"Not exactly; nor do I know any thing of your English philosopher; but since I have been among these people, I have seen much to lead my thoughts that way. And we have example for it. Had not God his chosen people of old? And the seven nations of Canaan, were they not swept off as utterly reprobate from the face of the earth?"

"And now," suggested L'Isle, wishing to know the old man's views, "election is for the Scotch nation, and reprobation for the Portuguese?"

"I do not say that all Scotchmen, even in the Kirk, are of the elect."

"No," interposed Lady Mabel. "You misconstrue Moodie. He holds a particular election within the Kirk, and a national reprobation outside of it."

"I am afraid, my lady, it is not given to you to understand that high doctrine. It is ordered that the blessing, and the comprehension of it, go hand in hand."

"I must despair then, for I certainly do not comprehend it. In truth, the tenor of your discourse calls up in my mind the involuntary doubt, did this people first desert God, or God them? But I trample it down as a snare laid by the evil one."

"We are in a land where the evil one bears full sway," said Moodie.

"Yet you have voluntarily put yourself in purgatory by coming to travel in it," said Lady Mabel. "But you have your consolation, and may give thankful utterance to the words of our Scotch poet:

'I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts an' grace, A burning and a shining light, To a' this place.'"

"I do not know that psalmist, if in truth he be a maker of spiritual songs," said Moodie, with a doubtful air.

"He did dabble a little in psalmody," said Lady Mabel; "but I doubt whether his attempts would satisfy you. How like you this sample:

'Orthodox, orthodox, who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; There's a heretic blast has been blown in the Wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, load your spiritual guns, Ammunition you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, will be powder enough, And your skulls are store-houses o' lead.'"

"'Tis that profane, lewd fellow, Burns," exclaimed Moodie, angrily. "He did worse than hide his ten talents in a napkin. I wonder, my lady, you defile your mouth with his scurrilous words."

"I have done with him," said Lady Mabel, laughing. "He was a profane, lewd fellow, far better at pointing out other men's errors than amending his own."

Moodie now fell back among the servants; and L'Isle remarked, "your old squire, Lady Mabel, holds an austere belief. I never met a man so confident of his own salvation and of the damnation of others."

"He reminds me," Mrs. Shortridge said, "of a dissenting neighbor of ours, when we lived in London, who was always saying, 'I am called, but my wife is not,' much to the poor woman's disquiet in this world, if not to the hazard of her happiness in the next."

"The old man puzzles me sadly at times," said Lady Mabel; "and he has at hand many a text to sustain his dogmas."

"It is a pity," said L'Isle, "that he will not bear in mind those that bid us 'Judge not that ye be not judged;' 'Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall; 'Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required;' and many others of the same tenor."

"Pray go on," said Lady Mabel, "and provide me with a refutation of Moodie's theology of destiny: not that I hope to silence him, for controversy is to him the breath of life."

Now L'Isle had acquired many things laboriously, but he had gotten his training in divinity somewhat incidentally, and hesitated, as well he might, to undertake the task imposed. But spurred on by the deference she showed to his opinions, he eagerly sought to satisfy, yet not mislead her. "Moodie is the type of a class," he said, "who are the most wilful men in the world, yet are even inculcating that man has no will of his own, but is the play thing of fate. Fatalism, indeed, is no modern invention, being as old as humanity itself, perhaps, older. We find it as strongly inculcated by the Greek tragic poet, as by the modern Calvinist. But the peculiar colors in which we see it dressed, are derived from the revolt of men's minds against the Romish doctrine as to good works. Among these, penance, fasting, alms, pilgrimages, bounty to the church and its servants, come first. This leads to the keeping of a debt and credit account with heaven; and to the saints is attributed the power of buying up a stock of works of supererogation, by which they acquire a mediatory power in themselves. Human reason has been likened to a drunken clown, who if you help him up on one side of his horse, falls over on the other. To deter men from the presumptuous sin of attributing merit to their actions, the reformers, and also individuals and even orders in the church, have labored to prove that man acts only in obedience to preordained decree, and can of himself do nothing good; yet their logic charges him freely with the guilt of sinning by necessity. I cannot for the life of me distinguish between fatalism and predestination. Either binds us with the same chain of necessity, in thought, word and deed, from the cradle to the grave. To escape this charge, fanaticism can only add a few links to the chain of necessitating cause, and tell you it is necessity no longer. Now, our most perfect conception of sin is found in a will which sets itself in opposition to God's will. This is the characteristic of the father of evil and his fallen hosts. Our highest idea of virtue is found in the creature's conforming his will to that of his Maker; this is the trait of the angels who were steadfast in their faith. How can you here couple fatality and will? If ours be a state of probation, it is only by a certain freedom of action, an originating power of causation in ourselves, that we can conceive of our being put to proof. Possibly, in fallen man, that freedom is limited to the power of rejecting or yielding to the influences of grace. Yet within that narrow range it may be still a perfect freedom. God said, 'let us make man in our image and after our likeness,' and this likeness between the 'cause of causes' and his creature, may well consist in man's being endowed with a spark from the Creator's nature, gifted with an originating will, and made a source of causes in himself. To say that this may not be, were to limit the power of God."

"Most assuredly," said Lady Mabel, who was on this point easily convinced. "I shall now be ready armed for Moodie, when next he broaches his dogma of predestination. But will he listen, much less understand?"

"If his dogma be a truth," continued L'Isle, encouraged by her approbation, "to know it, or any other revealed truth, can avail us nothing; for our knowledge, itself a predestined fact, cannot influence our preordained condition here or hereafter. On the other hand, if the doctrine be misunderstood or false, it is most dangerous; there being but a short step between believing it and applying it, presumptuously, in our own favor, and adversely to our neighbor. We are ever more successful in deceiving ourselves than others; and to indulge in the belief that we are the chosen of God, may be only less dangerous than a conviction of our utter reprobation."

"For my part," said Lady Mabel, "I can appeal yet more confidently to my feelings than my reason, for a refutation of the doctrine Moodie has so often urged upon me. I feel within me a capacity to be as wicked as I please, if fear and reverence did not withhold me."

"And I, as your duenna," said Mrs. Shortridge, "prohibit any such frank admission of propensity to evil in a young lady under my charge."

"Why, will you not let me make a Christian confession of the sinfulness of my nature? It were indeed heresy to claim an equal capacity for good. There I acknowledge the need of aid from above."

"And that aid is not compulsion," said L'Isle, "as every page of Scripture testifies. There is something strangely illogical in the reasoning of those who, starting from the point, that what has been decreed by God is as good as done, and the future as fixed as the past, thence exhort us to plead, because the decree has gone forth; to run in the race, because the victor has been chosen, and the prize adjudged; to strive, because the battle has been fought; and to repent and be saved, because our final destiny was decided before time was. Surely, if this life have any bearing on another, we are running a race, the issue of which is undecided until death; and ours is a real struggle, not merely the acting out of a foregone conclusion, not the dramatic representation of a past event. What would you think of a modern Greek praying zealously that Mohamed II. should not have taken Constantinople? Or of a Roman of to-day besieging heaven with prayers that Rome should not have been taken by the Goths, or sacked by the army of the Constable Bourbon? Yet what is commonly called Calvinist is nothing less than this; praying against past events, or the decrees of fate. Is the papist so absurd in offering his masses for the dead?"

The ladies were still complimenting L'Isle on his refutation of Moodie's tenets, so obnoxious to their own convictions, when they met a peasant trudging along, cujado in hand, with the small end of which he occasionally enlivened the motions of an ass toiling under a heavy sack of grain. The muleteer stopped him to enquire where they might find water for their animals in this thirsty land. The peasant pointed back to a thicket near the road, and said: "I would have watered my own beast there, but for the would have watered my own beast there, but for the company I would have fallen among." He then went on his way, and they rode to the spot pointed out, where among the oleander and buckthorn bushes they found a puddle rather than a spring, so well had it been lately stirred up. A gang of eight or nine vagrants, who had been munching their crusts and sardinhas in the shade, now sprung up, and placing themselves between the travelers and the water, vociferously demanded alms. To rid themselves of this motley troop, L'Isle and Mrs. Shortridge threw each of them a small coin. They were not so easily satisfied, but thrusting themselves among the horses, continued to rival each other in whining petitions and adjurations of their favorite saints. Lady Mabel, who had emptied her purse of small coin the evening before, now entreated Moodie to let this second opportunity of alms-giving, so manifestly sent for his benefit, soften his stony heart. But he shook his head grimly, saying: "If they are strong enough to travel, they are strong enough to work; and work they shall, or starve, before they touch a penny of mine!"

L'Isle's short tempered groom, availing himself of the impatience of a thirsty horse, now turned his about, at once spurring and reining him in, which made him lash out his heels at the intruders near him. The other steeds seemed to catch this infectious restiveness, and the beggars were driven to a safer distance. Their horses now could drink in peace of the water stirred up and muddied by their mendicant friends, whom they presently left behind them, without further heeding their continued and vociferous appeals. One stout ragged fellow put himself in their way, and displayed to their eyes a flaming picture, painted on a board, depicting the torments of the souls in purgatory. But the travelers were in a hurry, and unmoved at the sight, left the souls in unmitigated tortures there.

"What we have just seen," said L'Isle to the ladies, "may convince you that beggars are a formidable class in this country. They ramble about, and infest every place, not entreating charity, but demanding it. They often assemble at night in hordes, at the best country house they can find, and taking up their abode in one of the out-buildings, call for whatever they want, like travelers at an inn; and here they claim the right of tarrying three days, if they like it. When a gang of these sturdy fellows meets a traveler on the highway, he must offer them money; and it sometimes happens that the amount of the offering is not left to his own discretion. St. Anthony assails him on one side, St. Francis on the other. Having satisfied their clamor in behalf of these favorite saints, he is next attacked for the honor of the Virgin; and thus they rob him, for the love of God."

"I wonder," Mrs. Shortridge said, "the nation tolerates such a nuisance."

"There are laws for its abatement," answered L'Isle. "John III. and Sebastian both warred against the beggars. A law of the sixteenth century ordains that the lame should learn the trade of a tailor or shoemaker, the maimed serve for subsistence any who will employ them, and the blind, for food and raiment, give themselves to the labors of the forge, by blowing the bellows. But we see how the law is enforced. These men behind us are neither lame, halt, nor blind, but truly represent the sturdy vagrants with whom Queen Bess's statute dealt so roughly. With what result? It is but the ancestor of a long line of laws which load our statute-books, and have built up our poor-law system, merely substituting for one evil another which burdens the country like an incubus, and, vulture-like, is eating out its entrails."

"We have no such national institution for the breeding of beggars in Scotland," said Moodie, from behind.

"Is it because Scotland is too poor to maintain paupers?" inquired Mrs. Shortridge.

"It is because it is not natural for a Scotchman to be a beggar," replied Moodie, with patriotic pride.

"We cannot carry the system much further in England," said L'Isle; "the resources of the country, and the sturdy character of the people, are breaking down under it."

"Could our British population be brought down to as low a condition as these people?" Lady Mabel asked.

"Assuredly not," said Mrs. Shortridge.

"Have you ever been in Ireland?" asked L'Isle.

No, neither of the ladies had been there.

"Or in an English poor-house?"

That, too, was terra incognita, especially to Lady Mabel.

"Either of them might assist you in finding an answer to a very difficult question. Still, like Moodie, I have great faith in race, and in the fitness of climates to races. There is something enervating to a northern race in these subtropical climates. While the powers of enjoyment remain unimpaired, or are even stimulated, the energy of action is rapidly sapped. We know that the Gothic conquerors of this peninsula lost, in a few generations, their energy and enterprise. A war of seven centuries revived and sustained that of their descendants; but, after that stimulant was withdrawn, on the expulsion of the Moors, they gradually sunk to what we see them now. Some persons attribute the character and condition of these peninsular nations to the vices of government, others to the corruption of the church. I doubt the question's admitting of so simple a solution as either, or both of these. We may be putting effect for cause, and cause for effect. An inferior people may deteriorate government, and corrupt the church. The disciples of the apostles received Christianity in its purity. Whence originated the rapid degeneracy of the early Church? We see some portions of the human race betraying stronger downward tendencies than others. But the 'why' is too complex a question to admit of a simple solution. The Portuguese of this province especially are an inferior people. They are probably a degenerate people; and one cause of that degeneracy may be an intermixture of dissimilar races."

"It is evident," said Lady Mabel, "that the work Pelayo began was never finished by his successors; that in reconquering the country the Christians did not make thorough work in expelling the Moors."

"I know not how thoroughly they may have driven out the Moors," said Mrs. Shortridge, "but they certainly have not kept out the black-a-moors. The negroes now form no small part of the population of Lisbon."

"And the worst part," said L'Isle; "as will always happen when an inferior race is brought in contact and competition with one superior to it. A great part of the robbers, and other criminals there, are negroes. These are comparatively new-comers; but among the old population around us, though we meet with many specimens of men of pure and better breed, still, the great number of turned-up noses and projecting lips we see, gives us an idea of an intermixture with negroes. This mixture and deterioration of the people will control the condition of the country far more than revolutions in church and state. The presence of but one race in a country renders possible a real freedom, embracing the whole population, and it becomes more attainable if this people be a race of high caste; but an inferior people mingled with them, will be politically and socially subjected to them. This is the history of races all over the world."

They had now ridden many miles on the road to Murao, whither L'Isle would gladly have led the ladies, were it only for the pleasure of taking them across the Guadiana, so renowned in song; but he feared to prolong the fatigues of the journey beyond the next day, and bade the muleteer find the shortest way back to Elvas. On this their guide soon turned into a by-way, and they gradually left the cultivated country behind them. The heat of the day made them wish for shelter long before it could be found in so bare and desolate a region. At length they were cheered by the sight of a few pines of stunted growth, and seating themselves in the shade, prepared to dine, while the servants went in search of water, which proved scarce drinkable when brought. The sweet-smelling thyme, which abounded in this spot, now bruised under the horses' hoofs, gave a refreshing fragrance to the air, and they rested the longer, as Mrs. Shortridge seemed worn out with the heat. Lady Mabel seized the occasion to add some new plants to her hortus siccus, which, now swollen to a portentous bulk, occupied the highest place in the load of one of the mules. As she wandered from one cluster of plants to another, her voice rose into a tuneful strain. L'Isle followed her with eye and ear, as imprisoned Palamon did Emilie, while

"She gathered flowers, partly white and red, To make a subtle garland for her head, And as an angel, heaven-like she sang."

But she presently returned to her seat, and to her favorite diversion of exciting Moodie's controversial spirit, by asking him if there was not something exceedingly impressive in the external religion of the people they were among?

The term she used was enough to rouse him; but, checking himself, he sneeringly said, "I think these mummeries are well contrived for their purpose, to amuse a childish people, and keep them in a state of childhood."

"And why should they not be amused?" said Lady Mabel, "since you will view it in that light? The church, their nursing-mother, takes charge of them, body and soul, and strives to make religion part and parcel of the occupations of every hour of every day life. By spectacles, processions, pictures, music, by the lonely way-side cross, by the crucifix hidden in the bosom, by the neighboring convent bell, chiming the hour of prayer, the Romanist is reminded forty times a day that he does not live for this life alone. Does he seek amusement from books? she takes out of his hands the lewd tale or lying romance, and puts into it the more wonderful legend of a saint or a martyr. Does any son of the church neglect the practice of charity? she sends him an humble penniless friar to remind him of that duty. Does he strive to forget his sins? she startles his slumbering conscience by duly summoning him to the confessional. The youths and maidens, taking an evening walk, led by early habit, stroll toward some neighboring chapel, and suspend their thoughtless mirth, while they bend the knee to offer up a prayer, and make the sign of the cross, in emblem of their faith in Him who died upon it."

Moodie shook his head. "You have well named its external religion. It is a whited sepulchre, full within of dead men's bones. The Kirk swept out all that rubbish long ago, and the less it is like Rome the nearer the pure faith."

"They would be odd Christians," said L'Isle, "who held nothing in common with Rome. I doubt, too, whether it be possible to preserve the substance with an utter disregard to form. When inspiration ceased, it was time to frame liturgies and creeds. But there is one material point in which the Kirk of Scotland and the Church of Rome still strongly resemble each other."

Moodie pricked up his ears at this astounding assertion, and scornfully asked: "What point is that, sir?"

"Their vicarious public worship," answered L'Isle. "They both pray by proxy. The Papists employ a priest to pray for them in a dead language which they do not understand, and the Presbyterians a minister to offer up petitions unknown to his people until after they are uttered, who stand listening, or seeming to listen, to this vicarious prayer, which may be, and often is, unfitted to the wants of their hearts, and the convictions of their consciences."

"And to escape these dangers, more possible than likely, you flee to those dead formularies you call your liturgy," retorted Moodie.

"To the formalist and the negligent," L'Isle replied, "the liturgy is but a form; but to the earnest churchman it is a thing of life. Using it, the Christian congregation, priest and layman, pastor and flock, join in an united confession of their sins, in the profession of their common faith, in prayer for mercies needed, in thanksgiving for blessings bestowed. God's praise is sung, his pardon to repentant sinners authoritatively pronounced, the sacraments ordained by Christ are reverently administered, and the whole body of revealed truth and sacred history systematically recited to the people in the course of each year—a most profitable teaching to the young and ignorant, who cannot search the Scriptures for themselves. This is a true Christian public worship, complete in itself. Nor do we neglect preaching as a means of instruction and exhortation, without holding it to be an always essential accompaniment, much less, as you do, the right arm in the public worship of God."

"And to this form of words, made by man," objected Moodie, "you attribute a divine character, little, if at all, below that which belongs to the word of God."

"So far as it consists of the language of Scripture, rightly applied, it is divine," said L'Isle. "But it is an error to say that our liturgy, or any other worthy to be named, was made by a man, or the men of any one age. It has a more catholic origin than that. The spiritual experience of devout men of many centuries of Christianity, realizing the needs of sinful humanity in its intercourse with its Maker and Redeemer, and the comforting Spirit, have helped to build it up, and thus adapted it, in its parts of general application, to the spiritual wants, at all times, of every child of Adam."

"You speak up finely for your formal service, sir," said Moodie; "and I may not be scholar enough to answer you. But every spiritual minded man knows that it only fetters the spirit in prayer."

"Yet we might infer," said L'Isle, "from a passage in the Revelations of St. John, that a liturgy is used by the four and twenty elders who stand before the throne."

"You and Moodie do not seem to get any nearer to each other," said Mrs. Shortridge, "in your rambles through the mazes of controversy."

"We only need here a well-trained son of Rome," answered L'Isle, "to make confusion worse confounded. Luckily, Moodie and I can fight out our duel in quiet, without having a dexterous adversary come in as thirdsman, and kill us both."

The muleteer, who had shown signs of impatience unusual with him, now pointed to the sun; in a few minutes they were again on the road, which was but a bridle-path, and the country promised less and less as they rode on. Their guide looked around doubtingly, and at length turned aside to a half ruinous cottage, the only habitation they had seen for miles, where he closely questioned an old woman whom he found there as to the way before them. Little satisfied with her directions, he presently stopped an idiotic looking fellow, with a huge head, whom they met driving some milch goats toward the hovel, and questioned him. The goatherd stood staring at the party with open mouth, and gave little heed to him. But, at length, being pressed for an answer, he gave one in a harsh voice with great volubility, and much action, as if drawing in the air a map of the whole country around. The muleteer seemed satisfied, and they again moved on over a waste of low, rolling hills, without a tree upon them. Unlike the heaths of the north of Europe, it was covered with a false show of fertility, displaying a variety of plants; among them several species of heath, one six feet high, and entirely covered with large red flowers, another, smaller indeed, but with flowers of a yet more lively red. Here, too, were the yellow-flowered cisti, and many other plants with blossoms of many hues, perfuming the air while they delighted the eye. But the stunted juniper bushes, and the myrtles, not luxuriant and beautiful, like those growing on the banks of the rivulets, but dwarfish to the humble size of weeds, told of a land of starvation under this wilderness of sweets.

Lady Mabel, much as she loved flowers, was sated here, and owned that no profusion of them could make a landscape. "There is a dreary monotony in a scene like this, that words cannot express. The sky of brass over our heads, and this treeless, lifeless sea of sandy hillocks around us, excite a feeling of desolation and solitude, which forces me to look round on our party to convince myself that I am not alone in the world."

The muleteer, who was some way ahead, now stopped short. Riding up, they saw that the path here divided into two, and heard him heaping curses on the huge head of the simpleton, who had forgotten to tell him which to follow. But, on L'Isle's asking what they should do now, he dismounted, and stepped up to consult his wisest mule, which he did by slipping the bridle from his head. At once, sure instinct came to faltering reason's aid; the beast turned complacently into the right hand path, and moving briskly on, jingled his bells more cheerily than before, as if he already saw the open stable door, and snuffed his evening meal. Their path bending westward, they now saw clouds mustering on the heights before them, and one of April's sudden showers drawing near.

Within less then a mile, they came upon a hedge of American aloes, which, with their close array of massive leaves, each ending in a sharp point, protected an orchard. Following its course a few rods, they came to a rude gateway, which admitted them into a small cattle-yard, and a low, unpretending farm-house stood before them.



CHAPTER XII.

First, for thy bees a quiet station find, And lodge them under covert from the wind; For winds, when homeward they return, will drive The loaded carriers from their evening hive; Far from the cows' and goats' insulting crew, That trample down the flowers and brush the dew, The painted lizard and the bird of prey, Foes to the frugal kind, be far away— The titmouse and the pecker's hungry brood, And Procne with her bosom stained with blood: These rob the trading citizens, and bear The trembling captives through the liquid air, And for their callow young a cruel feast prepare. * * * * * Wild thyme and savory set around their cell, Sweet to the taste and fragrant to the smell: Set rows of rosemary with flowering stem, And let the purple violet drink the stream.

Dryden's Virgil.

The building before them had low, thick walls, of undressed stones, and a heavy roof over it covered with tiles. The door was shut, and the travelers could see nothing of the household; but the sharp, angry challenge of the canine sentinels within, who did not pause to listen for an answer, proved that the place was not without a garrison. Some premonitory drops began to fall from the cloud, which now overhung them. Tired of waiting, L'Isle was about to complete the investment by sending the muleteer round to the other side of the house, when he perceived two young round faces peeping out at a square hole in the wall that served for a window; a man's voice was heard quieting the dogs, and a pair of sharp eyes were detected peering over the door, made too short for the doorway, perhaps for that purpose. The governor was evidently reconnoitering carefully the party outside. The result seemed, at length, to prove satisfactory, the presence of the ladies probably removing any fears of violence.

The door was thrown open, and one, who seemed to be the master of the house, stepped out with an air of frank hospitality to receive their request for shelter. Begging them to alight, he called out for "Manoel! Manoel!" who soon showed himself in the shape of a young clown, crawling out from behind a heap of straw in a neighboring shed, and who was ordered to assist in unloading the mules and taking care of the horses.

Tired and thirsty, and glad to find shelter, the ladies entered the house, where they were met by two young women, unmistakably the daughters of the host. Their sparkling eyes and coal-black hair, their round faces and regular features, were like his; and they were only less swarthy, from being less exposed to the sun. Their dress was in fashion, but commonly worn by the peasant women—the jacket and petticoat—but smarter, and of more costly stuffs than usual. Their feet, too, were bare, but small and well-formed, betraying little indurating familiarity with the rough paths around them.

Had they preserved their pedigree, this family would have found many an ancestor among the Lusitanian Moors, and afforded the most striking among the many proofs the travelers had met with, that many a Mohammedan, when the crescent waned before the cross, had preferred his country to his faith. The girls were for a while abashed at the presence of the strangers; but, with a hospitality spurred on by curiosity, soon recovered themselves, and encumbered the ladies with their attentions. Strangers they seldom saw, and these outlandish ladies were as strange to them as if they had dropped from the moon. Under pretence of assisting the travelers to rid themselves of their outer garment of dust, they examined the texture and fashion of their dresses, veils and gloves, spread out Lady Mabel's shawl to admire the pattern, and asked more questions than she could answer or understand. They were closely inspecting the rings on her fingers, and wondering at the whiteness of her hand, when their father coming in, rebuked their obtrusiveness. He made them gather up the pile of flax, with the spindles and distaffs now lying idle on the floor, and invited the ladies to take possession of the cushions, which, after a Moorish custom still lingering here, the girls had used as seats.

L'Isle coming in and finding father and daughters bestirring themselves to make their guests comfortable, suggested that their most urgent want was water. One of the girls at once brought a cup, and one from among several jars, and, while the ladies were drinking, L'Isle called their attention to the peculiarities of the vessel, of so porous a nature, that the water, always oozing through it, kept the outside wet, the constant evaporation of a part cooling what remained within. He pointed out, too, the peculiar fashion of the jar—its beautiful and classic mould indicating that, amidst the corruption of taste and the loss of arts, in pottery at least, the antique type of form had been faithfully handed down from the time of the Roman. But the ladies were too busy with the water to bestow much thought on the jar, and L'Isle's lesson in vertu was pretty much lost on them.

The house consisted of several small rooms, besides the larger apartment, in which, after a while, the whole party was collected, including the servants and muleteer. The girls called in an old woman to assist them in their household duties, and she employed herself at the smoky fire-place in cooking some sausages, which, by the perfume they soon diffused through the room, proved that in stuffing them the genus allium had not been forgotten. To give a classic flavor to the fumes, L'Isle found himself quoting the lines:

"Thestylis et rapido fessis messoribus aestu Allia serpyllumque herbas contundit olentes."

But, if this sweetened the smell to him, it was lost on the ladies, and Thestylis was still to them a smoky old woman, frying, marvelously, ill-odored sausages. Their host disappeared for a few minutes, and then returned, no longer in dishabille, but in full dress, as if going to the next town on some high festival. This was evidently in honor of his guests. It was growing dark, and he now lit a lantern hanging against the wall. Within the lantern, and behind the lamp, a little image of some saint was seen shedding his benignant influence over the household. The hastily prepared meal was now ready. This was no time or place for nice distinctions of rank, and, urged by their host, the whole party sat down together. Besides the overpowering sausages, preserved fruits, honey, and black and white bread covered the table, with a pile of oranges just gathered from the boughs. These last vanished rapidly before the thirsty travelers. Their host seemed to think his more substantial fare neglected; and L'Isle took care to attribute it to their having dined too lately and heartily, to have yet recovered their appetites.

Lady Mabel, seeing Moodie at the end of the table, with his back to the dim light, eating almost in the dark, urged him to change his seat, and take one opposite to and close under the lamp. Moodie looked askance at the saint, who was bestowing a benediction on those before him, and grumbled out, "Better to eat in the dark, than by the light of Satan's lantern."

"You are over scrupulous," said Mrs. Shortridge: "if these illuminated saints be one of Satan's devices, I think it meritorious to turn them to a useful purpose, as was successfully done by a friend of mine residing in Lisbon. Finding the lamp he had put before his door repeatedly broken—for the Lisbon rabble love darkness better than light—he bought a little image of St. Antony, and put it up behind it, and the saint's presence seemed to paralyze the arms of the evil doers."

"There is an inward and an outward light," said Moodie, sententiously: "your friend, wanting that inward light, chose, for a little personal convenience, to countenance a shining idolatry." Their host, gathering from their looks and gestures that they wanted more light, now brought in another lamp, which the ladies soon used to light them to the chamber allotted to them. The girls went with them; and Lady Mabel, finding them loiter there, full of curiosity, and examining every article of dress and baggage with prying eyes, deliberately unpacked every thing she had with her, and induced Mrs. Shortridge, sleepy as she was, to do so too; then, giving them to understand that there was nothing more to be seen, politely turned them out of the room, that she might make more profitable use of the remaining hours of the night. A chamber and bed were found for L'Isle, but Moodie and the servants had no better accommodations than mats spread on the floor of the larger room. They had no sooner lain down than the rats overhead commenced their gambols, racing each other over the reeds which laid on the joists, formed the only ceiling to the room. Their gymnastic sports brought down showers of dust and soot on the would-be sleepers below, who were already beset by certain rejoicing tribes, which seized the occasion to hold their carnival.

The whole household were afoot early next morning and, while waiting for breakfast, Lady Mabel took the opportunity to survey the premises. Cleanliness is not essential to Portuguese comfort; but, within the house, there was not the squalor and poverty which here usually characterises the peasant's home. Without, a small orchard, and one narrow field, a few goats, and two or three stout asses, seemed to comprise the farmer's possessions.

On sitting down to an abundant breakfast, she expressed to L'Isle her wonder, how these people lived in such plenty, without flocks, or herds, or fields.

"You are mistaken," said L'Isle. "Our host has flocks so numerous, that it would startle you to hear their numbers told. The whole country for miles around is pastured by them. He is a farmer, or rather grazier, on a grand scale. Not to puzzle you longer, he is a bee-farmer, having many hundred hives. This land of flowers yields him two harvests a year. His income is derived from wax and honey, and his rustic talk is not of bullocks, but of bees. After breakfast, we will get him to show us something of the economic arrangements of his farm."

During this meal, the two girls seemed anxious to make the most of their guests, who were so soon to leave them. They had this morning put on their best clothes, and all their trinkets. Their animated and inquisitive conversation, addressed chiefly to L'Isle as spokesman and interpreter, scarcely allowed him time to eat. Their restless, sparkling black eyes, excited the admiration of the ladies. "Do you think black eyes the most expressive?" said Lady Mabel to L'Isle; and, with a natural coquetry, she turned her own blue orbs full upon him. How else could he judge, but by a comparison?

"There is a liquid lustre in the full black eye," L'Isle answered, looking into those of the girl who was sitting, very sociably, close beside him, "which powerfully expresses languishing tenderness. It is capable, too, of an angry and fierce expression. But from its dark hues you cannot distinguish the pupil from the surrounding part, and lose all the varying beauty of its dilation and contraction. There are eyes of lighter and more heavenly hues," here he looked full in Lady Mabel's, while describing them, "which have an unlimited range of expression, embracing every shade of feeling, every variety of sentiment. They are tell-tale eyes, that would betray the owner in any attempt to play the hypocrite."

Lady Mabel, laughing and blushing, expressed great doubts whether any eyes exercised that controlling guardianship over the integrity of their owner.

As soon as the meal was over, the farmer, at their request, gladly undertook to show them some thing of his peculiar husbandry. A hive or two may be found any where—but a thousand hives! This was a great proprietor. Going out of the enclosure, he led them to a neighboring hill, on the south-eastern side of which, well sheltered from the northern blasts, many lanes, five or six feet wide, had been cut through the thickets, all leading to a central point, where, well sheltered by the natural hedge, he had formed one of his numerous colonies. Last night's shower had refreshed the thirsty vegetation, washing the dust from the leaves and deepening their green; some diamond drops still hung sparkling on the foliage; and numberless blossoms were opening to the early beams of the sun. The citizens of this thriving commonwealth were literally as busy as bees, and the region was vocal with their buzz. The ladies shrunk from the well armed but laborious crowd which surrounded them, going forth light or returning laden to their homes; but the farmer assured them that the busy multitude were perfectly tame, and as harmless as sheep, unless maliciously disturbed.

Though this was but one of several colonies, the hives were too numerous to be easily counted. They were all cylindrical in shape, being made of the bark of the cork-tree, which is an excellent non-conductor of heat, and were each covered with an inverted pan of earthenware, the edge of which overhung the hive like a cornice. Each hive was fastened together with pegs of hard wood, so that it could be easily taken to pieces, and the joints were stopped with peat.

Full of the economy of the industrious tribes, whose habits he had studied so profitably, the farmer talked long and well on the subject. From him they learned that the bees would range a league and more from the hive, if they could not gather honey nearer home. That he gathered two harvests a year, spring and autumn each yielding one, while the cold winter and the parched and blossomless summer equally suspended the profitable labor of his winged workmen. He pointed out the plants whose blossoms were preferred by the bees, and professed to be able to distinguish the honey gathered in each month, varying as it did in qualities according to the succession of flowers which bloomed through the seasons, and he gave a preference to the product of the rosemary over all other plants.

Lady Mabel was delighted with the method and the scale of this branch of rural industry. "We have Moors enough in Scotland. Indeed, I wish so much of them had not fallen to papa's lot. But when I go home, I will endeavor to turn these wastes to better account, and rival our friend here, by establishing a bee farm on a grand scale."

"You must not forget to carry the rosemary and other choice plants with you," said Mrs. Shortridge, "and some beams of the Portuguese sun, to secure two seasons of flowers in the year."

While she was yet speaking, a snake glided slowly across her path. Starting back in terror, she uttered a little scream, and begged L'Isle to kill it without delay.

"How shall I kill it," he said, laughing at her alarm. "Shall I bruise the serpent's head with my heel, or shall I draw my sword on a reptile?"

"In any way you please, so you do kill it," she exclaimed, seeing the snake stop and raise its head to look at them.

But the farmer now interfered: "Spare his life, this is one of my best friends. You see that he shows not the least fear. While providing for himself, he works too for me, destroying the frogs and lizards that make sad havoc among my bees."

Returning to the house, they found in front of it the mules laden and the horses saddled for the journey. Observing that Moodie looked particularly rueful this morning, Lady Mabel asked him what was the matter, and he admitted that he was very unwell. "But with bad food and worse water, loss of sleep and worry of mind, a man soon gets worn out in this unhappy country; You, my lady, look jaded enough, too."

"Oh, never mind my looks," she answered. "I feel perfectly well, and can travel on until I get tanned as brown as these Moorish girls. But I am afraid Moodie, you are paying the penalty for last night's insult to the patron saint of the house. Some saints are at times a little revengeful, and your troubled mind and aching body you may owe to him. Pray take the earliest opportunity to make amends."

"Who is the offended saint?" asked Mrs. Shortridge.

"I suppose," said Lady Mabel, "it is St. Meliboeus, the patron saint of bees and honey."

"Take care," said L'Isle, laughing. "You are usurping the Pope's function, and adding a new name to the calender."

"But what shall we do for Moodie?" she asked. "Whether stricken by the saint or not, something must be done to relieve him."

"Your saint had nothing to do with my sickness," said Moodie, angrily. "I was unwell yesterday, though I did not complain. I am sure I was poisoned by that rascally innkeeper at Evora, with some trash he called wine, which was nothing but drugged vinegar."

"If bad wine has poisoned you, good wine is the only antidote," said L'Isle, and bidding his servant bring a cup and bottle from the hamper, he persuaded Moodie to try the remedy.

Moodie tasted it with some hesitation, but the wine was excellent, and in truth, just what he stood in need of. On being urged, he took a good draught, and at L'Isle's suggestion, stowed away the bottle in his valise for future reference.

Their host would receive but a small remuneration for the well timed hospitality he had afforded the travelers. But the ladies had selected sundry spare articles from their wardrobe, and delighted his daughters with the gift of finery, such as they had never possessed before. As L'Isle was turning to ride off, the farmer said, with a courteous air: "When you or any friend of yours come this way, pray remember, sir, you have a poor house here, always at your command."



CHAPTER XIII.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame.

Shakspeare.

They had ridden but a short way, when Lady Mabel, reining in her horse, placed herself along side of Moodie, to ask how he felt now. She feared lest he might be too unwell to undergo the fatigues of the day. But, thanks to L'Isle's prescription, Moodie was already another man. He sat bolt upright in the saddle, with a martial air, and looked around as if ready for any emergency. She no longer felt any fears for him. His curiosity, too, seemed to be awakened, for he said: "You are a great botanist, my lady, and know every kind of plant. Pray, what were those two tall trees near the farmer's house, with bare trunks and feathery tops?"

"They are date palms," said Lady Mabel. "You see more and more of them the nearer you get to Africa."

"Indeed!" said Moodie, with more astonishment than the information seemed to warrant.

"Yes," she continued; "and they bear a luscious and nourishing fruit, which, in the deserts of Africa, is the chief food of the people. It is to them what oatmeal is to the Scot."

"And how far are we from Africa?" said Moodie, dreading the answer, but striving to put the question in an indifferent tone.

"Why some people say that Africa begins at the Pyrenees, but Colonel L'Isle, who knows the country thoroughly, says that the Sierra de Monchique is the true boundary. The kingdom of Algarve, lying beyond those mountains, is, in climate, soil, and vegetation, truly African; and it is only the strip of salt water that separates it from Morocco, that prevents its forming part of that country."

"I never heard of the kingdom of Algarve before," said Moodie, pondering the information he had received. "How far are we from it?"

"We will not find it a long day's journey to one of the chief towns," said Lady Mabel. "Its name—its name is Mauropolis, the city of the Moors. It lies on the border of Algarve, just like Berwick on the border of Scotland, only Algarve is a beautiful and fertile country, which poor Scotland is only to a Scot."

"It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest," growled Moodie in an undertone. "Have you forgot, my lady, that you are yourself a Scot!"

"A Scot!" said she, deliberately, as if now first considering that point. "My mother was an Englishwoman. So far, I am not a Scot."

"But your father! Your father, my lady!" Moodie angrily exclaimed. "He is a true Scot, and knows the worth of old Scotland well."

"He does, indeed," said she; "and has always thought it an excellent country—to come from; so he marched off at eighteen, and has seldom been back there since."

"So we are on the borders of Africa!" exclaimed Moodie, speaking to himself aloud.

"Why, do you not see Moodie, that the people grow darker, each day, as we travel on?"

"The innkeeper at Evora is dark enough," said he, that truth flashing on him; "but the farmer and his girls are browner still by many a shade."

"You will think them fair," said Lady Mabel, "when you have traveled far enough onward," and, leaving him confused and alarmed, she cantered on to join Mrs. Shortridge.

Now Moodie was a shrewd man, perhaps a little too shrewd, with an eye open to human depravity; he was learned, too, in his way; many a heavy tome of Scotch controversial divinity had been thumbed by him as carefully as his Bible; but he never dwelt on any thing he found there not sustaining his preconceived notions. He involuntarily slighted those parts even of Scripture that he could not wrest to his purpose. Many an historical and traditionary fact, too, floated loosely on his mind; but his geographical education had been sadly neglected. A topographical knowledge of half a dozen shires, a general notion of the shape of old Scotland, and a hazy outline of the sister kingdom, made up all he had attained to. Had you laid before him a chart of the sea coast of Bohemia, first discovered by our great dramatist, it would not have startled him in the least, and he was ready to look for Africa at any point of the compass.

He now saw clearly that this journey was part of a plot. L'Isle had first won the confidence of father and daughter; then availing himself of her love for botany, had habituated her to his presence and protection on short excursions around Elvas; he had used the commissary and his wife to beguile Lady Mabel from her father's protection, under pretence of a short journey to a neighboring town. Having now rid himself of the innocent commissary, he was leading her by devious paths far beyond pursuit. Lady Mabel seemed bewitched, and no longer saw with her own eyes. Was Mrs. Shortridge a simple gull or something worse? "Perhaps," thought Moodie, "Colonel Bradshawe is right;" for an eaves-dropping valet had given his scandal wings.

Moodie was not deeply read in romance; but he remembered the traditionary tale of the young Scotch heiress, who, while a party of her retainers were escorting her to the house of her guardian, was set upon by a neighboring chieftain at the head of his clan. Her followers, concealing the girl under a huge caldron, stood round it for her defence, and when the last man had fallen the victorious suitor carried off the girl, and married her for her lands. This, too, was a plain case of abducting an heiress, not indeed by violence, but with consummate art. Setting aside the rare attractions of the lady, in Moodie's estimation the prize was immense. L'Isle, with all his lofty airs, was but a commoner, with perhaps no fortune but his sword, a mere adventurer, and Lord Strathern's broad acres were an irresistible temptation; though, in truth, this coveted domain counted thousands of acres of sheep-walk to the hundreds of plough land.

Having made this matter clear to his own mind, Moodie cursed in his heart Lord Strathern's fatuity and the facile disposition Lady Mabel had so unexpectedly betrayed. But, though sorely troubled, he was not a man to despair. He resolved to watch L'Isle closely, and to rack his own invention for some way to foil his schemes, while taking care not to betray the least suspicion of them.

Meanwhile, Lady Mabel, as she could not herself visit Algarve, was extracting from L'Isle a full account of that delightful region. And he described well the picturesque and lofty mountains that cut off its narrow strip of maritime territory from the rest of Portugal; its tropical vegetation and its animal life, its perpetual summer, tempered alternately by the ocean and the mountain breeze. When he mentioned any fact which Lady Mabel thought might liken this region to Africa in Moodie's imagination, she would turn and repeat it for his benefit. Thus, the wolves and the wild boars abounding in the mountains, became to him nameless monsters infesting the country; the serpents were magnified in bulk, and the poisonous lizard redoubled its venom. The fevers common there grew more malignant; the plague broke out occasionally, and a few earthquakes were thrown in to enliven the narrative. She garbled it too, sadly, suppressing the fact that Algarve had furnished a large proportion of the adventurers who had discovered and conquered India and Brazil, and its mariners of this day, the best in Portugal, she converted into Barbary corsairs. She said nothing about Algarve having been the first province to rise against the French, or about the half-dozen adventurous seamen who had sailed boldly in a fishing-boat to Brazil, to inform the regent that Portugal still dared to struggle and to hope.

L'Isle overheard and wondered at her perversion of his account of Algarve, without detecting her motive, and Moodie thought her evident desire to visit this region proved her little less than mad, for only her version of select portions of L'Isle's remarks reached his ears.

"It is singular," said L'Isle, "that the Moors should have been more thoroughly driven out of Algarve, the most southern province, than out of others north of it. Its maritime position perhaps made it easy for them to escape to Morocco. But the people are not so dark as in Alemtejo, and many of the women are beautifully fair. In fact, I have seen as lovely faces there as in any country but our own."

Lady Mabel took care not to enlighten Moodie by repeating to him this observation, and he remained convinced that L'Isle had been describing beforehand to the ladies the country he was leading them to.

"The heat, fatigue, and discomfort of the last four days had almost worn out Mrs. Shortridge's strength, and now suggested to Lady Mabel some sage reflections on travel in general, as the result of her experience.

"Traveling is certainly one of the pleasures of life, with this peculiarity, that it affords most pleasure when the journey is over. With all the interest and excitement attending it, there are some drawbacks. We gratify our curiosity at times at no little cost. In the search after strange manners, the traveler may have to adopt them; in inspecting the various conditions under which men can live, we must often subject ourselves to these conditions, and thus acquire practical experience in place of theoretical knowledge. We cannot, like Don Cleofus, command the services of Asmodeus, to enable us to be lookers-on without becoming parties in the scenes we witness. To know how the Arab lives, we must for a time become an Arab; and to pry into the inner mysteries of Hottentot life, you must make yourself a Hottentot."

"And to estimate the prisoner's woes," L'Isle suggested, "you must try the virtues of a dungeon—musty straw, and bread and water."

"That would be buying the knowledge dearly," said she; "but I would like to try how the life of a nun would suit me."

"It would suit you the least of all women," said Mrs. Shortridge. "You might die in the cloister, but could not live there."

"Oh, I am sure I could stand a short novitiate, say three or six months," exclaimed Lady Mabel.

"Your novitiate, soon to end in freedom," said L'Isle, "would not help you to the experience of the true internal life of the nun. It is pleasant to walk, leading your horse by the rein, and at liberty to mount when you like; but the essence of monastic life lies in the conviction that you have turned your back forever on the world without, with all its trials, its hopes and fears, its passions and pursuits, and have given yourself religiously to tread through this life, the narrow path you have chosen, to the next."

"You have convinced me," said Lady Mabel. "In my longing after a varied experience of the conditions of life, I might sacrifice half a year to the trial of one, but I prefer ignorance on this point to the burden of a life-enduring vow."

"If our knowledge were limited by our own experience, we would know little indeed," said L'Isle. "Our capacity to bring home to ourselves other conditions than our own, depends more on the transferring and transforming faculties of the imagination, than on the observing powers of the eye. If, indeed, we had never felt bodily pain, we could not feel for a man on the rack. Had we never known anguish of mind, we might not estimate the mental agonies of others. But we have feelings, for the exercise of which sympathy and imagination can create conditions. We can feel with the captive in the dungeon, without going down there to take a place by his side."

"Still, there is nothing like experience in one's own person," said Mrs. Shortridge. "I can now sympathize fully with the toilworn traveler, across a parched and thirsty desert, under a broiling sun. I own that the pleasures of this journey far exceed its pains, thanks to your care and company; but, as Lady Mabel says, the chief pleasure comes afterward, and this journey will be still more pleasant next week than now."

"In spite of its hardships," said Lady Mabel, "it has been so agreeable to me, that I would have it last a week longer. As an escort, interpreter, and cicerone, Colonel L'Isle has no rival. He has, too, filled the commissary's place so well, that we have suffered nothing from your good man's desertion."

The pleasure Lady Mabel expressed, and her frank admission that she wished the journey longer, delighted L'Isle. He longed to tell her that he was ever at her command as companion, guardian, and guide on any journey, however long. But no—he must not say that. He had no thoughts of matrimony—at least, just now. A remote prospect did indeed float before his eyes, in which he saw himself having outlived this war, and attained the rank of Major-General, returning home to find Lady Mabel still lovely and still free to listen to a lover's suit. This was but a bright vista of the future, hemmed in and overhung by many a dark contingency, a glowing picture in an ebony frame.

The character of the country underwent a change as they rode on. Sloping downward toward the Guadiana, over a succession of hills which concealed the descent, the soil became more fertile, but was scarcely more cultivated than in the region which they had just left behind them. The heaths and broom plants now gave place to a variety of evergreen shrubs. Though the forest trees had vanished centuries ago, the prospect was often shut out by the thickets that overspread the country. An occasional spot of open ground indicated some attempts at cultivation, but they saw few peasants, and but one village seated on a hill, until passing a wretched hamlet, they reach the bank of a brook. The shade of some trees, already in full leaf, in this sheltered spot, tempted them to make here their noonday halt.

Seating herself on the fern and moss at the foot of an old mulberry-tree that overhung the little stream, Lady Mabel pointed out to her companions, that the trees around them were all of the same kind.

"They were doubtless planted here," said L'Isle, "when the silk culture throve in this country, a branch of industry, which, with too many others, has almost died out. Civil disorder and foreign war have been fatal to it. The Spaniards have made Alemtejo their highroad in every invasion of Portugal; and the disasters of late years have completed the ruins of this frontier, so long a debatable land. The country around, is, for the most part, a heath-covered waste, or a wilderness of brushwood; here the silkworm has perished, the peasant's hand is idle, and the amoreira stands with unplucked leaves."

"The better for us," said Mrs. Shortridge; "we need its thickest shade."

A solitary stork, by the rivulet, was engaged in that gentle sport which Isaac Walton assures us, is so favorable to tranquil meditation. Deep in reverie, the philosopher seemed not to heed their presence. For a time, he stood gravely on one leg, then with a few stately strides, drew nearer to them. They were commenting on his sedate air, and disregard for man's presence, when Moodie came and sat down within ear-shot of them. The bird now raised his head and gave them a searching look. Then bending back his long neck, he uttered a dissatisfied chatter with his snapping beak, and taking wing, sought a sequestered part of the stream, remote from the intruders.

"The stork would not thus have shunned natives. He must have found out that we are foreigners and heretics" said Mrs. Shortridge.

"It is this arch-heretic, Moodie, that he shuns," said Lady Mabel. "His presence would drive away a whole congregation of storks, who are almost as good churchmen as the monks themselves."

"Perhaps quite as good," said Moodie. "My arch-heresy consists in protesting now and always against idolatrous Rome. Some here are not quite as good Protestants as I am."

"I never called myself a Protestant," said L'Isle.

"Do you not, sir?" exclaimed Moodie. "Pray what are you then?"

"I never called myself a Protestant in defining my faith."

"And why not, sir," asked Moodie, adding in an under tone. "Now he will show the cloven foot."

"Because mine is a positive creed, not to be expressed by negation. In defining it, I can admit no term not expressing some essential point. I would not mistake the accident for the essence. That God has given his revealed word to man, is an essential point in my belief. That Rome has misconstrued that word, may be true, but comes not within the scope of my creed. I believe that Christ by his Apostles founded a church to ramify through the world, like the fruitful vine running over the wall. Some branches may have rotted off, some may bear degenerate fruit, some in unpruned luxuriance may bring forth nothing but leaves. Be it so. My belief is that the branch I cleave to retains its vital vigor and produces life-sustaining fruit."

"But how does this prevent your protesting against Rome?" objected Moodie.

"It prevents my making that protest any part of the definition of my faith. Names are things, and he who is perpetually dubbing himself a Protestant, ends by making it the first article of his creed, that Rome errs, and his active religion becomes opposition to Rome. Now I find Voltaire quite as good a Protestant as you are."

"I can say nothing to that," answered Moodie, "never having met with that gentleman."

L'Isle smiled for a moment, but went on earnestly to say: "We believe that Christ not only gave us a father, but founded a church, and we will not let go our hold upon it, as some sects and nations have done, out of mere opposition to Rome. Our forefathers by God's providence, set earnestly to work reforming it where corrupted, repairing it when dilapidated, but did not pull it down, in the presumptuous hope of building up another. They purified the temple, but did not destroy it. They removed the idols, but did plough up and sow with salt the consecrated spot, because it had been defiled."

"I see" said Moodie warmly, "that you aim your anathema at the Kirks among other Christian bodies."

"Without anathematizing any one," L'Isle answered, "we take comfort to ourselves, in the conviction that our church is a continuous branch of that which the Apostles founded in Christ, and that it might have been in essentials what it now is, were its history as closely connected with the Greek church, as it is with that of Rome, or had it ever stood unconnected with either of them. Never having been rebuilt from its foundation, it has lost its apostolic character."

"You have given many branches to the vine planted by Christ," observed Moodie. "Perhaps you admit the Church of Rome, to be one that still bears fruit."

"To drop the figure of the vine, I will answer you by saying, that it is possible for a Romanist to be a Christian."

"Are Christianity and idolatry one and the same?" said Moodie, indignantly.

"Do you know how many dogmas the Kirk and Rome hold in common?" answered L'Isle. "If you set down each article of Christian doctrine in the order of its importance and certainty, you may travel the same road with the Romanist a long way; nor is it easy to prove that Rome does not hold to all Christian truths."

Moodie rose from where he sat and stretched forth a protesting hand. But he saw that protest was useless here, so he withdrew to the shade of another tree, and sat down to think what he should do for Lady Mabel's safety. To refresh himself and sharpen his wits, he took more than one draught from the bottle. The wine being old, mild and delicate in flavor, he classed it in the same category with small beer, far underrating its beguiling potency. This vinho maduro, the vino generoso of the Spaniard, was that which maketh glad the heart of man, being of a choice vintage from a famous vineyard. It was rich, oily and deceiving.

"Had Moodie not been too impatient to stay with us longer," said L'Isle, "he might have heard me admit, that though the Church of Rome has kept the truth, it has not been content with it, but has mingled with it so large a mass of falsehood, that the truth it teaches is no longer pure. It has not thrown away the God-given treasure, but it has piled over it such an ever accumulating heap of rubbish that it is not easily found. It may have guarded the fountain of life-giving waters, but has so hedged it in with a labyrinth of superstitions and ceremonial rites, that it is almost inaccessible to the flock."

"Call Moodie back, and redeem yourself in his opinion," said Mrs. Shortridge. "He is now mourning over your approaching conversion to Rome."

"It is useless," said Lady Mabel. "Moodie sets no value on half-truths."

"Moodie denies there being any Christianity left in Popery," said L'Isle. "I assert that there is many a thorough, though unconscious Papist among Protestants. Popery is not so much an accidental bundle of errors, as a spontaneous and necessary growth from corrupt human nature. Thus many a charity, with us, originates in the hope of atoning for sins; many seek salvation through vicarious but human means; many a sectarian, especially among women is not so much the member of a church, as the follower of an idolized man. There are Protestant popes, whose words are bulls in their little popedoms, and Protestant saints who, unlike those of Rome, are canonized in life by their handful of followers."

"I think I could find a patron saint for Moodie," said Lady Mabel. "At least I do not think he would have been startled as I was, on hearing a minister of the Kirk, after exhausting his powers of eulogy on the great Apostle of the Gentiles, crown his praise by likening the prisoner Paul preaching boldly in bonds before the Roman governor, in whose hand was his life, to John Knox, the mouth-piece of the dominant faction, bullying a lady and his queen, a capture in their hands. This was a strange canonization of John Knox, or a singular degradation of St. Paul. But I see that our dinner waits us; and though this is a charming spot, we must not linger here too long. I am sure," she added, "that the shy and meditative stork, who left us so abruptly, must be a deep theologian, for it was he who suggested this learned discertation on the church."

The travelers dined here under the shade of the trees, and soon after took horse again. Moodie threw himself into the saddle with a spirit and activity which led Lady Mabel to say: "Your good wine, Colonel L'Isle, has done wonders for Moodie. It carries him well through the labors of the day."

"It seems to have cured his ailing body," said L'Isle, "but has not mellowed his temper. He grows more crusty than ever."

"In him," said Lady Mabel, "crustiness is the natural condition, and betokens health."

They had ridden but a little way, when she heard Moodie call to her, and reining in her horse, she let him come up alongside of her. He evidently wished to speak to her in private, for he kept silence until L'Isle and Mrs. Shortridge were out of hearing, and looked cautiously round to see that the servants were not too near.

"My lady," said he, in a solemn manner, "I have been looking at you, wondering if you are the same girl I have seen for years growing up under my eye."

"Another, yet the same," said she. "I have not yet quite lost my personal identity."

"And how many months is it since we left Scotland?"

"Weeks you mean, Moodie, it is scarcely yet time to count by months."

"Weeks, then, have made a wondrous change in you."

"I suspect that often happens in the progress of life," said Lady Mabel. "We seem to stand still for a while at a monotonous stage of our existence; a sudden change of condition comes, and we leap forward toward maturity. So, too, we may for years continue young in heart and health; some heavy trouble or deep grief overtakes us, and we at once are old."

"It is not a leap forward in life that you have made, but a leap aside, out of your own character. It amazes me to see you galloping wildly over this outlandish country, without a thought but flowers, soldiers, and sightseeing. I sometimes think you bewitched."

"What is more likely?" said Lady Mabel. "To us silly women, flowers, soldiers, and sightseeing, are the most bewitching things in the world."

"But you have lost all caution, all fear, and let these friends of yesterday lead you you know not whither."

"Traveling is one way to grow wise; and as to danger, what did you leave Craiggyside for, if it was not to take care of me?"

"Heaven knows I knew not what I undertook. I find one young lady harder to look after than twelve score of ewes, the kine, and the crops, with the ploughmen, shepherd, and dairy-maid to boot."

"Pray do not tell that to any but myself. With such a character, so far from passing for a lady, I could not get a place as lady's maid."

"You may laugh, my lady, but the danger is real and near. I do not trust your new friends," and Moodie shook his finger at them before him. "I know what is ordered must come to pass, and it is sinful to repine at it. But I have known you from a girl, a child, for you are a girl still, my lady, and it grieves my heart to see you galloping on to Rome and ruin."

"Is that my predestined road?" said Lady Mabel. "Then I suppose I must ride it, but it will be at a spanking pace," and giving her horse a cut she dashed off to the head of the party, while Moodie gazed after her in despair.

Hearing the tread of horses close behind him, he looked round and saw L'Isle's servants at his heels, watching him closely. The thought struck him, that he might find these men useful. So, falling back alongside of them, he said to L'Isle's man: "Do you know any thing of the strange country we are going to now?"

The man looked around for a moment with a puzzled air, but perceiving that Moodie was under some strange mistake, he merely said: "I am following my master, and leave him to choose his own road."

"We are playing the game of follow your leader, Mr. Moodie," said the groom, dipping into the dialogue. "The Colonel leads, and we are to follow you know; and d——t, we will play out the game."

"But do you know that he is leading you to the land of the Moors?"

"If he is going to the land of the great Black-a-moor himself, we must shut our eyes and gallop down hill. His country is said to lie in that way."

Moodie muttered something about a son of Belial, but he wished to use these men, and not offend them. So, turning to the groom, with grim sociability, he asked: "Can you speak the language of the people hereabouts?"

"I can call lustily for meat and drink, and make my wants known at a pinch."

"Can you hire me a messenger at the next place we stop at? You must know," said he, in a confidential tone, "I left an important matter sadly neglected in Elvas. It is my lord's business, and I would be sorry to come to blame in it. Whatever it cost, I must send a letter there without delay, and while I write, you must find man and horse. He shall have two guineas the minute the job is done. Is that enough?"

"Quite enough," the groom answered, gravely, while his companion turned away his head to conceal a grin. "I know something about riding express, and for two guineas I will find you a man to ride to Elvas and back in double quick time."

"You shall have a guinea for yourself, if you prove a man of your word, and send my letter in time."

"If I fail you, may your guinea choke me, for I mean to melt it down into good liquor," said the groom.

"And I'll help him to drink your health in it, Mr. Moodie," said the other man. "For a guinea's worth of liquor might choke a better man than Tom."

With hope renewed, Moodie rode on after his mistress. On coming up with them, he heard L'Isle and Lady Mabel talking Portuguese. To while away an idle hour, she was taking a lesson in that tongue. This annoyed Moodie, who suspected some plot, when they thus kept him in the dark. But he consoled himself with the hope that his important dispatch would yet be in time to prevent mischief, and he once more refreshed himself with his bottle, being now well convinced of its medicinal virtue.

Lady Mabel was in high spirits, talking and laughing, and occasionally looking round at Moodie, enjoying the deception she had put upon him. Her success in bewildering him, now tempted her to quiz L'Isle, and she abruptly said: "It must have been a violent fit of patriotism and martial ardor that made you abandon the thought of taking orders, and quit Oxford for the camp."

"I never had any thought of taking orders," answered L'Isle, surprised and annoyed, he knew not exactly why. "I only lived with those who had."

"You lived with them to some purpose, then, and have, too, a great aptitude for the church."

"It is not my vocation," said L'Isle, laconically.

"You have only not yet found it out. But it is not too late," she persisted. "Your case, my good man-slaying Christian, is not like Gonsalvo's of Cordova, who had but a remnant of his days in which to play the penitent monk. These wars will soon be over, and you are still young. If you cannot make a general, you may be a bishop in time. Indeed, I already see in you a pillar of our church."

It was not flattering to an ambitious young soldier to hint that he had so mistaken his calling. L'Isle was almost angry, at which Lady Mabel felt a mischievous delight; and Mrs. Shortridge was highly amused.

"It is but a small inducement I can offer you, among so many higher motives," Lady Mabel continued. "But I promise you, that, whenever you preach your first sermon, I will travel even to Land's-end to hear it."

"Lady Mabel shall offer a greater bribe," said Mrs. Shortridge, with an arch look. "If you will only exchange the sword for the surplice, Colonel L'Isle, whenever she commits matrimony, no one but you shall solemnize the rite."

Far from being tempted, L'Isle seemed utterly disgusted at the inducement.

Lady Mabel blushed to the crown of her head, and exclaimed, "I am too fond of my liberty to offer that bribe. That is a high and bare hill," she said, seeking to divert their attention. "Let us ride to the top of it, and survey the country around."

"You may do so, if you like," said Mrs. Shortridge, composedly; "but I have made a vow to do no extra riding to-day. This road is long enough and rough enough for me."

Lady Mabel turned from the path, and, followed by L'Isle, was soon ascending the hill. Moodie, somewhat under the influence of his soporific draughts, was in a reverie, wondering whether Lord Strathern would get his letter in time to send a troop of horse after the fugitives, and whether it might not come within the provisions of the military code to have L'Isle court-martialed and shot for running off with his General's daughter, when, looking up, he missed Lady Mabel, and then discovered her with L'Isle, scampering over the hill. In great confusion, he rode up to Mrs. Shortridge, and asked, "Where are they going now?"

"I scarcely know," she answered; "but Colonel L'Isle will take care of Lady Mabel, so you can stay and take care of me."

Moodie cast on her a look of angry suspicion, which scanned her from head to foot, and plainly pronounced her no sufficient pledge for his mistress. Spurring his horse, he followed Lady Mabel at a run. The animal he rode had often carried fifteen stone, in Lord Strathern's person, over as rough ground as this, and made light of Moodie's weight, which was scarcely more than nine. Without picking his way, he made directly for his companions ahead; and the clatter of his hoofs soon making Lady Mabel look round, she drew up her horse in haste, and anxiously watched Moodie's career. A deep chasm, washed out by the winter rains, was cleared by the horse in capital style, but Moodie lit on his valise, and with difficulty recovered the saddle. Just between him and Lady Mabel the last tree on the hill-side, torn from the shallow soil by some heavy blast, lay horizontally on its decaying roots and branches. Moodie rode at it with unquailing eye; and, while Lady Mabel uttered an exclamation of alarm, the horse cleared it in a bucking leap, throwing Moodie against the holsters; but he fell back into his seat, and rode up triumphantly to his mistress. This energetic demonstration seemed to overawe Lady Mabel. Turning from the hill-top before them, she rode demurely back to the party, resolved not to wander from the beaten path, or go faster than a foot-pace, until Moodie had dismounted, and his neck was safe.

A peasant on an ass, coming down the road, had stopped and stood at gaze at a distance, watching these equestrian manoeuvres. But when he saw the party, now united, coming toward him, he turned short to the left, and hastened away at a pace that proved that his burro had four nimble legs.

"That must be a thief," said Mrs. Shortridge, "afraid of falling in with honest folks."

"Or an honest man," suggested L'Isle, "afraid of falling among thieves. I have observed a growing dislike in the peasantry to meeting small parties of our people in out of the way places. I suspect that they are sometimes made to pay toll for traveling their own roads."

Their road was winding round the side of the hill, and they presently got a glimpse of a cultivated valley before them. The spirit of mischief suddenly revived in Lady Mabel's bosom. She fell back alongside of Moodie, and said: "This way seems much traveled. It is no longer a by-path; we may call it a high road in this country. We must be drawing near to the city of Mauropolis. I wonder we have yet met none of these turbaned Moors."

Moodie roused himself, and looked anxiously ahead. The mountain shadows already fell upon the valley; but the evening sun still shone upon a city opposite to them. It was seated high above the valley, and flanked by two fortresses of unequal elevation, which partly hid it. The Serra de Portalagre rising behind, overhung it, and the city seemed nestled in a nook in the steep mountain side. Moodie from this point did not recognize the place, but gazed on it steadfastly, with no kindly feeling. "Edom is exalted. He hath made his habitation in the clefts of the rock. He sayeth in his heart, who shall bring me down?" But presently he distinguished the peculiar aqueduct, and his eye roving westward, was struck by the familiar outline of Serra D'Ossa.

"We have lost our road," said Lady Mabel, "and found our way back to Elvas;" and, laughing merrily, she shot ahead, leaving Moodie too much angered and mortified to enjoy the relief of his anxieties.

On reaching his quarters he went straight to his bed, to sleep off his fatigue, his chagrin, and the good wine which had befriended yet beguiled him.



CHAPTER XIV.

It snowed in his house of meat and drink, Of all dainties that men could of think; After the sundry seasons of the year, So changed he his meat and soupere. Full many a fat patriarch had he in mew, And many a breme and many a luce in stew; Wo was his cook, but if his sauce were Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gere, His table dormant in his hall alway, Stood ready covered all the long day.

Prologue to Canterbury Tales.

Three days had gone by since the return of the party from Evora. The ladies had gotten over their fatigue, talked over their travels, and wondered at seeing nothing of L'Isle. He had merely sent to inquire after their health, instead of coming himself, as in duty bound. Lady Mabel had confidently looked for him the first day, asked about him the next, and on the third, feeling hurt at this continued neglect, concluded that she had had enough of his company of late, and it did not matter should she not see him for a month.

Meanwhile, what was L'Isle doing? He was busy reforming himself and his regiment. On his return to Elvas he had met with several little indications of relaxed discipline, and somewhat suddenly remembered that he had not come out to Portugal to ride about the country, escorting young ladies in search of botanical specimens, picturesque scenes, and fragments of antiquity. He, the most punctilious of martinets, had been sadly neglecting his duties, and had used the invalid's plea until it was worn threadbare long ago. He was dissatisfied with himself, and, of course, more dissatisfied with other people.

From the day he came back he was constantly in the midst of his regiment. He showed himself, too, at the head of the mess table at every meal, taking that, as well as other opportunities, to inculcate rigid precept and sound doctrine on military matters, and lecture his officers on the subject of discipline. Nor did he confine himself to generalities. He was exacting with his major, hard on his adjutant; he gave Captain A—— to understand that the days and nights spent in the mountains in pursuit of his game tended little to promote the King's service, and that leave would be refused in future, and he suggested to Captain B—— that the best way to ascertain the state of his company was not to send for his orderly sergeant, but to inspect it himself. He spoiled more than one party of pleasure for some of these gentlemen by finding very inopportunely something else for them to do than following the ladies of Elvas and other game of the vicinage.

Many of the officers grumbled, and voted the colonel a bore. They even talked of sending him to Coventry. But Adjutant Meynell excused him by whispering it about that the colonel had just met with a rude rebuff from a certain person at headquarters, and as the rank and sex of the offender hindered his showing his resentment in that direction, on whom could he vent his ill-humor but on those under his command? Meynell advised that they should all unite in sending a round robbin to Lady Mabel, begging her to smile upon their colonel, and put him in an amiable mood.

With the little festive skirmishes, of almost daily occurrences at headquarters, Lord Strathern loved to mingle occasionally more serious affairs, in the shape of grander feasts; and on the fourth day after Lady Mabel's return, the guests assembled in force. Among them were three ladies of Elvas, who had established a social intercourse with Lady Mabel, and a greater, though less ostensible intimacy with some gentlemen of the brigade. Dinner company is a phase of social life almost unknown in Portugal, and Lady Mabel, aware of this, was needlessly anxious to put her female guests at their ease. Her smattering of their tongue proved inadequate, and even her Spanish but poorly served the purposes of conversation. Dona Carlotta Sequiera, indeed, despising the peninsular tongues, would speak only French—but such French! She had picked up most of it along Kellerman's officers, when he held Elvas with a French garrison in 1808. This lady, like some other renegade Portuguese, at that time assiduously courted the Gaul; and she was anxious now to wipe out this blot, in the eyes of her countrymen, by making much of their British allies. Lady Mabel, tired of her efforts to converse with the other ladies, and sick of Dona Carlotta's French,

"After the school of Stratford at bow, For French of Paris was to her unknow"—

longed to see her self-appointed dragoman enter the room.

L'Isle had ridden out in the morning to a place on the borders, equi-distant between Elvas and Badajoz, the scene of a serious outrage by a party of marauders two nights before. A peasant, guilty of being richer than his neighbors, had been punished by having his house forced, his head broken, his premises sacked, and his family ill-treated. Though there had been but little blood shed, there had been much wine spilt, besides several plump goat-skins carried off with the rest of the plunder. The English in Elvas laid this achievement at the door of the irregular Spanish force at Badajoz. Tie Spanish officers were quite as sure that it was the exploit of volunteer foragers from the English cantonments. L'Isle, seeing nobody disposed to inquire into the matter, went and made an examination on the spot, which inclined him to believe that the Spanish version was the true history of this little military operation. After a hot ride he returned in time to make his bow to Lady Mabel among the latest of her guests.

Mrs. Shortridge was very glad to see him, but reproached him with his late neglect of his friends; and turned toward Lady Mabel, expecting her concurrence in this censure. But my lady said, with sublime indifference: "What matters Colonel L'Isle's absence hitherto, since he has now come in time to interpret between us and our Portuguese friends? I have exhausted my stock of Portuguese," she continued, addressing L'Isle; "and find that they do not always comprehend my Spanish. Major Warren, indeed, has been lending me his aid; but I think the interpreter the harder to be understood of the two. Is it not strange these ladies do not understand me better; for their language is but bad Spanish, and mine is surely bad enough."

"Do not say that to the Portuguese," said L'Isle. "They will be justly offended; for their tongue is rather the elder sister of the Spanish than a corruption of it."

"Pray, lend me your tongue, Colonel L'Isle," said Mrs. Shortridge. "Here Dona Carlotta Sequiera has been jabbering at me in what I now find out to be French, but I am ashamed to say, I do not know thirty words of the language."

"Better to be ignorant of it," said L'Isle with a sneer, "than learn it as Dona Carlotta did."

"I know not how she acquired it," said Mrs. Shortridge, "but I am told that here on the continent every educated person speaks French. We English are far behind them in that."

"Be proud rather than ashamed of that," said L'Isle. "Monsieur has taught all Europe his language except ourselves. Flagellation is a necessary part of schooling. As he has never been able to thrash us, we are the worst French scholars in Europe, and those he has thrashed oftenest, are the best. They should blush at their knowledge; we plume ourselves on our ignorance. Thank God you have an English tongue in your head, and never mar a better language with a Gallic phrase. There is in every country a class who are prone to denationalize themselves; at this day, they generally ape the Frenchman. Now, I can tolerate a genuine Frenchman, without having any great liking for him; but if there is any one whom I feel at liberty to despise and distrust, it is a German, Spaniard or Englishman, who is trying to Frenchify himself. Such people are much akin to the self-styled citizen of the world, who professes to have rid himself of all local and national prejudice. I have usually met no-prejudice and no-principle walking hand in hand together. The French," he continued, "have the impudence to call theirs the universal language; and in diplomacy and war, they have been long too much encouraged in this. My Lord Wellington here is much to blame in giving way to their pretensions on this point. Whenever I have an independent command," said L'Isle laughing, "I will not let a Frenchman capitulate but in good English, or for want of it, in some other language than his own. I have already put that in practice in a small way," said he, as he handed Mrs. Shortridge down to dinner. "I once waylaid a foraging, anglice, a plundering party, returning laden to Merida. They showed fight, but we soon tumbled them into a barranca, where we had them quite in our power. But I would not listen to a word of their French, or let them surrender, until they found a renegade Spaniard to act as interpreter. When I want anything of them, I may speak French; but when they want anything of me, they must ask it in another tongue."

The dinner went off as large dinners usually do. The wrong parties got seated together, and suitable companions were separated by half the length of the board. Lady Mabel had Colonel Bradshawe, whom she did not want, close at hand; and her dragoman was out of hearing, which she felt to be not only inconvenient, but a grievance; for without entertaining any definite designs upon him, habit had already given her a sort of property in him, and a right to his services. But the Elvas ladies had no such ground of complaint. Each had her favorite by her side, and Dona Carlotta one on either hand.

It was a relief to Lady Mabel when the time came to lead the ladies back to her drawing-room. There she labored to entertain them until some of the gentlemen found leisure to come to her aid. She expected to see L'Isle among the first; but one after another came in without him; the Portuguese ladies were taken off her hands by their more intimate male friends, and she had leisure to wonder what could keep L'Isle down stairs so long, and to get out of humor at his sticking to the bottle, and neglecting better company for it.

Meanwhile, a great controversy was waging below. The more the disputants drank, the more strenuously they discussed the point at issue; and the more they exhausted themselves in argument, the oftener they refreshed themselves by drinking; swallowing many a glass unconsciously in the heat of the debate.

The farmer talks of seasons and his crops; the merchant of traffic and his gains; and the soldier, though less narrow in his range of topics, often dwells on the incidents and characteristics of military life. In answer to some very loose notions on the subject of discipline, L'Isle mounted his hobby, and said that he had pretty much come into the mechanical theory on military matters. "An army is a machine; the men composing it, parts of that machine; and the more their personal and individual characters are obliterated, by assimilating them to the nature of precise and definite parts of one complicated organization, the better will they serve their purpose. Now, a machine should be kept always in perfect order and readiness for instant application to the purpose of its construction. An army is a machine contrived for fighting battles; and if at any time it is not in a condition to fight to the best advantage, it is in a state of deterioration and partial disorganization. Troops, therefore, should be kept, at all times and under all circumstances, under the same rigid discipline, and in the full exercise of their functions, equally ready at all seasons for action."