a stirring soldier ? There are four 
 thousand Champlemondes in the French army, 
 and each of those has thousands of inferior, but 
 stout and ready, subordinates. There is not a 
 staff of a General of brigade, of a General of divi- 
 
248 THE SISTERS 
 
 sion, not a Marshal's staff in the French army, 
 without its Champlemondes. Napoleon, himself, 
 confides his inmost feelings of universal abso- 
 lutism to men who are determined to baffle him, 
 though he little suspects the determination. '^ 
 
 The two English officers had listened, as has 
 been said, with a rare and brief interruption from 
 Wilmot ; but the latter now asked the surgeon 
 how he could suppose that so wild a scheme 
 could take effect. 
 
 '^ Wild ! " he said — "Russia is with us; 
 Prussia is with us ; Austria is with us ! But we 
 trust them not. England is with us ! and her 
 money will secure the fidelity of the other three : 
 and when England has helped us to deliver the 
 Continent, she will know her own strength, she 
 will turn round upon her own base agents, for 
 their own purposes, her aristocracy, the vilest 
 and therefore the most arrogant in Europe, and 
 she will abate their pride, and the supremacy of 
 the people; each, in its natural division, will be 
 established in all lands; and Industry, Talent, 
 and Virtue, will be the only peers paramount of 
 the world. '^ 
 
OF THE DOURO. 249 
 
 " And can you, seriously^"*' said Wilmot, ^' hope 
 for such results from the plots of conspirators like 
 Colonel Champlemonde?'^ 
 
 " Sir, excuse me; you know nothing of the 
 brilliant qualities of Champlemonde. He is at 
 once the Alcibiades and the Themistocles of his 
 age. You have seen something of his noble na- 
 ture, in his conduct to yourselves, to-day.'^ 
 
 " True, doctor ; finding his exploit of less 
 avail than he anticipated, he has made some 
 amends by confession, if not by repentance, for 
 his conduct of yesterday. But what do you say 
 to that conduct of yesterday ? Or, perhaps, you 
 are not aware that we have known him under 
 another name and character ?'' 
 
 '' Yes, yes, I know it all ; he conceals none of 
 his wildest frolics from me; and I own that his 
 passion for gallantry sometimes leads him into 
 furious excesses. Were it not for his blind love 
 of women, he might be the greatest man of his 
 age : but, even under the shade of that besetting 
 sin, he often contrives to further the good cause 
 in which he is engaged, and to which his mind is 
 ever awake. But I hope 1 have said enough to 
 
 M 5 
 
250 THE SISTERS 
 
 convince you that my friend is no ordinary man, 
 and must not be judged by ordinary rules. For 
 the rest, time will show whether he is not worthy 
 of your admiration. I do not fear to have com- 
 mitted myself in the least by having so freely dis- 
 closed our sentiments to two honourable English- 
 men ; for I repeat to you, that your nation and 
 force will be soon coalesced with our's in the 
 grand work that we have in hand. I must not 
 fatigue you with more discourse. I will, there- 
 fore, now wish you good repose; and I hope 
 that, to-morrow, you will have no further occa- 
 sion for my professional services.^' 
 
 The doctor departed, and the two friends soon 
 afterwards separated for the night. 
 
OP THE DOURO, 251 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Jack shall have Jill^ 
 Nought shall go ill. 
 The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 The town of Villa-Real is finely situated on a 
 rock over the river Corgo, and backed by the 
 Serra Marrao^ which stretches away towards 
 Galicia; but, though much the subject of boast 
 among the rural population of the province in 
 which it stands, it is very far from justifying its 
 name : whatever might have been its former 
 splendour, it has now the aspect of royalty in 
 rags. The streets are barbarously rude and 
 uncleanly, even for Portugal ; the houses ruin- 
 ous and poverty-stricken; and the inhabitants 
 squalid. 
 
 But it was no longer a prison for Captain 
 Stanisforth. From a window of his apartments 
 
252 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 in the large rambling inn where the French had 
 quartered him, he could behold the gloomy- 
 looking nunnery in which Francisca was shel- 
 tered. Soon after daybreak he was employed in 
 the contemplation of this interesting prospect, 
 and he continued leaning at the casement in a 
 lover-like mood and attitude of abstraction, till 
 he was roused by the entrance of Colonel 
 Champlemonde into his room. 
 
 '^ Captain Stanisforth,^^ said he, with civility, 
 '^you are an early riser to-day, and that is 
 fortunate ; for I bring you tidings that will not 
 displease you. The General finds that he must 
 resign the pleasure of your company sooner 
 than he expected : and he particularly laments 
 that it is inconvenient for him to take leave of 
 you. Do you think Major Wilmot is able to 
 travel?" 
 
 Stanisforth heard this with surprise and not 
 without suspicion, and, instead of answering the 
 question, demanded what was to become of the 
 young lady ; in reply to which he was assured 
 that she was to accompany them back to her 
 home, not by the direct road^ but by way of 
 
OF THE DOURO, 253 
 
 Fontellas, and that she was already prepared for 
 the journey. 
 
 A note from the French General ^ which the 
 Colonel requested Stanisforth to take into the 
 inner room to Wilmot^ confirmed this informa- 
 tion, without giving any reason for so sudden an 
 arrangement. The two English officers were 
 less curious about the motive than eag-er for the 
 accomplishment of the journey. Major Wilmot 
 declared that he felt no longer the least inconve- 
 nience from his wound. In a few minutes^ after 
 some hasty refreshment, they were mounted, and 
 on their way to the convent, for every thing 
 had been got ready without their interference. 
 Colonel Champlemonde attended them, followed 
 by twelve French dragoons. 
 
 No other soldiers were to be seen in the 
 streets : and Wilmot and Stanisforth could not 
 but remark upon that fact, which, however, was 
 not explained. At the convent-gate were two 
 of the four dragoons of Stanisforth's troop, who 
 had been made prisoners with their officers. The 
 two others, who were wounded, were not yet in 
 a condition to be removed. 
 
254 THE SISTERS 
 
 The outer gates of the convent were now 
 opened, and a liteira with mules came forth, the 
 mule-bells jingling importantly. The occu- 
 pant of this vehicle, drawing aside the curtain, 
 and taking one rapid, earnest glance, satisfied 
 herself and her English friends that all was well. 
 Colonel Champlemonde made his obeisance to the 
 lady, which she coldly acknowledged ; she then 
 looked eagerly at Stanisforth, as if fearing that 
 she had done wrong, and drew the curtain 
 close. 
 
 Colonel Champlemonde now said : " There is 
 your road, gentlemen ; I wish you a pleasant 
 ride. Captain Stanisforth, we shall meet again. 
 Major Wilmot, I regret that you are not so 
 much my friend as I am your's. Farewell, sirs : 
 excuse so prompt a leave-taking.*" 
 
 He turned his horse's head towards the east, 
 and galloped out of the town, followed by his 
 escort. In taking the contrary direction, the 
 liberated party perceived a few of the inha- 
 bitants cautiously observing them, and it was 
 soon discovered that the French had evacuated 
 the town in the night, and that Colonel Cham- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 255 
 
 lemonde and his twelve men were the last of 
 their body. Even their two or three wounded 
 men had been conveyed aw^ay in a cart. The 
 English officers did not think it expedient to 
 stop to make further inquiries; and they left 
 the town, satisfied that their own two wounded 
 would be taken care of by the Portuguese, which 
 was as certain as that the French wounded would 
 have been massacred had they been left in the 
 place. 
 
 It afterwards appeared, that whatever might 
 have been the motive of the French in sending a 
 strong detachment back upon Villa-Real, which 
 had been left by Silveira in supposed security, it 
 was a false movement that exposed them to be 
 cut off; for not only was Silveira returning with 
 his troops, but clouds of armed peasantry were 
 gathering in every direction, and the French had 
 good assurance of being surrounded in the town 
 if they did not move off with the utmost de- 
 spatch. 
 
 Many of the minor movements at this time, 
 on both sides, are quite inexplicable on ordinary 
 military principles; especially those of the French, 
 
256 THE SISTERS 
 
 whose operations were perplexed by the Phila- 
 delphians. 
 
 The retrograde movement upon Villa-Real was 
 probably made on the representation of Colonel 
 Champlemonde ; but whether he intended it 
 to serve the cause of the conspirators^ by weak- 
 ening Soultj or merely to favour his intrigue at 
 Teixeira, by enabling him to secure the person 
 of Francisca, and carry her off into Spain, is 
 very doubtful. Preposterous as the notion may 
 seem of his having had the assurance, by some 
 fabricated report, to cause a body of troops to 
 be put in motion merely that he might accom- 
 plish the abduction of a Portuguese lady, it is 
 quite consistent with the character of the man. 
 That the younger sister should have been his 
 object, and not Leonora, is also a mystery, that 
 seems exphcable by no other solution, than that, 
 with all his brilliant qualities, he was an incon- 
 stant and heartless reprobate. 
 
 The first and most important object with 
 Stanisforth, and even with Major Wilmot, was 
 to hasten the restoration of Francisca to her 
 parents : but they were obliged to moderate 
 
OF THE DOURO. 257 
 
 their impatience to the slow pace of the liteira; 
 this was perhaps well for the major, who was 
 weakened by his wound. But with what differ- 
 ent emotions from those with which they had 
 entered Villa-Real did they retrace their road ! 
 The morning was lovely, and every thing they 
 saw seemed beautiful: the noble chestnut trees, 
 one of them a giant ; the places through which 
 they passed — Sabroso, Panellas^ the pretty Val' 
 d'^Ermida, '^ the Valley of the Hermit,'^ with its 
 vines gracefully trained so as to form a long 
 gothic-arched walk between them. Povoacao, 
 the village Alvasoes, with its bridge over the 
 Corgo ; that river itself, the fair reaches of the 
 Douro ; the very road, which in truth was often 
 execrable, all these and every thing else, were, 
 or seemed, delightful on that day. 
 
 Though the distance is said to be less than 
 four leagues, they were full six hours before 
 they reached Fontellas, where Francisca was 
 once more committed to the care of the happy 
 old curate, while a despatch was forwarded to 
 Teixeira to announce her safety. Anxious as 
 she was to proceed immediately to her home, she 
 
258 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 ^vas too much exhausted to do so without repose; 
 and the heat of the day was becoming too op- 
 pressive, and the priest would on no entreaty 
 permit her to proceed till the evening, for good 
 reasons. He informed her that her father was 
 confined to his bed by an illness with which he 
 was seized on the first shock of the intelligence of 
 the loss of his daughter ; that her mother, though 
 inconsolable, had exerted her fortitude that she 
 might do her duty to her husband in his illness ; 
 and that her sister, on having been informed of 
 what had passed, and that Colonel Chample- 
 monde was the traitor, had sunk into a fearful 
 state of mind, which was neither apathy nor 
 madness, but some strong and inwardly cherished 
 passion of grief, which seemed too deep for the 
 reach of consolation ; for she had not uttered a 
 word on the subject, nor scarcely on any other, 
 since the event was related in her presence. 
 
 Thus prepared, and after the rest that had 
 been justly thought indispensable for her, Fran- 
 cisca, well escorted, set out at sunset for her 
 home, where she arrived in a few hours. Her 
 first embrace was for her father, whom she found 
 
OF THE DOURO. 259 
 
 already better after the announcement of her 
 safety, and in the expectation of her arrival ; 
 and who sat up in bed to welcome her, and 
 was too much affected with joy at her return to 
 remember that she had been imprudent. Her 
 mother, who was at the bedside, could not help 
 disengaging her from her father's arms, and 
 clasping her impatiently in her own. But Leo- 
 nora, who was also in the room, went on with 
 her embroidery, and had not even risen from 
 her chair. Francisca was hurt and astonished ; 
 for not only did her sister greet her with no 
 word of welcome, but she repelled her offered 
 embrace, and, after eyeing her sternly, withdrew 
 to her own apartment. 
 
 "•' Follow her,'' said her father, " and compel 
 her, if possible, to disburthen her mind to you. 
 Her silence is dreadful." 
 
 '^ Follow her, follow her," said the mother. 
 
 Francisca did follow her into their room, and 
 closed the door. Leonora looked at her with a 
 frigid air, but was still mute. 
 
 " Leonora ! dear, dear Leonora ! Why will 
 you not speak to me ? Am I not your sister ? 
 
260 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 How have I offended you ? Answer me^ I im- 
 plore you/' 
 
 For some time this importunity was ineffec- 
 tually continued ; but suddenly Leonora^ fixing 
 a keen glance on her^ said in a hurried tone : — 
 
 '' Francisca ! tell me the truth ! By what 
 witchcraft did you seduce that man Chample- 
 monde P*^' 
 
 '' Sister, you rave ! or, perhaps, you jest ?'^ 
 
 " Jest V answered the other sternly. '' I 
 neither jest nor rave. Will you affirm that no 
 art of your'^s beguiled him from me ? — that 
 your visit to Fontellas was not contrived to give 
 him the facility of bearing you off, and that that 
 monstrous iniquity was not committed by your 
 consent and connivance?'^ 
 
 '^ If you ask such questions seriously, injurious 
 and ungenerous and irrational as they are, I will 
 yet not refuse to reply. That man, then, as you 
 know, was to me, at first, only an object of in- 
 difference and ridicule. I was surprised to find 
 that he could excite any favourable sentiments in 
 you : till the taste and romance of his midnight 
 serenades furnished some excuse for your par- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 261 
 
 tiality, by proving that he could be something 
 better than a buffoon. But, some time after the 
 arrival of the English here, I began to find his 
 visits at the house exceedingly tedious, as he 
 almost always contrived to be in the way on the 
 few opportunities that I had of conversing with 
 Captain Stanisforth. He was already becoming 
 odious to me on this account, when, all at once, 
 he had the effrontery to pretend that it was 
 with me and not with you that he was in love. 
 This was on the very day that Captain Stanis- 
 forth left us for Fontellas. I treated the 
 matter as a joke; and immediately formed my 
 resolution. I was determined to leave home as 
 much to withdraw from him, and not to interfere 
 with you, as for another motive, of which you 
 cannot be ignorant, and which alone might have 
 convinced you that I could not be your rival 
 intentionally. Leonora, are you satisfied P**^ 
 
 '' Kneel before that crucifix, and swear to the 
 truth of what you have told me ?'' 
 
 " How cruelly incredulous ! Well, then by 
 the blessed cross, and by Him who died thereon, 
 I swear that I have told you the truth !" 
 
262 THE SISTERS 
 
 '' Then^ I have indeed wronged you by my 
 suspicions, my beloved Francisca. But forgive 
 me, oh, forgive me ! You do not know what I 
 have suffered." She embraced Francisca, and 
 wept abundantly. She proceeded. " Answer me 
 one question more ? Were you aware before you 
 left home that Jose Alves was an assumed name, 
 and that his character was fictitious.'^" 
 
 " I had not the slightest suspicion of such a 
 thing. How could I have any when the wretch 
 acted his part so well, and spoke our language 
 like a native ?^' 
 
 '^ Alas, I likewise acted a part, Francisca, 
 and acted it also but too well, though indeed it 
 was but a passive part to outward shew ; for I 
 deceived my parents, and even you, from whom 
 I never concealed a thought before. Know then 
 that when he first came hither, wounded and way- 
 worn and almost starved, in the uniform of an 
 officer of Portuguese militia, he was no stranger 
 to me, and I recognized him at once.'^ 
 
 " You astonish me.'^ 
 
 " His life would not have been safe for five 
 minutes if the fact that he was a Frenchman 
 
OF THE DOURO. 263 
 
 had transpired among the villagers. I had pre- 
 sence of mind to subdue my agitation at the mo- 
 ment of his arrival, and prudence or hypocrisy 
 enough, call it which you will, so to demean my- 
 self afterwards that no suspicion of our previous 
 acquaintance could be awakened ; though you 
 are not ignorant with what assiduity I served 
 him while he was sick and feeble/' 
 
 '^Unkind sister! could you not even trust me?" 
 
 " I did not dare, Francisca."' 
 
 " Did not dare ! — unkinder still. But how 
 could you deceive me so well ; me, your com- 
 panion from childhood? I would have sworn 
 that I could read every passing thought on that 
 open brow." 
 
 " Ah, Francisca, so you could, till a fatal 
 passion taught me to dissemble." 
 
 '' But why should you conceal such an attach- 
 ment from me?" 
 
 " Why, why, Francisca? Is it anything 
 extraordinary to conceal one's weakness ?" 
 
 ^^ Yes ; from a bosom friend, from your own 
 sister, when the weakness^ as you call it, is so 
 natural.^' 
 
264 THE SISTERS 
 
 " You forget that this man was one of our 
 invaders; one of the detested race of French- 
 men/^ 
 
 '^ True, my beloved Leonora ; but my pa- 
 triotism, whatever that of our dear parents may 
 be, is not so severe as to justify my exclusion 
 from your confidence on such an occasion. But 
 when and where had you seen him before T'' 
 
 " I saw him at Oporto on the night after 
 the French obtained possession of the city ; his 
 brave interposition shielded me from the violence 
 of a brutal soldier ; and I, on my part, shed that 
 soldier'^s blood in my deliverer'^s defence. You 
 well may lift up your hands with dismay ! But 
 can you any longer wonder that I never spoke, 
 except in general and indefinite terms, of the 
 horrors of that fatal night, and of the passion 
 that was written on my soul in letters of blood ?" 
 " It was a dreadful necessity, Leonora ; but 
 you take the matter too strongly : there could 
 be no guilt in destroying an enemy, especially 
 one such as you describe him.^' 
 
 " That flattering unction I would have laid 
 to my own lacerated spirit, but in vain. I can- 
 
OF THE DOURO. 265 
 
 not pursue this subject at present. I will tell 
 you all when I have more courage.*"^ 
 
 " My poor Leonora ! What a wretch must 
 this Colonel Champlemonde be to have trifled so 
 barbarously with your affection ! You should 
 disdain him for his unworthiness."*"* 
 
 *' I will ; I will ; I do disdain him ; but leave 
 me, leave me !**' 
 
 She sunk into a chair in an agony of tears. 
 Francisca did not leave her, but sat silently by 
 her till she regained composure. 
 
 A few days after this conversation, Leonora 
 was persuaded by her sister to go into the air, for 
 the first time since Francisca'^s return home. She 
 unwillingly complied, though she could not re- 
 sist Franciscans affectionate way of urging the 
 request ; but she was herself surprised at the 
 effect of the fresh air on her enfeebled frame. It 
 was as a bath of balm to her mind, too, soothing 
 tenderly the grief that could not be dispelled. 
 
 They had strolled up the stream towards the 
 margin of a wood. They had already commu- 
 nicated to each other every leading particular of 
 their adventures, and were now seated in silence 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 at the foot of an old cork-tree near the margin of 
 the crooked brawling stream, on which the slant 
 rays of the declining sun were glittering. 
 
 Leonora had sunk into a reverie, while Fran- 
 cisca looked towards the north in the direction 
 where her favourite star was shortly to appear. 
 The sound as of men's voices in an adjoining 
 grove of ilex suddenly surprised them. They 
 looked at each other, and then around them with 
 some terror ; no human being could be seen ; 
 Leonora grasped her sister's arm, and they 
 listened, but they could not distinguish any 
 words of the conversation of the persons in the 
 wood. Presently, the clashing of swords was 
 heard, and the two ladies hurried homeward as 
 fast as fear could hasten them. 
 
 They had not far to go, and when they were 
 in safety, they could not but admire their own 
 imprudence in having wandered from home un- 
 attended, in such unsettled times, when brigands, 
 guerilla, and deserters, were abroad in all direc- 
 tions. Francisca was relating to her family what 
 had occurred, when, observing that her lover 
 was not one of the auditors, all at once a strong 
 
OF THE DOUEO, 267 
 
 apprehension seized her, and she eagerly ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 '' Where, where is Captain Stanisforth ?"' 
 
 She was answered, that he went out less than 
 an hour ago, after receiving a note brought by a 
 peasant. 
 
 '' Gracious heavens,^^ she cried, " he is mur- 
 dered ! It was no doubt some assassin who de- 
 coyed him into the wood, and that accounts for 
 the commotion we heard there/' 
 
 She had scarcely uttered the words when 
 Major Wilmot started up, and, calHng some of 
 his men, hurried towards the ilex grove. It was 
 now Leonora's turn to try, conjointly with her 
 mother, to pacify her sister, who could hardly be 
 restrained from following them. 
 
 She was on the rack of suspense, when Leonora 
 joyfully exclaimed, '' Look, look, you foolish 
 
 girl r 
 
 She cast a glance through the window in the 
 direction indicated by her sister, and saw Captain 
 Stanisforth alone, walking slowly towards the 
 house. Her delight may be conceived : though 
 now, equally ashamed of her fear and her joy, 
 
 n2 
 
268 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 she tried to appear calm, and had almost suc- 
 ceeded before his entrance. He seemed flushed 
 and heated, hut the state of the atmosphere ac- 
 counted for that, and his demeanour was so 
 placid, that all suspicion of his having had any 
 share in the wood-incident vanished. So deceit- 
 ful are appearances ! 
 
 Yet it was quite true that his life had been 
 endangered in that grove of ilex, that he had 
 fought hand to hand with a stout enemy, that he 
 had been conquered, and that he had come un- 
 hurt from the contest by the grace only of his 
 successful adversary. The note that he had re- 
 ceived was from Colonel Champlemonde, and ran 
 thus: — V 
 
 " I promised you that we should meet again : 
 I am here : in the grove on the left bank of the 
 stream above the village. Come and take your 
 revenge, or let me take mine ; but be secret, and 
 come alone ; for you know at what much greater 
 risk than that of your enmity I thus redeem my 
 pledge. No time must be lost." 
 
 Stanisforth was taken by surprise, and would 
 willingly have deferred, or even declined, such a 
 
OF THE DOURO. 269 
 
 contest ; but pride, worldly pride, got the mas- 
 tery of his better nature ; and made him deaf to 
 the still small voice that whispered, '^ Thou shalt 
 do no murder,'' and suggested all the meaning 
 of that comprehensive inhibition. He loaded 
 his pistols, concealed them within his coat, and 
 went directly to the place appointed. 
 
 He soon discovered his foe ; but so metamor- 
 phosed that he could hardly have distinguished 
 him had he met him unexpectedly. His com- 
 plexion was again darkened, his moustache had 
 disappeared, and he wore a cloak and one of the 
 low-roofed round hats, with ample expanse of 
 brim, common in the country : so that he ap- 
 peared to be neither Fidalgo nor Labrador, 
 neither gentleman nor peasant, but something 
 between both. 
 
 The colonel greeted his antagonist, and com- 
 plimented him, in good set phrase, on his prompt 
 appearance, which he termed loyal; but he 
 asked him how it happened that he had come 
 unarmed. Stanisforth showed his pistols. 
 
 '^ Oh I'** said the Frenchman, " those noisy 
 things won't do at all ; the report would alarm 
 
270 THE SISTERS 
 
 the country, and what, then, would become of 
 me among these vindictive Portuguese? You 
 area soldier, Captain Stanisforth, and know how 
 to handle a sword/' 
 
 " But you see I have no sword with me,'' 
 said Stanisforth, who was conscious also that he 
 was unskilful with that weapon, 
 
 " I guessed that such would be the case," 
 replied the Frenchman, " and I have provided 
 myself accordingly. Here are two swords of 
 equal lengths. Take your choice.'' 
 
 Stanisforth had no alternative but to take one, 
 and stand on his defence. The Frenchman 
 threw off his cloak, and the affair was imme- 
 diately commenced. But the French colonel at 
 once perceived his own superiority, and he 
 played with his antagonist as a fencing-master 
 does with a raw pupil. He might have trans- 
 fixed him twenty times, but he was merciful ; 
 he played at thrust and parry till the English- 
 man was out of breath, and then ended the con- 
 test with one smart dexterous turn of the wrist, 
 which dislodged Stanisforth's weapon from the 
 grasp, and sent it flying to a distance. He 
 
OF THE DOURO. 2/1 
 
 smiled, bowed most graciously, sheathed his 
 sword, and said, 
 
 " Captain Stanisforth, you really must learn 
 to fence; you area child at this work. Adieu, 
 sir ! We are now on fairer terms than we were. 
 When next we meet I hope we shall be friends. 
 But I have no time for further parley : pray 
 excuse me ; my position here is hazardous : my 
 horse is tied to a tree yonder. Once more, fare- 
 well!'^ 
 
 After these words he retired, and was lost to 
 sight among the trees, before his discomfited 
 adversary could recover from his confusion. 
 Stanisforth returned to the village, as we have 
 seen, but not by the way which Wilmot and his 
 men had taken, so that they did not meet. He 
 was of course silent on the subject of his duel; 
 and preserved the best countenance he could, 
 while the ladies gave him an account of their 
 panic in the wood, and informed him that 
 Wilmot and his men were gone out to the 
 rescue. 
 
 While they were yet talking, a horse was 
 heard galloping furiously down the street. 
 
2/2 THE SISTERS 
 
 Stanisforth looked out, and saw that the animal, 
 though saddled, was without a rider. He could 
 not doubt that it was Colonel Champlemonde's 
 horse, which must have broken loose, an acci- 
 dent that made Stanisforth feel exceedhigly un- 
 easy ; for if the Colonel were, as he must be, 
 taken by Wilmot and his men, what could con- 
 vince him that he had not been betrayed by 
 himself? 
 
 He rushed out of the house in great disorder, 
 and made the best of his way up to the wood. 
 Directed by the jargon of voices, he soon came 
 upon the dragoons, among whom, to his extreme 
 grief, he saw a person in a cloak and round hat. 
 Colonel Champlemonde^s costume ; but what- 
 was his surprise, on advancing to him, to perceive 
 that it was one of his own men ! 
 
 '' How is this ? James Walker ! Then surely 
 they have killed Colonel Champlemonde. Oh, 
 Wilmot, how could you suffer this !" 
 
 He turned from Walker to Major Wilmot, 
 from Wilmot to the other men, and then again 
 to Walker, with an inquiring look. Walker 
 laughed, Wilmot smiled, the dragoons grinned ; 
 
OF THE DOURO. 273 
 
 but among the dragoons, clad in the English red 
 uniform well fitted, and covered by a shining 
 helmet, with its sweep of black horse-hair, or 
 split whalebone^ was one dark stalwart fellow, 
 whom Stanisforth did not know. He grinned 
 too. It was Colonel Champlemonde. 
 
 " Well, Captain,'' said he, in French^ '^ how 
 do you like your recruit?" 
 
 '' Thank God, it is no worse!" said Stanis- 
 forth, now undeceived ; '^ but I trust, sir^ that 
 you do not suspect me of the baseness of having 
 betrayed you.'' 
 
 " No, no ; I have Major Wilmot's word for 
 your innocence on that score ; he tells me that I 
 am indebted to the black-eyed sisters for my dis- 
 covery : so now the dear creatures and I may 
 surely cry quits. They have their revenge^ 
 though they do not yet know it ; and you must 
 be sure to keep my secret, and take measures to 
 silence your men ; for, as I have already told 
 Major Wilmot, if the inhabitants of this savage 
 district once discover that a Frenchman is among 
 them, you and all your dragoons will not be 
 
 N 5 , 
 
274 THE SISTERS 
 
 able to save me from being torn to pieces like a 
 wild beast, by beasts yet wilder.'' 
 
 '' As to that/' said Major Wilmot, rather 
 haughtily, astonished at the levity and indifference 
 of the French Colonel, '^ though I have con- 
 sented to your assuming the disguise you sug- 
 gested, and though I admit its prudence, I 
 flatter myself that we shall know how to protect 
 our prisoner/' 
 
 " Your prisoner/^ said the Frenchman, laugh- 
 ingly ; " there you are in error. I shall, how- 
 ever, consent to take up my quarters for some 
 hours with that good fellow who has got my 
 clothes. He and I are acquainted, for he is one 
 of the men whom I released from Villa-Real 
 when I also set you two gentlemen at liberty.**' 
 
 " Wilmot," said Captain Stanisforth, '' you 
 cannot mean to detain Colonel Champlemonde.'' 
 
 '' I must and will do my duty, Stanisforth, 
 which is to send him a prisoner to head-quarters. 
 I would willingly act otherwise if I could • but 
 I have no authority in the case. I only fear 
 that all our interest exerted in his favour will 
 hardly save him from being shot as a spy.^' 
 
OF THE DOURO. 2/5 
 
 " Heaven avert such a catastrophe !'' groaned 
 Stanisforth. 
 
 Bat Champlemonde smiled. " Thanks^ Ma- 
 jor/' said he, sarcastically, ^^ for your consola- 
 tory hint. Fear nothing for my safety^ Captain 
 Stanisforth ; I am grateful for your fears^ but 
 they are groundless/^ 
 
 " Was ever/' muttered Wilmot to himself, 
 ^' such a heartless, heedless, gallant, impudent 
 rascal P' Then aloud, " But what do you mean, 
 sir : you do not suppose that I can connive at 
 your escape ?'' 
 
 " There will be no necessity for that,'" replied 
 the Colonel, '' till I require your leave of absence. 
 Pray, as I do not speak English, desire my fine 
 jolly-faced cloak -bearer, that Villa-Real hero of 
 the broad-sword, to give me the papers that he 
 will find in an inside pocket of my coat; and, 
 while I think of it, he may as well hand me over 
 my purse, which he will find in the same recep- 
 tacle ; for though I can go without your leave, 
 I can't get on without gold pieces.'^ 
 
 His wish was complied with. 
 
 '' What next ?^^ said Major Wilmot, impa- 
 tiently. 
 
276 THE SISTERS 
 
 The Frenchman pocketed his purse and all 
 his papers, except one, which he deliberately un- 
 folded^ and put into the hands of the Major, It 
 was a safe- conduct from the English General, 
 calling on all whom it might concern to give 
 free passage and aid to the bearer. Colonel Al- 
 phonse Champlemonde ! 
 
 This document puzzled Wilmot exceedingly. 
 He began to think that he had the devil to deal 
 with, or that the Frenchman dealt with the devil. 
 The passport, however, was evidently, by its 
 seal and signature, authentic ; and the Major 
 was not sorry to be so easily relieved from a 
 harsh and painful duty. 
 
 ^^ I congratulate you, sir,**' said he, cheerfully, 
 returning the paper ; "" this is very strange ; but 
 I have no right to require explanation ; and I 
 heartily rejoice that you are so well prepared for 
 accidents. But it is inconceivable." 
 
 " Not at all, Major; it is the simplest affair 
 imaginable. My friend, the Staff-surgeon, told 
 you at Villa-Real that I was a Philadelphian. In 
 that capacity I have often been in your camps. 
 I have been with Silveira^ with Trant, with 
 
OF THE DOURO. 277 
 
 Wilson, with Beresford, with Wellesley. But a 
 recent blunder of one of my confederates^ a 
 blunder not of the heart but of the head, has so 
 compromised me, that an order for my arrest was 
 issued by the Duke of Dalmatia. The officer 
 to whom he entrusted it warned me to be off, 
 and here I am, really and truly on my way 
 to England this time. You will yet hear of 
 me, perhaps, at the head of a republic in 
 France.''' 
 
 '' But, sir, you will hardly show your face at 
 Teixeira; you would not, even if your person 
 were safe, venture to be seen by any member of 
 Senhor Coelho's family ?'^ 
 
 " Why, perhaps not ; it might be inconve- 
 nient ; though it will be a severe pang to my 
 soul to leave the place without one more look at 
 certain black eyes that we know of.'' 
 
 ^' His soul !" said Wilmot. '^ It would be a 
 crime to attempt such a thing, after what has 
 passed."' 
 
 " It would be worse than a crime,*' said the 
 Colonel ; ^' it would be a folly — to borrow an 
 epigram from an eminent master. But I pro- 
 
278 THE SISTERS 
 
 mise nothing, for folly is part of my voca- 
 tion/' 
 
 " Say, rather, '' said Stanisforth^ ardently, 
 " that you will make the reparation still in your 
 power to a young lady, whose feelings you have 
 so strangely outraged. If your conduct is sus- 
 ceptible of any explanation, I will gladly be 
 your advocate till it is safe for you to appear in 
 person. "^^ 
 
 '' A thousand acknowledgments,^' g^^ily re- 
 joined the Colonel ; " but, being a republican, I 
 do not admire the royal fashion of making love 
 by proxy. Besides, what could you say ? The 
 thing, to own the truth, was too bad for exte- 
 nuation. But no harm was done ; so let us 
 proceed."' 
 
 '' What is the use,'' said Wilmot in English 
 to Stanisforth, '' of expostulation on such a sub- 
 ject with a person who, having no feeling, can- 
 not comprehend how he has tortured the sensi- 
 bility of Leonora. Poor thing ! she is well rid 
 of him. The fellow's heart, if he have one, is 
 made of quicksilver." 
 
 They returned to the village; and, having 
 
OF THE DOURO. 2/9 
 
 previously given the requisite caution to the 
 men, lodged Colonel Champlemonde without 
 suspicion. His horse, also, was secured, and 
 committed to the charge of the dragoon with 
 whom he had exchanged clothes. Major Wil- 
 mot, who was too indignant to be at ease in his 
 presence, had coldly bade him farewell. But 
 Stanisforth, who felt an involuntary attraction 
 towards this singular being, after the event of 
 the day, paid him a visit at night 
 
 He had got hold of a Portuguese viol, a poor 
 instrument, on which he was playing with extra- 
 ordinary delicacy and eflfect^ when Stanisforth 
 entered the little room where he was quartered. 
 He laid it by, and embraced Stanisforth with 
 both arms. During their conversation, which 
 lasted an hour or two, the Englishman used 
 every argument that he could think of to per- 
 suade the French Colonel to try to soften Leonora's 
 just resentment, and to make atonement to her, 
 after due lime, by an offer of marriage. 
 
 For a considerable period the Colonel parried 
 his reasonings as lightly and playfully as he had 
 foiled his sword a few hours before ; but, when 
 
280 THE SISTERS 
 
 pressed with an earnestness which levity could not 
 ward off^ he gravely and as earnestly declared 
 the course proposed to him to be impossible. 
 There was^ he said, an insuperable obstacle. 
 But Stanisforth persisted : he now urged him 
 by representing the extreme, the intolerable, dis- 
 tress of mind which Leonora must suffer, if he 
 finally deserted her ; he described to him how 
 much anguish she had already endured ; how 
 deeply, how trustingly, and how fatally, she had 
 loved him. 
 
 Stanisforth had touched the right chord — 
 his vanity; and Colonel Champlemonde was 
 moved even to tears; yes, passionate and swiftly- 
 flowing tears ! 
 
 Strange being ! The moment was propitious, 
 and Stanisforth was earnest to follow up his 
 victory. '' Now,^' said he, " I perceive a re- 
 deeming nobleness about you worthy of a French- 
 
 man. '' 
 
 But the Colonel checked him — almost impe- 
 riously. '^Not one word more on this subject,^' 
 said he^ and, placing paper before him, he 
 hastily penned a letter, which was blotted with 
 
OF THE DOURO. 281 
 
 his tears. He wrote with a wonderful rapidity. 
 He sealed and directed it, and placed it in the 
 hands of Captain Stanisforth. It was addressed 
 to Senhora Dona Leonora. 
 
 '' Now, my friend/' said the colonel, '' it is 
 time that we should separate ; deliver this at 
 such time as your own good judgment may de- 
 cide on. But let us exchange tokens that we 
 have met and parted, for God knows when we 
 shall meet again. Give me your watch^ and 
 take mine." 
 
 He took from his neck a massive guard-chain 
 of gold, to which was attached a splendid and 
 costly watch, and presented them to Stanisforth^ 
 who in vain declined an exchange which was 
 every way unfavourable to the French Colonel, 
 for the Captain's watch was a very simple and 
 inexpensive one. 
 
 *' Unless/' said Colonel Champlemonde^ '' you 
 have some family affection for your own watch, 
 I shall think myself ill-used if you refuse it me." 
 
 Stanisforth could not resist, though he felt 
 that it was such a barter as the Greek chief made 
 with the generous Lydian. 
 
282 THE SISTERS 
 
 After another cordial embrace, and when Sta- 
 nisforth had explained to the dragoon Colonel 
 Champlemonde's wish that his horse should be 
 got ready before daybreak, the English officer 
 returned to his quarters at Senhor Coelho's. 
 
 At four o'clock in the morning, being about 
 an hour before dawn, a rich and manly voice, 
 accompanied by a Portuguese viol, was heard 
 under the window of the two sisters. The words 
 were an impassioned farewell ! 
 
 Stanisforth had been feverish and sleepless, 
 and therefore heard the song distinctly. He felt 
 provoked with the musician, both for the impru- 
 dence he committed in thus risking his own 
 safety, and for the painful effect that his too 
 well-known voice might produce if heard by 
 Leonora. It was heard by both the young 
 ladies, as they lay together. Francisca held 
 her sister closely in her arms, while Leonora 
 clung to her, and struggled and trembled, as 
 if an evil spirit was practising some melodious 
 incantation for her destruction. 
 
 The voice was hushed, and presently a horse- 
 man galloped out of the town^ just as the grey 
 
OF THE DOURO. 283 
 
 dawn appeared; and Colonel Champleraonde, 
 having thus taken his leave with a flourish 
 w^orthy of a troubadour, was no more seen at 
 Teixeira. 
 
 The inquietude and nervousness of Leonora for 
 a day or two after the musician's mysterious fare- 
 well, was so evident, as to disturb Francisca with 
 unceasing anxiety, and as to be apparent even 
 to those of the family who were unacquainted 
 with the cause. There was evidently something 
 or some person whose apparition she momentarily 
 expected, and that she either desired or dreaded 
 to see. Shuddering, she would cast a look over 
 her shoulder, as if danger was behind her, then 
 withdraw it with an air of satisfaction. She 
 would steal a glance at the casement, and some- 
 times turn aside with a sigh, as if in disappoint- 
 ment; and sometimes with a blush, as if of 
 shame for her weakness. 
 
 It was agreed, on conference between Fran- 
 cisca and Stanisforth, that it would be well to 
 deliver Champlemonde'^s letter to Leonora, what- 
 ever the contents might turn out to be; and 
 also to clear up to her the mystery of his late 
 
284 THE SISTERS 
 
 vrsit under her window, by a relation of what 
 had occurred between him and Stanisforth ; all 
 of w^hich was now detailed to Francisca, whose 
 heaving bosom and animated countenance amply 
 rewarded her lover for the narration. 
 
 Major Wilmot concurred in their opinion of 
 the prudence of terminating the doubts and sus- 
 pense by which Leonora was so obviously tor- 
 mented. It was thought improper, by any 
 immediate communications, to incur the hazard 
 of retarding the convalescence of Senhor Coelho, 
 whom the very name of Champlemonde would 
 have shaken with wrath ; nor did Francisca 
 venture at present to afflict her mother with the 
 recital of what had happened. 
 
 Francisca was not deficient in the tact necessary 
 to prepare her sister'^s mind for the reception of 
 her faithless lover's letter. With all delicacy 
 and gentleness, she executed her self-imposed 
 commission ; and, having explained the causes 
 of Colonel Champlemonde's return, and the 
 circumstances of Stanisforth's duel and last inter- 
 view with him, she presented the dreaded epistle 
 to Leonora. It was a whimsical composition ; 
 
OF THE DOURO. 285 
 
 andj if it made Leonora stare, it could not but 
 make others smile. 
 
 " TO LE0:t^0RA. 
 
 " How shall I address the most amiable of 
 her sex ? How shall I bid her an eternal adieu, 
 in terms at once expressive of the loyalty of my 
 devotion, and the depth of my grief? You do 
 not know me — you do not comprehend the heart 
 of a Frenchman, nor the greatness of noble sacri- 
 fices of his feelings that a chivalrous sense of 
 honour enables him to make. You have thouaht 
 me a monster, while I was but a martyr — the 
 self-doomed victim of my tenderness for you, 
 and my keen sense of the duty it imposed on 
 me. 
 
 '' I found you in distress — I saved you from 
 dishonour — after that, it was not possible to a 
 brave man — to me — to abuse the purity that I 
 had preserved from violation ! But you, too, on 
 that occasion, saved my life by a deed of heroism 
 worthy of the Maid of Orleans. You did more ; 
 for, when I came to your father's threshold, a 
 sick and famished wanderer, in a country of 
 
286 THE SISTERS 
 
 foes, wounded, and in a disguise that deceived 
 all but yourself, you caused me to be relieved 
 from misery, and not only obtained shelter and 
 kindness for me, but restored me to life and 
 happiness by your unvi^earied bounty. 
 
 " Could I be less, then, than enchanted with 
 you, lovely as you are in person, and adorable 
 in mind ? How joyfully would I have fallen at 
 your father's feet, and, bathing them with my 
 tears, implored him to make me the legal 
 guardian of such a treasure ! But I was a 
 Frenchman, and an invader. Was it to be 
 thought of? Yes; those objections were as 
 nothing ; my eloquence, my passion, would have 
 overcome them, and your sister Francisca, that 
 angel of sweetness and generosity, would have 
 aided me to win your parents' consents 
 
 "But there was another obstacle. I saw a 
 gulf between us which you did not see ; but it 
 was impassable. What, then, was to be done ? 
 Was I to lose such a paradise of charms ? I 
 compromised with my heart. Your sister was 
 so like you in person, that a strong imagination 
 might believe her your exact resemblance in 
 
OF THE DOURO. 287 
 
 every thing ; at all events, she was the thing in 
 existence most hke you, and, therefore, next to 
 you, the most desirable object in the world. 
 Then, with regard to her, I was comparatively 
 a free agent ; for, while the imperious voice of 
 honour, and the severity of relative circum- 
 stances, obliged me to surrender all hopes of pos- 
 sessing you, I was restrained by no such par- 
 ticular obligations of honour and delicacy to- 
 wards her. I had not saved her life, nor had 
 she saved mine ; and, though she was much my 
 friend, my idea of removing her by a gentle 
 violence was further piqued by her plain par- 
 tiality for the English officer, Captain Stanisforth, 
 whose high qualities I was not then so ready to 
 admit as I am now. You know the rest. I bore 
 her off, and triumphed in the act, because, 
 forced as I was to quit you, I did not seem so 
 entirely to part with you, while accompanied by 
 one so closely allied to you in blood, and so 
 resembling you in beautiful form and features. 
 
 " After all, the scheme was a failure. The 
 bird was hardly caged ere she slipped away be- 
 tween the frail wires. This was mortifying ; but 
 
288 THE SISTERS 
 
 a Frenchman, and a soldier, understands the 
 philosophy of suffering. I submitted to my 
 fate; or rather, by my fortitude, awed my fate 
 into submissive silence. But a difference of 
 opinion with Captain Stanisforth, about this 
 affair, drew me into an engagement to follow him, 
 and settle our little quarrel by the sword. Judge 
 what it must have cost me to revisit Teixeira ! 
 I do not speak of the personal dangers to which 
 such a course exposed me^ but of the mental 
 tortures which I was to endure on revisitin^f the 
 place of your abode ! Your abode, Leonora ! 
 But my honour was in question. Regulus re- 
 turned to Carthage, and Auguste Chample- 
 monde was to return to Teixeira. It is done ! 
 I have suffered, and still suffer, more torments 
 than punic revenge could ever have inflicted. 
 But my honour is redeemed. 
 
 ^' Farewell, lovely Francisca, and lovely and 
 beloved Leonora. Oh, raptures, hopes, illu- 
 sions ! burning thoughts and bounding aspirations 
 after beauty, farewell, farewell for ever ! I quit 
 this regretted land, never to see it more; for, 
 though compelled to resign the object of my 
 
OF THE DOURO. 289 
 
 passion, I will never more draw a sword against 
 the countrymen of Leonora ! 
 
 ^^Let me then claim your forgiveness, charming 
 Leonora, and let me even hope that we part in 
 friendship, and that you will remember me with 
 kindness. Are you inexorable ? Are you still 
 incredulous of my sincerity ? Ah, cruel beauty; 
 judge better, then, of the motives of action of your 
 Auguste ; learn the truth, and appreciate with 
 candour the frank energy of my character, and 
 the loyalty with which I have respected you. 
 / have a wife and family in France ! Farewell ! 
 farewell ! 
 
 '' Receive the assurances of the 
 
 " Most distinguished consideration 
 '' Of Auguste Champlemonde."' 
 
 It may be supposed that this pathetic epistle 
 did not produce exactly the sort of effect that 
 the writer seemed to have expected from it. So 
 far from extenuating his misconduct, it set it in 
 a light so glaringly revolting, and yet so ludi- 
 crous, that even Leonora, when recovered from 
 the confusion of a first perusal, was obliged to 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
290 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 confess to herself that Colonel Champlemonde 
 was in reality a person so different from the 
 creature of her fancy, that she had little to 
 regret in the loss of her Protean lover. 
 
 Time and patience restored her tranquilhty of 
 mind, but did not blunt her sensibility^ though 
 she often talked of taking the veil. It was not 
 written that she was to be a nun. 
 
 Major Wilmot pitied her so much, that he 
 soon learned to love her ; and she was so grateful 
 for the Major's pity, that she soon rewarded him 
 with her affection. 
 
 It was not, however, till two years later, after 
 many chances of war, and long intervals of ab- 
 sence, had tried the constancy of the contracted 
 parties, that Lieutenant-Colonel Wilmot and 
 Captain Stanisforth were married to fthe two 
 sisters in the cathedral of Oporto, the ceremony 
 being repeated by the English chaplain at the 
 Protestant chapel, in the case of Wilmot and 
 his bride. 
 
 The reader may be curious to know what be- 
 came of Colonel Champlemonde. This brave 
 and eccentric man retired to England^ where he 
 
OF THE DOURO. 291 
 
 subsisted for a while on a pension allowed him 
 by the English government. But it was true 
 that he had a wife and children in his own 
 country, and, strange to say, he must have loved 
 them well, though certainly not wisely. 
 
 We have seen him in the face of danger, 
 and defiance of every restrictive principle, run 
 away with one sister out of love for the other. 
 After a few months^ impatient residence in Eng- 
 land, he took as bold a step in a better cause, 
 but with a more fatal result. He could not, or 
 would not, live in exile without his family, and 
 therefore ventured into France, with the deter- 
 mination of bringing them off to the British 
 coast. He was a person too remarkable, per- 
 haps, and too well known in his own country, 
 to have evaded the police ; but he was so un- 
 fortunate as to encounter the ruffian soldier of 
 our first chapter, Pierre Duval, by whom he was 
 instantly denounced. He was arrested, and shot 
 as a conspirator and deserter to the enemy. He 
 died with fortitude, and betrayed no friend. 
 
 Having brought my heroines to that point, 
 matrimony, where all interest about them ceases 
 
 02 
 
292 THE SISTERS OF THE DOURO. 
 
 with the generality of novel-readers, I shall 
 not pursue their history further, though the 
 deeper moral lies beyond the altar. Whether 
 these two natives of a southern dime, when re- 
 moved to the cold north, though under the pro- 
 tection of good and gallant men, throve in that 
 new soil, might be a subject worthy of exami- 
 nation. Whether the habits and the education 
 of Portuguese ladies, so different from those of 
 the EngUsh, were hkely to make their husbands 
 happy, might also be questioned. In general, 
 such unions are incongruous, and terminate in 
 mutual disappointments and regrets. 
 
 But perhaps there was in the two ladies of 
 whom we now take leave an earnest spirit of 
 love, an aptitude to learn, and a ductility of 
 manners, which soon naturalized them to new 
 scenes and customs, remote from that unfor- 
 gotten valley where their parents slept in peace 
 long before Leonora and Francisca abandoned 
 their own shores for the home of the stranger. 
 
THE EOYALIST. 
 
 ^ ^tox^ ot ti)t ^lp£(- 
 
 His form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Longed for a deathless lover from above. 
 And maddened in that vision. 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
THE ROYALIST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE PILGRIMAGE TO EINSIEDELN. 
 
 As it befell^ 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad, 
 
 Joanna and myself. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Joanna^ a daughter of one of the few gen- 
 tlemen resident in the democratleal Canton of 
 Glarisj was the prettiest and wildest of Roman 
 Catholic Sw^iss maidens. For the thousand 
 freaks of mischief which she was perpetually 
 confessing to the priest and as often repeating, 
 she was at last enjoined by the ghostly father to 
 make a pilgrimage on foot from her parents'* 
 house at Mollis to the altar of Our Lady of the 
 Hermits, at the Convent of Einsiedeln. Ignatia, 
 her elder sister, a devout and sedate young per- 
 son, volunteered to be her companion. 
 
296 
 
 THE ROYALIST, 
 
 Accordingly, on the thirteenth of September, 
 I8O85 the day before the grand Festival of the 
 Virgin, they were awakened at sunrise for the 
 purpose of commencing their pious expedition. 
 Joanna complained that it was too early, and 
 declared that she must have more sleep; but, on 
 Ignatia's reminding her that Mollis was eight 
 leagues (or four German miles) from Einsiedeln, 
 and that they must that day walk seven leagues 
 to the Chapel of Saint Meinrad, on Mount 
 Etzel, she unwillingly got up, and dressed her- 
 self in the costume of the peasantry of the can- 
 ton — a humiliation to which the young lady 
 submitted without much reluctance, because she 
 thought the dress becoming. 
 
 Before their departure, Ignatia contented her- 
 self with a little dry bread, deeming it right to 
 fast on such an occasion ; but Joanna would not 
 stir before she had regaled herself with coffee, 
 milk, and honey, and whatever else she could 
 get, to make a substantial morning meal, pro- 
 testing that she had no idea of setting out to 
 walk seven leagues without her breakfast: she 
 also laid by from her breakfast-table a little store 
 
THE ROYALIST. 297 
 
 of almonds, figs, and filberts, to amuse her on 
 the way — at all which naughtiness her sister 
 Ignatia was much disconcerted. 
 
 In going through the town, they had to pass 
 near the priest's house, which was a snug little 
 mansion, pleasantly embowered, and fenced oft* 
 from the road. No sooner had they approached 
 it, than Joanna, without any notice to her sister, 
 who might have thwarted her intention, un- 
 latched the green wicket-gate, ran up the path 
 that divided the little front flower-garden, and 
 inflicted a loud and obstreperously long knocking 
 on the house-door; while Ignatia stood in the 
 road, with her face averted, in very shame, at the 
 girPs rudeness. 
 
 There was presently a stir within. Dame 
 Dorcas, a middle-aged housekeeper, came growl- 
 ing to the door, and the huge round rubicund 
 visage of the priest, surmounted with a black 
 nightcap, was seen protruding through the case- 
 ment above. 
 
 *' Who are you ? whence come you ? and 
 what do you require at this unseasonable hour ?'*'' 
 asked the old man, gruffly. 
 
 o5 
 
298 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 " Father,'' replied Joanna, in the gentlest tone 
 and with the profoundest curtsey, " I think it 
 proper that your reverence should witness my 
 cheerful obedience to your orders : you see I am 
 setting out on the penance you prescribed me/' 
 
 " Go, go, you intolerable child ! I did not 
 prescribe myself any such penance as being 
 roused at this hour by a senseless clatter. Go, 
 and learn better manners/' 
 
 The casement was hastily closed. 
 
 '^ Ha, ha, ha ! let us go and learn better man- 
 ners, my dear Ignatia !'' said the merry maiden ^ 
 and away they went. 
 
 The first part of their walk lay through a 
 long slip of green valley, between the two limpid 
 streams that run into the Lake of Wallenstadt. 
 Here Joanna, before they had proceeded half a 
 league, insisted on stopping to bathe. In vain 
 the reasonable Ignatia represented to her the 
 imprudence of immersion in cold water so imme- 
 diately after her impenitential breakfast, besides 
 the loss of time that it would occasion. Joanna 
 maintained that the ceremony of ablution was a 
 more suitable preparation for a holy pilgrimage 
 
THE ROYALIST. 299 
 
 than fasting, and that, in such a case, her health 
 was no more likely to receive injury than an 
 infant to catch cold at his christening from 
 having his head drenched with holy water ; and, 
 having speedily disencumbered herself of her 
 clothes, she flounced into the Linth like a wild 
 swan, creating a splash that wet poor Ig- 
 natia quite through her dress, at which the 
 giddy fool laughed till she herself was a.most 
 drowned. 
 
 Joanna continued dabbling in the water like a 
 duckling for half an hour, during which period 
 the good Ignatia was like a distressed hen, watch- 
 ing its amphibious charge from the water^s edge. 
 The approach of a large wolf-hound suddenly 
 warned them that some person was in all proba- 
 bility coming, and Joanna rusned to the bauK to 
 take her clothes ; but she was too late to secure 
 her stockings ; the dog seized them in his mouth, 
 and scampered back at full gallop, leaving the 
 pilgrim in rather a ridiculous dilemma, crouch- 
 ing on the brink of a river behind a low bush, by 
 which she was only half hidden. 
 
 Ignatia lost not a moment in assisting her to 
 
300 
 
 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 put on her raiment; and presently the owner of 
 the dog came up with the stray stockings in his 
 hand, and with a countenance of the most comi- 
 cal expression, between waggery and wonder. 
 To crown their confusion, he proved to be a 
 young person of the neighbouring town of 
 Wesen, and one of Tgnatia'^s particular admirers, 
 known by the designation of " Bashful Boyardo,'' 
 from his remarkable coyness and habit of blush- 
 ing in the presence of ladies. 
 
 It not unfrequently happens that young gen- 
 tlemen, who are modest and respectful almost to 
 awkwardness and stupidity when in the com- 
 pany of females of their own condition in life, 
 have a double share of effrontery before women 
 of humble station. Bashful Boyardo was one 
 of these shy, sly, and saucy hypocrites. Not at 
 all suspecting that the individual who stood, ^vith 
 averted head, on the river's brink, in a rustic 
 dress, was the very Ignatia, before whose awful 
 eyes he was wont to sigh, and blush, and blun- 
 der, and as little aware that it was the dreaded 
 young satirist, Joanna, who was so quaintly 
 huddled behind the leaves, he addressed him- 
 
THE ROYALIST. 301 
 
 self, both with words and looks, without the 
 least compunction, to the Naiad. 
 
 '' White-armed maiden of the stunted bush, 
 come forth ! Fair daughter of the lymph, turn 
 not to earth thy face ! Stand erect, bright river- 
 deity, and look graciously on thy worshipper. 
 Cold incumbent statue, art thou marble ? Mute 
 treasure of the waters, art thou first cousin to the 
 fishes, and is utterance denied thee?" 
 
 With this, and much more, impudent rhodo- 
 montade, he was running on in spite of Ignatia'^s 
 '' For the love of Heaven, sir, leave us ! for 
 God's sake, sir, go away ['' when Joanna, per- 
 ceiving that he was actually stepping over the 
 hedge, and no longer able to restrain her pas- 
 sion, screamed out, " Odious monster, begone ! 
 Bashful Boyardo, you contemptible person, get 
 out of niy sight ^ 
 
 Boyardo wished the mountains to cover him ; 
 but, when Ignatia then turned round and showed 
 her face, animated with shame and resentment, 
 his dismay was inexpressible : he let fall Joanna's 
 stockings, and took to his heels, followed by his 
 dog, who went in full chase after his scared mas- 
 
302 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 ter; so that our bathing Diana, without me- 
 tamorphosing her Acteon into a stag, caused him 
 to be hunted by his own hound. 
 
 Joanna put on her stockings, and thoughtfully 
 listened to a lecture from her sister as they pro- 
 ceeded on their way. But, as yet, it was not in 
 her character to be serious long. She soon re- 
 covered from the embarrassment of the adventure 
 enough to enjoy its absurdity at the expence of 
 Ignatia and her admirer, Monsieur Boyardo. At 
 one moment convulsed with laughter, at another 
 assuming the most provoking mock gravity, she 
 thus turned the tables upon her sister. 
 
 " So, Saint Ignatia, there is one of your 
 models of youth ! 37^our proper young man ! your 
 soft, discreet, delicate, bashful Boyardo ! The 
 swain who deals in such tender dying looks, and 
 stutters fragments of respectful phrases, and looks 
 so artlessly gauche^ and so interestingly ashamed, 
 when Ignatia, pretty prude, rolls her cunning 
 eyes at him, and covers him with amiable con- 
 fusion ! But really, my good elder sister, you 
 suffer yourself to be sadly deluded by this male 
 creation. You have twenty admirers;> and, though 
 
THE ROYALIST. 303 
 
 there is not one of them who is not either a foolj 
 or a rogue, or both, you have faith enough to 
 beheve them all perfection, and to take every 
 syllable they utter for gospeJ. O the immaculate 
 divinities! just as it serves their purpose, they 
 woo or bluster, beseech or gasconade. Those 
 who are not like your Boyardo are consequential 
 boasting fops : they blazon forth their import- 
 ance, and build castles in the air, as if they were 
 omnipotent, making simple girls give credit to all 
 sorts of fables. They tell them they are angels, 
 bend their necks and knees before them, swear 
 eternal constancy, and lay lime, traps, nets, all 
 imaginable snares, for the credulous birds. They 
 send them little gewgaws, and songs of wordy non- 
 sense, and plaintive billets-doux on paper bordered 
 with hearts and arrows, and fluttering cupids and 
 billing pigeons. They give feasts, and dances, 
 and plays. They cause miniatures of their mis- 
 tresses to be painted and set in gold and pearls, 
 and guarded in silk and morocco cases, and wear 
 them in their bosoms. They moan and groan 
 and look sideways ; wink, bhnk, and twinkle 
 about their eyes in all varieties of tender ways. 
 
304 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 and make grimaces like sick monkeys. Then 
 the wretches will absolutely pretend to cry when 
 they think they can gain anything by it. So 
 they entice their prey, and fair damsels sus- 
 pect no treason, and the poor silly insects fly into 
 the webs of the spiders, and there the Lord 
 have mercy on them ! But I am not so easily 
 caught. I have not, young as I am, watched 
 their ways at Zurich and Lucerne for nothing. 
 They are sly, but so am I. I play the amiable 
 with these youths, and put on a pretty face to 
 them, and pay them the tribute of as many smiles 
 and simpers as their vanity exacts: but all this 
 is only for my own pastime, and to hear what is 
 going on, and to jest and flirt and dance, which 
 are all very pleasant, and to make them give 
 rural parties on the mountains, and boat-parties 
 on the lakes, and teaze their mothers to invite us 
 to balls and card-assemblies and routs, cakes and 
 candied fruit and sugarplums and marmalade. 
 Bnt as for their wiles and flatteries, I understand 
 
 them well. 
 
 Di certi gio\ ani 
 Conosco Tarte, 
 Ed m vano tentano 
 Di far la a mi." 
 
THE ROYALIST. 305 
 
 " In the name of Saint Eberhard !'' now inter- 
 posed Ignatia, "what are you about, Joanna? 
 Singing such profane frivolous stuff when you 
 are on a pilgrimage ! Do take out your beads, 
 and count your Ave-Marias/' 
 
 Having crossed the Linth, and passed near the 
 town of Nafels and the foaming; waterfall behind 
 it, and through the villages of Urnen and Bilten, 
 Ignatia could not help secretly congratulating 
 herself on having got her companion so far, for it 
 really was no easy matter to get her on at all. She 
 would stop to gather wild flowers to make a 
 bouquet, as an offering at the altar of the Virgin, 
 and then would throw them away, saying, they 
 would be withered before she could present them. 
 Having met a peacock near a farm-house, nothing 
 would induce her to proceed till she had squan- 
 dered much time in admiration of the vain bird's 
 beauty. 
 
 " See, sister," she cried, " how honestly he 
 shows his charms ! See how he struts about, 
 and dances a minuet in the sun ! Look at his 
 tufted head, and scarlet-circled eyes, and long 
 shining purple neck, and superb breast ! and 
 
306 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 then, his tail ! Oh the divine, spreading, fanlike 
 tail, with its shooting colours ! Now, really, this 
 sight affords me genuine satisfaction. Look, look 
 at his magnificent airs ! See, sister, how well I 
 can imitate him I"^' 
 
 With that, she began the most fantastic capers 
 round the peacock, till the frightened bird folded 
 up his train and ran away, at which she was 
 highly diverted, and exclaimed : " There he goes, 
 Ignatia, there he goes, like your bashful Bo- 
 yardo ! ^' 
 
 '^ Truly,^^ said the wise Ignatia, " I am 
 shocked by your indecorum. How could you 
 stop to make such a fuss with a paltry peacock ? 
 His discordant scream and his clumsy feet might 
 teach you a lesson on the imperfection of al] 
 earthly beauty." 
 
 " Yes, my dear Ignatia,^^ answered the in- 
 corrigible Joanna, ^^but his running away, as 
 your lover did this morning, is a proof of his mo- 
 desty.'' 
 
 Presently, being attracted by the tinkling of 
 bells from a numerous herd of small catde that 
 were grazing on the hills, she declared it would 
 
THE ROYALIST. 307 
 
 be a laudable piece of voluntary penance to go 
 and take the trouble of counting how many of 
 the animals there were, and off she ran for the 
 purpose. Unluckily, the very first heifer that 
 she was approaching suddenly whisked round 
 her long tail, which swept across the pretty pil- 
 grim's eyes and almost blinded her; and just at 
 the same moment the cowherd's cur came snap- 
 ping at her heels, at which she was so irate that 
 she instantly gave him chase; but, in her hurry 
 after the offender, she tumbled down and made 
 her nose bleed. 
 
 These hoiden accidents put her so whimsically 
 out of humour with all the tribes of four-footed 
 beasts, and the horned tribe especially, that, soon 
 afterwards, meeting a bull on the road, she picked 
 a quarrel with him for not getting out of her 
 way, and attacked him with a stick. The beast, 
 who, fortunately, was dull and tame, stood 
 stupidly still before her for a minute, insensible 
 to all her mock-anger, and then passed on with 
 profound indifference ; by which movement he 
 brought his shoulder in contact with his assailant, 
 who was left sprawling on the ground. 
 
308 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 Ignatia, who had not been able to refrain from 
 laughing at her sister's absurdity, was now fright- 
 ened, and hastened to her assistance ; but, finding 
 her not seriously hurt, she preached to her a 
 severe sermon, which Joanna, who was puffing 
 with indignation at her discomfiture by the bull, 
 was perhaps as little in the mood to profit by as 
 to answer. As soon, however, as she came to 
 one of the fresh fountains with which every part 
 of Switzerland abounds, she at once washed away 
 her ill humour and the spots from her face, and 
 was as ready for new frolics as if the mortifying 
 adventures with bashful Boyardo and the cow, 
 the cur, and the bull, had never happened. 
 
 Ignatia'^s task was very much like that of a 
 pigdriver with a mutinous pig: her sister would 
 go every way but the right way. Ignatia had, 
 however, enough address and perseverance to 
 get her as far as Reichenberg. There Joanna 
 complained of being tired, and protested that she 
 would go no farther on foot. 
 
 Vain was all the pious rhetoric of Ignatia. 
 She was obliged to yield, and to hire a char-a- 
 bancs to carry them, by Shubelbach and Galga- 
 nen, to the foot of Mount Etzel. 
 
THE ROYALIST. 309 
 
 At the foot of Etzel they alighted, and began 
 to ascend the mountain. Crosses, small oratories 
 ornamented with images, artificial flowers, and 
 sacred paintings, and crowds of little clamorous 
 urchins soliciting charty for the love of the 
 blessed Mary, now made it impossible, even for 
 Joanna^ to forget that they were approaching 
 the holy Einsiedeln, the Loretto of Switzerland. 
 
 Joanna distributed her money as long as she 
 had any to give, after which she found the im- 
 portunity so troublesome that she battled her 
 way on, frowning, scolding, or even boxing the 
 ears of the little petitioners, in a most unpilgrim- 
 like fashion. 
 
 Near the top of Mount Etzel is the beautiful 
 chapel of Saint Meinrad, and contiguous to it is 
 a large inn. On their arrival here, Ignatia led 
 her sister into the chapel, where they both knelt 
 before the altar. But Joanna, after whispering 
 a few prayers, observing Ignatia to be earnestly 
 occupied in her's, silently detached herself from 
 her side, and stole away into the inn. 
 
 Ignatia, until she had ended her devotions, 
 was not aware of Joanna^s evasion, and she then 
 
310 
 
 THE ROYALIST. 
 
 felt a momentary alarm; but, suspecting the 
 truth, she hastened to the inn, where she dis- 
 covered the deserter placidly seated near a warm 
 stove in a large bedroom, (a private sitting-room 
 being out of the question at such a time) with all 
 the preparation for a good supper on a table near 
 her, 
 
 '' You have come exactly in time, my dear 
 Ignatia," said she: '^I have just mixed the salad, 
 and you will, in a moment, have soup, roasted 
 pigeons, a veal ragout, and some trout that were 
 caught this morning near TeuffeFs Brucken/' 
 
 Ignatia was scandalized, but she was also 
 hungry, for she had fasted. The supper was 
 served, and both the fair pilgrims sociably par- 
 took of it, after which they retired, excessively 
 fatigued, to bed, where Ignatia was rewarded for 
 her good conduct through the day by a sweet, 
 profound, and refreshing sleep. 
 
 Joanna, though not so well entitled to favour 
 from Our Lady of the Hermits, towards whose 
 shrine she had hitherto been so indifferent a pil- 
 grim, was not denied the same blessing. She, 
 perhaps, thought the merit of her sister effica- 
 
THE ROYALIST. 311 
 
 cious enough to lighten her offences ; for the 
 levities of which she had been guilty in the 
 course of the day did not weigh more heavily 
 on her bosom than the light eiderdown coverlet 
 under which she reposed in Ignatia*^s arms till 
 daylight. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. SHOBERl., JUN., PRiNTER, 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMAHKET,