*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74298 ***





 IN FURTHEST IND

 THE NARRATIVE OF MR EDWARD CARLYON
 OF THE HONOURABLE EAST INDIA COMPANY’S SERVICE

 _EDITED, WITH A FEW EXPLANATORY NOTES_
 BY
 SYDNEY C. GRIER




 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 MDCCCXCIV
 _All Rights reserved_




 [NOTE.]

_The Narrative of_ Mr Edward Carlyon _of Ellswether, in the County of
Northampton, and late of the Honourable East India Company’s Service,
Gentleman; and comprising his most marvellous Escape from the Hands of
the_ Inquisition (_falsely called Holy_) _at_ Goa, _and his Journey to
the Court of the_ Great Mogul, _likewise the true Relation of his
Dealings with the_ Lord Marquis _of_ Tourvel, _and with_ Madam
Heliodora _his_ Daughter (_concerning which grievous Calumnies have of
late been forged by certain unfriendly Persons_), _together with
divers curious Observations on the Manners of the_ Indians, _and on
the Situation of his_ Majesty’s Subjects _at present resident among
them. Wrote by his own hand in the year of grace_ 1697.




 _TO HIM THAT READS._

_I, Edward Carlyon of Ellswether, Esquire, being of sound mind and
body_ (_for the which I thank God_), _do take up my pen on this fourth
day of November, sixteen hundred and ninety-seven, to record the
history of my life, being moved thereto by divers considerations._

Imprimis. _I would desire to protect my children from such tribulation
as hath been brought lately upon myself and my dear wife, through the
evil offices of an enemy, from which we were hardly delivered by the
great kindness of my honoured and esteemed friend, Mr Robert Martin,
lately Accountant of Surat in East India._

Item. _I would do all that lies in my power to lighten the griefs of
an illustrious lady, whose trials, no less than the fortitude with
which she hath endured them, would seem to a man of honour to have
earned her exemption from cowardly attempts._

Item. _During my sojourn in the Indies, I met several marvellous
adventures, and had the felicity to enjoy the discourse of many
ingenious persons, the recounting whereof may serve both for the
instructing and the diverting those that shall come after me. By the
advice, therefore, of my aforesaid friend, Mr Robert Martin, I am
resolved, God helping me, on composing, from such notes and letters as
I have preserved, a book of my life._




 CONTENTS.

I. OF MY DESCENT AND PARENTAGE, AND OF MY SENDING TO THE INDIES

II. OF MY TARRYING IN LONDON AND OF MY SAILING IN THE GOOD SHIP
BOSCOBEL, AND ALSO OF MY MAKING AN ENEMY IN MR VANE SPENDER

III. OF MY ARRIVING AT SURAT, AND OF THE POSTURE OF AFFAIRS THERE

IV. OF MY SENDING TO GOA BY MY EMPLOYERS, AND OF THOSE THINGS THAT
BEFELL ME THERE

V. OF THE EVENTS THAT BEFELL ME ON MY ARREST, AND IN THE HOLY HOUSE AT
GOA

VI. OF THE SECRET, DREADFUL, AND BLOODY DOINGS OF THE TRIBUNAL OF THE
HOLY INQUISITION

VII. OF MY AMAZING AND MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM MOST IMMINENT DEATH

VIII. OF MY SECOND VOYAGE IN THE BOSCOBEL, AND OF THE ENDING THEREOF

IX. OF MY FINDING THE NEW FRANCE IN THE INDIES

X. OF THE CONFIDENCE REPOSED IN ME BY MY LORD, AND OF THE PITFALL
WHEREIN I FELL

XI. OF MY CASTING OUT FROM MY FOOL’S PARADISE

XII. OF A PART OF MY LIFE THAT HAD BEEN BETTER SPENT OTHERWISE THAN IT
WAS

XIII. OF MY JOURNEYING TO THE CITY OF AGRA; OF MY COMING THITHER, AND
OF THE PERSON I FOUND THERE

XIV. OF MY LEAVING THE CITY OF THE GREAT MOGUL IN THE COMPANY OF ONE
THAT HAD NOT ENTERED THEREIN WITH ME

XV. OF MY SECOND DELIVERANCE FROM EXTREME PERIL OF DEATH

XVI. OF MY DEPARTING FROM EAST INDIA, AND RETURNING TO MY HOME AND
DOROTHY

XVII. OF MY SETTING TO REAP THE HARVEST I HAD SOWN

XVIII. OF MY ATTAINING MY DESIRED HAVEN AFTER LONG TRIAL OF STORMY
SEAS

XIX. OF CERTAIN ANCIENT FRIENDS OF MINE THAT WERE SUFFERERS FOR
CONSCIENCE’ SAKE

XX. A CHAPTER EXTRAORDINARY, ADDED ON THE ADVICE OF THE AUTHOR’S
FRIENDS, FOR TO DECLARE HOW IT COME ABOUT THAT THIS BOOK WAS WROTE

APPENDICES.

I. ON THE NATIVE RACES OF INDIA

II. ON THE SPELLING OF PROPER NAMES

III. ON PRIVATE TRADING BY THE COMPANY’S SERVANTS

IV. ON OLD AND NEW GOA AND MODERN GOA

V. ON THE FRENCH AT SAN THOMÉ

VI. ON THE HISTORICAL BASIS OF THIS STORY

ENDNOTES.




 IN FURTHEST IND.

 CHAPTER I.
 OF MY DESCENT AND PARENTAGE, AND OF MY SENDING TO THE INDIES.

It will be convenient for me, before relating my history, to give
some account of my birth and parentage, and this I will proceed to do.
Our branch of the family of Carlyon, though not of the most
illustrious, is at least respectable in its antiquity, having been
settled at Ellswether (which at one time belonged to a branch of the
noble family of De Lovetot) for the space of four hundred years, ever
since the esquire Simon Carlyon wedded Dame Elianora, daughter and
heiress to Sir Walter de Lovetot. My honoured father was the fourth
and youngest son of Roger Carlyon, Esquire, and Margery Colepepper his
wife. Being but a younger son, he quitted his home early, and
adventured himself in the wars in foreign parts, together with his
cousin, my Lord Brandon. Under the banner of this nobleman my father
showed great valour and skill in arms, both in Bohemia and also in the
Palatinate, so that his assistance was much sought after by many
princes and captains of those parts. But on hearing of the troubles in
England, my father accompanied his kinsman to Oxford, to the intent to
place their swords at the disposition of his majesty. It was when on
this visit that my father first saw my mother, that was then Mrs
Margaret Brodie, daughter to Sir Nicholas Brodie of Rinnington in the
county of Durham, and Anne Delamere his wife. In her youth my mother
was bred up with a young lady of quality, Mrs Hyacinth Penfold, that
was sister’s daughter to my lord Duke of London, and dwelt at his
grace’s castle of Belfort in this county. Now when my lady duchess
(that was as truly honest a lady in her opinions as ever lived, though
his grace her husband was but a trimmer) came to pay her devoirs to
the king and queen at Oxford, she carried with her the two young
gentlewomen aforesaid, and they were to her as her own daughters.

My Lord Brandon, then, was presented to Mrs Penfold as a match she
should do well to accept, though he was well advanced in years, and
little beautified by the chances of war, and my father cast his eyes
upon the gentlewoman that bare this lady company. And Mrs Brodie,
hearing of his feats of arms in the wars of Germany, and finding his
person not disagreeable to her, was not loath to look kindly upon her
servant.[1] He then, discovering in her not only great beauty of
countenance, but also a sweet civility of manner and marvellous parts
of mind, did ask her hand of my lady duchess. Who did grant him, with
many kind words, the boon he craved; and my father and mother were
wedded at the same time and place with my lord and Mrs Penfold, and
lived together for over seven years thereafter in the enjoyment of a
rare peace and felicity, though troubled on all sides by the evil
chances of the time. This same year was memorable for that my father
was knighted on the field of battle by the hand of his sacred majesty
himself, after a certain skirmish near to the city of Bristow,[2]
since that he did, by his skill in war, save the king’s forces when
near to their destruction. ’Twas at Oxford that I was born, in the
year 1646, in a mean lodging in a certain poor street of that town,
since my mother was afraid to show herself in any more convenient
dwelling, and my father durst only visit her secretly by night for
fear of capture, my Lord-General Fairfax having but just then took the
city.

Shortly after this, also, by the deaths of my uncles, his three
brothers (whereof the eldest was slain with my grandfather in that
lamentable defeat of my Lord Astley at Stow-on-the-Wold, and the
second, having been taken at Leicester the year before, died in
prison, and the third was foully murdered in a tumult raised against
him in the streets of Northampton), my father found himself possessed
of Ellswether--that is to say, of the old house only, whereof all the
lands were sold or mortgaged for his majesty’s service. And he, taking
up his abode there with my mother and myself, fought still for the
king, until that day when the rebels consummated their iniquity by
that deed whereof no age hath ever seen the like for its enormity,
when he left fighting, being assured that God must shortly punish the
whole nation of England with utter destruction. Two years thereafter,
notwithstanding, he joined himself to the cause of his majesty King
Charles II., and at Worcester Fight was grievously wounded, and lay
for many days in danger of his life in a certain mean house of that
city. Being there found by the rebels, he was thrown into a dungeon,
but after a while, by the good offices of my lord Duke of London, was
released, and suffered to return home, being now incapable of fighting
more, for that his left leg had been shot off by a ball from a great
gun, and his right arm disabled by a pistol-shot, at Worcester Fight.

In the year 1653 there come sad news to Ellswether. My Lord Brandon,
heading a rising for the young king in the North, was taken and
beheaded; and my lady his wife, who had wearied herself in vain to
obtain his pardon, died after giving birth to a daughter. Their son
and heir had died in his infancy, and the barony must needs descend to
a distant cousin of my lord’s, that was a boon companion of the king
in France and Flanders. My lord’s estates and property was all
confiscated, and for the poor babe was nothing left, save that she
might have my lady’s gowns and suchlike. My lady had committed her
babe to the charge of the gentlewoman that bare her company, desiring
that she should be brought to Ellswether, and bred up by my mother.
Wherefore this gentlewoman, Mrs Sophronia Skipwith by name, took with
her the babe, together with my lady’s gowns and jewels, and the great
portraits of her and my lord which he had had painted for her on their
wedding, and divers tomes of French and English romances, and started
on her journey. Coming to Ellswether, she found there sore
lamentation, for that my dear mother had departed this life two days
before. And Sir Harry, my father, finding himself with my Lady
Brandon’s babe to keep, and discerning Mrs Skipwith to be a
gentlewoman of most discreet conversation and a sobriety suiting her
years (which were thirty-five at the least, and rather over than
under), did offer her to remain as governess to the babe, the rather
as the aforesaid Mrs Skipwith was an orphan and a distant kinswoman of
my lady’s. Now if you look to hear that Mrs Skipwith made use of Sir
Harry’s kindness to creep into his good graces, and thus marry him
thereafter, you shall be disappointed, for she behaved herself
throughout her life with a rare discreetness and wisdom, and hath left
behind her a memory full of praise.

My good father, then, adopted for his own the little Mrs Dorothy
Brandon (whose kinsman, even after the happy Restoration of his
majesty King Charles II., when he gat back his lands, never troubled
himself to inquire after her, lest for very shame he must settle on
her a portion out of the estates of my lord her father), my father, I
say, adopted her, intending in due time to marry her to me his son,
and we grew up together as brother and sister, but in that prospect.
Now at the Restoration, as I have said, there was many received back
their confiscated lands, but my father, who (with his brothers) had
sold and mortgaged all for the king’s service, gat nothing, since he
had done it all willingly. There remained to us, then, only the manor
of Ellswether itself, whereon was a heavy mortgage, that was fallen
into the hands of Mr Sternhold, the attorney that my grandfather had
been wont to employ. And again, if you look to hear in this place that
Mr Sternhold proved himself a cruel or an unrighteous creditor, you
will again receive a disappointment, for sure there was never no man
that served better either the father or the absent son. But if this
great burden of the mortgage was to be removed, it was needful for me
to make my fortune, and this in no unspeedy way. And if you shall be
surprised that my father allowed me, his only son, to undertake such a
distant and dangerous manner of life as that I have followed, I would
have you remember that Sir Harry, as was but natural in a gentleman of
his family and breeding, cared more for the honour and name of the
house than for him that might one day bear it, and that he sent me
forth in quest of wealth for to redeem the estates, as any father in
Rome might have sent forth his son in quest of warlike honour. After
this explanation, which I trust shall resolve any matters that might
otherwise seem to you obscure or contradictory, I will proceed to my
tale.

Since I have spoke to you of my father’s poverty, you will readily
perceive that he could not send me to any great school, nor was he
likely, in the dark days that then shadowed this poor realm of ours,
to commit me to the tuition of the schismatical minister that had
usurped the room of the vicar of our parish, wherefore he was
constrained to send me by the day to the grammar-school of Puckle
Acton, which town lieth in the vicinage of Ellswether. Here, in common
with the sons of many gentlemen of the country round, I gained a
slight acquaintance with Greek and Latin, and (for which my life hath
made me far more grateful) such a knowledge of the art of fence, of
boxing and shooting, as hath often stood me in good stead. When I was
not at the school, the time did often hang heavy for me, for the
gentlemen’s sons of whom I have spoken durst not admit me to their
company more than rarely, for fear of the suspicions of our tyrants,
that were wont to scent a conjuration or conspiracy whensoever any
number of Malignants (for so they called us) was met together. The
company of the boys of the town I neither sought nor would my father
have permitted me so to do, and I came thus, almost of necessity, to
use and enjoy that of my little cousin Dorothy Brandon, in all my
holidays and times of rest. ’Twas with her I learned from Mrs Skipwith
to read French, and we loved to pore together over the pages of the
‘Grand Cyrus,’ that magazine of brave thoughts and witty conceits, of
the ‘Cleopâtre’ and of the ‘Clélie.’ Of English books we had no
great store, but in Sir Philip Sidney his ‘Arcadia’ and in Mr Lyly’s
‘Euphues’ we found a rare delight. Add to this, that my little cousin
taught herself Latin in order to the reading it with me, and (her
youth remembered) was no mean scholar in the Greek, and you shall see
that we had no lack of fantastic and heroical reading for to divert
ourselves withal.

Nor was this all our diversion, for we had, beside, our especial
romance, or rather romancical drama, since we never writ our
incidents, but, if I may so speak, lived them. In this piece my cousin
was called Polyxandra, a wood-nymph vowed to Dian’s service, and I
Cleombrocles, her faithful knight. The action of the plot was mighty
tragical, and full of moving scenes and incidents, for we were beset
not alone by the horrid monster Anthropophage, whose castle I have
ofttimes besieged, and whose self (as presented by Bevis our
house-dog) I often slew, but also by Sophronysius, the tyrannic
governor of Mycene, whose part, unknown to herself, was played by Mrs
Skipwith. This tyrant was wont to carry off the amiable Polyxandra
whensoever as our romance was most alluring; and many fearful vows
have I breathed against her, the poor victim weeping meanwhile over
her task of presenting in needlework the history of Sisera and Jael.
My father performed the part of the _Deus ex machinâ_, stepping in to
grant Polyxandra an holiday when all my intercessions failed; but even
he could do little against a certain terrible enchanter, named
Virgilius Tully, to whom the renowned Cleombrocles was bound by a
solemn vow, that he should attend upon him daily in his cave, and
there serve him. Yet was not all our life spent in wars, for to us the
meadows and woods around Ellswether were those of Arcady and
Thessalia, and we wandered through them engaged in heroic discourse,
carried on in extreme picked and delicate language, and garnished with
many euphuisms and other pretty conceits, such as I now hear the
learned ladies of France do mightily affect. Oh! the vows of
never-dying devotion these woods have echoed, the coy answers of the
nymph, and the renewed passion of Cleombrocles, interrupted by the
approach of the fell Sophronysius!

After the joyful and happy Restoration of his majesty King Charles
II., I was able to meet with my fellows without molestation, and also
to join with them in many noble sports; but so great was the ruin and
poverty brought upon us by the dominion of the rebels (though now
happily past), that of the common usages and hospitalities of the
country was there next to none among us. ’Twas but rarely that my
little cousin and I visited upon any, and ’twas fewer still that came
to the Hall, save now and then an ancient cavalier that had known my
father in the days of his youth. Yet ’twas one of these ancient
gentlemen, as I believe, that must have stirred Sir Harry’s mind to
see that I, his only son, was growing up in idleness, and thus
embarked him, if I may so speak, on that long voyage of treaties and
negotiations, whereof I was only made aware when all was complete.

Two or three times in the year, it was our custom (my little cousin’s
and mine) to go to Puckle Acton and take supper with good Mr
Sternhold, the attorney. There was never there for us any lack of
welcome on the part of Mrs Sternhold or himself; and their two comely
daughters, Mrs Diony and Mrs Sisley, were wont to make much of me, and
to show great kindness to my little cousin. It did much please them
that we, being so young, were deemed troth-plight; and they did
delight to set us side by side, and to cry out how pretty a couple we
made, and then to incite me to show myself a courteous servant to that
my little lady. But always after this was Dorothy wont to behave
herself so coy and disdainful as ’tis impossible to conceive, and
would try me with as many grievous slights as did ever the coldest and
cruellest maid in the romances, so as I would threaten to go away into
some foreign kingdom, and seek my fortune, far from my untender love,
as did the knights of whom we read so often. And this also did
mightily divert the two young damsels and their mother. ’Twas on my
eighteenth birthday, at the close of the year 1664, that that occurred
which enabled me, though without any knowledge of mine beforehand, to
perform this frequent threat--nay, rather compelled me so to do. We
had been supping at Mr Sternhold’s house, Dorothy and I, and as we
returned she did most steadfastly refuse to take my hand through the
woods, because, said she, I had had the misfortune to turn my back on
her during the evening. And we wrangling and quarrelling over this
mighty matter, the dispute lasted until we were come to the Hall,
where I spake after my usual fashion, but Dorothy tossed her saucy
head, and must needs say that I talked much of going to foreign parts,
but should never go there. Then upon this scornful humour of hers
brake in the voice of my father, that was sitting in his great chair
in the study, with many papers upon the table before him.

“Son Edward,” says he, “I would fain speak with you.”

“At your pleasure, sir,” says I. “When shall I attend upon you?”

“Now,” says my father; “so soon as little Doll here be gone to bed.”

Dorothy kissed my father, though with a pout, made me a curtsey, and
ran away, I shutting the door after her.

“You are now arrived at your eighteenth year, Ned?” says my father.

“Yes, sir,” says I. “I was born in the year that my Lord Fairfax took
Oxford city, as I have heard you say.”

“True,” saith Sir Harry, “and you are come to this age without being
bred to any trade or calling. Not that ’tis your fault, lad, but mine.
’Tis no news to you, my son, that we abide here truly only on
sufferance of Sternhold, and that ’tis all I can do to keep up the
house as we live at present. Wherefore you won’t be surprised when I
say that I can neither send you to the university, even had you
displayed any leaning thereto, nor yet maintain you while you seek a
place in his Majesty’s service in foreign parts.”

“Indeed, no, sir,” says I.

“There remains, then,” said my father, “the life of a soldier; but now
that the wars of Germany are ended, that an’t any longer a road to
wealth by the means of large spoils and larger ransoms, and moreover,
you are too old, for I hold that a lad should be bred to that calling
from fourteen years, or fifteen at the most. Also there are now no
such masters in the art of war as those I had the honour to observe in
my young days, nor any such noble theatre as that wherein I observed
’em. And with regard to his majesty’s navy, I fear there is but little
glory to be won there nowadays. The rebels were good sailors, even I
will say that for ’em. And beside these, which we need not consider,
there is two other places offer ’emselves to your choice, for I am
willing you should choose which you will accept. Being lately reminded
of your age and stature (and sure ’tis well I was reminded on’t, for I
had clean forgot it), I writ to my lord Duke of London, son to my Lady
Brandon’s uncle that did deal with me so kindly after Worcester Fight,
and asked him to use his good offices with his majesty to gain for you
some place or preferment. And to this my lord duke hath replied, with
many civil words touching my care of little Doll there, his kinswoman,
that places be now so few, and they that seek ’em so many, that he
knows none for which he might make interest with his majesty on your
behalf. Yet out of his remembrance of his parents’ ancient love for
our house, his grace is good enough to offer you his nomination to the
post of writer[3] in the India Company’s service, which if I accept
on’t for you, his majesty hath been graciously pleased to command that
the bond of £500, which must be entered into for your good behaviour,
shall be pledged from his privy purse. Had it been but five hundred
pence instead of pounds, I had never been able to pay ’em, and this,
no doubt, in his singular great kindness, his majesty hath guessed.
And with regard to this offer, I can say naught but good on’t. As for
wealth, this is one of the straightest roads to’t, for though the wage
be but £10 by the year for five years, and after that a convenient
increase, yet are there many places of trust to be obtained, and, as I
hear, many chances of trading on your own account, so that many
gentlemen of that service are become by this means very rich. ’Tis
true that you must needs leave your country for a term of years, but
that is no more than I did myself, and many other noblemen and
gentlemen that fought in that long war.”

“And the other place, sir?” said I, when my father left speaking.

“The other place, Ned,” said Sir Harry, “an’t such as I could desire
for a Carlyon of Ellswether. Mr Sternhold is so good as to say that he
will find you work as his clerk, and although you should at the first
receive nothing by way of wage, yet afterwards, I make no doubt, you
may rise to wealth. The lawyers have gained much by the troubles of
these days, and stand to gain much more. Still, what say you?”

I need scarce say to you that I had not to think for long. When the
choice lay between the Indies and Mr Sternhold’s clerkship (the which,
as I well knew, should never have been proffered by him had not my
father asked it), you won’t wonder that I sprang joyfully at my lord
duke his offer. Which also did hugely please my father, he saying that
he was glad to find he had a son that would show himself no laggard in
seeking to repair the fortunes of his house. And before aught else in
the next morning, my father writ to the aforesaid nobleman to signify
his grateful acceptance of his singular kindness, I myself also
writing to express my duty to his grace and my desire to comport
myself suitably in that place he destined for me. And this letter
wrote, and set in readiness for my Lord Harmarthwaite’s messenger,
that was, by the especial kindness of his lordship, to carry it to
London, and there deliver it into his grace’s hands, I found time to
consider what great change in my manner of life one day had brought.
For but yesterday was I a masterless man (saving, of course, the
authority of that my good father), too old for school, and yet without
a calling, but to-day I was pledged to the Hon. East India Company,
the which was now my master. And notwithstanding the joy that was in
my heart, that I should at last have good hope of freeing my father’s
estates, in process of time, from the burdens that oppressed them,
there come upon me some natural sorrow that I must part from my good
father, and from Dorothy, that quarrelled with me and loved me as she
had been indeed my sister.

Standing on the staircase in some disquiet, and thinking thus with
myself, there came running to me on a sudden my said little cousin
Dorothy herself, dressed up mighty fine in a laced waistcoat[4] and
petticoat of white satin, with cherry-coloured knots, and cried
laughing to me, all our quarrels forgot--

“Why so sad and solemn, Cousin Ned? Do you see my new gown? How doth
it please you?”

“Why so fine, little lady, rather let me ask?” says I, bowing low,
lest she should again reproach me of lack of courtesy.

“Mrs Skipwith hath ripped a gown of my mother’s, and made this for
me,” says she. “Come with me to the picture-room, Cousin Ned. I would
have you tell me whether I am like my mother.”

So we two to the oaken gallery, where Dorothy held me by the hand, and
we stood before the portraits of my Lord and Lady Brandon, he in his
harness,[5] with a battlefield behind him, and she in her
wedding-gown.

“Help me with this chair, Ned,” quoth my little cousin, and I dragged
the great chair for her between the two portraits, when she climbed up
on it, and stood thus between them.

“Tell me, Cousin Ned, am I like her?” she cries.

Truly there was a marvellous likeness, they both wearing white satin
and lace, though there was pearls in my Lady Brandon’s dark hair in
the stead of the cherry-coloured ribbons; nor did I find in her
countenance that intrepidity and firmness that was displayed in my
little cousin’s, and which she hath, I take it, from that gallant
cavalier my lord her father.

“Well, Cousin Ned?” cries Dorothy, tired of standing.

“_O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior_,” quoth I, with a low bow.

“Speak to me in good English,” cries she, pouting.

“’Tis but to say (as you very well know) that my lady your mother was
fair, but you are fairer, little Doll.”

“Nay,” cries she, “I won’t be called that. Sure I an’t Miss Doll any
more. Sir Harry saith I am to be called Mrs Dorothy always, for I am
nearly eleven. Oh, Cousin Ned, is it true that you are going to the
Indies?”

“Ay, sweet Doll,” says I; “to furthest Ind, and to the kingdoms of
Cathay, perhaps.”

“You are ever teasing me,” she saith. “I would I had a fan here, that
I might give you a tap therewith, Master Ned. But I will have one some
day. When you come back from your voyages and adventures, I shall be a
court lady, like my Lady Penelope Harrington, so”--and she held up her
hand like a fan, and made great eyes over the edge on’t at me.

“God forbid!” cried I, in a grievous heat.

“And why, prithee?” she asked, somewhat angered. “My mother was a
court lady, so why not I?”

“That was in better days,” says I, much disquieted by her speech, yet
little caring to tell her what I meant; “but now times are changed. I
can’t tell you much, little Doll, but this I will say, that rather
than know you such as my Lady Penelope is now become, I would see you
in your grave.”

“Then I won’t be like her,” says Dorothy, putting her hand in mine,
“for when you have wrought all your great deeds you are coming back to
marry me, Ned, an’t you?”

“Ay,” said I, “so that I find you a gentle and comely maiden, caring
for my father, and seeking no court gaieties. I would not, with my
goodwill, wed a court lady.”

“As you will,” says she. “And you will bring me back a parrot, Cousin
Ned, and a pearl chain for to wear on Sundays, and an _escrotore_[6]
of Indian work wherein to keep my jewels?”

“Ay so,” quoth I; “and when I go to London, as this next month, I will
send you a fan and a cherry-coloured girdle for to hold it withal, as
fine as any in the county, if you will give me one of your knots
whereby to choose it.”

“Nay,” says she, “not for that only, but to keep for yourself. Sure
after this goodness of yours, I must make you some return on’t. See
here,” and she unfastened with great gravity her breast-knot, kissed
it, and gave it to me, “now are you my knight, Cousin Ned, and you
must enter upon all your adventures for my honour, as did Ambixules
for Mizalinza, in the book[7] wherein Mrs Diony read to us last
night. And I have made for you, beside, a badge in gum-work, for to
carry with you and wear on Royal Oak Day, and you must needs keep ’em
both for ever for my sake.”

“So be it, little cousin. But is my departure naught to you?” says I,
somewhat grieved. “You have no farewell for me, Doll?”

“Come back with your shield, or else upon it,” quoth she slowly, and,
as it seemed, with difficulty.

“Truly a Spartan message!” I cried. “Is there naught beside, little
Doll?”

“I shall miss you,” she said, and climbed down from the chair, walking
to the window away from me. And I, looking after her, saw that her
face was pale and her shoulders heaving, the while she held her head
as high as ever, and clenched her hand for to keep back the tears. And
with this I was ashamed.

“Dorothy, my little cousin,” says I, going after her and taking her by
the hand, “I beg your pardon. Trust me, I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Why--why,” cries Dorothy, turning round upon me in anger, and then on
a sudden falling into a passion of weeping and tears, and hiding her
face in my sleeve--“why will you make me cry, Cousin Ned, when I have
been essaying to send you forth with all composure of mind, as a lady
should her knight? ’Tis all spoilt now.”

“Not so,” says I, admiring the child’s insistence in her romancical
dreams. “I am going forth as your knight, my Lady Doll, to forge my
weapons, and with ’em to fight the great and cruel giant Poverty, and
to release my noble father, whom he holds in his toils. You also the
giant keeps in durance, but not so strong but you are allowed to help
and solace the other captive, and to send words of cheer to your
knight. Here is a noble tale, indeed!”

“True knight for true lady?” asks she.

“There is our motto,” says I. “Now are we indeed well provided with
all that a romance could lack, little cousin.”

“I would I were going too,” says she, looking up at me with her eyes
yet shining with tears; “I would fain be your page, Cousin Ned, like
the ladies in the romances, for you will see all the marvels, the
tigers and the wild men of the woods, and the elephants, and the Great
Mogul himself, and I must stay here. But be sure, if you fall, that I
shall don armour and avenge you, as did Parthenia for Argalus in the
‘Arcadia.’”

“But that, we may hope, shall not be needful,” said I. “Come into the
garden with me now, Doll, and we will slay Anthropophage once more
before I depart,” and we left speaking, and went down into the garden,
holding each other by the hand.

Now this relation of all those things that preceded my setting out in
search of fortune I have set down at length, to the end that all may
see how falsely ’tis said that I went to East India in pursuance of my
own way and against my father’s will, and also that I was already
tired of the match my said father had prepared for me, and desired to
rid myself of my cousin Dorothy. Such is the malice of my enemies,
that they don’t scruple to say even this, whereas I have showed to you
that my father did wellnigh force me to set out, and that I departed
in the full intention to return and fulfil my contract with my cousin.
And this relation I do hereby declare to be true of all things therein
contained.




 CHAPTER II.
 OF MY TARRYING IN LONDON AND OF MY SAILING IN THE GOOD SHIP BOSCOBEL,
 AND ALSO OF MY MAKING AN ENEMY IN MR VANE SPENDER.

’Twas in the month of January 1663-64,[8] that I rid away from
Ellswether, mounted on my father’s war-horse Gustavus, with our
servant Miles behind me, on a beast taken from the plough, and bade
farewell to my home for more than twenty long years. And looking back
for to view the Hall once more, I did see my cousin Dorothy waving her
handkercher, and heard her cry to me, “True knight for true lady,
Cousin Ned!” which words of hers did much move me, so that I rid in
silence for some time. But passing Mr Sternhold his house, there come
out that good attorney himself, and would ride with me some miles of
my way, parting from me at the last with much sorrow, and asking my
acceptance of a book of wise counsels (said he) for young gentlemen
that were going to foreign parts, called ‘The Merchant’s Avizo,’ which
I received with much thanks, and have often found cause to be grateful
for the same. And Mr Sternhold leaving us, we journeyed on without
remark nor disaster, and in process of time came to London town. Here
the first night I lay at an inn (whose name I have now forgot), and in
the morning I did send Miles for to acquaint my lord duke of my being
arrived, and to inquire when it should be convenient for me to wait
upon his grace, and testify my gratefulness for his kindness. But in
less than an hour Miles came back, not alone, but with him my lord
duke’s chaplain, Dr Ruthven, in his grace’s coach, for to carry me to
Belfort Place (which leadeth off from the Strand), there to abide
while as I should be in town. So I with the chaplain in the coach,
Miles following with the beasts, to his grace’s mansion, where I lay
so long as I remained in London, eating with the family,[9] and once
or twice at my lord duke’s own table, where his grace showed himself
mighty condescending towards me, and asked of my father’s health, and
likewise of that of Mrs Dorothy Brandon, his grace’s kinswoman.

“I had thought,” said he, “of having the young damsel here, for to
breed her up with my own little girls; but there was some that showed
me divers difficulties in the way.”

Methought, as I looked upon the visage of her grace the duchess, that
I saw who she was that had showed the difficulties, and truly Dr
Ruthven informed me thereafter that I was right.

“Well,” says my lord duke, more cheerfully, “there is plenty of time
yet. Perchance, should Mrs Dorothy wed suitably with her quality, we
may be able to provide her a marriage portion.”

But looking again upon the duchess, I foresaw that she would have her
say concerning this also, and indeed we have heard no more of the
marriage portion up to this present time of my writing.

Now in other matters also was my lord duke very gracious to me, in
especial in carrying me into his privy cabinet, where he was wont to
make experiment into the secrets of Nature, and did discourse to me
mighty ingeniously concerning humours and transmutations and efficient
and material causes and radical heat and the like, all which I do now
much regret that I set them not down at the time; but having once let
slip, the years between have blotted out the clear recollection
thereof. And at other times I was under the particular charge of Dr
Ruthven, that had known my mother, having been in the service of my
late lady duchess before that his grace the now duke had attained to
his title, and entreated me most gently for her sake. ’Twas with him I
paid a visit to that place of much resort, the New Exchange, where I
must needs buy for Dorothy her fan and her girdle, and truly I had not
believed that there could be so many fans in the world, and Dr Ruthven
and I were sorely troubled to choose one among ’em all. ’Twas also
with Dr Ruthven that I presented myself in Leadenhall Street, at the
house of the Honourable Company I should serve from thenceforth, and
having testified my thanks to the gentlemen of the Committee for their
acceptance of me, was enrolled on their books. Here, while I was
waiting in an outer room while Dr Ruthven visited upon one of his
friends, that was a clerk or factor in the house, I fell in with a
young gentleman, by name Mr Vane Spender, who wished to put a quarrel
upon me, and all because my nomination had been received before his
own. By this means I gained I know not what immunity or privilege, but
’twas such as made Mr Spender conceive himself deeply injured at my
hands. But I, foreseeing that if we should be _cameradoes_ (as the
soldiers say) in the Indies, we were well to endeavour ourselves to
live in peace, did address myself to speak him fair, so that his anger
cooled before we parted. And here again you shall see how false it is
to say that on my first falling in with Mr Spender, I incited him to
wrath by the arrogancy and haughtiness of my behaviour, since I did my
best to conduct myself handsomely towards him.

Some two or three days after this meeting was the 30th of January,
being the day set apart for ever for the remembrance and deploring of
that dreadful, bloody, and tremendous crime, the murder of our late
sovereign lord, King Charles the Martyr, which was then but lately
appointed as a fast-day by authority for the continual reprobating of
the same. So in the morning to his grace’s chapel, where was preached
a most moving sermon by Dr Ruthven, such as was like to teach us all
the horror and wickedness of rebelling against the Lord’s anointed.
And after dinner, it not being fit to go to see shows on such a day, I
was left idle, and chose to walk abroad in my mourning habit,
meditating in myself upon the observance of this day at home. For
there it had been my duty in the afternoon to read aloud to my father
the later chapters of that most truthful and pathetic book, the ‘Eikon
Basilike,’ until Dorothy and Mrs Skipwith was moved to tears, and Sir
Harry would look lovingly at his sword and armour on the wall. Walking
thus, I heard on a sudden my name called, and looking up, saw Mr Vane
Spender at the window of a tavern, bidding me come in and drink with
him. And I, answering that I had no list to drink that day, did walk
on, but in a moment come Mr Spender running after me, and cries--

“Nay, Mr Carlyon, sure you must come. Here is his lordship desires to
speak with you.”

Then I, being fain, as I have said, to keep well with Mr Spender, and
being moreover curious to know who his lordship should be, that
desired to speak with me, made answer that I would sit a while in
their company willingly, but would not drink. So he, and I after him,
to an upper room of the tavern, where was Mr Spender’s elder brother,
Mr Hampden Spender, and with him a gentleman in a very rich habit, as
little mourning as could well be worn that day by any loyal person.

“Come, sir,” says Mr Hampden Spender, “call for what you will.”

“I thank you, sir,” says I, “but with your permission I won’t drink.
Your brother hath fetched me in to pleasure his lordship yonder, which
I’m desirous to do so far as my power allow.”

“Oh, come,” saith he again, “even though your grandmother _be_ dead,
Mr Carlyon, there’s none here will carry home tales of your drinking
in a tavern on her funeral-day.”

“Sir,” said I, “’tis because this is a fast-day appointed that I don’t
drink, and if it wan’t, I trust I should be little like to forget what
happened thereon.”

“You are putting an affront upon me, sir,” cries Mr H. Spender, mighty
fierce. “Pray, are you too nice to drink with us? Do you know in whose
company you are, sir?”

“Sir,” says I, “you are seeking to put a quarrel upon me, as I call
his lordship to witness. If you desire me to settle this matter by
force of arms, I am ready to pleasure you, if his lordship will
certify me that I am right in so doing.”

I saw Mr Spender’s countenance change at this, as I had looked it
should, since, as I discovered afterwards from Dr Ruthven, his father
had been but an attorney, who, meddling with great business in the
troubles of the last reign, had gained for himself a high place and
some esteem among the rebels. This son of his, Mr Hampden Spender,
attained to a seat in the Commons’ House of that Parliament which was
jestingly called the _Rump_, and had showed himself exceeding eager in
the matter of the conferring upon my lord Duke of Albemarle of power
to treat with the king on behalf of his Commons. Now that his majesty
was happily returned, Mr H. Spender was in good favour with him, and
was wont to take occasion by this favour to aspire higher than his
original[10] might seem to us loyal gentlemen to warrant.

“Come, Spender, let the lad be,” says my lord, not ill-humouredly, on
our reaching this pass. “’Twas you brought him here; why should you
press him to drink? You han’t no cause to pick a quarrel, even if Mr
Carlyon thought fit to fight you.”

“I bow to your lordship,” says Mr Spender, and gulps down his wine
with an angry face.

“Pray, sir,” says his lordship, turning to me, “tell me whether I
ben’t speaking to the son of Sir Harry Carlyon of Ellswether?”

“You are, my lord,” says I.

“And pray, sir,” says he, “an’t it true that Sir Harry hath in his
family a young gentlewoman that is some kin to my late Lord Brandon,
that was ’headed ten years since?”

“You are right, my lord; he hath,” said I, much marvelling who this
might be that spake thus acquaintedly of Dorothy.

“And I trust, Mr Carlyon, that this Mrs Dolly or Mrs Molly, or
whatever her name be, is a young damsel of good conditions, and shows
herself dutiful towards her kind guardian?”

“I’m glad to be able to assure your lordship that Mrs Brandon gives
every satisfaction to those set over her,” says I. “But give me leave,
my lord, to ask who you may be that are so well acquainted with a
young gentlewoman’s family that you don’t scruple to mention her name
in a place of public resort? If you be one of Mrs Brandon’s kin,
permit me to say that after so many years of neglect you choose a
strange time and place for to show an interest in her welfare, and one
that justifies me to inquire your designs.”

Thus far I, in grievous fear lest while I was away in the Indies my
little cousin should be took away from my father at Ellswether, and
delivered unto some of her noble kin for to bring up.

“Tut, tut, Sir Spitfire!” saith my lord, but not unkindly; “go tilt
with windmills. As for my name, I don’t doubt Mr Spender will be
pleased to tell it you when I am gone. But you need have no fear that
I mean to claim little Mrs Brandon from Sir Harry. What should I do
with a modest, well-brought-up young damsel? ’Twould be worse than
Daniel in the den of lions. No, that an’t what I meant.”

“The lady among the rabble rout of Comus, perhaps, my lord,” I said,
as he hesitated; and he gave a great laugh, and vowed that I was as
much a Puritan as Mr Milton himself, and with that arose, and took up
his sword and beaver to depart, saying that the king should require
his attendance in an hour’s time.

“’Tis the usual way,” says Mr Hampden Spender, when his lordship was
departed. “My Lord Brandon drinks, and I pay.”

“Pray, sir,” says I, “is that my Lord Brandon?” and went to the window
and looked after him. This was the first and last time that I beheld
that nobleman, my cousin Dorothy’s kinsman, who was slain not long
thereafter in a duel, and the barony became extinct, the estates
thereof passing to the Crown.

“Ay, sir, indeed is’t,” saith Mr Vane Spender. “Pray who else should
be so kind and condescending, and recognise so abundantly the services
that my brother hath the honour to render him? Why, my brother is his
right hand in all he doth. At present he is his attorney in his case
of----”

“Oh, hush, my dear brother!” quoth Mr Hampden Spender; “the word hath
an ugly sound. Prythee, name it not in the ears of our dear young
friend here. Sure, I’ll never have it said of us that we corrupted
youth.”

“Sir,” said I, “I vow I don’t understand you. Do you wish to pick a
quarrel again?”

“No, sir,” saith Mr Spender, standing up mighty grand, but somewhat
fuddled with the wine he had drank. “We wish no quarrels with persons
too nice to drink with us, and too proud for our company, nor no
conversation with ’em neither.”

“Then, sir,” says I, “you’ll allow me to bid you good day, if you
please,” and so left the place before they could stop me. But to this
day I have never found myself able to determine whether these
gentlemen, the Messieurs Spender, were in reality desirous to put a
quarrel upon me, and having compelled me to fight first one and then
t’other of ’em, thus to rid themselves of me, or whether ’twas but the
natural heat of their temper that moved them to provoke me to a
dispute--a heat that hath led to many grievous troubles between us
since that time.

Now some days after this, my lord duke would carry me with him in his
coach to White Hall, there to wait upon the king, that I might thank
his majesty for his singular great kindness towards me. And on our
arriving, his majesty being in his Cabinet Council, we walked up and
down, and his grace did point out to me many ladies and gentlemen of
whom I had often heard speak, yea, and presented me to such as had
known my honoured parents in their youth, who treated me with great
gentleness, and wished me a short service and a great fortune. And
presently, the Council being up, his majesty come out, and my lord
duke did present me to him, who graciously allowed me to kiss his
hand. And thereafter was his majesty pleased to jest with me, saying
that he had heard by a sure hand that I was as much of a Puritan as
any rebel among ’em. And this to my much heat and grief, for I
perceived that the report of my adventure in the tavern (small though
it were), had gone ahead of me, so that I made bold to say to the king
that no man but he should have said such words to me, for that my
father had shed his blood for his majesty’s father, and that I asked
nothing better than to have occasion given me to do the like for
himself, and so took it hard to be likened to a rebel. Whereat his
majesty laughed prodigiously, and was good enough to say to me that I
was a proper fellow, and he had liever I were staying in England than
going forth to the Indies, for the realm had need of more such. And
speaking thus, and saying that he hoped I should ever keep strictly
the fast-day of the blessed King Charles the Martyr, and draw sword in
defence of the ladies when their names was lightly used, his majesty
left us, and my lord duke advised me to be proud and thankful for his
condescension. Which indeed I was, only feeling sorrowful that so
kindly a king should have so scant respect shown him, for verily among
his courtiers was none that accorded him any reverence, but all
elbowing and cursing one another as well in his presence as without
it. And from such disorder and looseness as I saw in the Court, good
Lord deliver us!

Now despite the good counsel of his grace and of Dr Ruthven, that
reproach did still rankle in me, that I should be called a Puritan,
and in order to the showing it untrue, I must needs go to the play.
And this notwithstanding that the aforesaid Dr Ruthven did much advise
me to the contrary, saying that I might well prove my loyalty to
Church and King in many other and more reputable ways, but finding me
set upon the thing, he desisted at last, considering that my
wilfulness should bring its own punishment. And this indeed it did,
for going with one of his grace’s gentlemen to the playhouse, we saw
presented a comedy newly translated out of the French; but so debased
was the sentiment, so indecent and unseemly the action of the piece,
so vile the painting and so immodest the clothes of the women that
played in’t (sure this in itself is a new thing, and of revolting
newness), that I was fain to leave the place before even the first act
was gone through. But this my companion would by no means suffer, so
that I turned my eyes from the stage to the company present, but found
little comfort there. For indeed, to see the gentlemen laughing hugely
at the wickedness and profaneness of the piece, and the ladies
feigning to cover their faces with their fans, as though it were to
hide their blushes (but truly there was but little need of this), when
the action was beyond ordinary unseemly, and yet peeping through holes
cut in these same fans, for to view the stage still, was monstrous
shameful. And in fine, when the play was finished, and I had refused
my companion’s proffer to carry me with him behind the scene and
present me to the lady that played the chief part (whose name is,
alas! too well known in this kingdom), I returned unto Belfort Place,
well determined never again to go to the play. And this resolve, so
made, I have kept.

And after this, the spring now coming on, Dr Ruthven and I made a part
of several parties of pleasure that were given by divers gentlemen and
gentlewomen of the doctor’s acquaintance, for to visit his majesty’s
palaces at Greenwich and Hampton, the docks at Deptford, and other
places. In all which I found myself well entertained, and did gain, I
hope, some knowledge that hath served me well since; but the time was
now drawing near when I must needs start for the Indies. I then
receiving one day a command to present myself on board of the Hon.
Company’s ship Boscobel, lying in the Thames, for to embark for the
factory at Surat, did make haste to bid farewell to their graces the
duke and duchess, thanking them humbly for their singular kindness,
and likewise to that curious scholar and good friend to me, Dr
Ruthven. Miles, also, I despatched back to Ellswether with the horses,
and such letters and gifts for my father and Dorothy, as well as for
Mrs Skipwith and the others of the family, as I had gat together, and
then gathered up my trunks, and took boat to Graves-End. At the which
place, as I had been advertised by the Committee, I found the ship,
whose master (his name Captain Freeman) received me with much
civility, desiring me to choose my cabin and my seat at table where I
might desire. For (says he to me), there’s another young gentleman
bound for Surat with us, but he an’t yet appeared, and ’tis _first
come, first served_, aboard of the Boscobel. Not to appear to slight
his goodness, I complied with this desire of his, and did choose my
place next to my kind captain’s own, which pleased him mightily, and
me no less, for he was a person of very curious discourse, and one
that had gone through infinite wanderings and perils.

And of these he was nothing loath to tell me, while as we lay
a-waiting in the river, for ’twas yet two full days before my
fellow-traveller come on board, so that the master swore we should
lose our convoy by this delay, and that he would tarry no longer--nay,
not for the President of the Indies himself. In these two days I was
much entertained in visiting all parts of the vessel, which was a fine
new ship of the Company’s own, and in learning from my good friend
Captain Freeman many of the duties of a supercargo. Moreover, this
good man did several times carry me with him in the ship’s boat, for
to wait upon divers merchants with whom he had to do, and did so
divert me with histories of his travels, that I vow this delay was no
sorrow for me, but rather a pleasure. But at last, when Captain
Freeman had but just now said that he would up anchor with the morning
tide, and wait no longer, my fellow-traveller arrived on board in a
monstrous rage, and cursing very loudly the waterman that brought him
off, and had lost (says he) one of his trunks. Methought I knew my
gentleman’s voice at once, and when I went on deck to assure myself of
the matter, sure enough ’twas my old acquaintance, Mr Vane Spender.
Who, seeing me, greeted me with an oath, and desired me bid the master
to have the waterman soundly cudgelled by the seamen, which on Captain
Freeman refusing, he was excessive vexed. And coming to us into the
cabin, when this affair was settled, he took umbrage again to find me
in the highest seat next to the captain, declaring that he was second
cousin to the Secretary of the Indies at Surat, and must needs sit
highest. Which I, for peace’ sake, was willing to suffer, but Captain
Freeman would not hear on’t, and I kept that chiefest place. And
herein also you shall see that I went not about to provoke Mr Spender,
but contrariwise, did all in my power to pleasure him.

So then the next day we left Graves-End, and in the Downs did fall in
with the East India fleet, which was ten in number, whereof six ships,
ours being one, carried letters of mart[11] for protection against
enemies. In our company was no king’s ships, for these use to meet
only the homeward-bound fleet at Sancta Helena, for the better
protecting of their incomparable rich cargoes; but we did believe
ourselves secure from any foe that was like to come against us. And in
this confidence were we well justified so long as we sailed in company
the one with the other, but when alone and separated, we were like to
have fallen an easy prey, as you shall hear. But of the exact history
of this matter I am not well informed, and for this reason. For while
we were yet in the Channel, Mr Spender was seized with that grievous
disease of seasickness, whereof none knows the misery that han’t felt
it, and did lie groaning in his cot, a-cursing at me if I did so much
as speak to him. Seeing which, I left him to himself, and did continue
to enjoy the ingenious discourse of Captain Freeman, the which did
much divert me. But when, leaving behind the Narrow Seas, we were
entered that great bay which is called from the Spanish province of
Vizcaya, or by our seamen, Biskay, the complexion of things changed,
so that Mr Spender arose and played the jolly sailor, whereas I was
obliged to yield myself to the dreadful malady. And this made it the
more irksome to me, that Mr Spender must needs come continually and
make a mock at me, casting in my teeth all manner of nasty jests such
as the seamen use to provoke one another withal, and deriding me in my
misery, who could not frame so much as to answer, much less to punish
him, until our good captain found him one day at his tricks, and
threatened him with divers pains and penalties, in case he should
annoy me again. And thereafter was I left in peace, though I was like
to wish to die, so long as the master told me the ship was flying
along with a fair wind, and making a fine course.

Yet, had I but known it, I had ought to have been thankful for that
rough progress of ours, but of this I never thought until it was
stopped. For one day methought I heard a prodigious great noise on
deck, running and trampling and setting of sails and the like, and
much loud talk and swearing. And in a moment in come Mr Spender with a
pale face, telling me that we had outrun our consorts in the night,
and were now chased by a Sallee rover, so that we were all like to be
taken and made slaves to the Moors. Now upon this, though it seem to
you a thing incredible, yet truly the disease, the which had
heretofore weighed me down, and made me to long for death, left me on
a sudden, so that I leaped up and dressed myself, and seizing my
sword, ran upon deck, Mr Spender following after with his pistols. And
upon deck I found the seamen busied in making ready the two cannons
that our ship carried, and Captain Freeman a-serving out cutlasses and
fusees.[12] Then looking behind, I saw the rover that chased us, the
which was a long vessel of a monstrous outlandish build, mighty low in
the water, and moving with a most marvellous swiftness. And asking our
captain whether we were like to escape, “Mr Carlyon,” says he, “we
have left our course and are now running for Tangier. If we can come
at it, maybe a king’s ship or two will put out to our aid and drive
off the black devils; but if not, I see no help but we shall end our
days in Barbary.”

Now this catching the ear of a young boy, that was on board for to
serve Captain Freeman in his cabin, he falls a-blubbering because the
master said we must all end our days in Barbary, and this being heard
by the seamen, they were taken with a mighty trembling and despair, so
as to leave handling the ropes and charging their pieces, and stand
gazing upon the rover. So that Captain Freeman, Mr Spender, and I were
fain to go among them with our drawn swords, and so force them to
return to their duty, which when they did we quickly made way upon the
rover. And upon this the pirates tried to knock away our masts with a
shot, but they was too far removed from us, and did but lose ground in
the trying, while as the Boscobel flew on towards the coast, which we
could now clearly discern. And now our captain caused the ship’s
cannons to be fired again and again, and that not so much with the
intent to hit the enemy, for of this, indeed, there was but little
hope, but that those in the harbour, hearing the noise, might perceive
our plight, and make haste to come to our help.

Now, as we learned thereafter, it chanced, in the great goodness of
God, that there was at this time lying in the port the Royal Charles
and the Navarre, king’s ships, whose captains, hearing the noise of
cannons and perceiving its cause, made haste to put to sea and come to
our help. We then, beholding these two great ships sailing towards us,
gave thanks to God for His mercy, and left firing at the rover, the
which was, indeed, no longer needful, since he, perceiving our
reinforcement of strength, did incontinent turn himself about and seek
to escape. But for all his subtlety and swiftness, our two ships were
better than he, and sailing in such a manner as to cut him off from
the port that he aimed at (I would I might describe this action in
seamanlike terms, but this lies not within my power), had the mastery
over him, and succeeded to bring him in and all his crew as captives.
Who, in due course, were set a-working in chains upon the ramparts of
the town of Tangier, a singular and worthy instance of God’s
confounding the designs of the wicked, in bestowing upon them that
very doom they thought to have prepared for us. And this all have
acknowledged, to whom I have told this history, though many of them
were (I fear) careless persons, and little like at ordinary times to
observe and admire the Providence of God.

But ’tis not alone on the account of this marvellous escape and
deliverance of ours that I shall always be mindful of this town of
Tangier, but for an evil chance that was like to have befell me there.
For we casting anchor in the port for to await our consorts, that were
all to take in water at this place, the master of the Boscobel did
grant to his seamen leave to go on shore, which leave we passengers
also enjoyed. And I going in a boat of the place with Mr Spender, he
met upon the landing-stage a gentleman of his friends among the
officers of his majesty’s troops there quartered, and tarried to drink
with him. But I, desiring to see somewhat of the city, went on apace,
and found it a mighty pretty town, standing on a fair bay, and
surrounded by fortifications of a tolerable strength, and that seemed
apt to resist a siege. But the streets of the place are extreme narrow
and dirty, so that one can scarce pass through them, from the great
multitude of camels, asses, and other beasts that dispute passage with
him. And the people of the city are so lazy and ragged as I had never
before beheld, and the crowds of beggars beyond belief.

Passing at last through all this nastiness, I came to the ramparts on
the land side of the place, whence was a fair prospect of desert and
remote hills, such as I then saw for the first time. And here I sat me
down for to examine and admire that I saw, and did watch the soldiers
at their exercises close under the city walls with much diversion, in
especial the Moorish part of them, whose riding and sword-play was
very pretty. Now, as I sat there, there come up Mr Spender, none the
better for the wine that he had of a rascally fellow, half Spaniard
and half Moor, that kept a tavern under pretence of an inn. And you
must know that ’twas now the 29th day of May, Royal Oak Day as we call
it, so long had I tarried in London before the ship sailed. In
remembrance, then, of the most miraculous happy escape, as on that
day, of his majesty King Charles the Second, I was arrayed in a brave
habit, with my cousin Dorothy’s badge on the forefront thereof, for to
testify to all men that loyalty whereof our house is proud. And Mr
Spender, coming up, did assail me suddenly with many evil words,
miscalling me a penniless knave and a beggarly Malignant and many
other such ill names. Nay, moreover, he gathered up dirt and cast it
at me, and did even spit upon my Royal Oak badge, insulting me and it
the while with such revilings as I won’t write down. And I, who was,
despite my good advice given to my little cousin, and my temperate
behaviour in London, but a youth, and hot-headed at that, was so
wrought upon with his reproaches as to draw my hanger and run upon him
with intent to slay him. And though now I am covered with shame to
have desired to take away a fellow-creature’s life on such a cause,
yet then I was ready to have killed him on the spot. And he, drawing
his sword also, was prepared to fight, and I make no doubt but there
should have been blood shed between us, had not Captain Freeman on a
sudden come up with another shipmaster of his acquaintance, and thrown
himself upon us.

“How, lads! young gentlemen!” cries he, mighty angry, “swords out?
What’s this? You would pink one another, for all the world like a
couple of Portugals or two Italian bravos in a play? And for what? For
a few bad words? Fight it out with your fists, like honest Englishmen.
Here’s Captain Branter and I will see fair.”

’Twas well indeed that they was there, for as I put up my sword, Mr
Spender, mad with passion and the wine he had drank, flew upon me with
his drawn blade, and I had much ado to defend myself. But Captain
Branter pulling him off, I was able to make ready, and we did set to
in good earnest. But, thanks to my fights with young rebels at school,
it was not long before I made him admit himself mastered, and caused
him take back all his naughty words. And Captain Freeman then
enjoining upon us to shake hands and have it over, the which was done
but with a poor grace on either side, we returned to the ship, so
ending this affair.




 CHAPTER III.
 OF MY ARRIVING AT SURAT, AND OF THE POSTURE OF AFFAIRS THERE.

The other vessels coming in that same evening, we left Tangier the
next day, and continued in company our voyage along the Africk coast.
And although we caught sight not once nor twice of the galleys of
those pirates that infest these waters, yet they dared not attempt us,
seeing our force, and we had opportunity to admire the strange things
that met our view. For in these climates there is many things are not
as they are with us, as the sea and the weather and the length of day,
and the very stars themselves, not to speak of the poor heathens that
boarded us more than once, more especially off the colony of the
Gamboa.[13] And on crossing of the Line, moreover we were made
initiate in those mysteries which, as I suppose, are a relic of
antique superstition, but which the seamen do hug mightily; yea, even
the wisest among ’em. In all these matters, then, was there much to
instruct us, and our good master and his mate were always willing to
tell us whatever we desired. But as we drew further to the south, and
neared again the temperate climates, and in especial as we passed that
cape called by the Portugals _Bon Esperanzo_,[14] where the Dutch
have a few forts, we were assailed by such storms as we were like to
have left our bones in the South Seas. Also the continual tossing and
rolling of the ship did bring on again, both in Mr Spender and myself,
such an access of that dread malady whereof we had dreamed ourselves
cured, as we could do little else but lie and groan, desiring that
death which seemed at once too close to us and too far away. But when
we had left well behind us that evil and dangerous Cape, and were
entered the Indian Ocean, the which we found, in our traversing it,
prodigious still and pleasant, we revived, and did begin to look
forward with great anticipation to our arriving in East India.

Now during this part of our voyage the nights were extreme clear and
mild, so that I was wont to stay long upon the deck with Captain
Freeman, who, as he smoked his pipe, would tell me many strange tales.
For one thing, he told me of the mermaids in the Eastern Seas, whereof
he himself had seen one, sitting on a rock and combing her long hair,
and likewise of the dolphins and other monsters of the deep. Likewise
he told me of the wild men of the woods, whereof (said he) he had seen
many in the great islands, but all at a distance, and also of the
anthropophagi or man-eaters, of which he had never seen none, but had
heard of them from the most respectable persons. Of tigers, also, and
crocodiles, and great serpents, he told me much, especially with
regard to the empire of Birma and the eastern islands. And passing to
the islands of Japan, he spoke much of the Japanners, that are a
marvellous polite[15] people, and mighty inquisitive concerning
strangers, but so cruel and barbarous as could never be imagined. Two
emperors they have, whereof one may never be seen by the vulgar, and
as many princes, lords and grandees, as they could furnish forth even
Spain with ’em. But into their country may none travel, neither
merchant nor Jesuit missionary, nor even visit their ports, excepting
only the Dutch, and these must needs, when they come thither, abide on
one small island, whither their merchandises are brought them for to
load their ships withal. And if I should tell you all that Captain
Freeman told me concerning the manners and aspect of the inhabitants
of the great city Cangoxima,[16] methinks you should set him down as
a worse liar than Seignior Ferdinando Mendez Pinto himself, the which
should be grievously unjust, seeing that he had visited these parts
and this city as a lad in a ship of Holland, wherefore I will say
naught on’t. Of China and the Chineses, likewise, our good master
spake much, but this also I will not put down, lest I should have
confused therewith other matters I learned later from divers
shipmasters at Surat. But this I may say, that all this talk of mine
with Captain Freeman was wont to end in one way--viz., that when the
captain was through with his pipe and his tale, clapping me on the
shoulder, “Master Ned” (he would say), “when you list to make a
venture, come and sail with me to the eastwards, and I will put you in
the way of such markets and bargains as none but the Company’s
captains knows on.”

Now truly this prospect was in no way displeasant to me, but I little
dreamed that I should ever make a voyage eastwards (though never such
a short one) with Captain Freeman. And having now sailed northwards
for a great while, and passed, at an inconvenient distance, that fair
island called Ceilon,[17] the which I had a great desire to see, we
come near to our port. And to me, who had thought Surat to be on the
sea-shore, ’twas a most monstrous surprise to find that we must needs
cast anchor in Swally[18] Road, and from thence find means to get
ourselves conveyed to the town, the which stands at some small
distance up the river Taptee. But this delay was by no means
displeasing to us, for there was many strange things and persons to be
seen, such as we admired mightily.

And we reaching the shore in the master’s boat, and paying the tax of
half a rupee that was demanded from each passenger, found there Mr
Spender’s cousin, the Secretary, that was come to fetch him in an
_hackery_, which is an Indian coach drawn by two white oxen. But since
Mr Spender made no offer to present me to Mr Secretary, and I cared
little to force myself upon this gentleman’s notice, I was left
desolate, defending my trunks against a rout of swarthy rascals, both
Moors and Gentues,[19] that fought with one another, and would have
carried off my baggage before my eyes, had I so suffered it. But at
last Captain Freeman, coming on shore and finding me contending with
these fellows at great odds, from my having no knowledge of the
Indostan tongue, and much incommoded with the great heat of the sun,
was very wroth against Mr Spender, and made haste to call to my help a
gentleman that was walking to the landing-place, bearing a great white
_umbrello_ over his head for to shield him from the sun. And by great
good fortune, who should this gentleman be but Mr Martin, one of the
Company’s senior factors, to whom I had a letter wrote from Dr
Ruthven? He received me with great kindness, and made haste to hire
certain of the troublesome rogues for to carry my trunks to his
hackery, and bade me take my place therein, and so carried me to the
city, after bidding farewell to my good friend Captain Freeman. Dr
Ruthven had assured me that I should be much pleased with Mr Martin,
and in truth, in that short space of our journey together I did
discover him to be a person of most varied and ingenious learning, and
so full of proverbs and wise sayings as I had never imagined could be.
Coming, then, to the gate of Surat, we must needs pass through the
Custom-house, where the customers[20] are so strict that they must
perforce search in all my pockets as well as my trunks and mails. And
this done, we went on into the city, Mr Martin displaying to me divers
strange sights, until we come to the Factory, which is a large and
fair house, builded after the Moorish fashion, and well defended by
great walls.

And being arrived, Mr Martin was so good as to say that if I would, he
would make interest for me to be under him in the business, and to lie
in the chamber next to him of nights. And of this offer when I had
gratefully accepted, I had my trunks brought to the place he shewed
me, and was assigned a Gentue servant for to wait upon me, and was
carried by Mr Martin to view the whole of the Factory. Which Factory
is, as I have said, a great house, given to the English many years
since by the king of Guzeratta, but whereto they have added
go-downs[21] and storehouses, built on hired land. And the house
itself is built after the Indian mode, of two storeys, and the upper
and lower rooms opening on two long galleries, the floors being of the
best cement, and near half a yard thick, all this for the sake of
coolness. The walls are part of stone and part of timber, whereof the
last is adorned with tolerable carvings, after their heathenish
fashion. There is a neat oratory, or chapel, where divine service is
held twice in the day, and on Sundays three times, and a convenient
dining-room, open on all sides, but shaded at the top, wherein all the
Company’s servants do eat together, being placed according to their
degree in the service. The President’s rooms are very finely
furnished, in part after the Oriental style, and Mr Secretary’s are
likewise decent and comely enough, close to which was Mr Spender’s
chamber. And we happening upon the President about this time, Mr
Martin did present me to his honour, and ask his leave to keep me
under him, which his honour was pleased to grant. And on that same
evening, Mr Martin carried me to the garden belonging to the English,
which is situated without the town, and should have been very fair and
pleasant but for the doings whereof I will tell you. For as Mr Martin
and I rid to the garden, he discovered to me all the trials and
troubles wherefrom this poor town and Factory had lately suffered,
which I will set down, that so you may perceive in what an evil case
was his majesty’s poor subjects in Surat at this time.

Now first you must know that near the whole of East India (and now,
for aught I know, the entire country) is subject to the Moors, that
are akin to the Scythian Tartars, and come from the north, and the
chiefest nation of these Moors is called the Moguls. And the ruler of
these Moguls is a mighty emperor, that hath his court in the great
cities of Agra and Dhilly,[22] and reigns there with such
magnificence as no sovereign of Europe can equal, far less surpass.
And the emperor when I came to Surat, and that is still (in 1697)
reigning, was the great Auren Zeeb,[23] said by the Moors to be so
wise and just as no prince hath been since Solomon, and by the Gentues
the most cruel and tyrannical ruler that did ever oppress a nation for
its sins. Now of these Gentues, the most warlike and bravest tribe is
that called the Morattys,[24] dwelling in a province named, so far as
I can spell it, Moruchtraw.[25] And of this province the boundaries
are uncertain, but it lies in great part in the kingdom of Guzeratta.
The Morattys are said by some to be a most bloodthirsty and
treacherous people, but ’twould ill become me to indorse this opinion
without more strict inquiry, since it hath pleased God by their means
to give me great deliverance, and this not once only, as I shall shew
hereafter in its place.

Now these Morattys had at this time a great king, or chief, by name
Seva Gi,[26] son to a famous captain of the king of Visiapour’s,[27]
called Shaw Gi, surnamed the Bounceloe,[28] from the caste or family
whereto he belonged, and his mother was descended from the ancient
kings of that country. He, rising up against the king of Visiapour,
defeated and murdered by treachery Abdul Caun[29] his general, and
had thereafter great success, taking many considerable places, even
fortified towns, so that at one time he was master both of Duccan and
also of Conchon,[30] which is the rugged country lying between the
mountains and the sea. But neither he nor any leader of the Morattys
hath ever been able to retain his hold on the plain country, but hath
always been forced to seek refuge again in the hills, which, indeed,
is the native land of the Moratty, where he is most at home. Now with
such craft and subtilty did this Seva Gi go to work, that he was able
for some years to maintain his peace with the Mogul emperor, while all
the while warring with him that should have been his ally--viz., the
king of Visiapour. It may well be that the mighty Auren Zeeb felt no
grief to see two powerful princes destroying the one the other, and he
did observe the fighting with no small diversion, calling the said
Seva Gi his Mountain-rat, because he must needs retreat always to the
hills. Now with regard to the town of Surat, I must premise that there
is set over it on the behalf of the Great Mogul a governor, whose
government is a byword among all the Europe merchants for its
injustice. But whatever may be this person’s iniquities, he is, at the
least, faithful to his master, and spurned all the offers made him
from Seva Gi, that he should take his part. Wherefore Seva Gi made a
road[31] into the place, and took and plundered the town, holding it
for six days, and taking from it a prodigious booty. But the English,
being retired into their Factory, and using that for a citadel, did
show so fierce a front, and upon occasion defend themselves so
bravely, as Seva Gi was forced to leave ’em in peace. But their fair
garden, lying, as I have said, outside of the city, was overrun and
ruined, and was not yet recovered when I first saw it, all this
happening but shortly before my coming.

“But pray, sir,” says I to Mr Martin, “how can you have any comfort of
life, knowing that you are all the time placed between an unjust
governor and a murderous robber?”

“_Beggers should be no chusers_, sir,” quoth Mr Martin. “Sure we are
in better case here than under the eye of the Inquisition at Goa, or
even than quarrelling with my Lord Malbery[32] and the king’s
officers at Bombaim.”[33]

“At the least you are your own masters here, sir,” says I.

“Not so fast, if you please, sir,” says he. “Not many months ago were
we held under grievous oppression by the Dutch, that would have us
acknowledge ’em to be lords of the Eastern Seas. Not being contented
with the most injurious conduct towards ourselves, they must needs
hoist their ancient[34] above our St George’s cross, as though we
were surrendered to ’em. And not a warship had we for to defend us
against their injuries. Had they but had Old Noll to deal withal, he
should have punished ’em first and made ’em ask pardon after.”

“I trust, sir, that you an’t regretting the most fortunate death of
that rebel?” said I. Mr Martin looked upon me jestingly.

“_He that hath an ill name is half-hanged_, an’t he?” said he. “Old
Noll was a rebel, sir, but the Dutch feared him as the very devil.”

While thus discoursing, we walked to and fro in the garden, wherein
had stood divers _choultries_, or summer-houses, very pleasant to take
the air within, but now heaps of ruins, together with grottoes of many
fantastical forms, and fountains, whereof the sound and the coolness
was mighty agreeable. But the wildness of the place surprised me
(though now I know that the Indian gardeners do not affect neatness
and symmetry of arrangement, as do ours), nor had the ruins been
cleared away, but the flowers were springing and growing up around
them. And of the flowers themselves was nothing extraordinary, but
only mallows and stocks and jessamines and suchlike common things, for
so cursed with idleness are the lower sort here, that they won’t take
the trouble even to grow roses. Nevertheless, this garden is a mighty
pretty and pleasant place, and were it only better dressed and kept,
might be a very paradise.

And we returning to the Factory, Mr Martin pointed out to me the
English burying-ground, wherein are many monuments of extreme
elegance, and likewise the Dutch Factory, where were many stout
_mynheers_, that showed us, on our passing them, no more courtesy than
they need. Likewise Mr Martin bade me note the devastation wrought in
the city by that freebooter Seva Gi, so that the great walls were in
part broken down, and many fine mansions laid in ruins, and the houses
of the poorer sort almost all destroyed, though being but of mud and
stubble, they were fast beginning to build ’em up again. And moreover,
Mr Martin told me of one John Smith, who, being captured by Seva Gi’s
ruffians before he could escape into the Factory, was carried before
their prince himself, and heard him give orders for the beheading of
divers, both Moors and Gentues, that would not declare where their
treasures was hid. Upon this J. Smith fell into a great fear and
trembling, but God did graciously incline towards him the heart of the
king, so that on the advice of one of the chief Brachmines,[35] his
ministers, he let him go, and I myself have both seen and talked with
him many times.

We were now returned into the town, and this being the hour at which
all do take the air, we met with most of the Company’s servants then
in Surat, some riding on fine Arabian horses (these brought, as Mr
Martin informed me, by sea from Juddah),[36] but the most part borne
in _palenkeens_, which is a kind of coach without wheels, and carried
on men’s shoulders, the which seemed to me a very womanish manner of
going abroad, but I now know that the heat do make it very agreeable.
Passing the Mint, which is an extreme handsome piece of building, we
come to the cloth-bazar, which is like one of our markets, but held
all the year round. And in the High Street, which I had looked to see
a noble and stately place, I found only mean houses, with the shops
like peddlars’ stalls with us. And coming back to the Factory, we made
ready for supper, where I saw all the gentlemen that served the
Company at this place. And mighty strange it seemed to me, that all
were dressed in white, for to avoid the heat of the sun, though
keeping the English fashion. Now at the supper itself was all the
meats served on plate of China,[37] that, as they say, cracks when
any poison touches it, which is, without doubt, providentially
ordained for the sake of the dwellers in this land, where poisoning is
so common. And besides this magnificence, behind each man’s seat there
stood an Indian servant with a great fan of peacocks’ feathers, which
was waved about for to cool the air. And such ceremony was observed in
the bringing in and removing the many dishes as I had never thought
could be anywhere, short of a king’s palace. But with all this state,
the gentlemen showed themselves very affable towards me, and Mr Martin
presenting me to one or two, we had much pleasant and witty discourse.
And so at last to bed, being well tired by all that I had seen and
done that day, but found it prodigious hard to sleep, through being
plagued by those villainous insects called _muskeetoes_, the which
abound in these parts.

Then the next day I began to learn how the Company’s business was
carried on. But instead of the English going into the public markets
for to buy, as I had thought, I found that they made use of Gentue
merchants, called _banyans_,[38] that act as brokers, and after
buying up their wares from the Indians, bring them to the Factory.
These men are of a smiling and agreeable countenance and extreme
respectful in their manners, wearing white linen raiment of a strange
and womanish fashion. And although the Indostans generally are very
square in all their dealings, and prodigious exact to make good all
their engagements, yet these _banyans_ are extreme cunning, and do
contrive to gain for themselves so much from their transactions with
their countrymen on the Company’s behalf, as they are counted among
the most considerable persons of the place. And I not knowing their
tongue, my duty was only to write at Mr Martin’s dictation, and do my
best to improve myself. And when work was over, Mr Martin was again
good enough to take me riding with him in his hackery, and to inform
me on many matters. And I expressing my surprise that where so many
gentlemen, and some of them of a good age, was gathered together,
there should be none married, so far as appeared, Mr Martin saith--

“The proverb, sir, tells us, _He is happie that is wed, and without
trouble_, but he that weds here is like to have trouble. For what
gentlewoman of good family and fortune should choose to leave all she
might have in England, and adventure herself in the Indies? ’Tis true
that the Company desires its servants to be settled in life, and sends
out women for ’em to marry, but you may guess what manner of creatures
they would be, that would come out on such a chance; and moreover they
are also sickly and soon die, whether from the evil nature of the
climate, or from too much drinking of strong waters. Wherefore certain
of the gentlemen here have wedded Indian or Portuguese wenches, and
keep ’em shut up after the fashion of the country, never eating with
’em, and seeing ’em but when none else is by. But of such matches as
these is great trouble arisen, in especial regarding the children that
spring from ’em, when the mothers be Papists. It seems to me,
therefore, that they are wisest that determine while in the Indies to
devote themselves to their work alone, and postpone all such delights
until the time of their return.”

“As I shall,” said I.

“What, you have made up your mind so soon, Mr Carlyon?” says he. “You
an’t yet wedded, surely?”

“I am troth-plight, sir,” says I, and told him that which you know
already--viz., my engagement with my little cousin Dorothy. When I had
ended my tale, Mr Martin smiled upon me.

“_All shall be well, and Jacke shall have Gill_,” quoth he. “I honour
your resolution, sir, and shall take it extreme unkind in you if I
ben’t asked to the wedding, always supposing that I am in England
then.”

“That wise saw of yours is mighty comforting, sir,” says I.

“Say you so?” says he. “Then what do you think of this one, sir, _Age
and wedlocke lames man and beast_?”

I saw that he was jesting with me, but ’twas impossible for me to take
offence, so kindly and sweet-tempered a person was he, and that
friendship which was begun upon my landing at Surat hath continued
ever since, to my much advantage. For although the Company hath made,
and doth still make, many rules and advices for the better governing
of the younger among its servants, yet rules are not always kept, and
more than once hath Mr Martin brought me out of some trouble into
which I was fallen, either through the natural heat of youth, or
through the ill offices of Mr Spender.

For our life at Surat, there was in it always an admirable good order.
We all ate in company, saving only the snack taken on rising for to
comfort the stomach. Many of the gentlemen for this lunch[39] drank
burnt wine, made hot with cinnamons and other spice, but I always
followed Mr Martin’s advice, who told me that so much wine-drinking
was like to breed fevers and other disorders. For himself, he was wont
to drink _thé_[40] (the which is now well known in England, but then
only to those in our factories in the Indies), and I did likewise,
seeing that this herb doth much benefit the health both of the mind
and the body by the operation of a certain temperate heat that is
particular[41] to’t, and hath been observed by many curious
travellers.

This life of ours in company, where so many persons of divers humours
and originals were gathered together, made it necessary that all our
behaviour should be civil and respectful, and this towards our chief
and the chaplain in especial. The gentleman that occupied this last
place was commonly a person of excellent parts and wise discourse,
while his pay was higher than that even of the senior factors, and his
precedence was fixed next after the Members of Council,--a station
contrasting happily with the treatment accorded in these days to many
parsons in England.

On Fridays was there an assembly held by Mr President, whereto the
chief merchants of the other factories was used to come, and whereat
much sack was drunk, and also _palepuntz_,[42] a drink compounded by
the factors out of _acquavitæ_,[43] rosewater, sugar, and the juice
of lemons, and one that has, I believe, been brought by some of them
into England. But at the shipping-time was there small opportunity for
such gaieties, for all day long was the _banyans_ coming in with their
accounts, and below in the courtyard the packers and warehouse-keepers
must needs be looked after, and the merchants seen and spoken with
that had brought musters[44] of their goods. More than once, also, I
had the advantage to go with Mr Martin a journey among the towns and
villages of the vicinage, when he must oversee the weavers of cotton
fabrics, buying up the yarn from the spinners and intrusting it to the
said weavers, that so they might have wherewith to occupy themselves
during the rains. Nor was I idle when ’twas neither shipping-time nor
occasion for a journey, for, learning from Mr Martin that the Company
did furnish a master for to teach to the writers the tongues of the
country, and did promise also an annuity unto such as learnt them
well, but that few ever gained this, I applied myself to this study,
so that I gat a fair knowledge both of the Persian and the
Indostan[45] languages, and received the promised annuity. And this
to my no small contentment, although his honour the President, being
worked upon by Mr Secretary, was ill-pleased that he must give it to
me and not to Mr Spender, that would never learn nothing that he could
by any means avoid.

Now in these first years that I spent in Surat was many great things
happening, both at home and also in the Indies. The first whereof I
won’t recount, as knowing and hearing little of them; but of the
latter I may mention that that famous Moratty prince, Seva Gi, of whom
I have before spoke, being attempted[46] by the whole power of the
emperor Auren Zeeb, submitted himself and made his peace, and was
kindly received and his demands granted, so as he dared even adventure
himself in the city of Dhilly itself, on a visit to that great prince.
But here he quickly discovered himself to have been entrapped, for the
Mountain-rat was not accustomed to the ways of courts, and did quarrel
grievously with the emperor’s ministers. Having thus offended Auren
Zeeb, he found he was almost a prisoner, and must needs bend his wits
to the getting safely out of the place. And this he did by a stratagem
so cool and so ingenious as caused all that heard on’t to admire, and
one that I myself did imitate thereafter, as you shall in due time
hear. For having sent away his soldiers, and feigning himself to be
sick, he had himself and also Samba Gi,[47] his son, conveyed out of
the town in great baskets, such as the Moors use to send fruits and
succades[48] in as gifts to their _mosqueys_. And thus reaching a
place of safety, he returned to Moruchtraw, and fought against the
Great Mogul with good success during almost all the remaining part of
his life. And of the consequences of these wars you will see that I
myself participated, but not yet.

Now during all this time I was not content to enjoy only my wage as a
writer and the annuity I had earned, but engaged myself also in
ventures to the Eastern Seas, whereby my wealth was much
increased.[49] But of my venture for cloves to the Manillas, or of my
sending of Europe goods in a _caphalay_[50] (which is a pack-train)
bound for the city of Dhilly, you won’t care to hear, and ’twould be
tedious to tell. But I may say to you that these ventures prospered
marvellously, so that when I had been four years in East India, I had
been able to put by moneys sufficient to pay the further bond of £500
demanded from factors, when I should have been five years a writer and
so have reached my promotion, and something also to adventure once
more in trading. And all this I did regard as a step towards the
fulfilment of that work which my father had set before me, and towards
my marriage with Dorothy, and in my letters sent home I writ with
great delight of this happy hope. Happy is it for us poor mortals that
we can’t read the future, for at this very time, when all looked so
bright before me, I was about to part with all I had gained, yea, with
all that I had ever had, and barely to escape with life itself.




 CHAPTER IV.
 OF MY SENDING TO GOA BY MY EMPLOYERS, AND OF THOSE THINGS THAT BEFELL
 ME THERE.

Now this is the manner in which these untoward matters befell, of
the which I spake only on my last page. For I was called one day into
the Council, which is the highest in the Indies, and found there his
honour the President, together with Mr Accountant, that is next in
place to him, the Warehouse-keeper, the Purser Marine, the Secretary,
and divers of the senior merchants of the Factory, that have the
honour to be members of the board. And I, much fearing that I was to
be chidden for some failure in my duty, did answer to the summons with
little joy, standing before their honours like some poor rascal of a
poacher awaiting his sentence from the bench of justices, but my
friend Mr Martin, being among the merchants present, did cheer me with
a look, so as I was made happy again. Then saith Mr Accountant--

“Mr Carlyon, you have now been near five years in the Company’s
service at this place, and we learn from Mr Martin, who is set over
you, that you have a fair knowledge of the East Indian tongues, and
have always deserved to be well spoken of, as a zealous and careful
servant of the Committee.”

I bowed in answer to these compliments, and he continued--

“Do you know anything of the Portuguese, Mr Carlyon?”

“No, sir,” says I; “I han’t never had occasion to learn it.”

“It may be that that occasion is even now arriving,” says he. “The
Company, learning that its interests have at divers times suffered
grievous hurt through its servants not understanding the tongue of the
Portugals, hath decided to have instructed therein certain of its
writers, gentlemen well-learned in the Indian tongues. At present you
are the only gentleman at this place of whom this is said, and the
Committee are therefore pleased to direct that you shall proceed at
their charges to the city of Goa, in the Portuguese Indies, there to
study the Portuguese tongue. The time you spend there under the
Committee’s direction will count as a part of your service as writer,
and you will receive a genteel present from the Company when you have
given proof of your diligence.”

“I thank your honours and the Committee, sir,” said I, “for this
goodness, which I will do my best to deserve.”

“You will provide yourself, Mr Carlyon,” says Mr Accountant, “with
clothes befitting a young gentleman of quality, and the Company will
furnish you with letters of commendation to the most considerable
persons in Goa. Mr Martin will be good enough to instruct you with
respect to the carriage and manners it will be becoming to you to
assume. You won’t of course deny your connection with the Factory
here, but it need not be insisted upon in general company. And
if”--here Mr Accountant leaned forward, and looked me very steadfastly
in the face--“if you find that ’tis true, as is alleged, that the
Portugals are contriving plots for the damaging the Company’s trade in
the Eastern Seas, you will make known the same to us, by means as
secret and as speedy as you can devise.”

“Sir,” said I, “I’ll do my best to be watchful for their honours’
interests.” For I perceived that the Council was no little touched by
the rumours that had of late reached us concerning the designs of the
Portugals, and that ’twas my business to discover these, that so they
might best be thwarted. And after this Mr Secretary, that had spoke
not at all hitherto, being grieved that he could not prevail with his
honour the President to send Mr Spender to Goa beside me, gave me my
further instructions, and so I was dismissed. And Mr Martin and I
walking back to our chambers, he saith to me:--

“_This chanceth in an houre that hapneth not in seven yeares_, Ned,
and sure ’tis a happy chance for you. With prudence and tolerable good
luck, your fortune is now assured. I don’t doubt but you’ll soon be
made agent in some small factory when you are returned from your
studying, and so have occasion to use your Portuguese. But with your
leave, lad, I will give you some counsel, lest you fall into trouble
at Goa.”

“Sir,” says I, “I hope that I shall always gratefully receive and
follow any counsels you may be good enough to give me.”

“Listen, then,” says he; “and first you must always be mindful not to
infringe the punctilio[51] of the Portugals, for so fantastical and
strange is’t as passeth belief. You must never look hard at a lady, as
she sits in her balcony, or rides in her coach, if you don’t desire to
be stabbed that night. And regarding the religion of Goa, you must
needs be mighty circumspect. You have seen those poor idolaters, the
Papists here, walking through the city with their processions, and
kneeling down in the mire when the Host is a-passing? Here this
happeneth but from time to time, but at Goa you see little else. And
in all the Portugals’ towns ’tis the law and custom that every one
meeting a procession of the Church shall uncover to’t, and also kneel,
or at the least bow low, until it be passed by. Now some Englishmen,
conceiving that saw to be true, _When at Rome, do as Rome does_, do
make it their custom to uncover and kneel, as ’tis ordained, but to
me, this compliance savours somewhat of cowardice, and won’t, as I
believe, commend itself to you. Wherefore, if you’ll be guided by me,
I would have you go into some shop near at hand, or turn down another
street whensoever you see a procession coming, or hear the little bell
rung that signifies the approach of the Host, if you don’t wish to be
stabbed where you stand. And above all, my dear Ned, let me entreat
you never to enter into any controversy with any person in Goa, be he
Portugal or Indian, upon any question of religion. He will seek to
lead you on until you have uttered something that is to his mind
heretical, and then he’ll denounce you to the Inquisition. And once
there, Ned, ’twere far better had you been stabbed in the street by
some _bravo_ among the common people, for the few that are escaped
thence are come forth crippled and helpless, and the many that han’t
never escaped have died by the torture or the fire. _Happie is he that
can beware by other men’s harmes._”

“I thank you, sir,” says I, “and will try to remember that which you
have ofttimes told me--viz., _A close mouth catches no flys_.”

“Good lad!” says he, “and may I see you return safe in six months or
thereabouts, as full of the Portuguese as a _banyan_ is full of
deceits. But let me counsel you to take with you such weapons as you
may chance to have, and to sleep with ’em under your pillow of nights;
for Goa is the most shameless ill-governed town that ever called
itself Christian.”

Much other good counsel did my esteemed friend give me during the
short space of time that we yet spent together, for it took no long
delay to prepare me for my journey. ’Twas thus that I found myself, in
the early part of the year 1668-69, at the age of twenty-two years,
equipped as a gentleman of good degree for to set out on my travels,
having letters with me to several respectable gentlemen at Goa, a
tolerable supply of money, and suitable weapons for my defence.
Likewise I had with me my servant Loll Duss,[52] a most excellent
good fellow, that had served me from my first arriving in Surat, and
might put to shame many of our English lacqueys. ’Tis the custom in
East India for persons of any consideration to carry about with them a
great following of servants (though the cost of this is not so great
as with us, these men being habited in white calicut, and eating only
rice and a little fish); but I had no list to waste either the
Company’s substance or my own upon such display as this. Nevertheless,
so confident did I feel in my situation, and so sure that my fortune
was now to be made, that I writ to my father and to Dorothy that they
should not wonder though they heard no more touching me for a long
time, for that I might be chief Vizier to the Great Mogul when next
they heard speak of me. To Mr Martin’s care I intrusted the diary I
had kept, and such things as I must leave behind me, he promising also
to keep for my return any letters that might be brought for me by ship
from England. This good friend bare me company down to the
landing-place, and as his wont was, bade me farewell with a proverb--

“Ned, suffer me to advise you once more, _Speake faire, and thinke
what you will_. Even if by chance your argument should convince a
Papist, it won’t profit either of you, since you will find yourself in
the Inquisition, and he must needs show an extraordinary great
soundness and devotion to save his life, and bring the faggots for to
burn you.”

Thus we bade one another farewell, and I departed on my journey in the
Company’s _baloon_, which is a boat of sixteen oars, very pleasant and
commodious for to travel by. On our way we tarried only at the factory
of Bombaim, and arrived in good time at the mouth of the Goa river.
This place is well defended, for there are here four forts and a
block-house, and so arranged as that no ship may pass but under their
guns. And going on up the river we passed the great _Agoada_,[53]
which brings water to the city, and the strong fortress of Marmagoun.
The champaign country on either side of the river is mighty pleasant
of aspect, and situate in it is many fine garden-houses[54] of the
Viceroy and the _hidolgoos_,[55] with stately churches and palaces.
The river here is full of islands, which do much hinder the passage of
vessels, and not far below the city it is crossed by a bridge of
thirty-six arches, joined to a long causey.[56] The city itself is
ten miles from the river-mouth,[57] and stands on seven hills, being
defended by good walls and gates. The prospect in approaching the
place is an extreme fine one to behold, and the buildings of the city
as rich and fair as any I have ever seen. Methought, as I come near to
this accursed place, whereof I can now scarce think without a shudder,
that here was no ill town to tarry in for six months, not knowing that
I should not leave it for three years, and should (I fear) gladly have
seen it destroyed, like Sodom or Gomorrha, long before that time.

I had been recommended by my employers to a decent lodging, where such
Englishmen as visited Goa on their occasions was wont to tarry, and
here I took up my billet, together with my servant Loll Duss. The
keeper of the lodging was a certain woman, widow to one of the
Company’s captains now deceased, speaking English very well, though
country-born, and no bigot, although one of those Papists of whom Mr
Martin had warned me. She gave me a fair chamber, looking into a court
well set with trees, and with a fountain running therein, and good
entertainment also, so that I found myself well provided for. And I
asking her to advise me of a good teacher, from whom I might learn the
Portuguese, she named to me her own son, that had made one or two
voyages in his father’s ship, and could speak English also. And I,
that had feared I must needs have some Jesuit _padree_ to my teacher,
whereby, as Mr Martin foresaw, I had been very like to be led into
controversy, accepted of her offer with great contentment, and had the
boy fetched, that I might see him. He, being a smart fellow enough,
professed himself quite ready to serve me for a decent weekly wage,
and I was thus well attended, having always with me my secretary (as
he called himself), beside my servant Loll Duss.

And now, conceiving that I might well begin with the highest, I did
send by the hand of Loll Duss that letter of commendation I had to Dom
Lewis de Bustamante, a gentleman in very high place, and nephew to his
highness the Viceroy. And this Dom Lewis lost little time before he
came to visit me, and entreated me most courteously, and must needs
carry me with him to make my compliments to his highness his uncle,
for whom I had brought a genteel present--viz., several pots of
extraordinary fine succades or sweetmeats, newly arrived from Europe.
And the Viceroy I found to be a proper man, and most courteous of
manner, and indeed, among all those I have known have I never seen
none so kind and so greatly given to hospitality as were these
Portugals. For his highness was graciously pleased to give me as a
token of his favour a ring, with a very fair diamond set therein,
worth some thousand _pagodoes_,[58] which he took from his own finger
for to put it upon mine. How I lost this ring, you will hear in due
time, but I have often desired to know whether it returned into his
highness’s coffers or no. Dom Lewis, likewise, showed me great
kindness, and had fain had me lie at his house, and was so urgent with
me that I had much ado to refuse him; but pleading the importance of
my occasions, and my occupation with the Portuguese tongue, they left
me where I was.

Now after this time this was the manner of my life at Goa, and if it
seem to you too light and idle, you must remember that I was but
young, and that I conceived I was doing best my employers’ business in
mingling much with the Portugals. For on rising in the morning, I went
with my hostess’s son (that was called Peter) to take the air by the
river, and perhaps to view some church or other great building, and
thereafter I spent some time in the study of the Portuguese. But for
some two or three hours about mid-day was every one wont to repose
themselves indoors, for fear of the heat, and I was fain to do the
like. Then in the afternoon would come Dom Lewis or some one of his
friends for to carry me with him to some assembly or party of
pleasure, and the evening passed agreeably enough, with music and
dancing, and suchlike diversions.

Now you will wonder how in all this time I escaped the Inquisition,
without (as some have falsely said) I conformed myself to their
customs for fear. But the manner of my safety was this. I followed out
the counsel given me by Mr Martin, and avoided all processions and
church shows. I had much desired to have seen an High Mass in the
great church of the Dominicans or Black Friars, the which is all
gilded within, and in the sacristan[59] treasures of untold value,
but I refrained, and forced myself only to visit it one morning with
Peter. Likewise, I was very firm to refrain from argument, and indeed
my companions, that were for the most part young gentlemen of good
blood and breeding, did never attempt to force it upon me. And with
regard to the punctilio of the Portugals, I saw much reason to marvel
thereat, seeing that they will walk abroad in the streets bareheaded
under _umbrelloes_, for to avoid the necessity of uncovering the one
to the other; but I was so happy as never to infringe it. And of
adventures among the ladies had I none, seeing that they are kept very
recluse, and I had neither inclination nor opportunity to make close
acquaintance with ’em. But it is necessary to state this, since it
hath been alleged otherwise concerning me. Thus all went well, until
one day Dom Lewis came earlier than usual to visit upon me, and
carried me with him to his house, that was very fine and splendid, for
to see his cousin newly arrived from the Moxambique.

And this cousin of his (that was also nephew to the Viceroy) I found a
pretty boy enough, Dom Francis de Lessa by name. (Now this name,
Francis, is very common in Goa, after their great saint, Franciscus
Xeverius,[60] that lies buried in the fair church of _Bon Jesu_.) And
this young gentleman, Dom Francis, had been bred up in one of their
colleges by the Jesuits, or Paulistins,[61] as they call them here,
from their monastery of St Paul’s; and with him was his governor,[62]
that the Viceroy, with the advice of the _padrees_, had appointed over
him. This was a Paulistin called Father Sebastian, a person of a most
gentle and courteous aspect, and so well versed in all matters of
polite learning that to talk with him was a pleasure. Yet, to my
misfortune, there awoke in me, while in his company, as it were a
certain fervour and heat of opposition, so that I did find myself
perpetually at an issue with him, to my no small concern, be the
matter of our discourse what it might. Now on this day it seemed good
to us to walk through the city and show to Dom Francis what was worthy
to be seen therein, and so the time passed pleasantly away. But in
returning from Old Goa, a part of the town that is now decayed, but
wherein many respectable persons do dwell agreeably enough, we stopped
on a bridge for to look at the boats on the river, and I chanced to
say that ’twas a pity the Portugals should waste so much time a-racing
one another on the water in _baloons_ to the spoiling of their
business.

Then says Father Sebastian in French--

“You English are a stirring and industrious nation, sir. Sure we can’t
never hope to equal you in this.”

“It seems to me, sir,” says I, “with all respect to you, that in the
present posture of affairs, your governors are much to blame in that
they allow so many of your men to stay idle in monasteries, instead of
arming ’em and setting ’em to drill or to work. Why, ’tis said you
have more Europe men in the convents here than in all your garrisons,
and King Seva Gi and his Morattys at your very gates.”

“But pray, sir,” saith he, very meekly, “could these persons be better
employed than in beseeching God to favour the arms of their country,
and His saints to keep the enemy at a distance?”

“Indeed, sir,” says I, “speaking with all deference to you, I must say
that all these Black, White, or Gray Friars do the country no good,
nor the Church no credit. Were his highness to order ’em all on to the
walls for to be taught how to handle a fusee or a pike, ’twould
provide for the place a handsome garrison, and rid the town of a lazy
set of rascals.” I was about to continue, growing warm in the subject,
the which had much exercised me since my coming to Goa, when Dom Lewis
pressed my arm, and I followed his eyes to a certain island in the
river, where was a great void place with high posts set up therein,
and seats of stone at one side thereof. I had seen this place before,
and Peter also had pointed me to it, but it seemed to me that I had
never yet truly understood what was done there. ’Twas the
burning-place of the Inquisition. I stopped suddenly in my speech, but
Dom Lewis said somewhat touching the time of day, and we passed on.

Now as we come into the town, there was had betwixt us some discussion
as to which way we should return to the Viceroy’s palace, and on the
advice of Father Sebastian we made choice of a certain street that
leads past the cathedral. And we walking and talking merrily, come
presently to the square lying before this, which is as large as any in
England, and of a neat and plain aspect. Now we being entered the
square, I saw coming towards us the procession of some saint, I have
forgot which, but they were carrying the Host under a state,[63] with
_clericos_ walking bareheaded on either hand, and boys scattering
incense and ringing bells. There was also one or two images or
statuas, with banners and suchlike borne aloft, and many nuns and
ladies of the city walking after. And as the procession come near, the
people all made haste to kneel down in the dust, the men uncovering,
until it should be passed. And I, according to my custom, did seek to
turn aside, but we were in the open square, and there was no shop nor
side-street at hand. Then there come to my mind that sight which Dom
Lewis had but now showed to me--viz., the burning-place by the river,
and I won’t conceal from you that for a moment my knees trembled and
the devil tempted me very sorely to take off my hat and bow myself
before those images and that Host which was carried there. But I thank
God that I was kept from this base and cowardly conformity, and was
strengthened to stand still while as the procession came near. Father
Sebastian and Dom Francis went down on their knees mighty devoutly,
and Dom Lewis bowed almost to the ground, saying to me--

“Bow, Dom Edward; ’tis the custom here.”

But I still stood up, and the procession passed by, the priests and
women all looking black upon me that durst insult their idols. And
when the people was rose up again from their knees, they come round
about us, hustling us and crying out that we was atheists and
heretics, and making ready for to stone us. But Dom Lewis crying out
to them very earnestly that I was a stranger that knew not their ways
in that place, and that they were all three good Christians, as might
be seen, they were content to let us pass, though with many ill words.
Thus we walked on to the palace, Father Sebastian going meekly with
his eyes cast down and his hands folded, and Dom Lewis with a dark and
gloomy air, while Dom Francis his cousin looked upon me askance,
avoiding me as a man might one that had the plague. I, indeed, was far
from being at ease with myself, and to add to my distemper, it seemed
that even in the palace I could not be free from peril, for we
reaching the building and standing on the great steps in the forefront
thereof for to take the air, there come up an ancient man, an Indian,
of a lean and shabby aspect, and he carried with him a little cabinet,
so to speak, with curtains before it of some old torn stuff. And
Father Sebastian asking what strange beast he had therein, the fellow
replied by bringing the cabinet up to us upon the steps, and showing
us inside on’t divers little images of the Virgin and the saints. And
his design was that we should kiss these, and withal give him some
small piece of money, as the custom is here. And Father Sebastian
motioning him to approach me first, being the guest of Dom Lewis, I
had in my hand half a ducket,[64] the which I purposed to give him,
seeing the man to be old and poor, but I refused to kiss the images
that he carried, whereat he departed much displeased, though the other
gentlemen were willing to pleasure him.

And now, Dom Lewis seeming to be ill at ease, we went into the palace,
and presently his highness entered to us, and the evening passed as
usual. But shortly before the company departed, while as they was
serving _jacolatt_,[65] Father Sebastian entered again into discourse
with me, and desired to hear many things concerning England. He held
many strange notions touching our country, such as I should conceive a
Frenchman might entertain, but so universally learned are these
Jesuits that I can’t so much as guess of what nation he was. And at
last he advanced this proposition--viz., that the English are a people
altogether destitute of all loyalty and reverence, and entirely given
up to lawlessness and irreligion. And this saying I did combat with
all my skill, bringing forward to the contrary thereof the loyalty
wherewith the Cavaliers fought for his late majesty, and the reverence
they testified toward the poor clergy in their extremity.

“But, sir,” saith Father Sebastian, “sure you’ll pardon me if I say
aught displeasing to you in my ignorance, but I had believed that
’twas accounted in England a merit to show no reverence to such things
as other men venerate. And this belief of mine was confirmed, sir, in
me by your own behaviour to-day.”

“I hope, sir,” says I, “that I am always ready to show due respect
wheresoever my conscience may allow on’t, but I can’t find it in me to
bow down to a piece of bread.”

I saw Dom Francis turn pale and walk away, at a signal from his
governor, and Dom Lewis called my notice to a rare piece of carving in
ivory that had but just been sent to his highness from the king of
Visiapour, and told me that it was worth at the least ten thousand
duckets. And while admiring this, I noted a badge or medal in gold
that he bore on his left arm, and whereof I had often desired to ask
him, and I inquired concerning its device, and his reason for the
wearing it. But it seemed to me that Father Sebastian looked at him
for a moment, and in the stead of answering, he put my question aside,
and spake of some other matter. Then the father turned again to me--

“I ask your pardon, sir, but I don’t follow your meaning as I could
wish. May I beg of you to favour me at more length with the opinions
held by the English (and by yourself as an Englishman), on this
subject--viz., the respect paid to images of the holy saints?”

Now I would not have you think of me more highly than I deserve, and
so I will confess to you that ’twas my fantasy at this time that I had
a mighty pretty turn for argument, and could set out my meaning as
neatly as any man. But on this especial evening I declare most
solemnly that I had no list whatever to argue, but only to set forth
and explain unto this civil and fair-spoken priest that which he
desired to know. But ’twas not to be looked for that I, matched
against such an extraordinary keen antagonist, could confine myself to
a cold setting forth of facts, and I found quickly that I was becoming
engaged in a smart controversy, Dom Lewis and divers gentlemen of his
acquaintance standing by to listen, though uttering no comment on all
that passed. The matter was ended at last by his highness giving the
signal to retire, and Father Sebastian saying that we must surely
resume our debate on the morrow, I bade him good night, and so
departed. But Dom Lewis coming with me into the hall while I buckled
on my sword, and two _peunes_[66] (which is Gentue boys or servants),
sought out and brought to me my hat and cloak, I heard him mutter in
his throat when he bade me farewell certain words. And of these the
sense never reached me until I had returned to my lodging, and was
ready to go to bed, though their sound seemed well known to me, but
then I knew them to be, _Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat_.

But, as I said, I did not perceive at first the meaning of these
words, and I went home after my usual fashion, with one of the
Viceroy’s servants bearing a lantern before me, and found Loll Duss
looking for me in no small alarm, since it was already late, and he
had feared lest some ill was befallen me. For, as Mr Martin had warned
me, in the streets of Goa is no safety for any whose occasions oblige
them to be abroad after dark, for what with the _Coffrees_[67] or
negroes, that are given no food by their masters, and the soldiers,
whose pay is always withheld from ’em, so that both must needs brawl
and rob for to keep themselves alive, the place is full of murders and
assaults every night. Nay, so bold do these robbers become, that ’tis
their custom even to break into houses, and strip the inhabitants of
their moneys and other goods, and kill those that resist them,
wherefore every prudent person is wont to sleep with pistols at his
bed’s head and sword by his side. And after this manner had I laid
myself down on this same night, with Loll Duss a-sleeping on the
threshold of my chamber, and was fallen asleep in great contentment,
expecting no harm nor fearing none, that peril from the unruly
brawlers alone excepted.

But on a sudden I was awaked by an extraordinary great knocking at the
gate without, and heard Peter run to ask who might be there. At the
first I thought it to be a band of those thieving soldiers of whom I
spake just now, but by the answer that was then returned to him I knew
what it was that should befall me, for a voice cried--

“The Holy Inquisition. Open quickly!”

“Loll Duss,” says I to my servant, that had rushed into my chamber in
affright, “these men are come for to take me.”

“Shall we resist ’em, master?” quoth he, snatching up my sword from
its sheath, and making as though he would defend the door.

I looked around, the while I could hear Peter fumbling to unfasten the
bolts of the gate. Perchance (says I), if we can drive them away for a
moment we may escape. But at once I perceived that ’twas impossible.
My chamber opened on the one side into the inner court, from which was
no exit but over the roof, and on the other into a passage leading to
the gate. There was no way of escape. But upon this a thought seized
me.

“No, Loll Duss,” says I, “we can’t resist. They are come for to seek
me, and must needs take me. But I dare be bound they han’t no warrant
for to hale you along with me, though they will take you if they find
you. Hide yourself, and save these papers of mine, and carry ’em with
you to Surat, to Mr Martin.”

And thus speaking I snatched up from my writing-book the letter I had
but just wrote to Mr Martin, and with it such notes as I had made
touching the designs of the Portugals in the Eastern Seas, and thrust
them into his hands. My pistols also I gave him, and such money as
come to my hand, and bade him be gone. And he disappeared and was gone
before I might so much as turn round, hiding himself in some hole so
secure as that they never found him.

Now all these things happened in far less time than I must take for to
tell you of ’em, and Loll Duss was safely departed when at length the
gate was opened, and the officers come along the passage to my
chamber. I met them at the door, and would have asked their business,
as one hugely curious concerning their visit, but at the sight of him
that led them my tongue refused his office, for he was my friend, Dom
Lewis de Bustamante. And he summoning and claiming me as the prisoner
of the Holy Inquisition, showed me a warrant, signed and sealed, and
upon this the rest of the officers entered the chamber, and set seals
on all that was therein. Now the seal that was upon the warrant bare
the device of a dove carrying in her mouth a branch of olive, and
these words in Latin, _Justitia et Misericordia_. Then I, looking upon
the medal that Dom Lewis bare upon his sleeve, did see wrought therein
this self-same figure and motto, the which stirred up in me a great
heat and indignation, that a brave man should suffer his friends
carelessly to endanger themselves in his presence, and never tell them
that his honour demanded that he should denounce and seize ’em. As for
the rest of the officers, they was as evil-looking a crew of rascals
as I ever saw, all clad in great gowns of black stuff, with hoods for
to shade their faces, but of their nature I saw little, for they said
nothing, leaving it all to Dom Lewis, that was most assuredly their
master.

And this nobleman asking of me whether I were ready to come with ’em,
I requested leave to finish dressing of myself properly, which was
granted, and likewise to pack and take with me my trunk, or at least
some clothes in a bag, but this he refused, saying that the Holy
Office should look to my goods, and I should have ’em again. Then
having dressed myself, I went with them to the gate, where they had a
coach in waiting, and put me into it, and themselves followed, my
hostess weeping and crying in the door that no such shame had ever
come upon her house before, and so departed.




 CHAPTER V.
 OF THE EVENTS THAT BEFELL ME ON MY ARREST, AND IN THE HOLY HOUSE AT
 GOA.

Now while we were in the coach I did make inquiry of Dom Lewis
whether they were a-carrying me to the _Santa Casa_ (or Holy House, as
the palace of the Inquisition is wont to be called, as though in
mockery), but he refused to answer me, saying that I should discover
where I was when I reached the journey’s end. And I therefore waiting
patiently, we presently alighted, and after some ceremonies gone
through before an officer, and the placing of irons on my feet, I was
taken along a certain passage, and thrust into an extreme noisome and
stinking place, wherein was already confined some thirty or forty
persons. And these, I found, were common murderers and thieves of the
town; for they rose upon me with one consent, and did take from me
such money and other small matters as I had in my pockets, I not
caring to resist them overmuch, as knowing that I should have no peace
until they were well satisfied that they had left me nothing. And
asking where I was, one advised me that the place was the _Aljuvar_,
or prison belonging to the Ordinary, that is, the Archbishop of Goa,
for that some law or custom hindered their carrying me at once to the
Holy House.

In this foul and filthy hole I was left for two nights and a day,
suffering great discomfort, and this not only in my mind, from the
company I was in, but in body also, inasmuch as the floor was so
covered with all nastiness that I durst not lay myself down, but was
fain to abide standing, or at most leaning against the wall, which
indeed scarce pleased me better than the floor, for that space of
time. This chamber of the _Aljuvar_ was situate below the level of the
ground, and hollowed out of the rock, holding but one small opening to
the light, through the which scarce a single ray could manage to pass.
In the midst of the floor was a well or chasm, from the which, as from
the lowest pit, there ascended evil and mephitical vapours, that were
at times insupportable. I can scarce find it in me to cast up against
the prisoners their robbing me of my money, and the eagerness they
showed in this thievish work, since the Ordinary provided no food for
’em, and they must have starved had it not been for the charity of
certain worthy persons, that brought broken victuals for to be given
them. I myself had been like to have fared ill but for the kindness of
the boy Peter, who brought me a basketful of such food as he could
compass, the overplus whereof I did divide among my fellows. During
the second night of my imprisonment I slept scarce a wink, being so
sore troubled with the vermins that abounded in the place, and the
stench from the well. Yet was not this discomfort wholly to be held a
misfortune, since it hindered me from dwelling overmuch on the hard
and unkind behaviour of Dom Lewis, which otherwise had sorely
exercised me.

Despite this saving clause, nevertheless, ’twas with a joy that I had
little expected ever to feel in the like posture of affairs that I
heard myself summoned by the turnkey to come to the door, in order to
my being transferred to the keeping of the Inquisition. At my request,
time was granted me to make some small changes in my apparel and the
like, and after this, the same persons as before met me on the
threshold, and carried me in the coach to the Holy House, which is
situate on that side of the great square that stands opposite to the
cathedral, and is of a lofty and solemn aspect, being entered by three
great doorways, whereof the midmost leadeth into the great hall, where
I was taken. And here my conductors delivered me over into the hands
of others that were there, and the irons that were upon my legs were
knocked off. And this occupying some time, I had leisure to consider
how little, when I, as had once been my custom, had read with my
cousin Dorothy on the Sunday evenings in Mr Foxe his ‘Booke of
Martirs,’ sitting in the summertime in the garden-arbour, and on the
settle beside the great hall-fire in the winter, how little, I say, we
had thought that I myself should ever come as a prisoner into the
hands of that very Inquisition, of the devilish cruelties whereof we
trembled only to read.

But these musings could not last long, for when they had released me
from my irons, the officers into whose charge I had been given led me
into a chamber opening from the hall, that is called, as I heard
thereafter, the Board of the Holy Office. This chamber is hung round
about with very fair tapestry, wrought in stripes of blue and citron
colour, and at one end on’t a great crucifix in projecting work, that
reached almost to the ceiling. There was a raised place in the midst,
whereon stood a long table with great chairs set all around it, and at
the end by the crucifix a folding-stool for the secretary. Opposite to
this was set another fold-stool for the prisoner (that was I), and in
the chairs around the table sat my lords the Inquisidors[68] and
their officers. And of these Inquisidors, that are persons of a mighty
severe aspect, and very reverend of bearing, the chief is a secular
priest, and the second a religious of the Order of the Dominicans, and
vested in their particular apparel, which is a white vesture set with
a crotchet[69] in black, and this under a black gown or cowl. And I,
after bowing myself with all imaginable respect unto their lordships,
did sit down, as they bade me, upon the stool set for me, having on my
right hand the Grand Inquisidor, who, beginning to speak, said to me
somewhat in a tongue that I took to be the Italian, but which I
understood not, and did shake my head for to signify the same. They
asked of me next, whether I could speak the Portuguese, and on my
answering in that tongue, with some halting, that I understood it but
passably, and spake it as yet hardly at all, they demanded to know
whether I would have an interpreter. And I accepting of the same with
gratitude, they sent a messenger, who presently returned, bringing
with him a Jesuit priest, clothed, as their manner is, in a long black
gown, with a collar and rings, and a high round cap flat at the top,
and this person did take his stand beside my lord the Grand
Inquisidor, for to interpret to me what he should say.

At the command, then, of his lordship, this Paulistin asked of me, in
outlandish enough English, concerning my name and state of life, both
which I gave him, and then concerning the cause of my arrest, to which
I made answer that to the best of my belief ’twas my not complying
with the superstitious custom of the place--viz., in my refusing to
bow to the procession that went past, carrying the Host with it. And
upon this, with great solemnity, the interpreter adjured me to make a
full confession of all the matters whereof I was accused, for that
then the Holy Office should exercise its right of mercy, and release
me speedily, with great advantage gained to my soul. He bade me also
search and see whether my conscience warned me of no other crimes, for
the which I might worthily be brought to trial and punished, but I
made answer that I knew not what they might account crimes, but that
so far as I remembered I could not charge myself with any that need
come under their lordships’ notice. Furthermore, I declared to them
that I was a subject of the King of England, and desired to be
assisted by some consul or other officer of his majesty’s, and also
threatened them with our fleet should they ill-use me or refuse me
justice; but upon this they did dismiss me hastily, and bade the
interpreter see me duly lodged.

I was taken then to a certain gallery, the priest and the secretary
going with me, and there was brought thither my two trunks, and these
the _alcaide_, as they call the chief turnkey, set himself to open and
search, the secretary being at his side and noting down what was found
therein. And while this was doing, the priest that had acted
interpreter turned to me with a jolly laugh.

“These men speak no English,” says he, “and I have many things to ask
of ye that I’d fain know, so with your pleasure we’ll discourse
awhile. May I ask whether ye would be son to Sir Harry Carlyon, that
once led the king’s forces in the West Country?”

“Seignior,” says I, greatly surprised, yet willing to be civil to this
agreeable person, “Sir Harry Carlyon is my father.”

“Well met, then!” said he, “though I’d be glad to have had it in a
better place. Your good father did me a kindness once, and sure I’ll
not forget it. I hope Sir Harry is in good health, sir?”

“He was well when he writ to me last,” says I. “But pray, seignior,
pardon my boldness in asking where you gat acquainted with my father.
Was it in the wars of Germany?”

“Nay, ’twas in the wars of England,” says he. “The history on’t I’ll
tell you another time, but advertise me now how matters are going
under King Charles II., in Ireland especially.”

I perceived then that this person’s outlandish talk was all after the
manner of the Irish, and after I had told him something of that which
he desired to know, I learned that his name was Thigue O’Leary, but
that in religion he was called _Padree Deodoro_, which in our tongue
is Father Theodorus. Also he was good enough to testify great goodwill
towards me, and to say that he hoped he should see me from time to
time, for which (says he cheerfully) there will be opportunity enough
before ye leave this place.

“For I see,” says he to me, “that ye are a lively youth, and mighty
nimble with your tongue too. Sure I nearly laughed outright to hear ye
calling down wrath on their lordships just now. And the cunning of ye!
How did ye know that there was a poor Irishman here, dying for a man
to talk to, when ye pretended not to understand the Inquisidor’s
Latin?”

“I han’t heard any Latin, sir,” said I. “His lordship spoke to me in
the Italian, as I believed.”

“Italian!” cried Father Theodorus, winking upon me with his eye, “sure
’twas mighty ancient Italian; like this, wan’t it?” and he pronounced
some words, so that I saw that what I had taken for Italian was but
Latin, spoken in their barbarous and Papistical fashion, as I had
before heard it from Dom Lewis. But the Padree continued to believe
that I had spoken falsely, and had denied my knowledge with the intent
to gain some advantage.

“But pray, sir,” says I, seeing that he would not believe me, “tell me
how long I must stay in this place?”

“Until ye die or convert,” says he, mighty drily.

“Alack, then, I am undone!” I cried; “but how will they use me?”

“That also depends on yourself,” says he.

“Unhappy wretch that I am!” I said; “what shall become of me?”

“Sure I don’t know,” says Father Theodorus; “but for your own sake, I
trust ye will convert. But that ye will determine for yourself. My
business is but to talk to ye. As I said, ’tis sorry I am to see your
father’s son in this place, but I’m glad to have an Englishman for to
talk with. I can’t let ye out, indeed, but I can talk to ye, and maybe
convert ye, and even if I can’t do that, I might do worse than try.
Sure ye have yet some things to be thankful for.”

Such was the strange and laughable humour of the man, that I could
scarce avoid a smile even then to hear him. He took such infinite
delight in a jest, as I have never seen equalled, and had a droll
fashion of playing the philosopher with regard to untoward chances,
that brought some diversion and even consolation therein. But he could
not now treat me with any more of his philosophy, for the officers,
having finished the searching of my boxes, came now for to search me
also. And so well was this searching done, that they took from me even
such little matters as the thieves in the prison had left me, among
them his highness the Viceroy’s ring, the which I had contrived to
hide, and gave back to me only my handkercher, which was but a coarse
one, and not laced. Seeing that they had placed aside my books, which,
in truth, were not many, but very dear and precious to me, I entreated
that they would suffer me to keep them; but the secretary, through
Father Theodorus, told me that no books was allowed in the Holy House.
My comb even they also took away from me, saying I should have no need
on’t, which indeed was true, since they brought a barber at once for
to cut off my hair. Now this was very thick and long, so that I was
extreme loath to lose it, nor has it ever grown since as it should do.

“Sure, ’tis a Roundhead ye are become in your old age, my boy,” said
Father Theodorus; but so grieved was I that I could not bring up a
smile for his untimely jest. And thus cropped like unto a Puritan or a
madman, they led me to my cell. And this was situate on the higher
floor of one of the squares of buildings into the which this place is
divided; for on each floor are seven or eight cells, opening on a
gallery, and each cell is some ten foot square. And here they left me,
desiring that I might find myself altogether comfortable there, and
the two doors (whereof more hereafter) were locked.

Now until I had been left by myself in this wise, I had scarce
considered in my mind that I was truly a prisoner of the Inquisition.
The civility of the officers, the reverend presence of the Lords
Inquisidors, the decency with which the audience was conducted, the
pleasantry of Father Theodorus, all conspired to make me feel that I
was but in some piece of trouble a little greater than ordinary,
wherefrom I must speedily be released through the representations of
my friends. And even now, remembering that I had seen naught of the
savage cruelty I had looked for, I considered that perhaps this
antique tribunal was changing with the times, and becoming more
merciful, wherefore I had been subjected to no manner of torture. How
was I doomed in after-days to be undeceived in regard to this matter!
and truly, when I had been for some time locked into my cell, my old
fears returned thick upon me. It seemed to me at first impossible that
it should be I, Edward Carlyon, that found myself in such a situation,
and that it was in truth an evil dream, wherefrom I should presently
awake and discover myself in bed at my lodging, or at least in that
stinking cave of the _Aljuvar_. But when I was risen up, and had
walked from end to end of the chamber, and looked upon and touched all
that was therein, I knew that ’twas no dream, but a dreadful truth
that could bring to me (as I thought) only death or dishonour. And
remembering the tales I had heard and read concerning the devilish
doings of the Inquisition, I prayed to God that I might be enabled to
make choice of the first rather than of the last.

Now when I had remained for some time plunged in these gloomy
contemplations, the _alcaide_ brought in my dinner, the which, since I
had tasted naught that day, did mightily refresh me, so that when I
had eaten I was minded to see all that was in my power. And first I
applied myself to look at the chamber itself, which is still as clear
imprinted on my mind as if I saw it now, as well it may be, since
there was granted me so long time for to study the aspect on’t. The
cell was, as I have said already, some ten feet square, and at one end
the floor was raised, so as to be a platform for sleeping on, whereon
was spread a mat, and a checked counterpane for me to wrap myself
withal. And for all other furnishing was there only divers earthen
vessels, some finer and some coarser, for to hold water for washing,
drinking, and the like, and a brush wherewith to sweep the chamber.
Beside these was there the lesser of my two trunks, with certain
clothes in it and no more. The roof was vaulted with stone, and it and
the walls washed white. Such light as there was came through a little
window covered with a grating, so high that even standing on my trunk
I could never reach it. The place was closed by two doors, whereof the
inner had in it a window, whereby the turnkey might put in my food,
but the outer was made all over of iron, and was very strong. And this
is all that was to be remarked in my cell, without it were the joints
in the stones of the walls and floor, which I may well know by heart,
seeing that I abode in that cell for three years. Now, if this had
been told me beforehand I had assuredly fainted in my courage, for it
seemed to me then, and will always so seem, that those three years was
the slowest that ever passed on earth.

It was not at the first that weariness pressed so heavily upon me, for
I determined within myself to use my time profitably, and so lay it
out to the best advantage. Wherefore I did set apart certain hours of
each day for the recalling my past life, considering in especial how I
might have ordered it better than I had, and deploring my occasional
levities of speech or conduct. Likewise to the best of my power I
called up such things as I had read touching the Popish controversy,
and endeavoured to set in order in my mind such arguments on behalf of
our Reformed Faith as are deemed most certain among us. And in order
that I might not suffer altogether from the loss of my books, in case
some fortunate chance should ever afford me enlargement, I gave some
time to repeating over those passages which I knew by heart, whether
of the Bible or of other good books, or of such poetry as had come in
my way of late years. And lest I should suffer in my employment as a
merchant, of every day I devoted also a part to the making and casting
up of accounts, bills of lading, invoices and the like, such as it
might fall to my lot to draw out again should I ever win release. And
to all this employment of my mind I conceive it to be due that I was
able to pass through these years with health and clearness of brain,
in spite of the many cruel torments from the which I suffered, as you
shall hear.

Now when I had been some five months in this place (I meanwhile
marking the time by scratching with a broken potsherd a line upon the
wall for each day), and hearing nothing nor receiving no summons from
their lordships the Inquisidors, the _alcaide_ told me that I must now
petition for a trial. And I, being by no means desirous to bring upon
myself those severities whereof I had read, yet neither wishing to be
left to live out my appointed course of life in this manner, did ask
that I might be visited by Father Theodorus. Now this good man I had
already seen twice since the day I had entered the place, since once
in every two months one of the Inquisidors, together with their
lordships’ secretary, is wont to go round to all the cells, asking the
prisoners whether there is aught whereof they would make complaint,
and with these come Father Theodorus as interpreter. But on my sending
to seek him he came again, and entering my cell with the _alcaide_
(for no officer of the Inquisition may ever speak with a prisoner
alone), he asked me with great eagerness whether I was willing to
convert. And I replying that I had no such thought, he testified
extreme pity and sadness, but advised me that I should put their
lordships in mind of my case through him.

“Not that ’tis forgot,” says he, “for the articles of accusation are
drawn up, and the witnesses have been duly examined; but their
lordships were willing to grant ye a convenient space wherein to
consider and repent of your deeds if ye so desired it.”

“But pray, sir,” says I, “who were the witnesses? For it hath always
been told me that seven were required.”

“Why,” says he, “the chief is Dom Lewis de Bustamante, that brought ye
hither. Then there is Father Sebastian, a Paulistin like myself,
several gentlemen that heard ye speak blasphemies in his highness’s
palace, and divers persons of the lower sort, convicts and soldiers
and the like, that witnessed your carriage and heard your words on the
bridge and in the square of the cathedral.”

“Truly,” said I, “you seem hard put to’t for witnesses, and yet, since
you have so many, methinks Dom Lewis had done well to have made shift
to resign his duty as one of ’em, which can scarce be pleasing to a
gentleman of his quality.”

“Ye poor ignorant heretic!” cries Father Theodorus, “’tis his duty,
and therefore his delight. Sure ’twas he accused ye.”

“_Mine own familiar friend!_” says I.

“What would ye have?” says the father. “He could do no otherwise; for
if he had not done’t, sure he’d have been denounced himself by the
priest. ’Tis the law that he that conceals heresy is himself a
heretic, and earns the like punishment. And Dom Lewis, being an
officer of this holy tribunal, must not set an example of failing in
his duty.”

Now upon this I fear that I forgot myself, and uttered many things
that should not have been said concerning both the Holy Office and its
ministers, such as were little like to better my situation, since even
Father Theodorus put his hands before his ears and besought me to
cease, saying he could not stay to hear such blasphemies. And I, being
loath to displease and fray away this good friend, did force myself to
cease, and begged of him to take such steps as he saw best for the
bringing my case before their lordships. And he departing, I felt all
at once an extraordinary great grief that I should of myself have
broke in upon my safe, though quiet life, and called myself a fool for
my pains, and would have had him return if it had been possible.

But ’twas now too late for this, and some three days thereafter the
_alcaide_ advertised me that I was summoned to my second audience of
the Inquisidors, and bade me dress myself very neat for to come before
their lordships. He carried me with him then to the same chamber as
before, and when we were arrived at the door on’t, knocked three
times. At the third time a bell was rung from within, and the door
opened by an officer, when their lordships were discovered sitting
around their table as before, with the clerk ready at hand, and Father
Theodorus also, bearing as solemn and devout an aspect as if he had
never passed a word with me in private in his life. The Grand
Inquisidor, by his means, then ordered me to kneel down and take upon
a certain book the oath which they should administer to me. And this
book was, in so far as I could judge, a _Missale_ or office-book of
the Roman Church. I then kneeling, they required of me to swear that I
would conceal all the secrets of the Holy Office, and speak the truth.
To whom I made answer that, knowing none of their secrets, it was not
reasonable to suppose I could reveal ’em; but that to the second part
I would swear willingly, though I needed no swearing to ensure the
truth from me. Whereupon they administered the oath, and bade me again
be seated.

And now they desired to know the names of all my kin, even so far as
my grandparents, which were all wrote down with much ceremony, and
then asked whether I had been baptised, which when I had answered, one
of the officers thrust before me a crucifix, and demanded of me to
take an oath of my confession of faith. This was so sudden and so
little expected that I was for the moment taken aback, so that I saw
Father Theodorus look glad and happy, as thinking that I was about to
profess myself a Papist; but I thank God that strengthened me and
enabled me to declare that I had been born and brought up a Protestant
of the Reformed Church of England, in which, if it so pleased Him, I
hoped also to die. And upon this the chief Inquisidor addressed me,
Father Theodorus interpreting, and said that I must now be proceeded
against for an heretic, and so remanded me to my cell, adjuring me to
tax my memory and thus make a good confession when I next came before
the Board of the Holy Office.

Now on returning to my cell, I experienced a great gladness and
uplifting of heart, for that God had graciously given me power to
witness a true confession, so that I was constrained to lift up my
voice in praise to Him, singing one of David’s psalms, until the
_alcaide_ came with small patience to my door, and roughly told me
that if I did not cease my singing, I should receive two hundred
lashes. But although they might stop my mouth, yet could not they
hinder me from making melody in my heart, so that I can truly say,
that had the summons to the torture-chamber come that night, I had
gone to the rack, yea, even to the stake itself, with as great
constancy and as firm a heart as any of those blessed martyrs of whom
we read. In this happy posture of mind I remained for some days, being
so enwrapt in holy joy and confidence that I hailed every step in the
passage as perchance that of one who might be sent to summon me to
glorify God in the torment, and leaped up to meet the turnkey on his
entrance.

But the summons did not come, and I returned by degrees unto my old
ways, yet with a mind not so settled and a humour more melancholic
than before. For there come to me in the night visions of the old
house at Ellswether, and my father sitting in his great chair in the
hall, and on the threshold little Dorothy watching for tidings of me,
and wondering and grieving because none came. And the devil was not
sparing of evil suggestions--viz., that I should purchase lasting ease
and freedom by a seeming compliance, such as need not bind me in the
future, and must needs be far better than to die unknown a shameful
death, while those at home should never guess what had befell me.
Night after night was I tormented with these evil dreams, engendered
in great part, as I have no doubt, by the closeness of the place and
the extreme desire I had to go abroad in the air, which not happening,
I lacked at last even strength to perform the tasks I had set myself
in the daytime. And when, after some three or four months, the
Inquisidors summoned me again before them, so broken and weary was I
that it had given me little pain to have gone straight to death
instead.

And at the beginning of this third audit was there the same ceremony
observed as before, but more persons was present, notably one that had
the appearance of a proctor or advocate. And I being seated as
heretofore, and after some questions asked of no importance, they
showed me a great paper covered thick with writing and garnished with
divers seals, and told me that there was therein contained the charges
made against me, which I must now answer according to my oath. And
upon this the secretary did read out one by one the accusations, to
the number of two-and-twenty in all, and to these I did my best to
answer, though no time was given me for the considering what I should
say. And so trivial and foolish were some of these charges that I
can’t now so much as remember them, but I will down set the chief of
those that I recollect.

First, there was several accusations charging me with insulting the
Host that was carried in the procession, with insulting the images of
the saints by refusing to kiss them, and with insulting the Holy
Church by saying that her monks might be better employed than in
praying in their monasteries. To these, after some small changes made
in the words, I confessed. And after these come another set of charges
that wrought in me no small astonishment. For it seemed that my chance
words said to the boy Peter in my walks with him, or to Dom Lewis and
other young gentlemen, or merely remarked, and addressed to no one at
all, had been twisted and turned to mean disrespect to the objects
they worship. And this although no such disrespect had been intended
nor thought on, for I always conceived it only due to civility to make
no attempt upon the religion of the persons with whom I discoursed,
without they should try to meddle with mine. And after this the
Inquisidors accused me of coming to Goa with malicious and criminal
designs of subverting the Viceroy and the authority of his majesty the
king of Portingale,[70] and of overturning the Church, supporting
their charges by reports gleaned from Portuguese merchants and
sea-captains, and scraps they had pieced together from my books and
papers. And these two classes of charges I steadfastly denied. But the
last of all was that I was found to be an obdurate and contumacious
heretic, that refused to mend my ways for all their gentleness and the
opportunities they gave me, and this I must needs confess to be true.

This business then being finished, the Grand Inquisidor demanded of me
whether I desired a counsellor for to plead my cause, and I answering
that I did so desire, they pointed out to me a person that held, they
said, that office, and was the one I had thought to be a lawyer. But I
demanding when I should be permitted to consult with him upon my
defence, they told me that this was not permitted. I looked then that
this gentleman should essay some sort of defence out of his own
wisdom, but he made no motion to speak, and Father Theodorus, the Lord
Inquisidor commanding him, said, “Lawyers an’t allowed to speak before
the Board of the Holy Office.” Then I, perceiving that their semblance
of justice was but a blind and a pretence, did commend my soul to God,
and told their lordships that I had no more to add unto what I had
already said, and that if that didn’t satisfy them, then I was in
their hands, and they must even do what they would with me. Then says
the Grand Inquisidor, with a very evil and menacing air--

“You won’t confess? Remember that we have here means to force
confession. Go, and think upon this, and God bring you to a better
mind!”

Then the _alcaide_ brought me back to my cell, where, seeing that I
had no more any hope of enlargement, and that they purposed evil
against me, I gave myself up for some time to an extreme grief and
sadness. And this being observed, they sent to seek Father Theodorus,
as thinking, no doubt, that fear was bringing me to yield, and this
civil person and good Christian (although a Papist) made haste to
visit me. And truly (though I hope it an’t in any spirit of boasting
that I say it), had I been in any way inclined to turn, his words must
have won me. For it seemed that the Portugals, having some slight
inkling of the true reason for my errand to Goa, did credit me with
much greater authority and insight than I possessed, and would have it
that I was sent to concert plots for the revolting of the country by a
league of the English with Seva Gi the Moratty king. Thus it appeared
to them that if I would convert and join myself to them, they would
become acquainted of all the plans and designs of the Company with
respect to the Indies, and so be able to thwart ’em all.

And in this thought they made to me, through Father Theodorus, many
flattering offers (too flattering, indeed, ever to be performed, had I
been fool enough to be allured by them). For they were willing, said
he, to settle upon me a pension, and upon my heirs after me, and to
marry me to a kinswoman of the Viceroy’s (who was commended to me as
extraordinary handsome and a great fortune, and had, so said Father
Theodorus, caught sight of me from a balcony when I was at large, and
become enamoured of me), and so to transport me safely to the Brasils,
where a genteel estate and a convenient provision of slaves should be
appointed me. And on the other side, says Father Theodorus, while as
with the tears standing in his eyes he besought me to convert, there
was the rack and other more fearful torments, and a miserable death at
the burning-place. So moving were his pleadings that the _alcaide_
himself joined in them, and entreated me with much earnestness not to
throw away soul and body alike. But through God’s grace I was enabled
to stand firm and refuse them, and so they left me, warning me that I
should afterwards desire to have followed their advice.




 CHAPTER VI.
 OF THE SECRET, DREADFUL, AND BLOODY DOINGS OF THE TRIBUNAL OF THE HOLY
 INQUISITION.

Now you may look to hear that after this firm refusal to convert I
should find myself most happy and strong in my mind, and await with
patience and constancy the tortures that were to come. But so weak and
feeble is our poor human nature, and mine in especial, that I was
troubled night and day with dreams of the rack, so that at the last I
could neither sleep nor eat. And doubtless, to those watching my
situation, it seemed a hopeful thing to behold how weak and timid I
was grown, and one night they haled me from my bed to the chamber
where the Board sat. And here they did demand of me once more whether
I would recant my heresies and confess the crimes wherewith I was
charged. And I answering that any crimes I had committed I had already
confessed, and did most willingly repent for ’em, but that I could
neither confess nor repent for those whereof I was not guilty, they
declared me an obstinate heretic, and commanded me to be carried to
the torture-chamber.

This place, which was reached by divers galleries and damp passages,
was long and low, so far as I might see (for all the light was but two
candles), and the walls lined all over with a kind of quilting or
tapestry. And here was six men, of a very hideous and ferocious
aspect, beside those that had entered with me, to whom orders was
given that they should prepare the torture, I in the meantime leaning
myself against the wall, being too faint from fasting and terror to
stand upright. And when their devilish machine was ready, I found
myself seized by these men, who stripped off my clothes and laid me
upon a stand raised above the floor, fastening me down with a collar
of iron about my neck, and an iron ring round each foot. Then the
Inquisidor, that was come hither with us, demanded of me once more
whether I would confess and convert, which again I refused.

And thereupon the tormentors did wind two ropes around each of my arms
and legs, and, on a signal given from the Inquisidor, drew them all
tight at once. This caused me an intolerable anguish, and the blood
gushed forth under all the ropes, these being very small and cutting
even to the bone. Though I bit my lip through, I could not restrain
myself from groaning, and at last the ropes were loosed. Then they
asked of me again whether I would convert, but I still refused, though
fearing greatly that I must yield if the ropes should be again drawn
tight, so incredible was the pain. Wherefore I cried out aloud to God
that He would keep me firm in truth and integrity, and not permit me
to be forced either to renounce my faith, or to confess what I had
never done, and so I resigned myself again to the tormentors. Now it
may seem to you a strange piece of weakness, and one whereof an
Englishman had reason to be ashamed, though ’twas to me a great and
unlooked for mercy, that as soon as the ropes were pulled tight again
I fainted away, from the pain and constriction thus caused, and so
felt no more of their cruelties. And at last, the chirurgion[71] that
was there certifying that I could bear no more and live, they unloosed
me and carried me back to my cell, bleeding in many places from those
wounds, whereof I shall carry the scars to my dying day.

’Tis the custom of the Inquisition, when those that come under their
hands refuse to confess at the first application of the torture, to
tend them carefully and recover them so far as may be, in order that
they may entreat them even worse in the future, and this not a second
time only, but also a third, if they can endure so long. ’Twas in
accordance with this their custom, then, that I was conveyed again to
my chamber, my wounds bound up, and such meat and drink ordered to be
provided for me as I should desire. And this though there is truly no
cause to complain touching the ordinary food, the while is most
wholesome in its kind, being good bread, fish or fruit, and on Sundays
and holy-days also a sausage, and abundant in quantity as well.

And because their lordships saw that I was dull and heavy of heart,
they did send Father Theodorus to talk with me and comfort me, hoping
also that he would bring me to convert, through his kindness working
upon my weakness. And during some weeks his visits did indeed much
cheer me; but the end thereof was not such as my lords looked for,
though I can’t tell whether ’tis altogether to be charged to the good
father’s account. Now on the last day of his coming that I can
recollect at that time, I had but just lighted upon that in my cell
which awoke in me great curiosity, so that I pleased myself with
divers speculations concerning it. For while I lay upon my mat, scarce
able to move through weakness, and my eyes wandering over the bare
walls, there appeared to me on a stone close to the floor a certain
writing, that had never caught my sight before. It cost me infinite
pains to drag myself to that spot, and yet more to read the writing,
which I could not do but only at noonday. Then looking at it closely,
I saw that it was scratched with a nail or some such sorry tool, in
the Portuguese. But between my disease and my small knowledge of that
tongue, ’twas some time before I could understand it. Englished, it
ran thus, so far as I can recollect:--


 “I, Emmanuel da Lesminha, a New Christian, was brought hither on the
 13th day of May 1659, being accused as a relapsed Jew. On St James’s
 day of this year, 1663, I shall be brought out, to the galleys or to
 the flames, God alone knows which. God of my fathers, defend my
 innocence!”


The former part of this inscription was drawn deeply, with much care
and pains, as if the unhappy man had laboured long upon it, but the
second piece was scratched as though in haste, and was barely to be
read. I wondered much concerning this prisoner, whether the galleys or
the fire had been his fate, and purposed in my own mind to engrave a
like record of myself, when my strength should allow and a convenient
tool offer. Then come in Father Theodorus with the _alcaide_, and I
asked of him the name of the person that had lain in this cell before
I had it. I was surprised to see that he observed me somewhat
curiously before answering.

“Why?” says he, “have ye seen aught? The man that had this chamber
before ye was a _fetiscero_,[72] a sorcerer, that is, a negro from
Angola. I would not be telling ye how many good Christians in the city
he had bewitched before the Holy Office gat hold of him. Sure he could
make the rest of the _cofferies_ do anything he wanted for fear of
their lives, and even when he was brought here he never ceased his
evil deeds. They tortured him until all the chirurgions declared him a
living marvel, but ’twas the devil likely looked after his own. They
could not kill him that way, and he’d not confess neither, though
three ordinary men should have died under it. They burned him at last,
and to several respectable persons in the crowd it was granted to
behold his evil spirit rising from the flames in the form of a
parti-coloured crow, and forsaking its earthly abode. By reason of
this miracle, his death was much spoken about, and the more that three
months later, to the very day, my lord the then Grand Inquisidor died
suddenly, and ’twas remembered that the _fetiscero_, in passing to his
burning, had bade his lordship meet him that day three months. And at
this evident proof that the Evil One desired to oppress all good
Christians in Goa, and had obtained a measure of power over ’em, there
was great processions took place, with litanies and intercessions of
the saints, for to move ’em to protect the city, and the Holy Office
renewed its activity in hunting out and destroying all _fetisceros_.
And one of these was taken, that had been friend to that arch-sorcerer
that was now dead, and this man confessed under the torture that his
friend had been wont to visit upon him at his house while he seemed to
be lying in this cell, and that they had by this means plotted much
devilish work together. Then the _alcaide_ remembered how that
_fetiscero_ had been wont to sit crouched in that corner opposite to
ye there, sometimes neither moving nor speaking for days, but wrapped
in a trance as if dead, save that his body was not cold,--and we could
not doubt but the devil had given him power to leave the Holy House,
though his body remained here. ’Tis said the spirits of such wicked
persons are wont to haunt the spots they have affected in life, and
that was why I thought that ye’d maybe seen him when ye asked me who
had this cell before ye.”

I moved somewhat uneasily, not over-pleased with this history, which
Father Theodorus seeing, he went on eagerly, for all the world like a
child with a ghost tale.

“Ay, and sure I’d forgot to tell ye that after the burning of this
_fetiscero_, a fever brake out in this part of the Holy House, and
though it carried off many, both guards and prisoners, could not be
stopped. Then their lordships, remembering the dreadful power of that
wretched man, caused the whole house, and especially this chamber, to
be searched. And in this very cell, under that very mat ye are lying
upon, just where your head is now, they found (’tis the truth I’m
telling ye), his _fetizo_, his charms, his magic, don’t ye know?”

“And what was this like?” I asked him.

“Well,” says Father Theodorus, “to our eyes ’twas but a bundle of
fish-bones and stones of fruits, with threads out of the mats, and
feathers of birds, and divers other such common things; but there
could be no doubt but that the devil had invested it with magical
power, for so soon as it was removed, the fever ceased to spread.”

“And what was done with the _fetizo_?” said I.

“Sure I’ll tell ye,” says he. “His grace the lord Archbishop yonder
ordained a special ceremony in the square before the cathedral, for to
exorcise the evil spirit, and thereafter they did burn the _fetizo_
with much solemnity. And as it burned it did send forth an
extraordinary nasty stinking smell, showing to all that ’twas the
devil’s own handiwork. And all the negroes that were present and saw
it cried out that ’twas a mighty great _fetizo_.”

“But who lay in this cell before the _fetiscero_?” says I, trying to
shake off the remembrance of the tale, though I won’t deny that I had
been right glad had the _fetiscero_ been lodged in any other cell than
this of mine.

“Some poor wretch of a New Christian, as we call those Jews and Moors
that adopt our holy faith,” says he. “They accused him of consorting
with others of the like sort, and truly, since all his kin were like
himself, and no others will company with ’em, he could not well avoid
it, but ’twas said that they did practise among ’emselves Jewish
ceremonies. He was in the Holy House for four years, and then was
delivered over to the secular power,--ye know what that signifies.
’Twas said that the galleys should have been punishment enough, but he
had been one of the richest persons in Goa, and his wealth was all
come to the Holy Office. So ye see they could not let him go.”

I had heard before of the heavy trials of these New Christians, but I
had never thought they should come so near to me as this. I would fain
have asked Father Theodorus more concerning ’em, but he could not
leave his tale of the _fetiscero_, and told me many more tales
touching him, each one more horrid than the last, so that I was much
disturbed and troubled in my mind, the more by reason of my sickness,
which he seeing, made haste to say--

“’Tis well for ye that this fellow is dead now, and can’t return
hither for to continue his evil deeds. If he had been a _fetiscero_ of
the common sort, they’d not have burnt him. The powder-mills should
have been punishment enough. Ye have seen those convicted of
practising magic working there, I wouldn’t wonder?”

“Those that bear gowns of yellow stuff, with a red cross before and
behind?” asked I.

“They do so. But ye see, he was too great a person for that. The Holy
Office must needs put him to death, and he is dead now, so he needn’t
trouble ye.”

“But if his soul was able to leave his body in life, why can’t it
wander at its will now, sir?” I asked him, “or maybe be conjured up by
his fellows, for to assist ’em in their unlawful arts?” This I said
more to perceive what he would say than because I believed that such
a thing should be likely to happen, though indeed many of our wisest
and most ingenious philosophers concur in ascribing extraordinary
powers (conferred, of course, by the author of evil), to the
practisers of witchcraft. My friend’s countenance took an air of
trouble, and then cleared on a sudden.

“Sure, I’ll exorcise the evil spirit for ye, my lad,” and with that he
walked to and fro in the chamber, and muttered his barbarous Latin
_hocus-pocus_ in all the four corners thereof, and then approached me,
and would have made I know not what superstitious ceremonies over me,
but that I besought him that he would not force upon me idolatrous
rites when I was too feeble to resist him. And upon this he ceased his
mummery, and departed with the _alcaide_, that had been bowing and
muttering mighty devoutly in concert with him.

Now when they were departed, there come upon me so great terror and
fear as I had willingly given all I possessed in the world for to have
them back. The sun was about setting, and through the narrow grating
of the cell there come strange shadows into all the corners, and there
was in the air that great stillness which I have ofttimes noted at the
approach of night. Not the tinkle of a single church-bell from the
city disturbed the quiet, and in the Holy House itself was nothing to
be heard. It seemed to me that there was some other person in the
chamber beside myself, and I lay upon my mat looking fearfully into
the growing blackness. And thus by degrees there seemed to shape
itself to me (for my mind was mightily wrought upon by that tale of
Father Theodorus’), the person of that _fetiscero_, sitting in that
corner where he had been wont, as they had told me. And indeed I can’t
even now determine whether that I saw were in reality the man’s evil
spirit permitted to return to earth, though truly, considering that I
have since beheld more than once the same phantom when I have been
seized with an access of the nightmare, I am inclined to set it down
as a delusion of my sick brain. Nevertheless, at that time, as it
seemed to me, I saw him as plain as I had seen the Father and the
_alcaide_ but now. He was a great negro man, very broad of his
shoulders, and he sat with his back turned towards me, and his chin
upon his knees, his hands being clasped in front of his feet. I could
see, as I lay staring upon him, that his body was all over seamed and
scarred with the marks of many tortures, and there was a pair of heavy
irons upon his feet.

So long he sat still there, and I watching him, not able to take my
eyes from off him, lest he should move and approach me, that at the
last I began to hope that he was in one of those trances whereof they
had told me, and would remain thus until the _alcaide_ might chance to
look in, and having beheld him, should take him away. But even as I
thought thus, he seemed to move, and his hands began to grope about as
though in search for something that they did not find. Then I knew
that he was seeking his _fetizo_, and my very blood ran coldly for to
think that he had last left it hid under that same mat whereon I lay.
I beheld him feeling about in the two corners at that end of the
chamber where he was, and then he turned himself, and, still
crouching, came towards me on his hands and knees. Now he could not
lift up himself, both by reason of his fetters and of those torments
that he had endured, so that his going seemed liker that of some
savage beast of prey than a man, and as he came, I saw his evil eyes
glitter, as though lit up by fire from within. He came very slow,
creeping along the floor an inch at a time, but he came always nearer,
while as I lay griping the coverlet with my fingers, and could not so
much as stir to move away from him. I never doubted but he was there,
yet even then it seemed strange to me that his irons made no sound
upon the stone floor, but doubtless (thought I) the devil had helped
him to be rid of the noise. Thus he continued to come on, slow and
steadily, until he gat up on the platform where I was, and began
feeling about on the mat. I could not discover that he had seen me,
but I durst not remove my gaze from those dreadful eyes of his, that
seemed to burn into my very marrow. He came crawling on, and when he
reached the spot where I was laid, stretched out his skinny hand, and
caught me by the throat. I felt him kneel upon my breast, I saw the
fire that flashed from his eyes, I felt his burning breath upon my
countenance, and then my voice returned to me, and with all my
strength I shouted aloud for help.

As Father Theodorus told me later, my cries, echoing along the
galleries, startled the _alcaide_, and brought him, hot-foot, to my
cell, where he found me lying in a raging fever. Finding that he could
not prevail upon me to cease my cries, nor hinder my engaging in
fancied struggles with that ghostly assailant of mine, he bade fetch a
stout blackamoor that was slave to one of the officers of the House
and spake no English, who should tarry beside me and restrain me so
far as he might. Which this poor fellow did, but though he could
understand naught of what I said, yet my gestures and my manifest
terror did inspire him with so much fear as made him recollect the
evil reputation of the _fetiscero_ that had last lain in this cell,
and conceiving that his devilish influence still lingered there, he
tried in vain to escape, and being securely locked in, was found near
dead with fright in the morning.

Now after this, seeing that one of the common fevers of the place had
seized upon me, being augmented by my trouble of mind and the pain of
those wounds I had from the torture, they had in a _pundit_, that is,
an Indian physician, for to endeavour to cure me. And I have since
heard it said, that the science of these physicians is extreme
ill-considered and like to be injurious, for they are wont to cure
fevers by means of divers coolers, which, say our physicians in
England, is mighty hurtful to the patient. I can’t tell whether they
succeed in restoring many to health by such means, but all Europe
persons in the Indies are forced to trust to them, saving in those two
or three places where one or other of the trading companies hath
provided a chirurgion of its own. And thus I can testify, for the
credit of that most reverend _pundit_ that tended me, that though he
brought me to death’s very door by his blooding and his drugs, yet I
am here alive this day, and who shall say that I should be so but for
his medicines? Yet he let me blood so freely that, even after the
fever had left me, ’twas many months before I could creep from end to
end of my cell, and indeed, one night, the bandages being in some way
loosened, I had like to have died from loss of blood, had it not been
for Father Theodorus, that came for to recommend me a confessor, and
found me needing a chirurgion. ’Tis well for me that this good man
straightway forgat the confessor, and set himself to fasten my
bandages again most deftly, he having some slight skill in the medical
art, else had I never lived to write this book. But as for that matter
of the confessor, this was not the first time, nor the last, that they
pestered me by reason on’t, thinking me near my end, and desiring to
have me die in their religion, so that they would come to me of
mornings, when I was half dead after a restless night filled with evil
visions, and beseech me to reconcile myself with the Church.

Now as I left the fever behind, these visions did not quit me. I
suppose that I was still light-headed, by reason of the blood-letting,
for I was continually tormented with the most frightful dreams,
wherein the two _fetisceros_, and that poor New Christian of whom I
knew only by hearsay, were mingled with their lordships the
Inquisidors and the gentlemen of my acquaintance in Goa, and these
again with the _banyans_ of Surat and the Company’s servants there,
and even with my father and my little cousin Dorothy, in the strangest
and most fantastical drolleries, the which were no drolleries to me,
but troubled me mightily. For being haunted by these phantasms night
and day, and seeing them continually whirling and seething before me
in uncouth dances and routs, and mocking me with extravagant gestures,
like so many antics,[73] I became, as it were, distraught, so that in
my frenzy I was at the pains to end my life by striking my head
against the wall beside me. In this wicked design, as you may well
perceive, I did not succeed, but only stunned myself, and was so found
by the _alcaide_ and my physician the _pundit_. And when these had
revived me, I poured forth to them so much of my troubles and of the
horrors that oppressed me as my Portuguese would convey, and they,
perceiving that I was in danger of going mad by reason of my solitude,
came to me the next day for to tell me that it had pleased their
lordships to grant me a companion in my cell.

This companion was brought to me before long, and his presence proved
a prodigious great cheer and solace to me, although we never spake one
to the other save on our most needful occasions. And this because I
had in my mind that common report which says that the Inquisidors do
often send to a prisoner as companion one that may worm himself into
his confidence and discover his secret matters with the intent to
betray them to his hurt, though now, remembering this person’s silence
towards me, I do believe that he feared me on the same grounds. Yet
was I glad to behold a face that was not a jailer’s, and so long as
this man was in the cell, my visions troubled me but little. I don’t
know by what crimes he had brought himself under the power of the Holy
Office, though Father Theodorus said he believed ’twas that he had
espoused two wives at the same time; but though he had espoused a
dozen, he did me a good turn in that he banished my dreams for me.
When we had broken our fast of a morning, he was wont to lie on his
mat, and I on mine, sleeping or meditating, but rarely speaking. So
easy are we to accustom ourselves even to the drollest situations,
that I found myself altogether solitary when I was deprived of my
silent companion. The _alcaide_ and another officer fetched him away
one night, and I never saw him thereafter, nor heard nothing of his
fate.

Nevertheless I had not too much time granted me, wherein to fall again
under the power of my delusions, for about three weeks after taking
away my companion, they came for me also. And I, remembering that he
was never returned, considered that now at last death must be at hand,
and called upon God to keep me steadfast, and so went with them,
although my weakness was such that they must needs support me all the
way. And being set once more before their lordships, they took
occasion to remind me that much time had been granted to me, and
likewise many incentives to repentance, and demanded whether I would
now make a full confession, to all of which I returned the same
answers as before. Then they had me away again to the torture-room,
but God moved the heart of the chirurgion that stood by, so that he
went up quickly to their lordships, and whispered them that I could
bear no more, but should die under the first application of the
torment, and at that they remanded me to my dungeon. But as I was
departing, the Grand Inquisidor says suddenly--

“Take heed what you do, for except you confess, the next time you are
brought here will be the signal for your death.”

But as I have told you, I was prepared for death already, so that this
threat did not move me, and I tarried during a long space very calmly
and contentedly in my cell. I considered that God was about
accustoming my mind to the approach of death, and for this I was
extreme thankful. I seemed to myself to look back on all my past life
before coming into this place as though it had been another man’s, so
that I felt that ’twas not I that had started out from Ellswether,
sworn to redeem the estates and espouse Dorothy, but another. ’Twas
not that I had forgot those at home, but ’twas as though I looked upon
them from some great distance, yea, as though I were already dead, and
watching ’em from heaven. It did not even trouble me what should come
to them when I was dead, for I seemed to myself to have no more to do
with the cares and concerns of earth. I would not say that this
posture of mind was to be commended or admired, as is that holy
uplifting of the spirit whereof we read in the histories of the last
hours of martyrs; for indeed I think it was but that dead calmness
born of certainty arriving after long suspense, yet neither was it to
be despised. Now at last, while in this mood, there breaks in upon me
Father Theodorus, that seemed to be as cheerfully disposed as ever.

“’Tis my last visit to ye, my lad,” says he. “Without ye are willing
to satisfy their lordships, that is. And sure I’ll put it to ye quite
fair, if ye are minded to convert, tell me, and I’ll convert ye
quicker than any one else, but if ye an’t so, I’ll not trouble ye.
’Tis the confidence I have in ye makes me assured that ye wouldn’t
give the pleasure of converting ye to one of the fat Franciscans in
the town there, when poor old Father Theodorus has been visiting ye
and watching over your soul for so long.”

“Sir,” said I, “I will certainly promise you that, should I ever
desire to convert, you shall direct the operation.”

“Ye have satisfied me,” says he, “and sure that’s why I’m come to ye
now, though I told their lordships that ye were obstinately fixed in
your wicked heresies, but I’d bring ye to convert if any one could.
Have ye considered the matter, my lad? There’s only death before ye if
ye don’t convert before the next audit, for if ye convert after
they’ve sentenced ye, ’tis only strangling instead of burning. Can ye
endure it, think ye? Ye are but young yet.”

“Sir,” said I, “I seem to myself to have lived a lifetime within these
walls, not to speak of the years that passed before I come hither. God
has granted me now such contentment with my lot, that I am ready to
die if He so wills it.”

“Alas!” says Father Theodorus, looking upon me strangely, “I could
almost find it in my heart to wish that I might be like ye when my
time comes. I have lived much longer than ye have, and sure I’m as
fond of this life as ever, though this is a thing no Paulistin ought
say. But concerning your friends, my lad? ’Tis sad I am to think of
your father’s son cut off like this.”

“Pray, sir,” says I, “tell me how you knew my father. I have never
heard that tale from you yet.”

“Why, ’tis soon told,” says he. “After one of those skirmishes in the
West Country, wherein the king’s forces carried off the victory, I
crept out at night on the field, seeking for a comrade that had been
left for dead, hoping to be yet in time to administer the last
sacraments to him. Having found him, I discovered that ’twas no
question of the last rites as yet, seeing that he was not in the
article of death, but only badly wounded with a sword-cut. I was about
doing what I might for him and the other wounded near at hand, when I
found myself seized monstrous roughly by several soldiers, that
declared I was plundering the dead. Finding an enemy thus employed, as
they supposed, they had surely slain me without mercy, but that your
father chanced then to come up. And he, after hearing what I had to
say, and inquiring concerning the truth of the same from those wounded
I had succoured, bade ’em let me go, and so dismissed me with a
caution, for the king’s forces, being hard put to’t to find food for
’emselves, desired no prisoners. And ’tis thus that I owe my life to
Sir Harry Carlyon.”

“But pray, sir, how were you on the side of the rebels?” asked I.
“Sure they was all mighty precise Puritans?”

“And why not I?” asks he. “Do ye think I could not sing psalms through
my nose, nor shout _The sword of the Lord and of Gideon!_ with the
best of ’em? ’Twas for the Church’s sake, my lad. There was many of us
did it, some even among the Ironsides ’emselves. We had received our
orders, and how should it signify to us on whose side we fought?”

I was silent, turning over in my mind this strange matter. For I
wondered much how that arch-rebel, Cromwell, should have taken it if
any had told him that there was Popish priests (and they Jesuits), in
his army, and what should have been the fate of the said priests had
they been discovered. Which Father Theodorus seeing, he laughed his
jolly laugh--

“Ye don’t know all the stratagems of Rome yet, Ned, nor ye won’t if ye
live to be an hundred. Ough! sure I wan’t intending to say that,
knowing what’s before ye as I do. I’ll try and see ye once more, my
lad, even if ’tis only on the morning of the _Aucto_. I can’t save ye,
ye see that, but I’m prodigious sorry for ye. Ah, _Seignior alcaide_,
how much I shall miss the long disputes I have had with this gentleman
for the good of his soul! Sure, I think that ye yourself can’t fail to
have been edified by all that has been said, though ye couldn’t
understand a word on’t.”

I believe that the _alcaide_ must have seen the wink that Father
Theodorus (even with his eyes full of tears) directed towards me while
he said these words, for he took him out somewhat suddenly, and
himself departed after him, reminding me that I was now enjoying the
last opportunity of repentance that the clemency of the Lords
Inquisidors could furnish me, since they must needs soon make an
example of me, for the sake of others. But having heard these words
more than once before, I did pay but slight heed to ’em, and so let
him go.

Now some few evenings after this, I was brought suddenly from my bed
before the Board of the Holy Office, being barely allowed time for to
dress myself, and here I was for the last time asked whether I would
make a good confession, and submit myself to their lordships’
direction, conforming myself to the doctrines of the Church and
believing them in my soul, or no. And I answering after my former
manner, the Grand Inquisidor, with a mighty solemn air, pronounced
upon me the sentence, which ran that as a contumacious and
incorrigible heretic I should be taken to the Church of St Francis,
and there delivered over to the secular arm, for to be dealt with
according to justice.




 CHAPTER VII.
 OF MY AMAZING AND MIRACULOUS ESCAPE FROM MOST IMMINENT DEATH.

Now after this last audit, I waited day and night with great
expectation for the _Aucto de Fie_,[74] as the Portugals call that
chief holy-day of theirs wherein they set at large for ever the
prisoners of the Inquisition, the words meaning _Act of Faith_. I
slept but little of nights at this time, for there come ringing down
the galleries the shrieks of those under the hands of the tormentors,
so that I would lie awake and pray for those poor souls to whom God
had awarded that further agony he had spared to me. For I knew from
much that I had heard and read before coming to this place that ’twas
customary to condemn obstinate heretics, before burning them, to
undergo many and severe tortures, and this out of pure spite and
devilish malice, as one might say, since recantation would now do them
no good. From these I was only exempted lest I should die under ’em,
and not live to the _Aucto_.

Thus waiting, and thus disturbed by these mournful sounds, the days
seemed to me to pass mighty slowly, and I was fain to occupy myself in
casting up my calendar on the wall, though I had lost many days
therein during my sickness; but by making allowance for this, I made
out that I had spent over three years in the Holy House. I gave much
time also to finishing my inscription in the wall, on which I had
bestowed extraordinary pains, being careful to write it not alone in
English, but also in the best Portuguese I could frame, setting forth
the day wherein I had entered the House, and likewise that I should
leave it for the flames of the burning-place on St James’s day 1672.
And on the day that I finished the carving of this record, the which
was performed with a certain nail that I had by chance picked up, when
as a carpenter was a-mending the lock on my door, I sat looking upon
it long, until the daylight ceased, and the _alcaide_ brought in my
supper. Now this was the day whereon he was wont to ask for and carry
away such clothes as I might desire to have washed, and I looked for
him to do this as usual. But he spake not of the matter, and when I
did put him in mind thereof, made answer in a surly enough fashion,
that he would see to’t on the morrow. Methought I knew then what
should happen; nevertheless, that I might be sure, I asked of him--

“What day is this, _Seignior alcaide_?”

“The Vigil of St James,” says he, and I knew that I was right.

This also I observed on this same evening, that after the chiming of
vespers from the cathedral near at hand, the bells began to ring
again, as though for matins, as I had never heard them before at this
hour, but why this should be done I don’t know. Nevertheless, despite
these warnings, so dulled was my senses become through my long
imprisonment, that I laid myself down and slept as usual, but at
midnight I was rudely awaked by the _alcaide_ and divers other persons
coming in with lights. They brought also a suit of clothes, the which
they laid down, and bid me put it on, and be ready when they should
come for me. And they departing, I did put on the habit they had
brought me, which was of black stuff adorned with stripes or lines of
white, long to my ankles and my wrists. I had no shoes nor stockings,
as never having worn ’em, but during my audiences of their lordships,
while I was in the Holy House, and my hat I had never seen since the
day that I was took thither. Thus I made myself ready so far as I
might, and so waited until the _alcaide_ and his company returned,
which was in the space of about two hours.

The _alcaide_ bid me come with ’em, and so carried me to the great
gallery, wherein was some hundred and fifty or two hundred men
standing, all being apparelled as I was. But I was not allowed to join
myself to these, for they brought me to a chamber shut off from the
end of the gallery, wherein there was but some fifteen or twenty
prisoners, and as many religious persons. And looking across the open
space to the opposite gallery as I entered, I saw that there was there
some sixty women, that were guarded after the same manner by priests.
I could well judge that the persons in the smaller chamber with me
were those sentenced to the flames, while in the long galleries were
those destined only to the galleys, to whipping and branding, and to
such other slighter torments as the Inquisition keeps for those guilty
only of small offences. There was a few lamps set here and there for
to light the place, and presently there come along two men that
delivered to each of us a long taper of yellow wax, but these were not
yet kindled. And now there come up to me two priests, Jesuits or
Paulistins, that addressed me very gently and affectionately, calling
me “Dear brother,” and besought me to convert, and so save my soul.
And when I refused, and entreated of them that they would leave me in
peace, they would not consent to do this, but came about me like bees,
and so pestered me that I had much ado to keep my temper with ’em. For
it seemed to me that I had much whereon to meditate, namely, all my
friends, notably those in Surat, beside my dear father and my little
cousin in England, but these gentlemen would not allow me so much as a
minute free for to think upon them. And at last I told them that I
would never convert; but that in case I should ever desire to do so, I
had given a solemn promise to send for one especial confessor, and
therefore could not pleasure them, whereat they left me alone for a
little while.

Now after some long time there come into the gallery several persons
bearing a great pile of garments, whereof they did distribute to every
prisoner. And I saw that the habits given to those outside the chamber
were those yellow gowns, with a red cross before and behind upon them,
that I had seen the _fetisceros_ wear that wrought at the
powder-mills, and that they call _sambenitos_. But coming into our
chamber among us, they brought forth another kind of gown, that was
fashioned of a grey stuff, and was painted with firebrands, flames,
and devils, and on each man’s gown his own portrait, depicted with
great taste, and very natural, but all encompassed with flames, and
this habit they call a _samarra_. And my _samarra_ I admired a long
while before putting it on, which one of the priests seeing, he took
occasion to rebuke me for my delay, saying--

“Ah, miserable heretic, think, as you contemplate this feeble picture,
that within a very few hours your soul will be tormented in real
flames, whose power you can’t conceive, and among devils to which
these are nothing in hideousness and ferocity.”

To which I answered him in a prodigious heat--

“Sir, I han’t neither asked nor desired your interference. I was but
contemplating the curious work of your artists, though I could have
wished that they testified more charity towards those that differ from
’em; but now I see from whom they learn their unkind imaginations.”

“You are sharp and impudent with your tongue, young man,” said he,
“and in a sorry state to await death,” and with that he passed on,
forgetting that ’twas not my fault that I could not prepare myself for
death quietly, as I had wished, but theirs, who disturbed me so soon
as I had collected my thoughts. And now they did give to us caps
called _carochas_, of a yellow colour and shaped like unto a loaf of
sugar, and painted like the gowns with fire and devils, and after this
they bade us sit down on the floor and wait in silence. Yet even here
and at this moment there was still some kindness to be found, for the
_alcaide_, that had always appeared to me but a surly fellow, came to
the chamber where I was, bringing a provision of bread, together with
raisins of the sun and figs, the which he did divide unto me and to as
many of the rest as he could reach. And having eaten this, we remained
sitting silent until the dawn, which happens in these climates about
five o’clock in the morning.

Now as the dawn appeared, the great bell of the cathedral in the
square, opposite to the Holy House, begun to toll, and there was a
mighty great stir and bustle at the further end of the gallery. Then
the names were called out of the prisoners there, and they passed out
one by one where we might no longer see them. And after this we in the
chamber apart were summoned, and came, one after the other, to the
door of the gallery, where were set the Lord Inquisidor and his
secretary, reading to each man his sentence as he passed. In the hall
beyond there was standing many gentlemen of Goa in their richest
array, having offered themselves to act as common constables or
tipstaves and guard the prisoners on their way to their execution.
Here an officer of the House did bind my hands with a cord, and
calling on one of the gentlemen aforesaid, delivered to him the end
thereof for to hold, and bade him lead me on. And I looking at this
gentleman, could not be sure that I had ever seen him before, and
finding that he was to be called my godfather for the time, I thought
he should by rights have some acquaintance with his godson, and so
asked him whether I had ever met with him in the company of Dom Lewis,
that was once my friend. But he started and drew away from me, making
no answer, though signifying with his hand that I must not presume to
address myself to him, and I recognised him as a nobleman that I had
seen more than once at his highness the Viceroy’s court. But since he
would not have me speak with him, this availed me nothing.

We were now come into the great square, where they were forming the
procession, and I had as much opportunity as I desired for noting the
changes three years had made. And yet I cared not to look at the
cathedral, nor at the rich mansions that bordered the other two sides
of the square, but only at the sky and the trees, whereof I had seen
none for so long a time. The place was very full of people, for the
Archbishop is at extraordinary pains to make the festival known
beforehand even in the remotest parishes of the province, so that
countless numbers of the lower sort do journey to the city from all
parts for to behold the sight. The balconies all round were decked
with flags and carpets, and crowded full with ladies, habited in
stuffs of many colours, very rich and fine, and wearing an
extraordinary great quantity of diamonds and other jewels, their
_cavalieros_[75] standing behind their chairs. So new and strange to
me after my long silence and loneliness was the noise and turmoil of
the press, that I was fain to shrink back into the doorway of the Holy
House until I was called for with my godfather to take my place in the
procession. And this was ordered as follows. First come the
Dominicans, in their garb of black and white, bearing with them their
great banner, the which has a portrait of Saint Dominic their founder,
holding in his two hands a sword and a branch of olive, and the words
underneath, _Justitia et Misericordia_. Then come the prisoners, each
one led by his godfather (that is, as I have said, a gentleman of some
one of the first families of Goa), the least guilty being placed
first, and the rear brought up by those condemned to the flames, among
whom was I. Behind come their lordships the Inquisidors, and the
lesser officers of the Holy House. And these being all marshalled in
their order, the procession set forth, the religious in the front
chanting slowly that Latin hymn beginning _Vexilla Regis
prodeunt_,[76] passing through all the chief streets of the city. I
have said that I was barefooted, as was also the other prisoners, and
we found that the streets was paved with a kind of small, sharp
flints, the which caused us a prodigious pain and annoyance, while
everywhere the people of the lower sort, that thronged the ways,
laughed and jeered at us as we limped over the stones with our
bleeding feet.

We come at last to the great church of St Francis, where was a
monstrous noise and tumult from the arriving of so many great persons,
for his highness the Viceroy and the Provost of the Jesuits were but
entering the church when we arrived. And here we had the chance to
observe the truth of that which is so often said--viz., that in Goa
the Inquisition is greater than the Viceroy himself. For his highness
rid up on a great horse with rich trappings and furniture, and the
Jesuit Provost came with great solemnity in his sedan-chair, with
eight _clericos_ on foot and bareheaded on either side; but the Grand
Inquisidor rid in his coach, which is as fine as any I have ever seen,
and whose use is allowed to him alone in the city. Some long time
passed while all these grandees entered the church and were disposed
therein according to their several degrees, we all the while standing
without in the great and grievous heat of the sun. But at last we were
brought into the place, that was hung with black, mighty solemn, and
on the high altar six great silver candlesticks with tapers of white
wax. On either side was there a throne set, that on the right hand of
the altar for the Grand Inquisidor, and that on the left for his
highness the Viceroy. Nearer the door was another altar, lesser than
the first one, and benches set all down the church for the prisoners.
As I have said, those adjudged the least guilty were in the front of
the procession, so as they sat nearest to the altar, while before us,
the last, being condemned to the flames, there was carried a great
crucifix, with the face turned away.

Now when we were all set down upon our benches, there went up into the
pulpit the prior of the White or Austin Friars,[77] and preached a
sermon, whereof the part that I heard concerned chiefly the wicked and
enormous deeds of us prisoners, and the mercy and placability of the
Holy Inquisition. But I may freely confess that I paid to this
discourse no such attention as I should, nor was I able so to compose
my mind as to meditate on those eternal matters most suitable to my
situation, but only the most foolish and impertinent subjects would
come in my head. Such as, Whether the _samarras_ and _carochas_ should
be burned with us, or no? and Whether the Inquisition was wont to
furnish for those gentlemen that served them for sheriff’s officers
the unguents whose perfume they dispersed around them, and the snuff
and succades whereof they brought out boxes for to comfort them during
the sermon?

In such trifling thoughts, and in gaping and staring about me, the
time passed away, and the sermon being over, there come into the
pulpit, one after the other, two persons to whom it pertained to read
out the accusations brought against the prisoners, and the punishments
that were adjudged to ’em. Last of all, as in the order of place, come
those destined to the flames, whose processes when he had read, the
officer went on to repeat that notorious and hypocritical
saying--viz., that since the Inquisition dared not show mercy to these
persons on the account of their impenitence, and found itself
indispensably obliged to punish them according to the rigour of the
law, it delivered them over to the secular arm and justice, whom it
earnestly entreated to use clemency and mercy towards these miserable
wretches, and that if there should be imposed upon them the penalty of
death, it might at the least be carried out without effusion of blood.
And as the name of each unfortunate was read (all having their name
and crime wrote upon their _samarras_), he was led up to the lower
altar, and there the _alcaide_ of the Holy House held him while as the
rest was said. And all having been gone through, the _alcaide_ struck
him a light blow on the breast, whereupon the tipstaff of the lay
court seized and led him away. And this they call delivering him to
the secular power, since the Inquisition has no authority to take
life. And I saw that some of the condemned, that were said to have
refused to confess their crimes, but yet to have submitted themselves
humbly to the Inquisition, and acknowledged the doctrine of Holy
Church, had their sentences changed from burning to branding and the
galleys, whereupon their godfathers did testify extreme delight,
embracing them and making them very many compliments. But with me
there was neither embracing nor compliments, and my godfather led me
away sullenly enough.

Thus we went again through the streets, passing always fresh crowds of
people, until we come to that same bridge where I had stood with
Father Sebastian and Dom Lewis and his cousin on that day wherein I
was arrested. So then we reached the burning-place, and the Viceroy
and his court was set in their stone seats, and the Grand Inquisidor
in his tribune, and the people of the poorer sort pressing everywhere
around. And in the midst was the stakes set up, one for each person of
those condemned to be burned, and piled about ’em was faggots of wood
and furzes. Then before they attempted anything against any of us,
there was many ceremonies necessary to be performed, such as his
highness’ rehearsing afresh his oath of office, and the like, while as
the priests were most zealously exhorting us to recant and confess
before it should be too late. Then they demanded of us in turn in what
religion we wished to die, and to those that declared they died
Catholics, it was granted that they should be strangled before they
were burnt. But I declared myself to die as I had lived, a Protestant,
and so prepared myself for that last and greatest torment.

But on a sudden, as I stood there, waiting to be led and fastened to
my stake, I observed a stir in the crowd, and certain men on the
outskirts thereof crying something with loud voices. Then all the
people swayed and eddied hither and thither, and some cried one thing,
and some another, and then the crowd began to melt away, like a heap
of sand when the waves reach it, and the voice of their crying came to
us where we stood, and sent the hands of all the nobles and gentlemen
to their swords, and set all the common sort shrieking and treading
down one another, in their desire to flee. For they were crying--

“Seva Gi! Seva Gi! the Morattys are coming!” in all their outlandish
tongues.

Then, when all around that were not fled were turning their eyes
across the river, for to discover the original of this tumult, I felt
myself suddenly severed from those unfortunates among whom I stood,
and surrounded altogether by a company of men, that wore the
slops[78] and doublets of our English sailors. And before I had time
to think what this might mean, they had cut the cord that bound my
hands, and torn off from me that shameful dress, the _samarra_ and
_carocha_, and flung it over the gentleman of Goa that had the
ill-luck to be called my godfather, and elbowed and nudged him out of
their way. Then he that seemed the chief among them wrapped me in a
cloak, for to hide the strange striped habit that I still wore, and
said in a hoarse whisper in my ear--

“Stoop, Master Ned; stoop, and we will hide you among us. You are too
tall.”

This I did, though still in an extreme confusion of mind, and the
troop of sailors gathered round me, and, keeping close together,
pushed through the crowd, swaggering mightily, and using their fists
not a little, and reviling the Portugals in good round English for not
making a way for them. Thus we passed through the crowd, that was now
thronging every street and bridge that led from the burning-place, and
pouring into the city itself. Prisoners and tipstaves and nobles and
officers and godfathers were all pressed and thwacked together, and
all ran and cried to take refuge in the fortress, and to shut the
gates on the Morattys. Now all this seemed very greatly to divert the
honest fellows that had me in charge, so that I heard them laughing
and jesting among themselves as if the whole matter were but a play.
But when at last we got clear of the bridges and causeys, and come to
the place where a ship’s boat was moored with two men left in her,
they stopped for a moment, and mounted upon a great pile of timber
that lay hard by for to see better. Then as they became quiet, looking
and hearkening, there seemed to be borne to me upon the air the sound
of fighting, and a great cry, as of rage or victory, that was in no
Christian tongue, but had the sound of--

“_Hoor! Hoor! Mohawdio!_”[79] and this we heard again and again.

Then he that seemed the chief of the seamen swore a great oath, and
came down from the wood-pile with a pale face, for, “On my life” (says
he), “the Morattys are really there.”

“And why not there, sir?” says I. “Sure that is what the people have
been crying all the time.”

“Ay,” says he, “but they wan’t there until now. We raised a false
alarm for to get your honour away safely.”

“Then how came the Morattys?” I asked, with much amazement.

“Nay, that you must ask of their father the devil, for I can’t tell,”
says he.

But I preferred to ascribe this marvel rather to the direction of
Almighty God, who, knowing, as I have no doubt, that the confusion
raised by a false alarm should not suffice for to convey me away to a
place of safety, used the designs of the Morattys to bring ’em to that
spot at the very time they were needed.

The sailors would willingly have stayed long watching the fight, but
their leader called them away, and we rowed down the river in the
boat, I being laid in the bottom and covered with a sail. So at last
we come to a ship, and when we went on board of her, I seemed to
myself to have seen her before, but so confused was I in my
intellectuals that I could neither recollect when nor how. Then the
master carried me into his cabin, and poured out for me a dram of
cordial water, and bade me drink it, and thereafter slapped me on the
back and demanded of me whether I had forgot my old friends. But I
could only gaze upon him bewildered, and answer nothing.

“Alack, poor lad!” cried he; “have the devilish wretches robbed you of
your wits? Sure this is a sorry sight. Poor lad! poor lad!” and the
great tears rolled down his face for very pity.

“Sir,” says I, “I entreat your pardon; but though your countenance
seem familiar to me, yet I can’t recall your name.”

“Tom Freeman is my name,” says he, “skipper of the Boscobel, the
tightest craft as ever left Graves-End. You sailed with me to the
Indies, Master Ned, for all you have forgot me now, and you were used
to talk of some day coming with me to the furthest East.”

But by this time I had recollected my old friend Captain Freeman, and
was embracing him most heartily, and crying shame on my dulled and
blind eyes, that had not known him at first. And so glad was he to
find that I had not, as he feared, been bereft by cruel usage of my
senses, that he forgave me willingly my seeming callousness. Then he
bade me sit down and tell him all that had befell me since the day I
left Surat, though first he asked my pardon while he went on deck and
bade the seamen keep good watch, and let no vessel nor boat approach
without alarming him. So I told my story as shortly as I might, and
then inquired of him concerning the happy chance that brought him to
the burning-place, since I had not thought him one to go to look on
willingly or for sport at an _Aucto de Fie_. And when I asked him
this, he brake out in a great laugh.

“Why,” said he, “we heard from one of those Inquisition dogs ’emselves
what was to be done--dragged it out of him, indeed, for he had no
choice.”

“Pray tell me how you compassed this, captain,” says I.

“Well,” says he, “we were in one of the taverns near the river last
night, the mate and I, and two or three of the crew, and there was
drinking there with us three or four Portugals, merchants’ clerks with
whom we had traded, and the like. We had ended all our business, and
right glad we were to think that the morrow should see us leave this
pestiferous place. Two of the men was mighty lively in their cups, and
must needs brag concerning the greatness and power of England, little
heeding that they were shaming her by their drunken ways. The other
guests turned to look at ’em after a while, and presently a Jesuit
priest, that was set at a table near at hand to us, spake out
prodigious wrathfully in English. ‘Ye may boast of your country,
gentlemen,’ says he, ‘but sure all her power can’t save the Englishman
that’s to be burnt by the Inquisition to-morrow.’ Now at this we were
very much moved, and cried out that the thing should be stopped, and
we would see to’t. ‘Ough!’ says the priest, after the Irish manner,
‘’tis not nowadays that the English cannons will be heard at the gates
of Goa, if such a thing be done.’ ‘By heaven!’ says I, ‘but they
shall, if we can’t hinder this shameful deed.’ And with that we got
the priest up in a corner, and threatening him with our hangers and
fists, demanded that he should satisfy us whether that he said was
true. And he held out stoutly against us for some time (the innkeeper
meanwhile dancing about behind us like one possessed, and imploring of
us not to bring disgrace and ruin upon his house by attacking a priest
there), and I was much afraid lest some one should think to send and
call the watch. But at last, seeing that all the other guests were
fled, our men being prodigious ready with their blows, our friend
vouchsafed to tell us that this Englishman came out of Surat, and that
he should be burned at the third stake on the right-hand side of the
line; ‘and as for his name’ (says he), ‘’tis wrote plain and large
upon his _samarra_, the which ye would call a gown or cope. And more
than this’ (quoth he), ‘I’ll not tell ye though ye keep me here until
doomsday.’ And at that some with me wished to rend his gown, and chase
him down the street with their swords; but I believed that he had told
us that which we needed to know, and bade ’em leave him to me. So then
I had him out of his corner, and bade him make the best of his way
home, warning him, moreover, that if he should ever declare what he
had told us, the Inquisition would have him. And at this he smiled in
my face, with a mighty agreeable smile, and says he, ‘Ye know a
prodigious deal concerning the Inquisition, though not so much as your
friend that’s to be burnt to-morrow knows by this time. My blessing
upon ye, my son.’ And with that he lift up his hand, and muttered some
Latin _hocus-pocus_, and departed, the men making no attempt for to
stop him, since they believed he had been muttering evil spells
against us.”

“’Twas surely Father Theodorus!” I cried.

“Who is he?” asked Captain Freeman.

“An Irish priest that showed me much kindness, for my father’s sake,
as he saith,” said I.

“Then if he showed you kindness, Master Ned, I would counsel you, for
the good man’s own sake (for good he must be, though a Papist), tell
no one of his good deeds, or he will surely suffer as you should have
done.”

“I will take good heed thereto,” says I. “But prythee tell me,
captain, how goes it with all at Surat? How fares good Mr Martin and
Mr Spender, and all other my friends in the Factory? and did my
servant Loll Duss ever return from this place with the message I gave
him?”

“Mr Martin is well,” says he, “and looks to be made Accountant
shortly, when Mr Accountant Cuthell, that now is, shall return to
England with his fortune made. Mr Spender is well advanced in the
service, though not by his own fault (for there an’t no diligence nor
prudence in him), but by the indirect procuring of Mr Secretary his
cousin. And of the other gentlemen I can’t speak without you ask me of
’em particularly, for I have clean forgot which on ’em you know, and
which are strange to you.”

“But what do they say touching me?” asked I; “and have they ever heard
what befell me?”

“Why truly,” says he, “that Gentue servant of yours, Loll Duss,
carried the news of your seizure to Mr Martin, who hath made divers
efforts to get news of you since that time, but in vain. Then at last
it got abroad that you had converted, and were gone to the Brasils in
one of the Portugal plate-carracks, for to end your days there, and it
was advised, upon this being rumoured, that word on’t should be sent
to the Committee, and that your friends should be told that you were
as good as dead. But because Mr Martin and one or two more held out
very stoutly against such a treatment of you, they must needs be
content with taking your name off the books of the Factory, and by
this means stopping your pay, and in this, I believe, they was
justified by ancient custom. Yet Mr Martin demanded that his protest
should be entered in writing against their so doing, and this was
punctually performed, he still believing that you would return. And
’tis thus the matter stands at this present. Mr Secretary and his
cousin Mr Spender are prodigious bitter against you, and have moved
his honour the President and the Council to their acts of harshness;
but Mr Martin is confident in your honesty, and will by no means
suffer it to be impugned in his presence.”

“Then my course now,” says I, “must be to return to Surat and declare
all my ill fortune.”

“Not so fast,” says he, “for we are but just sailed from Surat, and I
must take the Boscobel to the Factory at Bengall before she can drop
anchor again in Swally. You must needs come with me, Master Ned, and
see those parts, for I can’t turn back, and there an’t no other way
for you to journey safely to Surat. I don’t doubt but we shall speak
some one of the Company’s ships on our way, and then we may put you
aboard of her; but if not, then you shall go with me to Bengall, and
if the factor there send me on a further voyage, perhaps even to Syam
and the Eastern Islands.”

“But,” said I, “should I not hire for myself a _baloon_, and so leave
this place and go to Surat?”

“You an’t yet out of Goa river, Master Ned,” quoth he, “and as I
think, will undergo not the least of your perils in the leaving on’t.
You could not take your journey in a boat, as you purpose, without
awaking suspicion, and this should land you again in the clutches of
the Inquisition. Come and sail with me, and go back only in an English
ship.”

“So be it,” said I.




 CHAPTER VIII.
 OF MY SECOND VOYAGE IN THE BOSCOBEL, AND OF THE ENDING THEREOF.

Now we talking in this wise, there come on board of us the skipper
of a Dutch ship that lay near at hand, and told Captain Freeman that
the Morattys were beat off for the present, but that the town was in
an uproar for the escape of one of the prisoners sentenced to be burnt
by the Inquisition, and that a search should be made for this person
throughout the city, and also among the shipping lying in the river.
And the captain returning to the cabin, and telling this news to me,
we consulted together what we should do. And first the captain sent
his mate on shore, bearing a message to the captain of the guard of
that part of the city nearest us, offering to land some of his crew
for to aid in defending the wall against the Morattys, but the mate
was bid also to watch and see whether the search was yet begun, and
how far it was come. And he returning presently told us that the
captain of the guard had sworn at him for an impudent rascal, vowing
that his majesty the King of Portingale and the Brasils had soldiers
enough for to defend his cities without seeking the aid of English
braggarts, but with regard to the matter nearest our minds, the mate
had seen naught of any search, and believed that it should not begin
until the morrow. And this being confirmed by one of the crew of a
country ship that came to buy bread from us, I lay in the cabin that
night, and slept there peacefully.

Now in the morning, while we still lay at anchor in the river, an
Englishman on board of a Venice ship that was departing, calls out to
us that they had been searched already, and that the captain of the
port’s boat was visiting every ship in turn, and commanding all on
board to be mustered on deck. Then were Captain Freeman and I in some
affright, for he desired neither to perjure himself by denying my
presence on board, nor yet to yield me up to my enemies, so that he
begged of me to resort to a disguise that he would show me.

“For,” says he, “my apprentice is dead since leaving Surat, so that
his name is still on the ship’s books, and you must needs take his
place.”

And telling this to the seamen, they did lend very willingly certain
of their clothes, so that I was dressed in a sailor’s shirt and slops,
the which Captain Freeman was at the pains to pad and stuff out with
rags and suchlike, that I might not, said he, look so nearly like a
scare-the-crows. And because my close-cropped hair should have
betrayed me in a moment, he brought out a great periwig that he was
wont to wear to church when on shore, and hacked and jagged with his
knife at the curls thereof until it was as untidy and ragged as a
ship-boy’s hair was like to be, and so put it on my head. And I dare
to say that the good man has that periwig yet, laid up among his
chiefest treasures, and shows it with great pride to his grandchildren
for the memorial of a marvellous deliverance. And next, because my
hands was white and soft from so long idleness, he bid me dip them in
the tar-bucket, and with tar and other such things besmeared my face
and neck. Then he bade me call myself by the name of Samuel Needham of
Deptford (this was the dead apprentice), and so sent me to the galley
to wash the dishes for the cook.

Now almost before all this was done, we saw the Dutch ship boarded
that lay next us, and her crew mustered and questioned, but finding
nothing on board of her, they came on to us. And mounting the side, I
trembled greatly when I saw them, for beside the captain of the port,
in all his armour and feathers, there was there the _alcaide_ of the
Inquisition and one of his fellows, wearing those ghostly black gowns
and hoods I have before mentioned. Now when these stood on the deck,
and we were called to muster before them, my heart failed me, so that
I stood looking upon them from the shelter of the galley, a dish-clout
in my hand, and unable to move through fear. Then our good captain,
seeing me thus astounded, did send a seaman for to fetch me forth, and
finding me still gazing upon the visitors, gave me a blow on the head
that sent me reeling, and bade me leave staring at the gentlemen, and
go back to my work when I had answered to my name. And at this the
Portugals laughed mightily, and counselled him to get a better
apprentice, and so read out the names of the men, that all answered in
their turn, and allowed us to depart. And after this great escape I
thanked God, and wondered what could now hurt me, since I was
delivered from so pressing danger. Truly (says I to myself), if I have
the like good fortune in my adventures in the time to come, not
Ferdinando Mendez Pinto himself will near match my traveller’s tales.

And all being now ready, we weighed our anchor, and the Boscobel stood
down the river. Now when we come abreast of the fort that is called
Marmagoun, and again of those four forts that guard the mouth of the
river, my heart was in my mouth for fear, for (thought I), what if
they have discovered our trick, and should be preparing to sink us
with their cannons? But by good fortune, no such evil hap befell us,
though I saw the captain look pale and fearful so long as we were
under the guns of the forts. But when we were once gat past ’em, and
steering for the south upon a favouring breeze, his countenance waxed
cheerful once more, and he whistled lustily while he tramped to and
fro upon the deck. Then coming to me, who was gazing with a joy and
gratitude I had little thought ever to have the chance to feel, upon
the disappearing of the stately towers and marble palaces of that most
wicked and cruel city, he bade me lay aside that disguise I wore, and
dress myself more seemly in such clothes as he should lend me. And
this I did the more gladly that the seaman’s clothes I wore were not
at all to my liking neither for appearance nor yet for comfort. And
having put on a spare suit of the good skipper’s, I walked up and down
upon the deck with him, and as we walked I asked of him whether he had
heard aught touching my father since my starting for Goa, or no.

“Why,” says he in answer, “I ha’ heard something, but not much. For Mr
Martin told me, one day when as he and I was speaking together
concerning you, that he had wrote to Sir Harry Carlyon telling him of
the misfortune that had overtook his son, and reminding him that ’twas
possible he might never see you more, but there come such an answer as
surprised him.”

“And pray, what was that?” says I.

“Why, sir, ’twas to say that the good gentleman knew that his son was
engaged as he had bid him, and doing his best to fulfil the plan he
had set before him, and that he should therefore come to no harm, nor
would Sir Harry believe the same of him until he had spoke with one
that had seen it.”

“Methinks there an’t many fathers that would speak thus,” said I, “and
even with them, how seldom should their confidence in God be thus
signally justified!”

“Ay,” says Captain Freeman, “’twas a narrow escape, Master Ned, and
not even your good father’s trust in the integrity of your cause
should maybe have availed to uphold him had he known how little was
between you and death.”

“Tell me,” says I, “how you compassed my deliverance, for I know
nothing but that ’twas done by means of the warning of Father
Theodorus.”

“Why,” says he, “having heard him speak, we come back to the ship in
great grief and heaviness, for no man could think to devise any plan
for the saving you, save that the boatswain, that was over deep in his
liquor, would fain have had us storm the Holy House and release all
the prisoners there, and not you only. But the rest, of their own
selves, saw that this was beyond our powers, and could only lead to
our destruction as well as yours. Then as we went down to the ship,
there fell in with us an Englishman, that is brother to my mate, and
clerk to a trader in Goa, one that hath journeyed through all the
Portuguese Indies, and seen many marvellous things. And chiefly he
spake to us touching the Morattys, how prodigious fierce they are, and
how warlike, and that the Portugals and their Indians here do fear ’em
as the very devil, so that ’tis said the shadow of one Moratty will
put to flight three Portugals. Likewise he told us that one of their
captains was took prisoner a month ago and brought into Goa, and that
their king, Seva Gi, as they call him, had sworn that he would take
the Viceroy himself and hold him to ransom if so be as this his
servant wan’t given up to him unharmed. And he said moreover that the
Indians was saying that they had seen the spies of the Morattys
creeping round about the city o’ nights more than once of late, but no
credence was given to ’em, these Indians being timid and fearful in
their minds. Now all this gave to us much food for thought, and so
back to the ship, where we spent full half the night in making out our
plan. And in the morning, having consented together upon what we
should do, we left only some three or four men with the ship, and went
upon our appointed ways. For I, with all the stoutest of the seamen,
went to the burning-place, and there set ourselves in array, or as I
might say, in ambush, close to that stake the priest had told us was
yours, and waited there until the procession was arrived. But the
mate, with four or five of the seamen, went and hired certain lads and
men of the baser sort, such as would stick at nothing that was to earn
’em money, and ask no questions withal. And going outside the city
with these, and waiting until the time was come for the burning, he
bid ’em do even as he did, and rushed from the plantations into the
road, crying, ‘Seva Gi! Seva Gi and the Morattys!’ Which when the
multitude heard, that was come in for to see the sight, they were
seized with fear, and rushed the other way into the town, crying out
that the Morattys were coming. And thus, what with the men the mate
had with him, and those he hired, and the crowd all crying out at
once, the alarm was well spread, and you know how that in the panic
terror and confusion we brought you away.”

“But what of the Morattys?” I asked.

“Ah, that I can’t tell,” says he. “I can scarce believe now that the
devil raised ’em up, for to punish us for our false news, but that was
the thought in my mind, seeing ’em at first. Howsoever it be, they
took back their captain, that, as I heard from the skipper of the
Dutch ship, was prisoned only in a block-house by the river, and I
don’t know whether they have the more reason to thank us, or we them,
for their coming. Yet tis now my belief that those tales of the
Indians concerning spies and suchlike were true, and that the Morattys
was hid in the plantations (it being a feast-day, and no work done),
with the intent to fall upon the city that night, but that our men’s
coming and crying disturbed ’em and made ’em see they were as well
make what they might from the tumult. But I tell you, Master Ned, when
I found they was truly there, you might have knocked me down with a
feather, so astonished was I to behold ’em.”

“’Twas a mighty strange escape,” says I.

“Ay,” says he, “and a doubly lucky one, since it gives me your
company, sir, on my voyage. And this I may say, that you need not to
grieve over the interruption to your sojourning in Goa, for I can
speak the Portuguese as well as most men, and you should by rights
have learned something on’t during these three years, so that we will
speak it together, if you so desire it. And moreover, sir, in so far
as I have any skill, whether in matters touching cargoes and
merchandises, or in things pertaining to the sea and the winds and the
sailing of a ship, ’tis all at your service, and I shall account it an
honour to impart to you of the same. And so long as it shall please
you to abide on board of my ship, so long shall it please me if you
will mess with me and share the cabin, and there must be no word said
of passage-money, for the favour of your company answers that.”

I could not make a fitting answer to an offer made with so much
delicacy and kindness, but I grasped my good friend by the hand,
assuring him that I counted myself only too highly favoured, that I
should enjoy the happiness of a voyage with him, and begged of him to
teach me whatsoever he knew. And this pleasing him, as I was well
assured it should (for I never met a seaman yet that did not love to
teach others out of his own skill and experience), we agreed that I
should be considered as supercargo, and I was thus entered on the
ship’s books, instead of in the name of Samuel Needham of Deptford.
And ’twas thus that I embarked upon a voyage that bid fair to be one
of the happiest times of my life, but yet led me into grievous sorrow
and peril, by the will of God, and as I cannot but think, by the hard
disposition of man as well. But that you may understand my meaning in
saying this, I must needs explain myself.

For there was on board of the Boscobel a seaman named Darrell, an
ancient person, and one that had travelled in many seas and was much
looked up to by Captain Freeman and the rest. And this man I was wont
to hear arguing and exhorting his fellows with great diligence, but
what he said to ’em I never troubled myself to learn, thinking that he
was but declaring to them the perils and dangers through which he had
passed in his many voyages. But one day, coming near where Darrell was
discoursing to the rest, I saw that he had a great Bible upon his
knee, and listening, heard him as it were preaching. Now this in
itself stirred my mind, but when I heard his words, I began to be very
wrathful. For the fellow was speaking most boldly and naughtily
against his majesty the king and all his court, and declaring that
such a sink of iniquity had ought to be swept away from off the face
of the earth, and that before God should destroy the whole nation by
reason on’t. And this I could by no means stomach, that a mean person
of this sort should set up himself as a judge over the king and the
nobility, and stepping before him, I bade him speak to his fellows of
their own sins, but to leave his majesty’s alone.

“Ay so,” saith he, regarding me sternly, “that is what you and your
like are alway wont to say, Master Carlyon. _Prophesy unto us smooth
things_, say naught, though vice sit in high places, and Popery go
unrebuked, yea, encouraged. But shall we say naught? shall we hold our
peace? Han’t this keeping silence brought upon us already two of the
Lord’s sore judgments, namely, the sword of the Dutch and the
pestilence? and shall the other two on ’em be long delayed? Nay, sir,
for so long as life be in me will I be among those that sigh and that
cry for the abominations that are done in the land, until the Lord
come to our help and drive out from before us that evil family once
more and for ever.”

“Do you dare speak thus of your king’s house?” asked I.

“I do, sir, even of that wicked and bloody house of Stewart,[80] that
is drunk with the blood of the saints and of the martyrs of Jesus.
’Twas an evil day when it returned among us, and God send that it may
soon leave us again.”

“Are you so bold as to desire another rebellion?” I cried.

“Is rebellion worse than all that passes in England now?” asked he.

“But sure it an’t any concernment of yours,” says I. “You are here,
and may stay away until there be a king to your mind.”

“Whence shall he come?” cried the old man. “One there was, even in
this wicked family, in whom some good thing was found towards the God
of Israel, and he was took away from the evil to come. Who is there
beside?”

“But who is he of whom you speak?” I asked him.

“The men of this world called him Henry, Duke of Gloucester, but to us
he was the young Josias, raised up for to destroy the idols of his
fathers and the tombs of their false priests. But the Lord intended
the overthrow of the house of Stewart, and left to it only those that
to the wickedness of their fathers would add yet more.”

“Man,” says I, “you are prodigious bold to speak thus impudently of
the royal house. I thank God that I and mine have never ceased to
uphold his majesty’s cause, and will do so still. But ’tis you and
your like that have brought God’s judgments upon Britain by that
shameful deed of slaying the Lord’s anointed, that blessed martyr the
late king.”

“Nay,” said he, “I had no hand in the well-merited death of that
bloody and deceitful man, for I was far away from England at that
time,--and even had I been at home, I don’t know that I had dared to
counsel the taking of his life.”

“But ’tis to that point that your opinions lead you,” said I.

“Maybe,” says he, “but men should lead their opinions, not be led by
’em. And had I been then in England, and not aboard the good ship
Covenant (Captain Godly-Fear Johnson, master), a-sailing the seas with
that fleet whereof Colonel Blake took the command not long
thereafter----”

“How?” says I, “did you sail with Blake?” For in very truth I had
heard much concerning this famous admiral and obstinate rebel, and was
minded to hear more. But this old man Darrell was not inclined to
further my desires.

“Ay,” says he, “I sailed with Blake, sure enough; and look you, Master
Carlyon, there was a ship and a ship’s company for you! Worship
publicly conducted mornings and evenings, and all day of a Sabbath any
man that felt himself moved thereto might open the Scriptures and
exhort the rest. There was some difference betwixt free spiritual
exercise of this sort, and the skipper here, reading on the
Sabbath-day from the Prayer-book and the Homily against Rebellion!”
This he said with a prodigious scorn.

“Nay,” said I, “doubtless he considered the homily as more profitable
to you than the exercise you would prefer.”

But at this the old man waxed very wroth, and rose up and left me,
saying that I was no better than a scoffer, and that Captain Freeman
was yet in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity, and
that ’twas not for him to judge what were profitable or not.

“What preacher of sedition have you on board here, captain?” says I,
when I saw my friend next. “I looked not to find pestilent sectaries
aboard the Boscobel.”

“’Tis old Substitution Darrell you would say,” said he. “A marvellous
gift of exhortation he hath, and would sit up all the night arguing,
so long as his fellows would hear him, and longer. But he is our best
hand, and so staunch in his duty and punctual in the performing on’t
as no one would ever believe. I have been near him in a storm, when
all thought our last hour was come, but he was as cheerful as you may
see him now. ’Twas one of his conditions of service that I should
suffer him to expound the Scriptures to the rest of the crew, so long
as he and they desired, and the Company’s occasions took no damage
thereby, and I have heard him discourse so movingly concerning the
love of God as that I was fain to depart so as he might not see me
weep.”

“But sure you an’t at one with him in his opinions?” I asked.

“Nay,” says the skipper. “Darrell has told me once and again that I am
in Babylon, by the which, as I take it, he signifieth the Church of
England, and bids me come out therefrom, saying that God hath sent to
me by his means for to warn me concerning my danger. And I seem to him
to be a wilful sinner, thus contemning this saving grace. But yet,
when I was once took sick with that evil disease of the plague of
Egypt, Darrell stayed beside me for to tend me when all others fled
from the very sight of me; yea, he also read to me divers most
comfortable promises from his Bible, and in very deed saved my life.
Yet he hath his strange points, for he holds to certain of the
doctrines of that outlandish sect of the Fifth Monarchy Men, that will
have it we are all Jews.”

“Doubtless he is mad concerning one or two points,” says I. “In fine,
captain, I had rather that you had him always of your company than I.”

And so we, laughing, to dinner. But I was not yet done with this old
man Darrell. For we were beset, as it chanced, on this voyage of ours,
with many odious calms and contrary and baffling winds, so that we
were sore impeded in our going. Then on the occasion of one of these
calms the old man addressed himself to me once more.

“I fear lest I failed in my duty to you, sir, the t’other day,” says
he, “for ’twas in my heart to declare to you divers inconsistencies in
your walk and conversation,[81] and I refrained myself from so
doing.”

“You were better do it now, then,” said I, somewhat angry that he
asked no pardon for his presuming, and yet diverted by his words. He
looked upon me sadly enough.

“Sir,” said he, “when you come on board I looked upon you as one whom
the Lord had rid of great danger and peril that you might show forth
His glory. But since we have left Goa I have observed in you a levity
and a hardness of heart that hath given me much concernment. You have
showed no signs of grace, and have displayed much sympathy with the
wicked and a culpable laxity with regard to the Papistry and lewdness
that abound in our unhappy country. I fear, young sir, that there is a
grievous fall before you. The pride of your heart hath maybe kept you
firm when your Protestant faith was threatened with force, but the
devil can work with promises and allurements as well as with
threatenings. If you be so minded, I am willing to show you more
particularly wherein I think you err, to your profiting in the
future.”

Now I won’t deny that I was much nettled by the boldness of his words,
neither anticipating in my youth and vainglory that fall whereof he
spake, nor yet foreseeing that in my later life I should confess that
both in his rebukes and his prophecies this old man was wiser than I
thought him, but still I made shift to answer him peaceably.

“My good man,” says I, “I have thanked God daily for my deliverance,
and prayed of Him to keep me staunch in the future. What more I can do
I don’t see, having an eye to the difference between your age and
mine, which would make it strange were I in all things like unto you.”

“Nay,” says he, “I have known many young persons that showed forth in
their lives the fruits of grace in a soberness of walk and a meekness
of carriage that edified all about ’em. But of these you an’t one, and
rejecting the counsel I offer you, will go your way to your own
destruction.”

And with that he departed, and I, as you may well suppose, sought not
his company overmuch thereafter. But it so chanced that time and the
course of events placed it in his power to hurt me, though I don’t
say, nor yet believe, that this was with his intention. For we were
now passing into the Sea of Bengall, and having been so greatly
delayed by the wind’s being contrary to us, were arriving at what they
call in these seas the _hurracan_ season, that is, the time when these
tempestuous winds do most commonly use to blow. And although during
some time we met with no _hurracan_, yet were we assailed and buffeted
by divers fierce gales, that did much damage to the upper works of the
ship, and served still further to delay us in our voyage. And on the
account of these things I did condole with the captain, I myself also
finding the delay irksome to me, but thought nothing in especial
touching the gales until I heard one day the old seaman Darrell, that
sat with his Bible on his knees, say to his fellows--

“It may be that aboard this ship also we have a Jonah among us,” and
it seemed to me that he cast a look my way. Now I am ashamed to tell
that at first I could not recall what Jonah should have to do with our
present plight, but anon the old man himself come up to me, saying--

“Have you considered these gales that meet us so often of late, Master
Carlyon?”

“I have,” said I, “since indeed they keep me back when I desire to
reach Bengall, but what of that?”

“I don’t know,” says he, “what your past life may have been, but I
counsel you to try yourself and see whether you have left any sins
unrepented or unamended, for whose sake God is even now punishing this
ship and all that are in her.”

“And if so,” said I, “am I to throw myself overboard?”

“Nay,” says he, “that must be settled by the decision of all of us,
together with your own conscience.”

“But prythee tell me,” says I, “why you should single me out to be the
cause of your misfortunes?”

“What but misfortune has befell us ever since our taking you on
board?” asked he. “I dare not say that it wan’t the Lord’s will you
should be released from the hands of the Inquisition, but if He did so
intend it He is trying the faith of His servants very sorely.”

“I think you will scarce suffer for a deed of mercy,” said I. “I have
done many sinful acts, as I must sorrowfully confess, but I can’t
charge myself with any such unrepented crime as you speak of, nor do I
perceive why you should all fasten upon me to be your Jonah, and no
other person in the ship.”

But in spite of this discourse I had with him, the old man held very
firm to his opinion, and the gales continuing, the other seamen began
to believe him, so that I saw them casting black looks at me several
times. The captain also, as I perceived, was sad and anxious of
countenance, and I saw that he had his pistols ready charged in his
cabin. ’Twas not until long time afterwards that I learned that the
crew had demanded of him to set me on shore in some convenient place,
for to live or die as I might, that their ill-fortune might thus be
reversed, and that he refusing, they were wellnigh ready to fall upon
him. But at last there come a favouring breeze, and for two days we
sailed northward with good speed. But on the evening of the second day
was there a mighty strange sunset, all of a fiery and copperish red,
and as we looked upon it, there sailed between us and it, from the
side where the land lay, a whole fleet of great ships, whereat we
marvelled greatly.

“That,” says Captain Freeman, “must needs be the Dutch fleet that is
besieging the Frenchmen in St Thomas,[82] for there an’t no other
that I have heard on in these waters. But why are they putting out to
sea? Sure they, coming from the shore, must see signs of an _hurracan_
that we can’t perceive.”

“But are there Frenchmen in these seas?” says I.

“Ay so,” says he, “and at Surat too, where indeed their Factory is
better stocked with _mounseers_ than with cash. But what troubles me
now is the putting forth of these Hollanders. I dare be bound we shall
have an _hurracan_ upon us before the night be over.”

And away he went to take counsel with the mate for the better
preparing of the ship, whose head was quickly turned out to sea and
away from the land, and divers changes made in the ordering of her
spars and rigging, such as after this long lapse of time I won’t try
to recount, lest I awaken laughter by my ignorance. But this I
observed--viz., that every man looked upon me with scowls and hatred,
regarding me as the cause of this new misfortune, and my friend the
captain perceived this also, for he bade me fasten myself with cords
to a part of the bulwarks close beside him, and remain with him
through all that might chance to happen.

Now by this time the wind was whistling and moaning most pitifully in
our rigging, and the light of the moon and stars was waxed pale and
sickly. Looking from the deck towards the west, in which quarter the
land lay, we could see as it were a great wall of blackness resting
there, that then began to move, and advanced towards us. The air was
prodigious hot, as though it came from the mouth of a furnace, so that
until I had asked Captain Freeman, it seemed to me that the ship
herself must needs be on fire. Then almost before our crew could furl
all the sails, there come down upon us a great and mighty wind, so
fierce that the ship only missed being turned over thereby; and this
wind howling and roaring, there come also great flashes of lightning,
now in one place, now in another, faster than a man could count, and
brighter also than he could behold without shading of his eyes, but no
thunder. The sea also wrought mightily, the waves being very great,
and black channels of waters between, most tremendous to behold. And
moreover the direction of the wind did so chop and change as we might
almost believe we were carried round in a circle. And this continuing,
and the waves rising higher and higher, Captain Freeman gave command
that the masts should be cut away, the ship now rolling very much, and
their heaviness imperilling her.

Now one of the masts, as it fell, brake away a part of the bulwarks
close by where I was, so that I untied myself and fastened the cords
again to a certain great spar that was held fast on the deck by a rope
that belonged to it. And by this time the storm was so terrible that
men had given up all hope, and I saw, by the flash of the lightning,
old Darrell praying and calling upon God, though I might not hear
aught that he said, from the noise of the waves and the wind. But in
the light of the same flash I saw another seaman that shook his fist
against me, and shouted certain words that I could not hear. Then I
saw a greater wave than any before coming upon us, and I shut my eyes
and gripped fast hold of my spar. Though the tumult all around was so
great, yet I heard the sound of that great hill of water bursting over
the ship, and then I felt myself swept away, with the spar to which I
was tied, into the sea. But whether the rope that held the spar was
broke by the prodigious force of the water, or cut by that seaman that
shouted at me, I have never been able certainly to discover.




 CHAPTER IX.
 OF MY FINDING THE NEW FRANCE IN THE INDIES.

Now concerning the length of that time which passed while I was in
the water, and all that happened to me therein, I know little on’t,
for after but a short buffeting with the waves, I lost my senses, and
knew no more until I found myself floating, upheld by that spar
whereunto I was still tied, on a tranquil enough sea, in broad
daylight. And the sun now shining very brightly, I was much incommoded
with the heat, and sought to shelter myself beneath a projecting shelf
or flap of wood that belonged to the spar, so that I might see where I
was. Then shading my eyes with my hand, I saw that all around me was
there naught but sea, save that on one side I could discern afar off
that which might be the sail of some small boat. This seemed to me a
prodigious piece of good fortune, so that I did unfasten myself from
the rope, and clambered up, as well as I might, for I found myself
prodigious weak and bruised all over, to the highest part of the spar,
and there waved my handkercher and shouted.

Then while I watched and prayed in a frenzy, the boat came on its way
and approached closer to me; but when it was come near, and they on
board catched sight of me, they halted for awhile, and sailed round
me, as though to make sure of my conditions, and then came on slowly,
making a prodigious display of such weapons as they had, and all for
fear lest I might be disposed to fight with ’em. But I holding up my
hands empty, for to make it evident to them that I was unarmed, they
came up close, and dragged me from my spar into their vessel, that was
but a poor skiff or fishing-boat, with three men aboard on’t. But when
they saw me clearly, they drew back from me and talked in whispers,
then seized their arms, and made as though they would kill me. And
upon this I cried out to them in Persian and Guzeratty and also in
Portuguese that I was an Englishman and a shipwrecked traveller, and
that they should show me pity and bring me to some one of our
factories, where they should be suitably rewarded for their care. But
’twas all in vain, for the tongues of these parts of the Indies are
altogether different from those of Surat, and the men came against me
threatening me, and I thought that among their words I could make out
that they spake of Hollanders. Now I was much exercised to know
whether these men served the Dutch, and believed that I was their
enemy, or whether they were hostile to ’em, and considered me a
Dutchman. The utmost that I could do was to assure them by signs that
I desired peace, and cast myself on their mercy, and at the last they
bid me in gestures place myself in the stern of the boat and abide
there quiet. Then, towing the spar behind, they made sail for the
land, which I could now see, though at some miles’ distance.

Sailing then towards the coast, we come presently in sight of a great
city that stood upon the shore, with a fair harbour wherein lay two or
three ships. I could see that this place was well defended with great
walls fitted for the working of cannons, and there was also a high
fort that commanded the harbour. There was several spires, as of
churches, to be seen above the walls, and some distance away from the
town behind stood a great hill, with a church or temple upon the
summit thereof. The walls and houses of the city, such parts at least
as I could see of them, glistered and shone in the sunlight as though
they had been built of marble, so that the whole place had an air of
great elegance and dignity.

Passing then the mouth of the harbour, where was posted as watchman on
a high stage an Indian that cried something to the men in whose boat I
was, and was answered by them in return, we approached the city as the
sun began to sink behind the hill. Then I saw that there was a ship’s
barge coming towards us, very handsomely appointed, and rowed by
Indians bearing a livery of white. In the stern on’t was fixed an
ancient,[83] wherein were golden lilies on a field of white, and
there was also a state[84] set up, under the which three persons sat.
Now when the barge was come near to us, I saw that these was two
ladies, very richly dressed, and a gentleman of a grave and haughty
presence. And the men of the fishing-boat bowing themselves very
humbly, after the manner of the Indians, I perceived that here must be
some very great persons, and standing up where I was I bowed low. The
gentleman then returned my salute mighty civilly, and spake unto the
boatmen in their own tongue. And they answering him with great
submission and respect, he stood up in his barge (so that I could see
him to be of a high stature and of good proportions, and dressed very
stately in black, after the Spanish fashion), and spake to me in
French, asking me whether it were true that I was an Hollander. To
which I replied No, but an English gentleman in the service of the
India Company, that was shipwrecked and rendered desolate by sad
misfortune. Then this gentleman testified great concern, saying that
the English was good friends of theirs, and having asked me divers
questions, invited me into his own boat with him, and bade one of his
train see that the fishermen were rewarded for the saving me. And I
sitting down among the gentlemen of his following, he asked of me
certain questions concerning my life and my adventures hitherto, the
ladies also listening with great kindness. But for all I was so
occupied in answering in my best French to his honour’s inquiries, I
could not help observing that one of these ladies was young and one
old, and that she that was the younger was of a most beautiful
countenance and a very majestic presence, and likewise that though
both of them was habited like unto our own dames, yet upon their heads
they did bear veils or mantles of lace, after the manner of the women
of Spain. Now as we drew near to the marble steps at the end of the
harbour, his honour said to me in the most affable manner--

“Sir, we will trouble you no further to-night. You are weary and need
repose, but to-morrow we shall be enchanted if you will honour us with
your company at supper, and relate your adventures in full. Mons. de
Marigny” (addressing himself to one of his gentlemen), “to your care I
commend this unfortunate gentleman. You will confer upon me a favour
in allowing him to share your lodging, and I entreat you to see that
he has every alleviation of his distresses that our poor town and
fleet may be able to furnish. Sir, I have the honour to wish you a
very good night, with agreeable dreams and sweet rest from your
sorrows.”

Now in very truth I wan’t sorry to accept these kind offers of rest
and lodging, for I was so dog-tired that I could scarce keep open my
eyes; but I am glad that I was still sufficiently awake to thank his
honour most humbly for all his kindness before I retired with that
gentleman to whom he had commended me. This Mr Marigny (his Christian
name Claudius) was a very gay and pleasant young gentleman, and did
discourse most agreeably the while he led me to his lodging, not
showing himself in the least angered to have so scurvy-looking a
fellow thus suddenly thrust upon him, but spake to me of many matters
whereof I knew naught, so that at the last I was constrained to ask
his pardon and request that he would be so good as unfold to me
everything on the morrow. And this, laughing mightily, he did promise
to do, and so brought me to his lodging, where he called for food. And
so tired was I, that while this was a-preparing, I fell asleep, with
my head on my arms on the table, and Mr Marigny had much ado to wake
me and advise me to take some broth. Then he brought me into his own
chamber, and bade me repose myself upon his bed, which was made very
elegant, after the Indian manner, and this command once given, I
lacked no forcing to make me obey it.

Now the next day I did not awake until noon, and found myself then
still so weary that I had gladly gone to sleep again, but a Gentue
servant that was in the chamber came and invited me by signs to rise,
offering me a very fine brocado nightgown[85] of Mr Marigny’s for to
put on, since my own coat and doublet were nowhere to be seen. And
wearing this gown, together with the night-cap that had been lent to
me the night before, I went into the parlour, where was Mr Marigny
drinking _jacolet_. He seeing me, came and bid me welcome with much
kindness, and commanded the servant to bring in the portion of
victuals that had been set aside for me, and so sat down for to talk
with me the while I did eat.

“I see,” says he, “that you have questions without number for to ask
me, though where you have spent the last few years, so as not to be
aware of all that has happened in ’em, I can’t tell.”

“Alas, sir!” says I, “they were passed in the dungeons of the
Inquisition, whereto little news penetrates. But pray tell me who is
the noble gentleman that entreated me so civilly yesterday?”

“That,” says he, “is my lord Marquis of Tourvel, his most Christian
majesty’s viceroy in the Indies.”[86]

“The King of France’s viceroy?” said I, in great astonishment.

“Even so,” says he.

“And the gentlewomen with him are his lady and his daughter, as I
suppose?” said I, trying to digest that which he told me.

“Nay,” said he, “Mad. de Tourvel is dead these many years. The younger
lady is my lord’s daughter, Mademoiselle de Tourvel, and the other is
Mad. de Chesnac, her cousin, who is her governess,
waiting-gentlewoman, what you will.”

“And hath his lordship any other children here?” asked I.

“Nay, he han’t none else at all. Mademoiselle Heliodore is the only
one, and she hath abode so long unmarried that ’tis said she intends
to devote herself altogether to my lord her father. But that----”

Here the Gentue servant entered the chamber, and brought in with him a
young black page-boy, bearing a packet in his hand, the which he did
deliver to me. In the packet was there a purse of cut velvet, very
handsome, with twenty _louis d’or_ therein, and with it a billet wrote
in French very elegantly, saying that I had doubtless found myself
incommoded by the loss of all my clothes and other necessaries, and
that ’twould afford an infinite pleasure to Mademoiselle de Tourvel if
I would permit her to supply my most pressing needs. Mr Marigny,
seeing the purse and knowing the lad that brought it, made a sign to
me to accept that which was sent me, and was good enough to furnish me
with paper and ink, wherewith I writ that I did most gratefully accept
the kindness of Mademoiselle de Tourvel, and looked forward with
impatience to doing myself the honour of signifying my thanks in
person to her ladyship that evening. And this letter wrote, and the
servant and the page departed, Mr Marigny looked jestingly at me.

“O happy youth!” says he, “have you already won the favour of the
peerless Heliodore, when no other can gain from her anything but
coldness?”

“Methinks, sir,” says I, “you are unjust to the lady that has just
dealt so kindly by me, to suspect her of such designs.”

“Sir,” says Mr Marigny, quickly, “I spake but in jest. I pray you to
believe that I an’t altogether a fool. I honour and esteem
Mademoiselle de Tourvel as if she were my own sister, and so do all
here, but we know better than to expect her to look kindly on any of
us.”

He seemed as if he might have said more, but stayed himself suddenly,
and asked me whether I would choose to see the town. This set me
a-laughing.

“’Tis prodigious strange,” says I, “but here have I been for a night
and a day in this place without so much as knowing the name on’t.”

“This is the city of St Thomas, in the country of Gulconda,”[87] says
he, “and hath its name from the blessed martyr St Thomas the apostle,
who was murdered in this place by the pagans. There are here divers
memorials of his life and death, and notably his sepulchre, that
standeth on that great hill behind the town, where you may discern a
fair chapel builded in his honour. And if we have good luck to-day, I
will show you likewise a sign of the divine judgment upon the
murderers of the blessed saint. For the Indians here, being descended
from those that with their feet did stamp St Thomas to death, are all
born with the right leg prodigiously swollen, and this deformity
continues, and even increases, throughout their lives. Finding
’emselves thus marked with the token of heaven’s displeasure, these
persons resolved long since to amend their lives, and becoming
converted to the faith, are called by the name of him they slew--viz.,
the Christians of St Thomas--but do still bear about with ’em the mark
of their fathers’ crime.”

“I thank you, sir, for this curious tale,” said I. “And what (if I may
ask) do you and your fellows in this place?”

“Why,” says he, “my lord marquis holds it for his majesty against all
the forces of the King of Gulconda by land and the fleet of the
insolent Hollanders by sea.”

“Pray,” says I, “tell me how you come hither, sir. Three years ago I
had looked for a viceroy from Muscovy in these seas as soon as for one
from France.”

“That will I tell you when I carry you to see the walls,” says he.
“But first, if you will give me leave, I will seek some clothes for
you, and what is still lacking we will get when we go abroad. Your own
clothes have been looked to by my servant, but I fear they will scarce
be fit for you to wear to-day.”

And this I found to be true, for the plain suit of dark blue that
Captain Freeman had lent me (and which was always something small, I
being taller than he) was all shrunk up with the sea-water and so
spoiled as I could never wear it again, wherefore Mr Marigny did lend
me a coat of light cloth, laced with gold at all the seams very neat,
and a beaver with a great plume. Thus bravely attired, I walked abroad
with him, and he showed to me this great city, which was built first
by the Portugals, but taken from them by the Moors, and has seven
churches and seven great gates, and all its walls built of marble. We
saw many shops, like unto those of Surat for the meanness of their
appearance, and there laid out a part of Madam Heliodora’s gift on
such things as I stood most in need of. Divers other matters in the
way of clothes we ordered to be made (for these Indians are extreme
skilful in copying any pattern you may give ’em), and desired the
tailors to make all speed in sending them home. And after this we went
and sat upon the walls, looking out to sea, and there, Mr Marigny’s
servant holding a great _umbrello_ over us the while, we discoursed
touching this adventure of the Frenchmen that had brought them to St
Thomas and kept them defending it.

“I pray you tell me first, sir,” says I, “whether this fleet of yours
be despatched by the King of France, or by some private persons?”

“Truly,” says he, “the ships belong to our India Company, but they are
sent forth with the approval and encouragement of the king and of the
Lord Colbert, his minister.”

“And how long is’t since they were sent forth?” said I.

“Seven years ago they started,” says he, “in 1666. The first intention
was to colonise the isle called Madegascar, where we have had
settlements during many years, but finding this inexpedient, they that
had the ruling of the business judged it well to proceed to the true
Indies, and factories was set up at Surat and Mechlapatan.”[88]

“I had not looked,” says I, “to find a French factory at Surat on my
return thither. And pray, sir, an’t you greatly troubled there, as we,
by Seva Gi and the Morattys?”

“Nay,” says he, “we are well agreed with ’em, having been enabled to
win their favour through one or two happy accidents. And with the
emperor at Dhilly likewise do we stand very well, having obtained from
him a _pharmaund_[89] (which is to say a charter), granting us divers
immunities of traffic.”

“But sure,” says I, “with so peaceful and happy a beginning, you han’t
needed your cannons and munitions of war?”

“Ah,” says Mr Marigny, “though we have found no trouble arise with the
Indosthans[90] ’emselves, yet we have had much from the Dutch, that
are as great haters of our adventures in these seas as they are of
those of your own English Company. For we attempting to make a
settlement upon the island of Ceilon, they did drive us off from Galle
Point, yet we went on to Trincomalai, where we effected a landing, and
did grievously discomfit the Hollanders. But they coming upon us with
a great fleet before we had time for to victual the place, we were
forced to forsake it for want of food, and so sailed up the coast of
Coromandel, until we came to this city of St Thomas. And here
demanding provisions from the Moors, they refused us with many ill
words, whereupon our captain, filled with a noble rage, gave battle to
’em, and took the place, losing only five men.”

“His lordship must be both brave and discreet, sir,” said I.

“Both these he is, sir, indeed,” says Mr Marigny, “but so hurt and
hampered in all his doings by the jealousy of those appointed to the
command with him as no man ever yet was. As you have seen, he is a
person of a very majestic carriage, and very high in his ways, and by
this has done much to offend the other leaders. One of these, that was
named Director-General of our trade in the Indies, hath been summoned
to France to answer for himself, his majesty having doubtless heard
tell of his injurious deeds.”

“And pray, sir,” said I, “tell me how his lordship and all of your
company have fared since you took this place.”

“Why,” says he, “after driving out the Moors, we brake up the most of
our ships, reserving only two or three of those that were soundest,
and brought on shore their ordnance, wherewith we have armed these
walls, as you see. Then there come against us the armies of the King
of Gulconda, whose captain we had dispossessed, and for some time
pressed us very close, so that we had little rest, either by day or by
night. But at length, finding that we were not to be took unawares,
they withdrew ’emselves a little, and do now keep up a continual watch
and blockade upon us, with sometimes an open attempt, and this to our
great weariness. Nevertheless, my lord appointed an ambassage unto
’em, that had near succeeded in coming to an accommodation with their
king, but was baulked by the evil offices of the Dutch, that had sent
ambassadors likewise, and gained his ear, so preventing him from
acceding to us. Nor was these Hollanders contented with this, but must
needs come with their great fleet and besiege us in our harbour here,
though as yet they have gained little reward for their trouble, for we
have been well able to make ’em keep their distance.”

“But how can you maintain the place without victuals,” asked I, “since
these were come to an end even at Trincomalai?”

“We have been greatly helped,” says he, “by the chief of the English
Factory at Maderas,[91] who has been so good as to bestow upon us aid
of that sort more than once.”

“Why,” says I, “are you near to Maderas at this place?”

“Not far off,” said he. “’Tis some few miles to the north, that is
all.”

“Then I shan’t be forced to trespass on your kindness so long as I had
feared, sir,” said I. “Methought I must needs stay here until an
English ship should chance to enter the harbour, or maybe a _caphalay_
start for one of the Company’s posts.”

“You are mighty eager to leave us, sir,” says he. “At the least, I am
assured that his lordship will never let you depart under fifteen
days, and methinks he will desire you to tarry with us longer. It an’t
so often that we see here one from Europe that we need hasten his
departure when he comes.”

“You are very good, sir,” says I, “and sure I’m most grateful to his
lordship,” and indeed I could not but admire the hospitableness
wherewith these French gentlemen shared their scanty stores.

“We ourselves, sir,” says Mr Marigny, “are too much indebted to the
English factories to be able to treat any Englishman ill. But it is
now growing late, and we will, if you please, return to my lodging,
that we may prepare for his lordship’s supper-party.”

To this I agreed without any ado, and the more as I was all eagerness
to behold again the beautiful countenance of that lady who had carried
herself so kindly towards me, and leaving the walls, we returned to Mr
Marigny’s lodging. This I now perceived to be situate in one of the
great houses of the place, its outward aspect mean enough, but its
furnishings genteel and handsome after the Indian fashion, since it
had belonged to a chief man among the Moors, and was now appointed to
the use of some three or four of the younger gentlemen among my lord
marquis his officers. Here we found set out a cold collation, to
which, when we were sat down, we did excellent justice, and then made
shift to dress ourselves fitly for appearing in my lord’s presence.
And because I had no clothes meet for such an entertainment, and the
suit which I had ordered of a Gentue tailor of the town not being
likely to be finished for some days, Mr Marigny did lend me a tunic of
his own, that was of a light blue damask, guarded with silver lace,
very pretty, and had in a soldier of his troop, that was also a
barber, for to trim my hair. And being now ready, we were carried in
_palenkeens_ to the palace, which is a great piece of building, used
formerly by the Moorish governor of the King of Gulconda, and so large
as all the six hundred Frenchmen in St Thomas might have found lodging
therein easily. But my lord, for his punctilio’s sake, whereof he was
prodigious jealous, had reserved it altogether for himself, his family
and his guard, and everything was arranged very orderly, and with as
great pomp and ceremony as at any court of Europe.

And this you may perceive, on my telling you that at the great gate we
were met by the steward of my lord’s household, called the _maistre
d’hostel_, and our names and dignities being noted by him, passed on
through many courts and galleries, where were many servants, all
habited very seemly in my lord’s livery, and all bowing, and so came
at last to the great saloon, where his lordship received his guests.
And in this chamber, that was hung with silk and tapestry, and the
floor and pillars garnished with rich marbles, and all lighted with
great candles of white wax, was there at one end a daïs or raised
part, whereon was set an honourable seat, like unto a throne, with a
state above it, for my lord marquis, likewise an armed chair for Madam
Heliodora his daughter, and another chair, as stately, but without
arms, for the gentlewoman that bare her company. And behind these
chairs was there a crowd of servants waving their great fans for to
keep the air cool, and on either side of the daïs the officers and
merchant venturers that were come with my lord upon this business. And
his lordship, standing before his throne (whereon was broidered very
cunningly in needlework the arms of France), did receive me most
graciously, and give me his hand, which I shook with great respect,
but since then I have entertained misgivings thereabout, so that I
can’t satisfy myself that his lordship did not intend me to kiss it.

And having paid our duty to my lord marquis, we passed on beyond the
throne, and here sat Madam Heliodora, wearing a gown of flowered China
silk, made in the French fashion (then new), called a sacque, and a
collar of great pearls about her neck. Her hair was worn low, as the
mode then was, and dressed in curls over the forehead and at the
sides. Next to her was Mad. de Chesnac, in a gown of very rich
brocado, the colour black with silver threads, and her hair powdered
under a high cap. Likewise both these gentlewomen carried fans of
wrought ivory, the carving so rich and delicate as I had never seen,
and the lace in their ruffles, tuckers, and handkerchers was the
finest imaginable. Now when Mr Marigny had presented me with all due
form to Madam Heliodora, she showed herself very gracious to me,
giving me her hand to kiss, and inquired of me extreme kindly whether
I were refreshed from the fatigues of my shipwreck. And I replying in
the best French I might frame, ventured also to thank her ladyship for
her great kindness in anticipating my necessities, but which she bid
me not mention, saying that she took shame to herself that she had
need to be put in mind of my situation by some chance word of my lord
her father, before she thought upon my wants. And this she said so
humbly, but yet with so noble an air and tone, that I could but listen
to her stupidly, and wonder at her beauty and the excellence of her
good breeding. Mad. de Chesnac also, to whom my lady did me the honour
to present me, carried herself very civilly towards me, and made me
many pretty compliments, the which I was at much pains to return,
though I can’t but fear that I stumbled sadly in my French.

And all the guests being now arrived, my lord marquis asked of me to
be good enough to divert them with the relation of my adventures, but
Madam Heliodora, observing that I still seemed weary, bade a servant
bring a tabouret and set it for me before the daïs. And upon this my
lord sat down upon his throne, and desired of all the company to be
seated likewise, which was done according to their degrees, and indeed
it was pretty to see the art with which each person took his own
place, the better sort upon chairs, and the rest upon the long seat
that ran round the saloon. And I being set in the midst upon my
folding-stool, my lord requested of me to begin, and thereupon I told
them in little that which I have already told you, saving that of
course I made no mention of my private matters. And when I had done,
all present testified much sympathy with me, for the French love the
Inquisition no more than we do, nor hath it ever been allowed in their
country of late years, and there was more than one there that could
tell sad tales of that which had happened to friends or kin that had
brought themselves under the power thereof in Portingale, Spain, or
the Indies.

Now after my history was done went we to supper, that was set out in
another chamber with great magnificence, and such ceremony was in the
going thither as I never saw, my lord going first, leading Madam
Heliodora his daughter, and after him his next in command with Mad. de
Chesnac, and after them the rest of us according to our degrees. And
at the supper, being the newest arrived of those there, it was granted
me to sit beside Madam Heliodora, to my no small contentment, for I
found my eyes and thoughts fixed continually upon this lady, so
prodigiously was I constrained to admire both her countenance and her
wit. And at different times she was so obliging as to honour me with
her special attention, asking me concerning my home, and my father and
Dorothy, with so much kindness, and yet with so great gravity withal,
that I could no more have answered her falsely (even if I had had any
mind thereto), nor sought evasion in my replies, than if an angel from
heaven had been speaking with me. And she, receiving my answers, did
speak with me concerning those my friends in England as gently and as
wisely as if she had been a queen and I her subject, or she my sister
and I her young brother. It seems likely to me now, that my three
years in prison had made me look to be much younger than in reality I
was, imparting to my complexion a certain delicacy and youthfulness,
and this, though my face, when I saw it in the glass, had to me the
appearance of that of an old man. Likewise my hair helped to this
effect, not being yet grown again, but hanging in my neck like a
schoolboy’s, so that I heard the Frenchmen all speak of me as _Ce
jeune Anglois_, and sometimes (though I was bigger than any of ’em,
saving his lordship and one other), _Ce petit Anglois_. But to-night I
cared for none of their contempts, being altogether wrapped up in the
talk of Madam Heliodora.

Now after supper, the guests being in the course of departing, his
lordship carried me apart for a moment to speak with him in his
private closet, and I observed how tall and seemly a person he was,
and how stately in his velvet coat, with a great gold chain about his
neck, and a medal hanging therefrom. He addressed himself to me mighty
civilly, saying that my relation had entertained him prodigiously, and
desiring that I would prolong my stay at St Thomas so long as it
suited with my occasions. He promised me, moreover, to ask the chief
of our English Factory at Maderas to send him sure word whenever an
English ship bound for Surat or Bombaim should arrive there, that so I
might take passage in her, and that thus I need be under no fear of
missing any chance of returning to my place. This being so, I did
accept of his lordship’s offer with many thanks, and so bid him good
night, and returned home with Mr Marigny. This gentleman was full of
pleasant wit touching the events of the evening, and talked on thus
until bedtime, I answering him scarce a word, for I could think only
of Madam Heliodora, and repeat in my mind those things that she had
said to me.

And now that I am come to speak of a part of my life that displays the
most intolerable presumption and foolishness in me, I desire (while
humbly affirming that no man perceives clearer than I the folly of my
doings) to disarm your censure in some degree by putting you in
remembrance that I was extreme unused to ladies’ company, never having
so much as seen a woman’s face for over three years. Even in the days
of my favour at Goa, I saw but little of the ladies, as I have before
said, they being kept so recluse, and at Surat there was only some few
Dutchwomen and those unhappy English of whom Mr Martin had spoken to
me, with whom I had consorted as little as might be. And so you must
needs go back to Ellswether, and to the days when my cousin Dorothy
and I played together in the fields, to find a time when I was in
daily intercourse with any person not of my own sex. And although this
plea can’t pardon my folly, yet it may be it can mitigate it.

Now it seems to me that before I proceed further I ought to set down
in writing a character of Madam Heliodora as she appeared at this
time, for the sake of those that don’t enjoy the felicity of her
acquaintance, or that have known her only in the time of change and
adversity. This lady, Madam Frances Mary Louise (I don’t know how to
render this last name in English, for it an’t used among us, though
very common in France) Anne Amanda Heliodora, daughter and only child
to his lordship the most noble Gasper Deodatus, Marquis of Tourvel,
and Madam Mary Margaret of Cheverenches, his wife, was born in the
early part of the year 1645-46, and though thus no longer in the first
bloom of her youth, preserved such an admirable beauty as might well
make envious many younger dames. In stature, she was above the common
height of women, but so just and excellent a proportion was observable
in every several part of her frame as made her figure to seem
absolutely perfect. Her eyes were brown, large and melting, her hair
of a most lovely brown, tending to black, her skin of a marble
whiteness not often seen by us in England. I might go on to write down
every feature and describe its beauties, for all were beautiful; but
when all is said, ’twas not so much the beauty of the several parts as
the sweet and beautiful spirit of the lady herself that shone through
and illuminated them with a double loveliness. There was in all her
motions so exquisite a grace as drew your eyes to her irresistibly, so
that did she but lift a glass from the table you were forced to look
at her and admire, yet not so much for the beauty of her hand and arm
(though these were the finest imaginable) as for the elegance of the
action itself. Her constitution[92] was extreme devout, and a little
inclined to sadness, yet in time of need she could display so
indomitable a courage as I have never seen equalled. Of her kindness
and goodness it would ill become me, who have profited so much by ’em,
to say naught, and yet to describe them fitly were equally difficult,
so that I can only say that both were excessive. At this time she was
something wont, as Mad. de Chesnac complained, to affect a certain
singularity and strangeness in her dress and carriage, choosing to
dress herself in sad colours when she so could, and to resign herself
to overmuch musing. But this, as it seems to me, is fully accounted
for when all is known touching her, which won’t be yet for you, even
as it wan’t for me.

Now in conclusion of this piece of description and vindication (being
a description of Madam Heliodora, and a vindication, in so far as may
be, of myself), I will add only this, that whereas those enemies that
have left nothing undone to blacken even the most innocent actions of
my life, have made foul charges against me, I do most solemnly declare
that I never erred against that dear lady otherwise than by folly and
presumption, and that those who speak to the contrary wrong not me
only, but her also, whose virtues and misfortunes alone should protect
her against calumny, let alone that desire for truth which should
refrain from assailing her spotless name.




 CHAPTER X.
 OF THE CONFIDENCE REPOSED IN ME BY MY LORD, AND OF THE PITFALL WHEREIN
 I FELL.

Now the next morning I came, as I had been bidden, to speak with my
lord marquis in his privy closet, and was received of him very
courteously, and asked to wait while he made an end of his matters.
And this done, I looked that he should have laid some command upon me,
but he turned himself about in his chair, and began to talk with me
familiarly.

“Pray, Mr Carlyon,” says he, “what do you think of my situation here?
No doubt it seems to you that I have all that I could wish for, with
six hundred stout fellows to do my bidding, and this fair town and
palace for to dwell in.”

So greatly was I astonished by the suddenness of this question, that
’twas all I could do to answer with some hesitation that his lordship
had indeed seemed to me to be highly favoured in his lot.

“So I thought,” said he, “but you must learn, sir, that power and high
place are naught when there are around enemies that grudge ’em to you.
And chiefly this is true of the Hollanders, that are jealous of our
footing here, and would not willingly allow us even this poor little
town from which to trade. But also it is true of those that are set in
command under me in the conduct of this adventure, that are for ever
plotting and striving to ruin me, and may yet succeed in this. They
know that their power is great. Already more than one of our captains,
that had proved his fidelity to me, has been summoned to France upon a
sealed letter,[93] to linger out the remainder of his life in prison,
and I know that the base wretches among whom my lot is cast would
willingly see the same done by me. Tell me, sir, what you would
consider the duty of a person of honour in such a case, whether to
obey his majesty’s order, or to resist, if resistance were possible?”

“Truly, my lord,” says I, “my impulse would be to escape, if this
could be done without loss of credit, though I conceive it should be
most honourable to abide and receive the blow.”

“Ah!” cried he, with sudden passion, rising from his seat and walking
to and fro in the chamber, “would that I had always at my side a man
that I could trust! He should be related to me, if that were possible,
either by blood or by marriage” (here he cast a look at my face, yet
suddenly and hastily, not as doing it with intention), “and ’twould be
all as well if he wan’t a Frenchman. He should be next to me in all
things, and I would always seek his counsel, feeling assured that such
a man was the immediate gift of heaven. What do you say, Mr Carlyon?
Are you acquainted with any such person? You will think upon the
matter, and if there come to your mind one that may seem to you worthy
of my trust and of such a high place, you will give me to know of
him.”

“Most gladly, my lord,” said I, though somewhat slowly, for he was
regarding me strangely, as I thought. He remained silent for some
time, his chin on his hand, and then spake again.

“Mr Carlyon, I am about to repose a great trust in you. You must
perceive that I entertain the highest confidence in your honour and
discretion before I should so far outrage the customs of my great
nation as to prefer you to the charge I now propose to you. You have
heard that a Dutch fleet has lain of late before our walls, and left
us only in that _hurracan_ that preceded your coming hither?”

“Yes, my lord,” says I. “Mr Marigny hath told me on’t.”

“Now that our harbour is once more free,” saith his lordship, “it is
in my mind to go out with the ships that are left us, and voyage along
the coast, seeking whether there be any place more propitious than
this for us poor exiles. On such a voyage as this there may well be
both hardship and danger, and I don’t desire that my daughter shall
accompany me. She must remain here, but I am interested to leave with
her a protector in whom I can repose confidence. Will you be so good
as accept this office?”

“My lord,” says I, struck with amazement, “you do me a very great
honour, but sure your own officers will take it very ill in me to
pretend to such a post.”

“I am indifferent to that,” says he, “and you will do well to be so
too. As to my officers, moreover, the most of ’em will go with me,
leaving only enough to hold the place. These are generally very young,
and might venture to presume upon the favour granted ’em, and as for
Laborde, the commandant of the fort, to whom I should naturally have
intrusted this office, he thought fit, some time ago (I am speaking to
you freely and in confidence, sir), to pretend to my daughter’s hand.
Mademoiselle de Tourvel rejected his vows, with my approbation, but
you can well perceive, sir, how unpleasant ’twould be to her
sensibilities to be brought into close relation with him.”

I made answer that I was fully sensible on’t, but at the same time, I
felt myself overwhelmed by this great honour and place of trust that
was thrust upon me. And truly, I can’t even now refrain from wondering
at the hardihood wherewith his lordship placed me in a situation in
which, had I been only half so great a villain as my enemies declare
me, I might have acted even as they feign that I did. Yet I did not in
the smallest degree desire to retreat from the honour that was offered
me, for the blood leaped in my veins at the very thought that my arm
might defend Madam Heliodora, and I became aware that I almost longed
for a bloody assault to be made upon the town, that so I might die in
ensuring her safety. And I am sure that my face spake for me, and
conveyed what my stammering tongue could not utter, for his lordship
laughed pleasantly, saying--

“It is well. You accept of the trust--an’t it so? I had read in your
face, that not here should my confidence be betrayed. Are you skilled
in reading the nature of men from their faces, Mr Carlyon?”

“I fear not, my lord,” says I, and indeed, I had never thought of such
a thing.

“You will do well to cultivate the art,” says he. “’Tis one of those
matters wherein he that is born a statesman hath the advantage over
those that are only late become so. But now listen, if you please, to
the cautions I must needs lay upon you.”

And thereupon he gave me much counsel as to the manner in which I had
best carry myself towards the guard and towards the officers of the
garrison, and the precaution that ought to be observed against any
attempt from without, or treason from within. And having ended all his
admonitions, which I was sedulous to preserve, either in my mind or on
my tablets, he dismissed me, and I returning to the lodging, found
there Mr Marigny, who with his servant was busy packing his clothes
and other matters, for to go on board of the ships with my lord. And
telling him of his lordship’s condescension, and of the honour that he
purposed putting upon me, he straightway fell a-laughing, and for all
that I could do, would say naught but--

“My lord is an ingenious person.”

“Truly,” said I, “I must needs believe now what I had never
divined--namely, that he is also a most trustful and simple person.
How otherwise could he have advanced one that was an absolute stranger
to him unto such a place of trust--a trust that I would give my life
sooner than betray?”

“That is it which my lord has divined,” says he. “He reads faces, and
constitutions also, and ’twould seem that he has judged you as you
judge your own self. He is one of those that do never fear to take a
great risk when they are bent on a great purpose.”

“But what purpose hath his lordship in this?” I asked.

“Ah, that I can’t tell,” said he. “I don’t pretend to read my lord’s
face, still less his purposes.”

And with that our talk upon this question ceased, and we spake only of
indifferent matters until the time came that the trumpet sounded for
to summon those that were to start upon this adventure, and my lord
embarked at the water-gate with his following of officers, the common
men and servants being already on board. Then the three ships (two
being only country-built), which was all that the French now possessed
at this place, made sail and stood out of the harbour, and I came to
the moving my stuff, such as it was, from Mr Marigny’s lodging to that
part of the palace where a chamber had been prepared me. And here was
everything already set in order with great care, and divers servants
appointed for to attend upon me, so that I went through the day,
though solitary, in great state, such as men might use for a captive
prince. But towards evening there come Madam Heliodora’s blackamoor
page, praying the honour of my company to supper with the ladies, and
there was I mightily entertained, her ladyship and Mad. de Chesnac
conversing with me most agreeably touching those things that I had
seen in divers countries, and recounting also to me their own
experiences. And before I departed, the keys of the place was brought
in with great respect by Colonel Laborde, and delivered to Madam
Heliodora for safe keeping, and I went round the walls with him, and
marked that all was quiet, and the sentinels all posted, before I
returned to my lodging. And so to bed, wondering much over the events
of the day, and experiencing a prodigious gratitude for the happy
chance that permitted me to spend some time daily in the sweet company
of that beautiful and gracious lady.

And this same happy posture of affairs continued for more than ten
days, I remaining most friendly with Colonel Laborde, but never
suffering him to override me in my duty with regard to the palace. And
on every evening I enjoyed the extraordinary felicity of beholding
Madam Heliodora and of hearing her discourse, so that I comforted
myself the whole day long with considering that at night I should see
her again, and gain from her that instruction and wisdom wherein she
was so much better provided than I.

Now on one of these evenings it was that Mad. de Chesnac, tiring of
our talk, bade Madam Heliodora take her theorba[94] and sing to us
some little song. And this she did, not once only, but thrice, and
with a voice and manner that was divine. And perceiving me listening
to her with great admiration, she gave the theorba on a sudden to me,
and begged of me to let them hear some of the songs of my country. Now
my singing had used in former days to be much commended, both at Surat
and at Goa, but I felt myself greatly discomposed by this command, and
cast about with earnest care for the songs that I should sing. And
first I sang that famous ode of Sir Henry Wotton, Knt., upon the late
Queen of Bohemia, but so entirely was I occupied by the present, and
not by the past, that where he had wrote _Philomel_, I sang
_Heliodore_, which the ladies perceiving, they did tax me with it, and
make very merry. And they considering that ’twas done for the sake of
a civil artifice, and commanding that I should spoil no more of my
songs for the purpose of a compliment, I did sing Mr Herrick’s
beauteous song entitled _To Anthea, who may command him anything_. And
over this Mad. de Chesnac did laugh mightily, after I had explained
the words (she speaking no English, and Madam Heliodora only an
indifferent amount); but my lady withdrew herself into the shade of a
curtain, and seemed prodigious thoughtful, I wondering whether she
discerned in my voice that ’twas to her I sang in especial. And Mad.
de Chesnac demanding another song that should be more grave and
profitable, I made choice of that sweet piece of the brave Colonel
Lovelace’s, _To Lucasta, on going beyond the seas_. Now this, thought
I, must tell my lady how I feel towards her, though I ben’t (at
present) going beyond the seas; but to my great dismay, after I had
finished, my lady rose from her place and passed quickly from the
chamber, and I saw that there was tears on her face. Greatly terrified
and ashamed, I looked to Mad. de Chesnac, who essayed immediately to
comfort me.

“Pray don’t alarm yourself, my young friend. The sensibilities of
mademoiselle are very acute, and that pathetical song of yours hath
moved her to tears. But she will return immediately.”

And in truth, before many minutes was over, Madam Heliodora did
return, and having offered a genteel apology for her absence, took her
usual place, but blushed when she discovered me regarding her, and for
the rest of the evening her eyes seemed to meet mine with a certain
entreaty. And this caused me to be prodigiously tumbled up and down in
my mind, so that on returning to my lodging I sat long in the gallery
looking over the sea, thinking what this should mean that had passed,
in the stead of going to bed. Now it may seem to you strange, but so
it was, that never until this night had I entertained the expectation
of seeking from this lady, whom I had so suddenly and so entirely
loved, any return of my affection. But now, pondering over her words
and actions, I could not resist the notion that they had spoke of
love, and though for this I called myself a fool and a coxcomb, and
demanded to know what there was in me to draw a lady’s fancy, and
especially of such a lady, so beautiful and witty, and used to the
manners of the politest of courts, yet I could not rid myself of the
thought. And arriving at this conclusion, my heart leaped, and the
blood coursed through my veins with so much joy, that I could scarce
refrain from throwing my hat into the air, and calling out _Glory be
to God!_ after the manner of certain of the Puritan fanatics at home.
But by great good fortune there come just then into my mind that look
I had seen in my lady’s eyes, as if to entreat me not to betray her
secret, and I resolved that I would die ere I would cause any sorrow
to my sweet mistress. But nevertheless it was happy for me that the
next day fell on a Sunday, so that I found no opportunity to try my
lady’s feelings towards me by the singing of more songs.

It being Sunday, there was offices[95] in the churches of the town,
and in that nearest the palace Mass was sung by the French priest that
had accompanied his lordship hither. This was an ancient and kindly
person, and forbore to press me to attend Mass when I had told him of
my different faith, so that I could not but felicitate myself upon the
difference that lay between the French and the Portugals in such
matters. But, as all the world now knows, all the French priests are
not so gentle as good Father Simon. Now as I wandered on the ramparts,
desiring much some Bible or Book of Common Prayer, wherewith I might
have edified my mind, there come towards me Madam Heliodora, with her
little page carrying a book fastened with a silver chain, as if meant
to hang from a lady’s girdle. I looked to see whether she yet
remembered what had passed the night before, but her face was calm
again, and she met my eye with her usual noble modesty.

“I have brought you a little book, sir,” said she, “knowing that you
have here no office-book of your Church wherewith to assist your
devotions. ’Tis a _Hugonot_ book, and belonged to my grandmother, that
favoured that party. For this reason I can but lend it you, since it
is very precious to me; but I entreat that you will retain it so long
as we have the pleasure of your company here.”

And thus speaking, she took the book from the child and gave it to me,
I bowing low, and thanking her ladyship for her great kindness in so
thinking upon me. And when she was departed, I did look into the book,
and found it to contain the Psalter, rendered into French verse by one
Mons. Clement Marot. On the first page was wrote in a woman’s hand,
the ink now all faded, _Charlotte Anne de Tourvel, born de Galampré_,
and on the margents of the leaves was there notes writ by the same
hand in many places. All through the time of Mass I studied in the
little book with great diligence, sitting in a shaded alcove on the
wall of the palace, and listening to the tinkling of the little bells
from the churches. But when I had finished, I put the book in my
pocket, and set to communing with myself touching Madam Heliodora. And
considering in my mind the space that I had known this lady, it seemed
to me a thing incredible, as doubtless it will to you, that I had seen
her for the first time little more than a week before, and that all my
love was grown up in that span of time. And upon this I fell to asking
myself whether it were possible that I had interpreted her actions
wrongly, but remembered that all the poets and romancers were agreed
that tears and blushes and deep agitation was a sign of love, and
’twas these very things that had first turned my thoughts that way.
And so great was the joy that these considerations brought me, upon my
now trying the dreams of the night by the wisdom of the day, that I
could scarce contain myself, so that I must needs set to and walk all
round the walls while the day was yet hot (a piece of extravagance
that might justly have brought me a stroke of the sun), and so, being
tired out, back to the palace to rest.

And the next evening I supped with the ladies as before, but we had no
singing, for Madam Heliodora was silent and very thoughtful, and sat
by herself in the window without speaking. But I, remembering a
certain proverb of Mr Martin’s, that ran, _Many kisse the child for
the nurse’s sake_, did resolve to follow the counsel given therein,
though turning it contrariwise, and so paid my court to Madam
Heliodora through her cousin Mad. de Chesnac. This lady was of so
merry and sportive a humour that she could not endure dulness nor
melancholy about her, and engaged me speedily in a war of words
touching the differences betwixt our two nations. And upon my making
confession that I had always believed the ladies of France to be of a
light and frivolous constitution, until I had the happiness to become
acquainted with Madam Heliodora and herself, and so prove them to be
both discreet and at the same time gracious, she did laugh mightily,
and would have had my lady hear this fine jest. But seeing her still
sit pensive at the window, she inclined her head toward me and saith
very low--

“You must not take mademoiselle as a fair pattern of the ladies of
France, sir. She is more than half a _Hugonot_ by nature, and they are
wellnigh as much English as yourself. ’Tis from her grandmother she
hath it, my lord marquis his mother.”

“But sure my lord an’t inclined to _Hugonotry_?” said I.

“Nay, he was took while very young out of his mother’s charge, and his
father had him bred up at a Jesuit college. Then he came under the
notice of my lord the old cardinal,[96] who interested him in these
Indian adventures, and after his patron’s death he lived in Paris in
the manner of other persons of his rank until his patrimony was gone,
and his majesty was induced to use his experience in Eastern matters
by naming him viceroy.”

And after this did Mad. de Chesnac tell me much more touching my lord
marquis, which it would be tedious to set down, and also concerning my
lady his wife, and then touching herself, how that she, being a young
kinswoman of my lady of Tourvel, had espoused an elderly gentleman of
my lord marquis his following, that so she might continue near her
patroness.

“My husband was slain in a brawl,” says she, “before I had been wed a
month, and I continued with my cousin, and since her death, with
mademoiselle her daughter. Now you perceive, sir, how it is that in my
old age I follow this young lady all over the world.”

“Ah, madam,” cried I, “would that I were in your place!”

“What a fine compliment!” cries she, mightily diverted. “My cousin,
you must hear this--I insist on’t,” and she repeated what I had said.

“Mr Carlyon can’t know what a troublesome and whimsical creature I am,
since he says that,” says Madam Heliodora, coming back into the
saloon, and leaving me blushing and ashamed that she should hear my
hasty words.

For several nights thereafter we did spend the time before supper in
singing and talking, and it seemed to me that my love was prospering,
so that my heart grew more and more light, for I observed that Madam
Heliodora was wont to fall into long fits of musing, reddening and
paling again when she was disturbed, and this again, say our authors,
is a sure sign of love. And I reading it so, was wont to feel as
though treading upon air the while I made my rounds with Colonel
Laborde, singing meantime in a low voice snatches of the songs that
had been sung. He looked at me often, and smiled as though knowing
what was in my mind, and I don’t doubt he could have told me something
had he so desired it. I can’t determine now whether he was willing
that another should suffer as he had done, or whether he judged that I
should resent his speaking to me on such a topic (as was, indeed, most
probable); but he did but shrug his great shoulders (he was a sturdy
fellow from that part of France which they call Bretaigne or Little
Britain), and said naught, and I likewise.

But it came to pass that about this time was a period put to this
simple and harmless-seeming enjoyment of mine by adverse causes from
without, no other than the King of Gulconda’s suddenly bringing up his
soldiers again from their camps for to attempt the city. It seemed
most likely that he had learned the absence of my lord marquis
(doubtless from some of the Moors left in the place, that we always
suspected of bringing intelligence to their friends without the walls,
though we could never catch ’em in the act), and desired to compass
our destruction before he could return. And the Moors attempting to
carry the walls by an escalado, we beat them off, and turned our minds
to consider how we should best maintain a lengthened defence. My
business lay with the palace, and on the strengthening thereof I did
bestow endless care, instructing the ladies and their attendants, with
the whole guard, that upon any alarm of the enemy’s having gained a
footing on the wall, they should run into the tower overlooking the
water-gate, wherein I stored up both arms and powder and shot, and
also a sufficient quantity of victuals. And this, my own especial
duty, having been seen to, I was very ready to seek other work, and
willingly offered myself as Madam Heliodora’s messenger, for to visit
the guards on the walls at the several towers, and bring back to her
the latest news of the defence. And the enemy came against us next
with much greater judgment than before, dividing his forces and
attempting many points at once, whereby we were hard put to it to
maintain the walls with our small numbers. There was some very pretty
fighting done (wherein I won’t deny that I did take my part, though
’twould be unprofitable to set down all the particulars thereof), and
we were able to rid ourselves of our foe for the present, they
retiring some distance off.

Now, would you not expect that, this happy event being attained, all
in the place should have united together with one mind to strengthen
the walls and prepare against a fresh assault? But it wan’t so, for
there was among the French officers certain timorous and politic
persons that, like the children of Israel concerning Moses, said of my
lord marquis that since he was now absent for near three weeks without
returning, doubtless he and his ships were taken by the Dutch, and
that ’twere best to come to terms with the King of Gulconda while we
might. I verily believe that the chief concernment for these gentlemen
was that they might spite and injure my lord, in thus giving up his
city in his absence; but they did not venture to say this openly, but
spake of having gentlewomen in their company, and that for their sake
they must seek to make peace. But sure such men as these could know
naught of the stuff whereof that intrepid lady, of whom they
principally spake, was made, for she, on hearing of their murmurs and
the propositions they put forward, turned pale with anger, and called
a council to assemble immediately.

Now to this council I was admitted only by favour, and by my lady’s
command, as one appointed by my lord her father to a weighty post; but
truly ’twas a brave sight to see all these officers assemble, in their
laced clothes and great perukes, and Madam Heliodora, mighty fine in
black satin and very rich white lace, sitting at the head of the table
like a queen. ’Tis my belief that these gentlemen conceived that they
had been summoned together for to deliberate upon articles of
accommodation with the enemy, and sure they must have been
prodigiously amazed when Madam Heliodora arose and spake without one
of ’em saying a word. Speaking with an elegance of language and a
nobility of tone I have never known equalled, she said that she had
been appointed to the oversight of the city by the marquis her father,
and that she would continue to hold it for his lordship and for the
king. Certain persons (she said) had dared to think and talk of
surrender--let them know that she, Heliodora de Tourvel, would die
among the falling ruins of the town before she would suffer the word
to be so much as mentioned in her hearing. If any one should venture
to advocate an accommodation, let him stand out, and he should be
arrested and imprisoned to await the marquis’s return, when his
lordship would know how to deal with him. If they had anything further
to say, let them say it; but if not, then in God’s name let ’em go
back to the walls and maintain their posts against the Moors. And
they, having listened stupefied, being took by surprise as much as was
I by the fiery courage of the lady, did depart in silence. But shortly
after comes Colonel Laborde again into the chamber, and saith, after
his stiff fashion--

“Madam, I have the honour to report that the look-out men declare that
they see three ships approaching the harbour, pursued by a fleet, and
that they suggest that his lordship is returning.”

“Thank God!” cried Madam Heliodora, turning very white, and trembled
as though she would have fallen, but recovered herself, and gave me
her hand to lead her back to her own apartments, which I did, being
filled with extraordinary admiration for her bravery.

Now the report of the look-out men was so far just in that the three
ships they had discerned proved to be my lord’s, and that he reached
the harbour safely and cast anchor in deep water under the walls of
the fort, the pursuing fleet, which was of course that of the Dutch,
following him in, but casting anchor nearer to the entrance. But when
we looked for my lord to land, he would not by no means do this,
foreseeing that the Dutch, now that they were waxed so bold, might
find a means to destroy his ships if he left ’em, and desiring to
strike a blow that might rid him of his enemies for a time. And so
night fell, both the Dutch ships and my lord’s hanging out lanterns
where they faced each other, for to prevent an attack by boats. Now in
the middle of the night (as we heard afterwards from my lord), he
loosed his own great ship, which lay outmost of the three, from her
moorings, with the greatest expedition and secrecy imaginable,
transferring her light on board of a _catameran_ (which is a kind of
skeleton-boat used by the Indians of this coast for landing where
there is much surf), which he moored where the ship had lain, so that
she seemed to those in the Dutch fleet to be still there. Then,
because he knew the harbour well, and had on board an Indian that was
esteemed the skilfullest pilot of those parts, he sailed round by the
outer part of the harbour, where the Dutch durst not anchor, for fear
of sand-banks, and so came upon them from the outside, and attacked
them very furiously.

Now we within the city were awakened by the noise of this battle,
thinking at first that the Dutch was assaulting the place with bombs,
and very soon all that were not on guard at other points of the walls
gathered at the water-gate for to behold the fighting. ’Twas a
prodigious dark night, the which had favoured my lord’s stratagem, and
all our enlightenment was by the flashes from the guns of the ships on
both sides. Now this Dutch fleet, though near all the several ships
was greater and heavier than my lord’s one, was thrown into such great
confusion by this sudden attack as made them think that their enemy
was a reinforcement of new ships from Europe, since they saw (as they
believed) my lord’s three ships lying still idle inside of ’em, and
being unable in the darkness to distinguish that their assailant was
only one, they slipped their cables for to run out of the harbour,
running foul of one another and doing much damage in their haste. And
all this, in so far as we could discern the course of events, we on
the walls watched with great contentment, and I in especial, being
nothing loath to see defeated (though it were at the hand of a
Frenchman), those rascally Hollanders from whom we in Britain had
suffered so much. And with so much bravery and judgment did my lord
handle his ship, as that he was able to perform that which he had
desired--viz., to drive away the Dutch fleet while all was still dark,
so that they should not discover the truth. Then when the fleet was
departed, sorely battered and discomfited, he brought his own ship
back to her station, and landed at the water-gate with great pomp. And
here he was met by all the garrison with acclamations, and the loudest
among ’em was two or three Europe women of the lower sort, that were
come first of all in the ships, and had urged on their husbands to
demand the surrender of the town in his lordship’s absence. And so to
bed again, much wearied, after due greeting given to his lordship.




 CHAPTER XI.
 OF MY CASTING OUT FROM MY FOOL’S PARADISE.

Now on that next day also, which was but just a-dawning when my lord
landed, was I desired to sup at the palace, that so his lordship might
hear from my mouth the true history of all that had passed in his
absence. And my report having been given, and my lord engaged with
Colonel Laborde, I ventured to approach the side of Madam Heliodora,
and seek to engage her in discourse. But I was somewhat amazed to find
that it did not please her to talk of the dangers of the siege, now
happily escaped, nor yet of my lord her father’s victory, but only of
my own life and my early friends, and this did sorely vex me, for, as
I must confess, at this time I loved not over and above to speak of
Ellswether and my father, and of Dorothy not at all. Wherefore, so
soon as I saw the chance on’t, I changed the topic, and hit on that of
dancing, moved thereto by some recollection of my little cousin’s
dancing in our childhood, and did beseech Madam Heliodora to do me the
kindness of explaining the diversities that there are between French
and English dancing. And this she was good enough to do very
particularly, so that I was altogether carried away, as they say, and
presently made so bold as to say that I should be perfectly happy
could I enjoy the honour of standing up in a dance with her ladyship.
When I had said this, I was alarmed at my own presumption, but my lady
only laughed.

“I fear you will be constrained to tarry until you can find some
younger partner, sir,” saith she. “As for me, I am too old to dance.”

“Your pardon, madam,” says I, quickly, “but sure you are pleased to
jest. I make so bold as to think that we should be an excellent good
match. I myself am twenty-six years old, as your ladyship hath perhaps
forgot.”

“Twenty-six!” saith my lady, looking upon me with some trouble in her
eyes, “I had not imagined you could be older than twenty-two or three.
But I am twenty-eight, Mr Carlyon, almost an old woman. I han’t danced
for years, and I don’t desire to do’t again.”

“Madam,” says I, “suffer me to say that the passing years, so envious
to some ladies, do but add to you the gifts they snatch from others.”

I was not a little proud of this compliment, but Madam Heliodora still
gazed upon me sadly, and said naught. Then there come to us my lord,
Colonel Laborde being now departed, and demanded to know the matter of
our serious discourse. Then I, willing to avoid that topic of age,
which had in some way grieved my lady, made answer that her ladyship
and I spake concerning dancing. And upon this my lord, inquiring
whether I could dance, sat down in his great chair, saying--

“I have a mind to see you dance, sir, if it ben’t displeasing to you.
My daughter, will you have the kindness to grant Mr Carlyon your
support in a gavot?”

“Sir,” says Madam Heliodora, hastily, “I entreat you to pardon me, and
you also, Mr Carlyon, and to excuse me from this dance, without you
particularly desire it.”

“I do especially desire it, my daughter,” says he. “Give me your
theorba, and I will play for you, if my fingers han’t altogether lost
their cunning. Do you take your stand there, if you please, Mr
Carlyon.”

I did as he bade me, and he playing a most dainty tune, Madam
Heliodora rose from her seat, and stood facing me. And with so much
dignity and grace did she dance, as that I was ashamed to have put
myself forward to stand up with her. But so sad and serious was her
face the while, that it might have fitted a funeral, and having gone
through the measure in silence, she returned still silent to her
place. And I being unable to win her to resume her usual cheerfulness,
although my lord was very sprightly, and did make me many fine
compliments, I did take my leave early, and returned to my lodging,
marvelling much at the change in my lady’s conditions towards me. And
yet, even then (so foolish is youth!), my own hopes flattered me into
believing that my lady was tired, and would fain have rested herself
and talked with me quietly, and that my twice gainsaying of her
wishes, first in refusing the topics she did choose, and then in
unmannerly pestering her to dance, had caused her to show herself thus
grieved and displeased.

Now the next morning, when I was about going abroad with Mr Marigny,
for to see the late camping-ground of the King of Gulconda’s army, for
they were now, since the return of my lord, gone back to their former
posts at some distance, we met with his lordship, who was about
embarking in his barge for to row round the harbour and see what
damage might have been done by the shots of the Dutch. He bade me come
with him, and leave Mr Marigny find some other companion, and so I
did, being sensible of the honour showed me, to be alone with my lord,
save only for his Indian rowers, that spake no tongue of Europe. I
wondered much whether my lord desired to speak with me that he carried
me thus with him, but he said nothing of any moment until we were out
in the harbour, and well beyond the reach of prying persons. Then he
looked upon me in that way he had, that seemed to see everything
without any striving thereto, and “Mr Carlyon,” says he, “I am
infinitely obliged to you for your care of my daughter in my absence.”

“My lord,” says I, “such little service as I could render to her
ladyship was in itself a pleasure.”

“Perhaps,” said my lord, “you might be content to render that pleasure
a lasting one, sir, by taking service with our Company in the stead of
your own?”

“My lord,” says I, mighty astonished, “I han’t never yet thought of
taking such a step.”

There came a look of some impatience upon my lord’s face on his
hearing this, and I remembered his words said to me in his closet,
before he started on his late adventure, and wondered whether they
were meant to move me to this step. But I saying no more, he went on--

“I must needs be surprised, sir (though I should not be so, knowing
your mild and forgiving constitution), to hear that you purpose to
pass over the unkind treatment you have received at the hands of the
President at Surat, and invite him to take you again into the service.
Have you forgot that you lie under a suspicion of undeserved disgrace,
and that your name is already removed from your Company’s books? Pray,
why should you not join yourself to us, and engage your excellent
parts and conditions in a service where they will be deservedly
prized?”

To this I made little answer, being so much confused in my mind as to
what I should say, wherefore his lordship continued.

“You have already seen, sir, how the Dutch are put to flight, and the
Moors forced to keep at a distance from our walls. When help reaches
us from France, as sure it must before many months are over, we shall
destroy our enemies with a great blow. And that accomplished, I don’t
purpose to waste my life in trading, as do you English, but to lay the
foundations of a great empire for his majesty. For traffic, as I fear,
I have small talent, but heaven hath granted me some little skill in
statecraft, and here there is provided a field the most advantageous
for such powers, in the dissensions and jealousies of the Mogul
emperor and his princes. If heaven continue to vouchsafe me the aid it
has afforded hitherto, I look to make myself a power by an alliance
with the King of Gulconda, helping him to conquer the kings lying
around him. This should easily be accomplished during the present
absence of the Dutch, and I shall write myself down a fool if on their
return they don’t find the whole coast closed to ’em. And this
assured, I would first use a portion of my reinforcements to
strengthen our factories at Surat and Mechlapatan, and taking the rest
with me, would then proceed to visit the court of Seva Gi, for to
confirm our league with him. This being done, I would use my efforts
to reconcile him with the King of Gulconda, I myself acting both as
the means and the bond of this alliance, and see you there! I have
power across the whole of Duccan, and far into the Mogul’s dominions
to the north. The emperor must reckon with me then, and I think that
even Auren Zeeb himself would pause before attempting war against such
a confederacy. Then I have the situation in my hands. How does this
plan strike you, sir?”

“It seems a very bold and splendid scheme, my lord,” said I.

“Yet to accomplish it,” says my lord, “I must needs secure myself from
the jealous interference of those in France, that consider they know
more of Indian matters than I, who am in the Indies. As you may have
perceived, sir, some of my officers are badly affected towards me, and
seek every pretext to write calumnies against me to the minister. I
can say truly that I don’t fear their machinations so long as I am
acquainted with ’em beforehand, and yet it an’t consistent with my
quality, nor with the high dignity that his majesty hath conferred
upon me, to mingle with these persons and find out their intentions
for myself. I need some person in my following that will be one of ’em
and yet a faithful friend to me. Once” (and he looked at me) “I
thought that I had found such an one, but now I fear that fortune was
but deluding me once more. Is such a situation as this beneath your
expectations and your hopes, Mr Carlyon?”

“Indeed, my lord, ’tis so high above ’em that I can’t at present think
on’t calmly,” said I.

“You would gain,” says he, “experience and wisdom, and much honour
withal. Wealth likewise, but I won’t injure you by supposing that that
could move you. And there are other rewards, greater, such as one
names not in words, but which await the trusted helper,” here he
looked me again full in the face, so that my eyes fell before his.
“Come, sir,” saith he, mighty encouraging, “can you hesitate? You gain
so much in joining yourself to us, and lose so little, merely a king
that can’t provide a place for you, though your father spent all he
had in his service, and a desk and many years of weary work in the
Surat Factory.”

“Ay, my lord,” says I, “and much beside.”

“Pooh, pooh!” says my lord sharply, “you are too nice and too
calculating, sir. What is there that renders your services at Surat so
valuable that they would be missed should you accept of my offer?”

“My lord,” says I, “the meanest Englishman hath three things to
consider--viz., his honour, his soul, and his body--whereof the last
is precious to his friends, the second to God, and the first to
himself. Under your lordship’s leave, I believe that I should put in
jeopardy all three of these, did I accept of your most obliging offer,
and I must therefore ask humbly to be allowed to decline it.”

“Now, by my faith!” cried his lordship, “will you talk of your body in
the same breath with your honour, sir? You do yourself wrong, Mr
Carlyon, by these barbarous notions. Come, think over my proposition.
I will give you fifteen days for’t. Until then we will say nothing,
but I hope to find you then less blind to your own advantage. You must
perceive how highly I esteem you, by my daughter’s admitting you so
continually to her saloon. Is it possible that after a sojourn of some
weeks at St Thomas, you can look forward to return with contentment to
your life at Surat? There is, as I understand, no ladies there whose
company you may enjoy as you have done that of my family.”

“Indeed, my lord,” said I, imagining to myself the pain I should feel
on quitting the vicinage of Madam Heliodora, and shuddering at the
very thought, “’twould be a new expulsion from Paradise.”

“So I had divined,” says he, “and therefore counselled you to remain
with us. When you have duly considered of the matter, I have little
fear but you will follow my advice. But take counsel with your pillow,
ponder for a fortnight what I have said to you, and then we will speak
again upon this topic.”

Now by this time we were returned to the landing-place, and my lord
signifying that he desired me still to attend him, I did accompany him
to the palace, and being there dismissed by his lordship, took
occasion to go to the chamber where I had lain during his absence, for
to seek one of my lace-bands[97] that I had left there. And finding
it, I was about returning to my lodging at Mr Marigny’s, when I come
again upon his lordship, looking over a part of the palace which wan’t
then used, being too large for his family, but so complete and so shut
off as to be almost a separate palace in itself. And my lord seeing
me, would have me go over these buildings with him, and showed himself
most gracious towards me, and was pleased to tell me his plans for the
ornamenting and furnishing this place when it should be needed. And
when all was seen and done, and I departing, he saith on a sudden--

“When my daughter marries she will dwell here beside me, and so shall
I have her almost in my own house still.”

Now this word of his lordship’s filled me with thought, and sent me
home very busy. For you will smile to hear that until now I had never
so much as dreamed of espousing Madam Heliodora, although I knew and
had assured myself that I loved her. It had seemed to me a sufficiency
of bliss to behold her every day, as I now did, and to enjoy her sweet
company and wise discourse. Nay, now that the thought was presented to
my mind, it seemed to me a kind of sacrilege to imagine that so divine
a creature was to be wooed and wedded like any other woman, since she
seemed to be set far above all such common ways, like the fabled
goddess Minerva of the ancients, or our own Qu. Elizabeth, of glorious
memory. And by reason of this new thought I went about all day heavy
and, as it were, guilty in my own esteem. But this did not continue
long, for growing used to the notion, I reasoned with myself that
since her ladyship refused not to condescend to the joys and sorrows
of common mortals, why should she not espouse me as soon as any other?
And though this argument filled me at first with a great trembling and
fear, by reason of my own presumption, yet I soon accustomed myself
thereto, and even dwelt upon it with great delight. And in this frame
of mind I abode for several days, seeing Madam Heliodora as before,
only in the evening, when I found myself so timid and bashful as
scarce to be able to utter a word in her ladyship’s presence, and on
leaving did always curse myself for my folly in daring to suppose that
she could ever deign to smile upon me. And as though I wan’t enough
troubled already, a chance word of my lady’s brought back to my mind
that which in this sweet madness I had clean forgot, yea, and had been
fain to forget longer--viz., that I was betrothed already to my little
cousin Dorothy Brandon, and that both she and my father would look for
me to fulfil my contract with her.

Now this for some time filled me with such heaviness that I knew not
what to do, finding myself as it were stranded between inclination on
the one hand and honour on the other. And being thus situated, I did
as men are wont to do in such a case, that is to say, I stood wavering
between the two difficulties. For I could not altogether resolve to
adopt my lord’s offer and enter the French service, cutting myself off
entirely from my own country, and designing never to see my father’s
face again, lest he should reproach me, and yet I could not make up my
mind to retire immediately to Maderas and return to my duty. And while
in this pother, that ingenious sophistry, wherewith the devil is wont
to bewilder our minds in such cases of temptation, came to the aid of
my own inclination. For (so said the tempter to me), your cousin is
yet very young, and may reasonably look for a far better settlement
than you can offer her. Moreover, she hath not seen you for many
years, and her childish fancy for you can’t fail by now to have faded
away, while as for any more enduring affection for you that might
replace it, how can it have sprung up in your absence? Nay, how do you
know that she han’t already fallen in with some gentleman to whom her
wishes might incline, were it not for her engagement with you? An’t
this more probable, and will you force her to sacrifice her love and
herself to a contract made by your father when you were both infants?

Thus spake the voice of my own desires, and so prone are we to erect
our unruly fancies into virtues, that I waxed exceeding hot and
wrathful when I considered the case of the luckless damsel thus bound
unwillingly to me, and felt that ’twould be to wrong her grievously
did I lack the courage to break the chain that held us. Nor was this
all, for it seemed to me that I had also in my keeping the happiness
of Madam Heliodora, which I must certainly ruin if I should leave her
for to carry out my contract with Dorothy. And thus did I, poor
foolish coxcomb! labour to excuse myself and bring salve to my
conscience, weighing and judging these matters in my mind as though
the lives of all around me had hung upon my nod, and they themselves
should be fortunate or miserable according as my high will and
pleasure should decree. Never once did I consider that in all this I
was wronging not only my poor cousin, whose faithful heart had never
turned from me to any other, but also that noble lady, who, if she had
loved me even as I hoped, would nevertheless have sacrificed herself
and me, without relenting, to the duty that bound me.

Reasoning with myself then in this wise, I did put off from day to day
the deciding concerning my lord marquis his offer, considering always
that I would make up my mind to-morrow, until it so happened that my
resolve was fixed without my intending it by a certain word of my
lord’s. For coming one day into his lordship’s closet, whither he had
sent for me to attend upon him, I found with him Father Simon, his
chaplain. And they being busied in discourse, when first I tapped upon
the door they did not heed me, and I heard Father Simon say--

“Hath your lordship considered that by your schemes you may be
endangering the happiness of my lady your daughter?”

To whom his lordship answered coolly enough--

“My daughter is able to take good care of herself and her happiness,
father, I thank you,” and I then knocking the second time, he bid me
enter. But I was much exercised in my mind concerning that I had
heard, wondering whether his lordship was so secure of Madam
Heliodora’s indifferency towards me that he believed he might safely
lure me on by hopes of winning her, such as she would refuse to see
realised. But (thought I), if this be my lord’s mind, I know more
touching the matter than he, for all his reading of faces, for he, it
is evident, han’t observed those delicious tokens of tears and blushes
and the like, that have revealed to me my lady’s heart. And thus I was
now moved also with the desire to approve myself wiser in reading
thoughts than my lord, with all his statecraft, and this, coming with
all those other considerations I have mentioned, brought me to decide
that at the end of the fortnight, which was now near at hand, I would
accept of my lord’s offer.

Looking back now on that time, I can’t conceive how my presumption and
folly should ever have blinded me to such a degree; but so secure and
confident was I, that I writ after this a letter to my father, hinting
not obscurely at my hopes and expectations, and yet not in so many
words breaking off my contract with Dorothy, but leaving her rather to
judge by implication that it was at an end. And this letter, which
they could not, as I knew, misinterpret, I sent by a messenger that my
lord was about despatching to Maderas, whence it might be sent to
England. And having thus, as I conceived, eased my conscience by
declaring my intentions of that I was about to do, I waited, in much
excitement and perturbation of mind, for the fortnight to end. And
though this space of time seemed prodigiously slow in passing, yet it
came to an end at last, and on its final night I went to bed so
oppressed with the thoughts of my coming glory and happiness as that I
could scarce compose myself to sleep.

Now on this night it was that there come to me a most strange dream or
apparition, the particulars whereof (lest any should gainsay ’em), I
did set down in writing at the time, and do now record for the
examination and explication of wiser men than I. For as I tossed and
tumbled upon my bed, in a state betwixt sleeping and waking, I saw in
the chamber my little cousin Dorothy, grown into a tall and goodly
woman, and wearing a white wrapping-gown and a cap guarded with bone
lace, her countenance bearing an air of extreme concern. At whose
appearing I did experience at the first a feeling of much comfort, but
was immediately seized with a fit of great trembling, remembering the
treachery and dishonour that I had meditated against her. And she did
stretch forth both her hands to me, as one entreating, but spake no
word. To whom I, repenting of my shameful intention, did call with a
lamentable voice, saying--

“Help me, good cousin, if indeed it be you, for I am in a grievous
strait.”

And she, with an air of great seriousness, cried sharply unto me--

“Be true, Cousin Ned; oh, be true!” and forthwith vanished.

Then I, awaking fully, turned the matter over in my mind, and did
consider much with myself, wondering at the Providence that had thus
sent the shape of my cousin Dorothy to warn me, when I was on the
point of forsaking my duty and choosing the path of dishonour.
Nevertheless, my inclination still dragged me towards the accepting my
lord’s offer, and I was prodigious sad and unhappy in the morning, so
that even Mr Marigny observed my heaviness as we sat at breakfast, and
asked of me whether the beautiful Heliodora had showed herself cruel
towards me last night. Now at this, added to my former passion, I was
seized with such a transport of rage as that I could have killed Mr
Marigny for this question, but he, perceiving my disorder with
astonishment, made haste to apologise very handsomely, and so the
matter dropped.

After breakfast there come a messenger from my lord, bidding me attend
him in his closet, and I went thither with a heavy heart. And you may
well conceive that it wan’t by any means easy to me, being already so
confused and unhappy in my mind, to explain to my lord that my duty to
my employers and to my father would not allow me to accept his
proposition. Of the matter concerning Dorothy I said naught, for my
lord had not once spoke plainly touching my regard for Madam
Heliodora, but only hinted thereat, and I was well content that her
name should not be mentioned between us. But I could scarce succeed in
persuading my lord, who had judged me certain to accept of his offer,
and the more I bungled in my reasonings, the more he involved me in
fresh tricks of speech, with such artful putting of questions and
imputing of motives, as brought me nearly to despair, so that I
resigned one by one all my reasons, yet still clung feebly to my
resolve, which his lordship perceiving was displeased.

“I have counselled you for your good, sir,” saith he at last, in some
heat, “but you show yourself mighty slow to profit by my advice. Let
us see whether a few minutes’ discourse with the ladies will work more
effect.”

And without more ado he led me to the door of Madam Heliodora’s
withdrawing-room, where he left me, signifying that he should look for
my return in an hour, and desiring for me a better mind. Now this was
for me the worst prospect of all, that in saving my honour (though now
almost too late), and in keeping faith with my masters I must attack
and maybe wreck my lady’s happiness. Likewise I feared that even yet,
not knowing what was on foot, she might by her sweet discourse and her
incomparable graciousness break down my resolution, so that it was in
much turmoil of spirit that I did enter that enchanted chamber of
hers, as Tancred might have approached the bower of Armida. It being
yet so early, the ladies were both only breaking their fast, my lady’s
blackamoor page waiting upon them with _jacolatt_ and a _sorbet_,[98]
which is a cooling drink made by the Moors from divers fruits and
herbs, very comforting in these climates. My lady was fully dressed,
though without powder or ornaments, but Mad. de Chesnac was still in
her wrapping-gown of painted calicut,[99] with her hair drawn up
under a morning cap.

“Ah, Mr Carlyon,” she cried, seeing me, “you are early to-day, and you
find me still in my undress. It rejoices me to see you, for this
morning time is the most wearisome imaginable. Pray bid the boy remove
these dishes, and let us fall to talking in a sprightly and ingenious
manner, as if we were in France.”

I made shift to do as she bid me; but whether it were that my trouble
of mind withheld me from discoursing ingeniously I don’t know, but
Mad. de Chesnac waxed very drowsy, and presently slept altogether.
Then my lady, after waiting for a moment to try whether she would
awake, arose from her seat and stepped out upon the great gallery
(such as is called by the Indians, and after them by the Portugals,
_veranda_), which looketh over the sea, and is hung about with roses,
mighty pretty, and signed to me to follow her, the which I did.

Ah! what a moment was that, wherein we looked out upon the marble
walls of the city and the sea beyond, that was of a deep azure colour,
and glistering in the sunlight. Even at this distant space of time, I
have but to close my eyes to see Madam Heliodora standing there among
the roses, in her rich array, with her feathered fan in her hand,
while I, poor fool! leaned upon the rail beside her, ready to kiss the
very blossoms that had but touched her cheek. She stood looking over
the sea, then, upon a sudden turning to me, she saith--

“You seem to-day to be in some disorder, sir.”

“Truly, madam,” said I, mighty flustered by her condescension, “your
ladyship judgeth aright. I am in sore disquiet by reason of a most
strange dream that did visit me in the night. May I inquire whether
you be one of those that attach credence to such things?”

“Assuredly,” quoth she, “for han’t the holy saints often been
instructed in this manner, and likewise many unbelievers converted?
Pray, sir,” and I saw an anxious shade upon her face, “be so good as
tell me your dream.”

I obeyed, marvelling greatly to see the heaviness pass out of my
lady’s face as I spake, until, on my reaching the end, she turned upon
me, saying--

“And wan’t there some need of the warning, sir?”

“Madam!” cried I, in grievous astonishment and heat; but my lady had
turned from me again, and was looking over the sea.

“Sir,” saith she, in a strange voice, “I pray you don’t take offence
that I cast aside for a moment the restraints belonging to my sex and
quality, and speak to you for your good. Forget for the instant that
it is Heliodore de Tourvel that speaks, and think only that ’tis one
that is solicitous for your best interests.”

“Madam,” says I, “I’ll endeavour myself to profit by any counsel you
may be good enough to give me.”

“Sir,” saith Madam Heliodora, “you are very young, and in youth one is
often carried away by one’s sensibilities. Now my father an’t young
any longer, and, moreover, he is a statesman, and ’tis the wont of
statesmen to make use of the sensibilities of others for to further
their own plans. Tell me,” and again she turned upon me, “han’t he
endeavoured, through your sensibilities, to make you false to your
country and your faith?”

“Not my faith, madam!” I cried, in great indignation. “For the sake of
that I have lain in the dungeons of the Inquisition, and doth your
ladyship think I am like to forsake it for reward?”

“Ah, bah! that will come after,” quoth my lady, spreading forth her
white hands with a gesture as of disgust; “he can afford to wait. To
your country and your employers, then, sir. What say you to that?”

“Madam,” said I, growing red, “my employers have suspected me
unjustly, and now they have took my name off their books, and esteem
me dead.”

“And is that any reason that you should prove their suspicion not
unjust?” cries she hotly. “Go back to your employers, sir, confess
your fault in lingering here, and explain your action in the other
matters wherein they have disapproved of your carriage towards ’em,
and so set yourself right in their eyes.”

“Madam,” I stammered, “you ask a great matter;” for indeed, since I
had been in her presence again, I had wavered in my intentions of
departing, as my lord had foreseen I should do.

“I don’t ask it--I command it,” and she stamped her foot. “What! the
reward of dishonour is then too great to be refused?”

“My lord marquis knows, madam, that no reward but the greatest could
avail in this matter,” quoth I boldly, looking at her the while in a
way she might not mistake.

She drew herself up mighty proudly, and for one instant there was a
smile as of disdain upon her lips, the next she saith slowly--

“Alas, my poor friend! I fear that you have deceived yourself very
grievously. It is now three years that I am betrothed to my father’s
cousin, the Viscount Eugene de Galampré.”

“Madam!” I cried, too heavily stricken at first to say more, but
presently recovering myself a little, “perchance my lord marquis hath
it in his mind to break off the match.”

“Not with my consent!” she cried quickly, and I saw all my folly. I
knew that the lady that I worshipped loved me not a whit, for that all
her heart was given to this Frenchman. All those signs of love, which
I, in my blind foolishness, had interpreted for myself, were caused by
the thought of him! I bowed my head on the railing with a groan,
feeling verily that now I had lost all.

“Hush, sir!” cried Madam Heliodora; “will you ruin yourself and me
both? Dry these unmanly tears, and tell me, what have you ever seen in
Heliodore de Tourvel that should make you think that she would consent
to be used as a bribe to repay a dishonourable action?”

“Alas, madam!” I cried, “you see me humbled to the very dust at your
feet. Sure death is the only remedy for misery so great as mine.”

“Rise, sir,” says she angrily, “and let me hear no more of such
heathen foolishness. Are you prepared for death, you that have
meditated such treason not only against your employers, but also
against that unhappy lady in England, your cousin?”

I obeyed her, ashamed that I should deserve and receive such rebuke
from a Papist, and at that same moment there come back to my mind that
wise saying of Dr Thomas Browne, to the effect that _Suicide is not so
much to fear death as to be afraid of life. When to live is more
terrible than death, then is it the truest valour to dare to live_;
but I groaned again to remember how often my cousin Dorothy and I had
read those words together, and also to think how much more terrible
life would now be to me than death, though surely this should not have
been so, seeing I was assured of my lady’s continued happiness.

“Sir,” says Madam Heliodora, “you have yet much to live for. Humble
yourself to your employers, as I have already recommended to you, and
then, if your cousin be still willing to espouse you, make to her the
best amends in your power for your faithlessness.”

“Madam,” I replied, “I will obey you so far as in me lies; but this
thing I can’t do. The man that hath once lived in the hope (vain and
foolish though it were), to be beloved by you, can never bend his
thoughts towards any other. Were Mrs Dorothy Brandon possessed of
every perfection under heaven, I could not bring myself to wed
her--yea, though she herself besought me on her bended knees.”

Alas, what fools are we! I can now scarce bring myself to write down
these shameful words, knowing, as I do, of the day wherein these my
vauntings lay upon me as heavy as lead, so that they were like to drag
me down into despair, and when, for one kind word from the dear lady
whose love I thus slighted, I had willingly died.

“Be silent, sir!” cried Madam Heliodora in extreme heat. “Such words
don’t befit either yourself or Mrs Brandon. If I know her aright from
all you have told me, you are far more like to sue in vain for her
favour than she for yours. You are a mean-spirited craven, sir, to
speak thus to me touching one of my own sex.”

“Madam, forgive me,” I entreated. “I am sore disquieted, and I ask
your pardon if my words wan’t seemly, though I must remain fixed in
their spirit. What does your ladyship desire me to do?”

“You must leave this city at once, sir, which hath been, indeed, your
Capua,” says my lady, in a voice of displeasure, “and do as I have
recommended you. If your name should ever again come to my ears, I
trust to hear of you as an honourable gentleman, and married to the
excellent lady whose happiness is in your keeping.”

“Give me some slight token, madam,” I entreated, “that I may know that
I an’t for ever disgraced in your sight.”

“Nay, truly!” she cried; then, checking herself, “you may chance to
meet the Viscount de Galampré on your travels, sir, for he was sent
from our Factory of Surat on a mission for his majesty to the emperor
and the Moratty king. He is of the religion, a _Hugonot_, like
yourself, wherefore you should agree. Convey to him my loving
commendations. You understand me?”

“Madam, I will obey you,” said I, and laden with this message of kind
cruelty, departed.




 CHAPTER XII.
 OF A PART OF MY LIFE THAT HAD BEEN BETTER SPENT OTHERWISE THAN IT WAS.

Now after that which I had heard from my lady, I had but one desire,
and this was, to leave the place so soon as I conveniently might. With
this purpose, then, I waited upon my lord, and acquainted him of my
determination, wherewith he professed himself very much grieved. But
perceiving from my countenance, without doubt, that Madam Heliodora
had undeceived me, and released me from the tangle that he had drawn
around me, and seeing also the turmoil of spirit into the which her
action had thrown me, he made no further attempt to detain me at St
Thomas, nor was any question made touching my sudden departing. And on
my part, also, I said naught of the hopes he had given me, since now,
at last, I perceived that ’twas all done in so delicate and artful a
manner as he could have denied with all appearance of truth any design
to turn my thoughts towards my lady his daughter. But Mr Marigny wan’t
so silent, for he was very greatly astonished to learn that I was
about departing that very day, following the counsel of Madam
Heliodora. And this I was concerned to do in the exactest manner
possible, from the shame and remorse I felt in regard of my conduct
towards her, for this I repeat, as I have hereinbefore showed you,
that my folly an’t in no wise to be laid to the charge of that most
noble and virtuous lady (as certain base persons have falsely
alleged), but solely to my own presumption, and the statecraft of my
lord marquis her father.

Mr Marigny being, as I said, mighty astonished at my decision, could
not forbear questioning me thereupon, and so arrived at a tolerable
knowledge of the whole matter. Still, although mightily diverted to
hear of my presumption and its rebuff, he was good enough to restrain
his mirth in my presence, though I can’t but believe that he hinted
the affair to his fellows, and especially to Colonel Laborde, for when
these gentlemen came to take their leaves of me, there was in their
manners a certain sourness and contemptuous pity, such as my sore
heart found it hard to brook. Nevertheless, I did bid them farewell
with great ceremony, and likewise my lady and Mad. de Chesnac, and so
departed, my lord sending me in his own barge, with Mr Marigny bearing
a letter from his lordship commending me to the agent at Fort St
George in Maderas. And of his lordship I took my leave with great
respect, esteeming him to be at once the stoutest soldier and the most
ambitious person that I had ever met.

The Dutch fleet being still absent since my lord’s defeat on’t, our
voyage, lasting but for two hours or so, passed without any event
worthy of remark, nor might I even spend it in melancholical and
remorseful thought, since Mr Marigny was with me, and must have
continued discoursing had he been attending upon me to the scaffold.
And so droll and merry was he, that I even could not forbear laughing
at some of his conceits (though I would not suffer him to press me on
that point of my ill-starred pretension to my lady’s hand), but so at
last we reached Maderas, whither Mr Marigny had come more than once
with letters from my lord marquis, and were hospitably received by the
agent, when my letter of commendation had been delivered. One of the
council offering Mr Marigny a lodging for the night, he returned back
to St Thomas the next day, bearing divers letters and gifts for my
lord from the agent, and it seemed to me that I was now done with the
French, and should be like to hear no more, so long as I lived,
concerning that city and its garrison. But in this, as you will
afterwards perceive, I did err.

Now I, being left at Fort St George for to await the coming of some
ship that might carry me to Surat, had no better to do than to walk
abroad and divert myself with looking at the town. And this is a place
of good force, dwelt in both by Moors and Gentues, and also by that
people called _Parseys_, that are more industrious and successful in
their business than either of ’em. The place is far better ordered,
according to our notions, than Surat, the streets being straight, and
kept always sweet and clean. The fort is also strong and well provided
with soldiers, both Europe men and Indosthans, though without any
artillery, since the merchants an’t allowed even a cannon or two for
the firing a salute. But with such magnificence do the Company’s
servants go here, as it quite exceeds that at Surat, and this because
they are resolved in everything to show themselves to the Indians at
least as great as the chief officers of the King of Gulconda, whom he
sends often enough for to plague ’em. And all this I observed with
some pleasure, being concerned always to note the situation of his
majesty’s subjects in these parts, and the usage they meet with from
the Indians.

But when once I had completed my survey of the fort and city, I found
time heavy on my hands, and having naught else to do, fell into a
state of great melancholy and weariness, brooding continually over my
hopeless love and its ending. And although I was very sensible of my
own folly in entertaining such a passion, and cursed it in my mind,
yet did I, as many, I believe, are wont to do, attribute to the
fancied misdeeds of others that which was my own fault, blaming not
only my lord, but also Madam Heliodora, and even Mad. de Chesnac and
Mr Marigny, and in especial Colonel Laborde, because, as I suppose,
they had not cared to warn me and so preserve me from my foolishness.
And all this did breed in me a certain heaviness and disease that was
near leading me to madness, so that I did forswear all confidence in
my fellow-creatures, and determined to live henceforth by myself
alone, untouched by the joys and pains of other men. I am thankful to
remember that even at this time I had grace enough to exempt my father
from this general condemnation, and to resolve still to use all means
in my power for to carry out that purpose wherein he had sent me to
the Indies--viz., the releasing the Ellswether estate from its
burdens, that so Sir Harry might enjoy in his old age that easiness of
fortune which he deserved. But with respect to marriage with Dorothy,
or return to England, I put the thoughts of these from me with a sort
of sick scorn, if I may so speak. For I won’t deny that I seemed to
myself to be a very virtuous and well-deserving person, that a cruel
fate had led into divers misfortunes, such as he must needs rise
superior to ’em, though they galled him sorely. And that I might do
this, it was evident to me that I must give myself up altogether to
business, lest otherwise the memory of my trouble should drive me mad.

And that I might the better do this, I begged the agent at the fort to
appoint me some work until there should come some means for me to
return to Surat, which he did with a very good will, so that I gained
much experience in that two months I did spend at Maderas. In my
leisure time, moreover, not desiring to have opportunity for thought,
I applied myself to the study of the Portuguese, finding an old
Portugal trader willing to instruct me therein, and so made good
progress. And all this diligence pleased the agent so well (he not
knowing of that secret spur that did drive me on to work continually,
and yet made all my labour to seem but as fruitless toil), that he
much commended me, and desired mightily to have me with him instead of
at Surat. But it wan’t for me to linger at Maderas when my place was
elsewhere, and because no ship touched at the place convenient for me
to embark therein, I did embrace with joy the occasion offered me by
the setting out of a _caphalay_ bound for Bombaim, and headed by my
friend the old Portugal trader, to return to Surat, he inviting me to
bear him company.

Now in this journey we must needs pass through all the kingdom of
Gulconda and also that of Visiapour, in both whereof the kings and
ruling men are Moors, and mighty suspicious and jealous of all Europe
men, and for this cause we adopted the Indian habit for our travels,
that so we might go on our way with less remark. And all this journey,
by God’s good providence, we did perform and accomplish in safety,
visiting divers places of note and seeing many strange things, which
it would be tedious to set down at length. And at Bombaim I bid
farewell to my ancient friend the Portugal, thanking him for his
kindness towards me and the many things he had taught me in his
ingenious discourse, and made myself known to the President of the
Council at Bombaim. And by good luck there chanced to be lying in the
port just at that time the Company’s _baloon_ from Surat, that was
come for to bring an advice from the Council there, so as I was able
to be sent on at once to my old factory. And when we were come to
Surat, I went on shore immediately, being still in my Moorish habit,
and with great _mustachios_, such as the Moguls use to wear, and did
seek Mr Martin in his former room. But I found there a gentleman newly
arrived from England, that advised me that Mr Martin was now made
Accountant, and showed himself very curious to know what I desired
with him. But not choosing to gratify this inquisitive temper, I
sought the Accountant’s chamber, and found there Mr Martin established
in great state and some luxury. And seeing me, he took me for some
Arabian or Persian visitor of quality, and speaking in Persian,
desired to know how he might serve me, but I regarding him
steadfastly, the truth brake into his mind, and he leaped up and
seized me joyfully by the hand.

“My dear Ned,” quoth he, “_the longest day hath his end_, and I was
ever sure I should see you again, though Mr Secretary, and that
evil-conditioned cub of his, Mr Spender, hath often scoffed at my
security. But _without hope the heart would break_, and so it had been
with me, my dear lad, had I believed you truly to be turned Papist and
gone to the Brasils. Wherefore I have always declared that you wan’t
either dead or recanted, but were honourably and Christianly employed
wherever you were, and now here you are for to confirm my words. But
truly you are grown from a boy into a man since last I saw you.”

“Nay, sir,” says I, “by my own feelings I might be grown from a man
into the Wandering Jew.”

“Ned,” says Mr Martin, looking me straight in the face, “you have been
in trouble, and that other than the Inquisition’s. What is’t, lad? Is
it wine, or women, or dice? for ’tis these three are the common curses
of our young gentlemen here as in England.”

“Sir,” says I, “you have hit it, and yet not altogether, for ’tis a
woman that hath brought me to this pass, and yet not as you imagine
it, for I pretended to her hand in an honourable manner, and she used
me better than I deserved. ’Twas my situation and hers made my
pretensions dishonourable.”

“Tush!” says he; “_dishonourable honour_, what is this? Or do you
prefer your doings to be named _honourable dishonour_? Riddle me no
riddles, Ned. _Many stumble at a straw and leap over a blocke_, and I
fear lest your honour have brought you perilous near to dishonour. But
tell me your tale, and let me hear of your hairbreadth ’scapes and
most disastrous chances, and I’ll help you in so far as my conscience
will suffer me. Who is the female you speak of, and how hath she
brought you into trouble?”

But this seeming to me to reflect somewhat upon Madam Heliodora, whose
name and reputation I must ever hold sacred, I made haste to tell Mr
Martin with some heat all my history, which he had picked up wrong
from my first words, and he listened with prodigious attention,
nodding and wagging his head at times, but saying little.

“Ah, Ned, Ned!” quoth he at last, “I would we had never sent you to
Goa, and yet, as the proverb saith, _Bought wit is best_. Perhaps ’tis
these very trials that are to make a man of you in time.”

“Nay, sir, when am I to be a man if not now?” asked I.

“Now? when you are still slighting your solemn engagement with your
cousin, and all for the sake of a presumptuous passion that sprung up
in a week?” said he. “When you are treasuring all manner of spite
against this French lady and her friends for their share in your
undoing, and even against that nobleman to whom she is betrothed, that
never injured you, save unwittingly by the fact of his living at all?
No, lad, I shan’t account you a man until you show yourself one. When
you award blame to yourself instead of to these other persons, and are
ready to atone, so far as may be, for your fault, then I shall esteem
you a man, and worthy to win a woman’s love.”

I was silent from very shame, for Mr Martin had read my thoughts
better than I myself, and they looked black enough when he uttered
them aloud. He laid his hand upon my shoulder kindly--

“I spake lightly at my first seeing you, Ned, calling you a man grown.
This you an’t yet, but I hope to see you one. There is much for you to
learn yet, and it may be to suffer, but _He runneth far, that never
turneth againe_.”

Thus did this good man gently admonish me, with all imaginable
kindness, at a time when (God knows), I needed both counsel and
admonition only too much. For, when working hours was over, and Mr
Martin would fain have carried me to his own lodging, there to tarry
until my own former chamber could be prepared for me, there come one
from his honour the President (to whom Mr Martin had sent intelligence
of my return), desiring me to consider myself as suspended from the
Company’s service until such time as the Council might sit upon my
case, and deliberate whether I was to be restored to my room or not.
And this seemed to me but a piece of formality, though a strange one;
but Mr Martin looked grave thereat, and showed himself more concerned
than I had looked for. Howbeit, he found me a lodging in one of the
guest-chambers for that night, and did also send back to me my old
servant Loll Duss, whom he had kept all this while in his own service
for his faithfulness to me. And at supper I had the honour to make the
acquaintance of divers of the gentlemen that were arrived in the
factory since I had left Surat, and likewise to present myself afresh
to the knowledge of those that I had seen before. The President I did
but salute in passing him, and likewise Mr Secretary, that sat at his
honour’s table, and possessed his ear. One or two persons among those
present (and notably Mr Spender), showed themselves somewhat cold
towards me, but the greater part, following the lead of Mr Martin, did
discourse with me very agreeably, and were mighty desirous to hear of
my adventures.

Now the next day, when the Council sat, I was summoned before them for
to give account of myself, and quickly perceived that ’twas well for
me that I had Mr Martin for my helper, since Mr President was
prodigiously evil affected towards me. I could not forbear crediting
some of this ill-will of his to Mr Spender, that was present for to
assist Mr Secretary, so that they two had plenty of chances to turn
his honour against me, but I would not forget myself so far as to
declare my belief before the Council. And indeed, now that I am come
to consider the matter calmly, I can’t but perceive that there was
nothing extraordinary in all this precaution, if they believed the
tales they had heard touching me, for it was hinted (I don’t know by
whom), that I was escaped from the Inquisition by denying my faith and
betraying the Company’s secrets. On the contrary part was there at
present only my bare word, and I can’t be surprised that the Council
hesitated to believe so singular and monstrous a tale, the like of
which had scarce ever been heard before, either in England or the
Indies.

But at that time I was extreme hot and indignant that some proof of my
story was demanded, beyond my own word, and I might have gone on to
have grievously damaged my own cause by my intemperate words, had not
my good friend Mr Martin once more come to my help. For this excellent
man offered immediately to be bound for me, and to answer for my
conversation and general trustworthiness until Captain Freeman should
be returned from his voyage into Bengall, when he with his ship’s crew
might testify to the truth of my relation. And this the Council did
accept, and further allowed Mr Martin to use me in the business under
his own eye, he seeing to’t that the Company took no damage. And this
decided, we returned to Mr Martin’s lodging, where I threw myself in
anger into a great chair.

“Sure, sir,” says I, “I’m worse off, now that my word is doubted, than
even that king I have once heard you speak on, for I have lost all,
and honour beside.”

“Nay,” says he, “your honour can’t be took from you, without you allow
it. Do you be careful to keep it safe.”

“But how to withstand the power of slander?” I asked.

“I’ll allow,” says he, “that the accusation as to the manner of your
escape comes as from an enemy, for _Malice never speaks well_. But for
the rest, ’tis but a reasonable precaution, and I will see to’t that
when Captain Freeman is returned to prove your honesty, this time
shall be credited to you as a part of your service. You have in me,
Ned, _a friend in court_, and he, saith the proverb, _is worth a penny
in purse_. So be of good cheer, remembering that _As a man is
friended, so the law is ended_.”

Having received this assurance, I found my heart something lighter,
and I went to work with such zest as delighted Mr Martin, though he
knew not, as I supposed, that ’twas chiefly done that I might have no
leisure left for thought. I took much advantage from his ripe
experience and long knowledge of the Eastern trade, and he was wont to
tell me, laughing, that I bid fair to be as keen a merchant as
himself. Having some knowledge of French, I was often sent to carry
through any needful business with the gentlemen at the French Factory,
whom I found very agreeable, but more of merchants and less of
soldiers than those I had seen at St Thomas. I had heard from Mr
Martin and others that they wan’t well liked among us, being regarded
as interlopers, and also because they had assisted Sevi Gi with fusees
and powder on his second coming hither in the year 1669-70, when again
our poor Englishmen were shut up in the Factory, which they defended
with great obstinacy, and so beat him off. And beside this also, the
French suffered the Morattys to march through their factory to attack
part of the town and a certain Prince of Tartary that had his lodging
there, which put them in very ill odour both with the Moguls and with
us, but for this they cared little, being set upon an alliance with
Sevi Gi, after the design conceived by my lord Marquis of Tourvel.

Now after I had been near six months back at Surat, there come one day
a message saying that the Boscobel had cast anchor in Swally Road, and
an _hackery_ was sent at once for to fetch Captain Freeman to be
examined by the Council touching my matter, without any speech had
betwixt us. And he, though greatly astonished to hear of my safety and
return, did so stoutly declare me to have escaped from imminent peril
and death at Goa, and that not by recantation, but by God’s working
with him and his crew, that the Council became convinced, and sending
a messenger to summon me to their presence, informed me that I was
restored to my place in the Company’s service. But this wan’t all I
demanded, for I should by rights, without that journey of mine to Goa
on the Company’s occasions, and all that followed it, have been by now
a senior factor, with the hope to become a full merchant in two years
or so. And this I had often spoken of with Mr Martin, and did now
again, both with him and with my other good friend, Captain Freeman,
until Mr Martin declared that something must be done, and offered to
undertake the matter for me. Having then in his hands all my savings,
which had been much increased by his care during my absence, he
demanded of the Council that I should be permitted to enter into the
bond of £1000 that is required of a factor, and be placed in the same
situation as I should naturally have held had all gone well, receiving
also pay for all the time of my absence.

Now when Mr Martin had told me what he had asked, I cried out in
amazement at this monstrous demand, but he smiling said that a man
ought always to ask twice as much as he hoped to receive, for then
there was some chance of his getting the half. And capping this, as
was his wont, with the proverb, _’Tis good riding at two anchors, men
have told; for if the one faile, the other may hold_, he disarmed my
opposition and maintained his point. And the Council demurring to his
proposition, as he had expected, though the President, Mr Secretary
not being beside him to poison his ear, did not show himself so averse
from it as might have been looked for, Mr Martin did argue the matter
with ’em, so that at last they came to an agreement. By this
instrument I stood to receive only the pay of a writer for the past
six months since my return, and none at all for the time of my
absence, after my falling into the hands of the Inquisition, but I was
to be made at once a senior factor, and after serving my three years
in that situation, was to receive promotion in due course. In the
arranging this equitable settlement Mr Martin gave himself no small
pains, and was very eager about it until all was agreed, and the
record thereof sent home to be approved by the Committee in London.
But when this was all done, there come upon me a strange restlessness
and misanthropy, so that I would fain have fled into the wilderness,
to be away from all men, and yet I must needs labour continually for
to keep myself from thinking. And Mr Martin, seeing this, cast about
for some means to relieve me, but found none at first. But at length,
perceiving that the ceremony and sociableness of the life in the
Factory was very displeasing to me, he spake to Mr President in my
behalf, and gat me appointed to a post in our house at Amidavat.[100]
Now this is a town that lies some way inland from Surat, on the road
to the emperor’s great city of Agra, and a place of some importance.
And sending me here, where there was but two or three white men beside
myself, he trusted I should find the solitude I desired, for ’tis a
strange thing in the Indies that when you are once become accustomed
to the native Indosthans around you, you heed their presence little
more than if they were dogs or cats.

I went, then, to Amidavat, being grateful to my good friend for his
kindness, but guessing little of his sorrow on parting with me, that
was like a son to him. “_He must needs goe that the devill drives_,
Ned,” says he to me, with the water standing in his eyes, the while he
bid me farewell; “and I fear lest the devil had driven you into some
harm, had you abode here. At Amidavat, whither you go, there is more
hard work, and less chance of evil companions, but you may come to
ruin even there, if you will let the devil drive you, instead of
yourself driving him away.”

Now I don’t purpose to describe particularly the three years that I
did spend at Amidavat, for although, through the goodness of God, I
did not come to ruin, yet I approached tolerably near thereto, falling
under the assault of such temptations as everywhere await a young man
when he hath some time of his own, and little hope nor fixed faith for
to guide him past ’em. It seemed to me that my life was ended, or at
least all the happiness on’t, before it was well begun, and that I had
naught to which to look forward, and this bred in me such a coldness
and deadness of spirit as made me do ill because I had no care to do
well. And yet, although in these three years I did many things the
recollection whereof now makes me sorry, and many also whereof I am
now ashamed, it is false to say that I behaved myself unfaithfully
towards my employers, or that I was at all slack as regarded business.
For with respect to the first, the confidence wherewith I was
afterwards honoured by the Committee is a sufficient answer, and for
the second, that my own wealth grew in a surprising manner. To heap up
money, that I might fulfil my father’s desire, was now my only
endeavour, and ’twas to fill up the hours when I could not well be
making money, that I resorted to those pursuits whereto I have
alluded. And moreover, for my credit’s sake, I must say also this,
that even in my most desponding and careless hours, the recollection
of Madam Heliodora and her last words to me would come back into my
mind, and this remembrance did hold me back from some sins that I
might otherwise have committed.

Now while speaking of Madam Heliodora, I must not omit to set down a
matter that did cause me much concern--viz., that about the end of the
year 1674 news reached us at Amidavat that St Thomas was fallen at
last into the hands of the Dutch, but with such credit to the besieged
that ’twas permitted ’em to march out with all the honours of war, and
to proceed whither they would. And upon this certain of them did
repair to the vicinage of Gingee, in the kingdom of Visiapour, where
they had obtained a grant of land from the king of the place, and did
set up there a town called Phoolcherry.[101] Others of them came to
Surat, to their own factory there, but on enquiring of ’em concerning
my lord marquis and his household, I learned that he had been summoned
back to France, and was departed thither, but whether upon a sealed
letter or not I can’t tell, and with him his family. And for this I
was much grieved, both for the failure of so great and fair-seeming an
enterprise, and also that Madam Heliodora was now so far removed from
me.

Now about six months before my time at Amidavat was expired, there
come to me such a piece of news as might well have caused me to repent
of my evil deeds and resolve to lead a better life, but God suffered
me to go on still in my ungrateful courses, that my punishment might
be the more grievous when it came. For I received a great packet of
letters from England, some of ’em wrote a year and a half, and others
but nine months ago (the first sort having been delayed on the high
seas owing to some mischance that befell the vessel carrying ’em), but
the burden of them all was the same, for they brought me the news that
my father was dead. And this, as you may suppose, came upon me
prodigious sharp and sudden in the midst of my toiling and sparing for
to gather together the moneys that my father had looked for, but the
more so by reason of this--viz., that I had had no letters wrote from
Ellswether since I sent that one from St Thomas, boasting of my
presumptuous hopes, nor in my own letters had I been able to bring
myself to explain and describe the destruction of these hopes, but had
wrote of indifferent matters without so much as making mention of ’em,
although I had feared that my father would be sore troubled touching
me. I had intended at some time in the future, when the pain of my
rejection was less poignant, to write and declare to him the whole
affair, and my present situation, but this was now removed out of my
power by death.

The letter earliest in time was wrote by my cousin Dorothy:--


 Sir,--I had not trobl’d You wit. ys. my poore Hand, weare itt not
 for ye mornfull Accident yt. ’tis fitter forr mee yn. for an Other to
 mak knowen too You. Yr. honred. Father, Syr _Harry Carrlion_, is no
 moer, hauing departed out of ys. Lyfe ye 10th Daie of ys. last Moneth.
 Wee being wth. him continuelly had observ’d a grate Chaunge in hys
 Condicons of late, noting yt. hee was become strangely gentle &
 quiett, sighg. often too Hym Selfe in his slow Walkyng in ye Garrden
 on his Crotches. Allsoe since yr. Letters was arriv’d, yt. weare wrote
 at _St Thomas_, it seem’d too us yt. Sirr _Harry_ did desire to write
 to You, getting out oftimes Penn & Paper, & prepareg. too beginn, bot
 nevr. beginning. And I asking if it shd. pleas hym yt. I writ forr
 hym, hee saith No, for yt. he shd. see You before Long. And ys.
 Asssurc. growing vpon Him, he was wont to spend moch Tyme in ye Arbour
 at ye End of ye Fir Walke, yt. lookes over ye Rode, watching agst.
 Your Comming. Being becom at last soe feable as he myght not leaue ye
 House, he satt all Day beside ye Windowe lookyng on ye Aproch, saying
 yt. he beleeu’d You was coming. Yn. alsoe, wn. he was seis’d wit. a
 Retorn of yt. old Disorder yt. had plag’d hym in his Campayns of
 _Germany_, he desir’d mee to sett open ye Dore of ye Chambre, soe yt.
 hee might heere You mountg. ye Staires. And I, seeing yt. he was not
 long for ys. Werld, did ask of hym some Message for You, for Feare
 least You shd. not be in Time to see hym. And hee, giuing mee his
 Blessing most swetely & fatherly, dyd sende ye same to You allso,
 bidding You (said he), bee a brave & honrable Man, & shew yr. Silf
 worthie.… Now on ye last Daie of his Lyfe, hee wander’d sore in his
 Mynde, spekyng as if too ye late Kynge & to Others yt. bee now dead.
 Bot at last, sitting upp & speaking veray loud & strong, “_Nedd_ is
 com,” saith he; “I heare hym on ye Staire.” And wee, looking yt. Way
 yt. he pointed, sawe no One, bot returning too hym, found him falln
 back deade, all ye Chambre & Bedd being still hong wit. Blacke, as
 alwaies since yr. Moder dy’d.

 For Consolacon, Sir, wt. can I offer You in ye Losse of soch a Part.,
 bot too remember yt. hee departed full of ye greatest Lov & Kindness
 toward You, & is now, without Doubt, tho’ abst. from Us, yet happily
 prest. wit. yr. dere Mother & all ye Blest? You haue ye Praiers of yr.
 poore Cosin in ys. sadd Afflicktion.

 Understand mee, Sir, to remayn yr. faithfull Servt.,

                                                     D. Brandon.


With this come two letters from my father’s attorney, Mr Sternhold,
the first wrote not long after my cousin’s, and confirming her
narration, adding also that they had buried my father in the church at
Ellswether beside my mother, and that many persons of quality in the
neighbourhood had followed in the funeral with great respect. The
second was wrote eight or nine months later, and contained a full
relation of the posture of my father’s affairs, and the condition of
the estate. And after this come a piece that did bring the water to my
eyes, for to see the sadness and perplexity that I had brought upon
that my good father, although that which followed drew me back again
to my former state of hardness and despondency.


 As often (writ Mr Sternhold) as I was admitted of late to the Presence
 of your Honour’s Father, my esteem’d Patron, I perceiv’d that he was
 desirous to draw up some Instrument or Deede that might have a binding
 Effect, and by certain Words that he once let drop I saw that he
 wish’d to make some Provision for Mrs _Brandon_, his Ward. Being of
 Opinnion (doubtless on the best Authority), that you, Sir, were minded
 to set aside your Contract enter’d into with that Lady, Sir _Harry_
 desir’d to secure to her some Maintenance that should not be dependent
 upon your Honour’s Generositie, since this should doubtless be
 disagreeable to her. ’Twas the Impossibility of laying any further
 Burthen on the Estate that convinc’d him that he could not do this,
 and I fear it added some Sorrow to his last dayes, tho’ I believe that
 he need not have troubl’d him Selfe with Regard to this yong
 Gentlewoman. For to you, honour’d Sir, I may say with all Discretion,
 that during my late mournfull Vizitts at _Ellswether_, I have grown
 more and more sensible of the Perfections of Mrs _Brandon_, who is now
 growne into such splendour of Form and such surpassing Loveliness of
 Countenance as to be without any Equall, and that others are affected
 like My selfe, and to more Purpose. Tho’ no Fortune, the young Lady
 hath, by Reason of her Beauty and her Witt, as many Lovers as she can
 well intertain. Among ’em is my young Lord _Harmarthwaite_ him Selfe,
 who, with my Lady his Mother, vizited upon me the t’other Day, and
 sent, thro’ me, as her nearest Guardian, a most handsome Compliment to
 Mrs _Brandon_. His Lordshipp declar’d himselfe willing to espouse her
 without a Peny, nay, my Lady assur’d me he would wed her in her Smock
 if need were, and be proud at that. My Lady shew’d herself as well
 enclin’d to the Match as her Sonn, saying that she should be proud to
 receive into her Family a Lady of whose Parts and Prudence she had
 heard so much, whispering me allso that she would make Interest, thro’
 my Lord _Harrington_ her Bro., with his Ma’tie to revive the Barony of
 _Brandon_ in Favour of my Lord and Mrs _Dorothy_, so leving a fine
 Inheritance to their Children. But this Proposition of Marriage Mrs
 _Brandon_ declin’d, as she hath done all other, tho’ I felt it my Duty
 to counsell her to entertayn this one. Some says upon this Matter that
 she is aiming at my Lord Duke of _London_ (Son to your Honour’s
 ancient Patron), who greatly commended both her Figure and her Dancing
 at the great Ball danc’d at _Belfort_ Castle some Time since, and some
 that her Heart is given to a certain Gentleman at present in Forrayn
 Parts, that shall be nameless.


“Alack, poor little Doll!” quoth I, when I had read this, “thou art
well enough, in truth, but not for him that hath loved Madam Heliodora
de Tourvel. Thy English ways should show poor indeed beside her
languorous grace. Make thy choice while ’tis in thy power. Thy lordly
servant[102] shall suit thee better than thy poor cousin.”

Thus you shall see how despitefully I used this jewel, for the which I
had afterwards willingly given all I possessed, if I might thereby
gain it. Such poor blind creatures are we mortals, that cast aside the
diamond in our path for the glowing bubble that Fortune holds beyond
our reach!




 CHAPTER XIII.
 OF MY JOURNEYING TO THE CITY OF AGRA; OF MY COMING THITHER, AND OF THE
 PERSON I FOUND THERE.

Now when I had read these letters that were come to me (and that not
without great sorrow and anguish, yea, and many tears also, as well
for the pain I had caused to my honoured father as for his loss), I
did set myself to indite an answer to them in good time, although
knowing well that I could not despatch this until I myself should go
down to Surat for the shipping season. And first I perceived, from a
saying of Mr Sternhold in his second epistle, that he looked for me to
have espoused Madam Heliodora by this time, since he asked when he and
the tenants should have the honour and pleasure of bidding me welcome
and my noble lady. But it seemed to me that now, still less than
before, could I endure to set down particularly the history of my
presumption and the issue on’t, and thus I did but remark in my answer
that I was not yet wed, and did not believe that I ever should be so.

And this I said, not at all imagining that they would put upon my
words the interpretation they did, for they supposed my letter wrote
in the natural impatience of a lover made angry by some delay in the
realising his hopes, and took it to mean that my marriage was but
postponed for a season, and must take place at some time. And this
wan’t all, for I took the occasion of Captain Freeman’s carrying his
ship home to send by him a considerable sum of money out of my savings
to Mr Sternhold, desiring him to place it out at interest in such way
as he thought best for my cousin’s benefit, leaving her to believe, if
so it might be, that ’twas some provision that my father had been able
to make for her. But Dorothy, scenting a plot through some chance word
let slip by my good friend, did, as I heard afterwards, demand to know
the whole truth of the matter, and so refused altogether to touch the
money (which I had designed as a portion for her, whether she married
or remained a maid, that so she might not have the pain to find
herself depending on me, the man that had rejected her), desiring Mr
Sternhold to apply the whole sum to the partial releasing of the
estate from its burdens. All which was wrote to me in due time by Mr
Sternhold, he being in some trouble of spirit touching it.

Now in that I was eager to spare my cousin all the humiliation in my
power, providing for her as though she had been my own sister, you may
see cause to commend me, but so unalterably fixed did I deem my
resolution never to wed her, that I considered it needful to impress
her once again with the same, and this I did, as now seems to me, in
the rudest and most churlish manner imaginable. For when I writ to Mr
Sternhold my answer, having first desired him to request of my cousin,
as an especial favour granted to myself, to continue dwelling in the
Hall, and to retain in her service Mrs Skipwith and a sufficient
quantity of servants, and had begged of him to furnish her, out of my
moneys in his hands, with a convenient allowance for the maintenance
of herself and the household, I ended my letter thus:--


 Have the Goodness, Sir, to make my most respectfull Compliments to Mrs
 _Brandon_, and acquaint her from me of my desire--viz., that should
 she hereafter receive any Proposition of Marryage that may at the same
 time be agreeable to herself, and such as is sanction’d, Sir, by you,
 she shall at once intertayn and accept the same, assur’d of the
 Approvall and Consent of her loving Cosin and Gardien,

                                                      Ed. Carlyon.


As much as to say, _Warn her that Mr Carlyon is beyond her reach, and
that if she can assure herself of another match, ’twill be well for
her to accept of it, while she is yet young and handsome!_

I don’t know what devil possessed me to write this, for sure, ’twas a
cruel thing thus to wring the heart that, as I knew, had never beat
for any but myself; but when I had wrote it, I considered it again,
and judged it to be an extreme neat and well-turned piece, and so
hugged me in my self-conceit, like a brain-sick fool as I was. It may
have been (for I conceive that this should well please the devil
aforesaid) that I was desirous to render my innocent cousin as
miserable as myself, who was but suffering the due reward of a foolish
presumption and of a stubborn and stiff-necked resistance to the wise
rulings of Providence.

Now when my time at Amidavat was ended, and I went down to Surat, and
opened to Mr Martin the condition of my affairs, showing him the
account of the wealth that I now owned, and also of that which was
still embarked in divers trading ventures, my good friend, after
hearing all that I had to say, and asking me certain questions
thereupon, shook his head sadly.

“_Vertulesse gentilitie is worse than beggerie_,” says he.

“Pray, sir,” says I, “what would you have more? I am essaying to
employ my savings in such ways as you’ll approve,” and I told him
concerning that sum I was about sending home for to provide a portion
for Dorothy; “have you anything against me in this particular?”

“Ned,” says Mr Martin, “_Tread upon a woman, and she’ll turne_. Ay,
and _He that will not when he may, when hee would he shall have nay_.”

“Sir,” said I, “you deal in riddles to-night.”

“Do I so, Ned?” quoth he. “Perhaps you will read one of my riddles
when you find out that a woman to whom love is owed an’t to be bought
off with money, and the other when you come to desire that which you
now despise. Are these still riddles to you, lad? Well, well; _Young
men thinke that olde be fooles, but old men do know that young men be
fooles_.”

“I thank you, sir,” says I, half-vexed and half-diverted with his
persistence, but I was used to bear with the strangeness of his
humour, and loved him far too well to take offence at him. And he,
perceiving that my mind was made up upon the topic of marriage, spake
no more to me thereupon, but fell to asking me whether I would choose,
if I might, to visit the court of the great Mogul emperor in this next
year. And I making answer that such a journey should gratify one of my
dearest wishes, he told me that there was a project on foot for
sending a _caphalay_ to Agra, which is a prodigious great city situate
on the river Geminy,[103] and whither the princes of this house do
always love to resort. Such _caphalays_ are wont to be sent pretty
frequently from Surat to several towns in the inland country, but
ordinarily they are headed only by _banyans_ or other Indosthans. With
this one, on the contrary, there was to go four English merchants as
ambassadors, for to bear to the emperor Auren Zeeb certain gifts on
the Committee’s behalf, and obtain from him the confirmation of divers
privileges granted some time since to the Factory, that his governor
at Surat had neglected to recognise. Two ancient and experienced
persons among the senior merchants had been appointed to the conduct
of the party, and Mr Spender, now a full merchant for more than a
year, was also to go, as being related to Mr Secretary, who had made
interest for him with his honour the President.

“Now,” says Mr Martin, “if you desire it, Ned, I don’t doubt but I
shall be able to have you named as the fourth, and ’twill be an
agreeable jaunt for you. You are well enough seen[104] in both the
Persian and Indosthan tongues to make yourself of use, and you have
already enjoyed more experience of business than most young persons of
your age, while you stand to gain more in this.”

“I’ll endeavour myself to gain all the knowledge I may, sir,” said I.

“I fear lest your life at Amidavat han’t done that for you that I
wished,” said Mr Martin, somewhat sadly, “but I would fain hope that
the change I look for will soon come.”

I felt myself took aback by his words respecting my life while away
from Surat, and muttered something, I don’t know what, saying that I
wan’t no worse than others.

“No worse!” saith he. “But I would have you better than others, Ned.
_A man far from his good is nigh his harme_, and I fear lest it be so
with you. You should be a man now, lad, in virtue of your years; but
there seems to me to be much trouble before you yet.”

“But you will have me made of the party for Agra, sir?” says I, a
little fearful lest he should be repenting of his offer.

“All that I can compass shall be done for you in the matter, Ned. God
grant it may be for good, and not again for evil.”

Captain Freeman then coming in for to bid us farewell before going on
board of his ship at Swally, we left speaking of the matter, and
turned to other topics. But Mr Martin was as good as his word in
speaking for me to the Council, and thereafter, in due course, all was
appointed as I most desired, and I was given the vacant place in the
party that was about being made up. The shipping season was now at its
height, when the life in our Factory at Surat is the busiest
imaginable, and I had already had much ado to see to my private
matters, being forced at last to trust them almost entirely to the
discretion of that good friend of mine, Captain Freeman, than whom, as
I may truly say, there never was a discreeter person. He being at last
departed, and with him all the other India ships, sailing in company
for fear of pirates and other enemies, we were at liberty to set about
our preparations, which being finished, we started on our journey.

In our company was there we four merchants, together with twelve
English soldiers for the better protecting of our goods and the rich
gifts we carried for the emperor, and also several _banyans_ with
their servants and followers. It was counted proper for us to travel
in some state, with banners borne before us, as persons of quality in
the East use to do, and with a sufficient retinue of attendants. The
Europe merchants in the Indies do never journey but they carry with
them their own cooks, both for the avoiding of danger from poison and
for the better satisfying of their palates, and many other servants
also are needful, for to look to the beasts and the merchandises and
for to prepare the night lodging. Journeying by way of Brodra[105]
and Cambaya, both of ’em considerable towns, and so to the Company’s
house at Amidavat, was all old ground to me, but when, after some
days’ rest at the place last named, we passed on and came into the
country of the Rashpoots,[106] I found there much that was new to me.
And these Rashpoots, or as some render the word, _Rasboutes_, are a
kind of highwaymen, or Tories, such as gain their livelihood by
attempting and plundering travellers, so that it behoved us all to
keep good watch against ’em. And this was to us a matter of no small
anxiety, so as we were almost fain to ask for a guard of soldiers from
the Moorish governor of Oudyepour,[107] which was a great town we
come to, but refrained, fearing lest they should prove worse to us
than the robbers themselves, being, like all the Mogul armies, ill
paid and worse disciplined. But it so fell out, thanks to the kind
care of Providence, that we were able to travel with little
molestation or stoppage, having at Amidavat changed our Europe clothes
for garments made after the Indian fashion, and so reached safely the
great city of Agra, the goal of our journeying.

This city is a place of prodigious force, being defended on every side
by a good wall of red freestone and a ditch of thirty fathoms broad.
The circuit of the walls is extreme extensive, and the streets very
fine and spacious, though to our eyes the common houses and shops seem
mean enough, and in divers cases the upper rooms, projecting out on
either side of the way, do meet overhead in the midst, making, as it
were, a vaulted passage for to go through. Of public edifices there is
a prodigious quantity, and these so fair and stately as ’tis said no
city in Asia can surpass them, both in the fashion of their
architecture (which is after the Persian style), and the conveniency
of their ordering. Chief among these in our opinion on our first
arriving was the eighty _caravan-serawes_[108] or inns of the place,
whereof we chose one, on the advice of them that knew the city well,
and there took up our abode, finding therein such noble lodging as I
had never imagined to myself. For these _caravan-serawes_ are many of
’em of three storeys high, with fine sets of rooms for travellers,
together with good vaults and cellars for their goods, and suitable
stabling for their beasts, and all the chambers opening one into
another with private doors and galleries for the conveniency of those
that occupy ’em. To each _caravan-serawe_ is there a keeper appointed,
for the better safeguarding of the goods therein and the comfort of
the travellers, and he, in return for the payment of a decent sum of
money, will provide for you both forage for your beasts and victuals
and firing for yourself, and all this with mighty care and respect.

We then, having settled ourselves in this place, did send word to the
emperor of our being come, and ask his permission to wait upon him for
the presenting our letters of commendation, and did also send to
certain Armenians that did represent the Honourable Company in this
city, that they might come and examine the merchandises we had
brought, and carry away musters of them for to show to them that dealt
with ’em. And this business being ended, we did set to work to make
ourselves at home (as they say), as being likely to spend some months
in the place (for if Justice be slow anywhere, sure her course is
scarce swift enough to be perceivable here), and so divided among
ourselves the apartments that we held, taking each two chambers, very
decent and seemly, and a part of the gallery before ’em.

Now the day after our coming, a Brachmine,[109] which is an Indian
priest (for such are commonly used for clerks and messengers among the
Moguls), brought to us the emperor’s reply to our letter, bidding us
welcome very graciously, and counselling us to take certain days to
refresh ourselves after our journey, and then he would admit us to an
audience. And this counsel we followed, diverting ourselves with going
about and examining the place, with one of the Armenians, a pretty
young fellow enough, and one that spake English passably, having been
bred up in the house they have at Surat, for our _druggerman_,[110]
which is interpreter. For there are in Agra a prodigious number of
_metchids_ or _mosqueys_,[111] where the Moguls used to worship, and
chief among ’em that wonder of the world and delight of all
beholders,[112] built by the late emperor Shaw Jehaun,[113] the
father of Auren Zeeb, for the glorification and remembering of his
queen. But so strict is the watch maintained over these temples, that
it cost us prodigious pains to see more than the outside only of one
or two, and this with much reluctance on the part of their keepers and
of those that we found worshipping therein. Likewise we visited many
tombs of holy men among the Moors, that are held in great honour and
veneration, and divers fine public baths, where you may be bathed and
anointed in the greatest luxury imaginable for a trifling small sum.

Then lastly, when the day was come that the emperor had appointed, we
took our presents that we had brought for his majesty, and being borne
in _palenkeens_ in our best array, started for to come to his court.
The palace of the Great Mogul is a mighty pretty piece of building,
well fortified against all attempts, and ornamented with much curious
work after the Moorish fashion. Passing in at a great gate that looks
towards the west, we were showed the _cistery_,[114] that is, the
emperor’s place of decreeing justice, where all men, even the poorest,
may demand admittance, and seek redress at his hands. And next we saw
a great tower, covered all over with gold, where the emperor’s
treasury is kept, and after this they brought us into a court paved
with marble of divers colours, very pretty, and at the upper end
thereof, under a rich portal with pillars of silver, we found the
Great Mogul himself, sitting upon a platform with silver railings, and
a carpet thereon fringed with gold. So bright and shining was the
magnificence of this throne and of all the appointments on’t, that for
a time our eyes were verily dazzled thereby; but I was able to
perceive that the emperor was a man beyond middle age, very grave and
reverend of countenance, and most majestical of person. His habit
consorted well with his air, being a cassock of white satin, very
delicately flowered, and oddly wrought with broidery of silk and gold,
and a _shash_[115] of rich woollen stuff about his middle. His
_turbant_ was of gold cloth, with a string of great pearls woven
therein, and a plume set with very fine diamonds in the forefront
thereof. Round about the platform whereon he sat was all the
_ombrahs_[116] of his kingdom, and many famous soldiers and generals,
all in very rich apparel.

The emperor received us with much affability, and accepting our gifts,
heard what we had to say, I being interpreter, and then dismissed us
very graciously, assuring us that our matters should have his
attention before very long. And we returning to our lodging, found a
great store of goods sent thither after us, for this is the custom of
the East, but we must needs put them to the credit of the Company,
whose servants we were, and not keep them ourselves. Bringing these
gifts from his majesty come a Europe gentleman of his household, a
Frenchman as I believe, that had studied medicine at the great school
of Montpellier, and was now, after many wanderings, become the
emperor’s physician--a very ingenious person, and well skilled in all
manner of curious knowledge. He having been of late absent from the
city, visiting one of the emperor’s sons at Dhilly, had but just heard
of our arrival, and came to visit upon us with great kindness,
rejoicing that he might once more find himself in the company of
Christians. And he sat and talked with us until very late, delighting
us mightily with the variety of his information and the extent of his
travels, and departed at last, being as earnestly desired to visit
upon us again as he himself was anxious to do this. So great was the
esteem (and that, as I believe confidently, well-grounded) that the
emperor felt for this gentleman, that he made him the depositary of
all his secrets, and even sent him on divers occasions to confer with
Mr Kidder, the head of our party, as to the immunities that were
desired to be confirmed. And thus it arrived that the doctor became a
very near friend to us all, and opened and explained to us many things
that we could not understand, and made himself in general so needful
to us, that we felt that day to be empty wherein he came not to pass
some time at our lodging.

Now upon one of these days was it that Mr Kidder and I rid abroad upon
an elephant, which beast’s paces are extreme disagreeable to them that
han’t accustomed themselves thereto, so that when we came to
dismounting by the means of a short ladder, I, being somewhat giddy,
catched a slip, and fell to the ground. As it so chanced, I was not
hurt in nowise, but only my watch, the which was sorely crushed and
broken in the fall. And I was the more grieved at this, that the watch
was a gift from Mr Martin, he having sent for it as far as to
Swisse,[117] intending it for me on my return from Goa, and keeping
it by him all the time wherein he knew not whether I were alive or
dead, gave it to me before my going to Amidavat, and a mighty fine
piece of workmanship it was, and cost him a great sum of money. I then
lamenting loudly the loss of so precious a thing from among my
possessions, when as we sat the next evening under the colonnade
before our lodging, our friend the physician bid me take comfort,
saying that there was a Christian prisoner in the court that was
either a Frenchman or a Swisser, and was most cunning in mending of
clocks and in all work of that kind. And I asking where I might find
this person, he promised to direct him to me, and that as soon as
might be. And being thus a little comforted, I put away the watch for
the night, little dreaming into what company it should bring me.

But the next day, towards noon, when I was in my own chamber, smoking
that strange fashion of pipe that they call _hucca_,[118] I was
disturbed by my servant Loll Duss, who come to say that the workman
sent by the gentleman physician (this is their civil and respectful
way in speaking of the doctor) was arrived and waited my pleasure.
Then I bade Loll Duss carry him to the gallery, being minded myself to
talk there with him as he worked, and learn through what strange turns
of Fortune’s wheel he was come into such a plight. Going out to him,
therefore, I found him a person of a very fine stature and an air of
great nobility, though poorly apparelled in a Moorish habit, his eyes
dark and piercing, his hair and beard long and untrimmed. And he
receiving me with a prodigious low reverence, as elegant as any I had
seen in my lord marquis his court at St Thomas, I felt myself moved to
return his civility, and wondered what his quality might be. Showing
him then the watch, and explaining how I had broke it, he sat down and
took out his tools and set to work with great skill and diligence, I
sitting by and watching him.

“’Tis easy to see, sir, that you were bred to this trade,” says I to
him at last in French. He left his work for a moment, and looked upon
me with a smile.

“Not precisely, sir,” says he, and said no more for the time; but
shortly after, as though fearing he had been churlish, he observed--

“When I was still a young boy, sir, my parents were compelled by
calamity to seek refuge in Swisserland, in a town wherein near three
parts of the inhabitants lived by watch-making. Being always of a
lively and inquisitive constitution, I was used to go continually in
and out of the houses and watch the people at their work, and so
gathered some slight knowledge of their craft, which my parents
remarking allowed me to be trained in’t like any ’prentice-boy of the
place, thinking that I might one day be thankful for the power of
working in this sort, which indeed I have now proved.”

“I had not thought that one of your trade should find much to do
here,” says I.

“The emperor, as indeed all the Moguls, hath a very pretty taste in
clocks and watches,” he made answer, “and owns a prodigious quantity
of ’em; but there is no man here can put ’em in order but I, and
though not bred thereto, I am thankful to possess the skill for this
honest toil.”

Now all this was to me somewhat of a perplexity, for though it ben’t
counted wrong among us for a gentleman to engage himself in trade,
especially that to the East, where no apprentisage is needed, yet it
should assuredly be considered disgraceful for him to exercise such a
craft as this. But on that head I kept silence, being convinced that I
had a gentleman before me.

“Sir,” I said, “I perceive that your quality is above your present
situation. May I ask to whom I have the honour of speaking?”

“Sir,” says he, “with all deference to you, and recognising your kind
intentions in asking it, I must still withhold my name. I care little
for the blows of Fortune myself, but I have friends that I desire to
spare from any pain or disgrace that might be supposed to attend upon
the general discovery of my present manner of life, and for their
sakes I am resolved not to disclose myself.”

“I will respect your wishes, sir,” said I, much taken with his
manners, and desiring the more to discover his real name and quality.

“Should you desire me to attend upon you again, sir, for any matter of
this kind,” says he, holding up the watch, “you will hear of me by the
name of the _Ferringhee_,[119] which the Moguls call me, meaning
Frenchman, as I suppose. I am considered to be a guest at the
emperor’s court, and to receive my victuals from his table; but when
he is vexed or busy I am at times forgot, and must be thankful to earn
my bread as I may.”

“At the least, sir,” said I, when his work wan’t far short of being
finished, “you will stay and give us the honour of your company to
dinner? I can answer for my chief that he will be rejoiced to bid you
welcome.”

“No, sir,” says he, again smiling, “while I withhold my name from you,
I won’t place myself at your table. What security have you that I an’t
some mean fellow masquerading as a person of quality?”

Thus he ended his work, and restored me the watch, that was now become
whole and sound once more, and so prepared to depart. Now I was in
some disquiet, fearing to offend him by offering him money, and yet
not desiring to send a servant to settle the matter; but he, seeing
the strait I was in, named a convenient price, and received it from me
with great gravity, saying only that it would provide for his wants
for a week, and so departed, saluting me very civilly, but without any
servility. And I, remembering thereafter his words and looks, mused
long concerning him, wondering who he might be, so that when our
friend the doctor arrived that evening I was eager to discover from
him all that he knew. And first I desired him to tell me this
gentleman’s name, if he were acquainted on’t.

“If I know it,” says he, “’tis in strict secrecy, and not to be
revealed, but that I won’t tell you. Yet this I may disclose, that
this unfortunate gentleman declared his name and quality to certain
Hollanders that were sojourning here, asking their good offices with
the emperor for his release, but they repaid his confidence only with
mockery, and jeered both at him and at the friends whose honour he
desires to spare. Since that time, he has vowed not to disclose
himself to any but one of his own countrymen.”

“But how came he here, sir?” said I.

“Why, that I may tell you,” says he. “He was sent ambassador from some
factory on the coast of Malabar to the princes of these parts, and had
the ill luck to visit Seva Gi, the Moratty rebel, on his way hither.
Having won his favour and obtained great countenance from him, he came
on to Dhilly, where the emperor then was, but his majesty had him at
once arrested and clapped in prison, accounting him a spy of Seva Gi.
After some time, his imprisonment was made less rigorous, and now ’tis
permitted him to go about within the city as he lists, though the
emperor hath often looked black at him when news come of Seva Gi’s
successes in the war. He will hearken to no entreaties to let him go,
even from myself, and ’tis my continual fear lest he shall revenge
himself on him in the event of any further victory of the rebel’s.”

“He appears to be a very agreeable person, and one of good parts and
conditions,” says I.

“Agreeable? Yes, truly,” said the doctor, “and with an air of
contentment also, despite his trials. Of his parts and conditions you
may judge by this, that the emperor thought so highly thereof that he
would fain have given him high preferment in his army, would he but
turn renegado, but he hath always steadfastly refused this compliance.
’Tis a brave man and a patient,” and the doctor sighed heavily; “but I
see no chance of his ever being released, nor can I help him to’t. It
may be that you, sir,” turning to me, “will be able to bring some
solace to this unhappy gentleman by the pleasure of your company and
discourse. He is a Hugonot, like yourself, and you should therefore
the more readily become friends.”

At this point the doctor was engaged in discourse by Mr Kidder, and I
was left to ponder over the hard fortunes of this gentleman, whose
appearance and carriage had already aroused in me so much interest.
Now as I pondered, it seemed to me that I had heard some part of this
history before, though I could not at first decide in my mind when or
where this should have been. Considering silently with myself the
discourse of our friendly physician, I lit on some two or three words
that he had last said, which seemed to stick in my mind and would not
be dislodged. _He is a Hugonot, like yourself_,--when had I heard this
before? For some time I could not recall it, but at last, repeating
them several times in my mind, there come back to me the recollection
of that morning when I had stood with Madam Heliodora upon the
_veranda_ at St Thomas, and had heard from her lips those words that
had made my life since that time a dreary desert. ’Twas in these very
words that she had spoke to me touching that gentleman to whom she was
betrothed, the person that, as Mr Martin had showed me, I had hated
ever since then with a sullen hatred,--the Viscount de Galampré. Was
this gentleman he? Now at first, thinking thus, I was very much
tumbled up and down in my mind, finding myself unable to reconcile my
hitherto antipathy to Madam Heliodora’s servant, with the kindness
that now possessed me on behalf of that _Ferringhee_, as he called
himself, and I thought long upon the matter, coming at last to no
decision, save that I must hear from his own lips the truth or
falsehood of this phantasy of mine.

Having thus determined, I found next day a ring that Mr Marigny had
given to me on our parting at Maderas, whereof the diamond that was
set therein was become loose, and sent Loll Duss to seek for him that
was called the _Ferringhee_, and beg of him to wait upon me once more.
It wan’t long before he brought him again to my chamber, but to me it
seemed a prodigious length of time, so eager was I to be confirmed or
contradicted in my guess. But when he was set down, and I had showed
him the ring, and explained what lacked therein, I began to cast about
in my mind with great uneasiness as to the manner in which I should
put to him my question, seeing that once already he had refused me his
name, and might deem me unmannerly and prying in asking it again. But
while I hummed and hawed, and cast about for some way to begin, he
spared me by speaking himself.

“I perceive that this is a French ring, sir,” says he.

“’Twas from a French gentleman I had it, sir,” says I, “on my leaving
St Thomas.”

“Sir,” says he, laying aside his work and looking upon me eagerly,
“you have visited St Thomas? You are acquainted with the French
inhabitants there, with my lord Marquis of Tourvel, with mademoiselle
his daughter, perhaps?” regarding me all the while with such an air as
made me think of some poor wretch that hath been slowly starved, and
sees food brought suddenly within his reach. But I was minded to try
him further, and so said, as if angry--

“I have the honour of that lady’s acquaintance, sir. May I ask by what
right you inquire concerning her?”

“By what right?” cries he, prodigious angry, and I had almost looked
for him to strike me. “By the highest right of all, sir. Mademoiselle
de Tourvel is my betrothed wife.”

“Sir,” said I, “I ask your pardon. I conceive then that you are my
lord Viscount de Galampré, of whom I heard while at St Thomas.”

“The same, sir, at your service,” saith he, but quickly, as though it
mattered not. “Tell me concerning ’em, I entreat you. For four years I
han’t received any news of ’em. Are they still at St Thomas, or no?”

I perceived then that he had never so much as heard of the fall of
that place, and took pains immediately to tell him all that I knew
touching the fortunes of its garrison (though without mentioning, as
you may well guess, my pretending to my lady’s hand), and answered all
his questions in the best way I might, and so until dinner-time, when
he rose up suddenly and would have departed, saying that he had
detained me too long, but that I entreated of him to remain and dine
with me, my companions being all gone to see the emperor’s fine
gardens. And this he accepted of with pleasure, and indeed I never saw
a man so grateful, nor so eager to hear all that I could tell him. And
so at last he departed, loading me with his thanks until I was
ashamed, and desiring to be my friend all my life.




 CHAPTER XIV.
 OF MY LEAVING THE CITY OF THE GREAT MOGUL IN THE COMPANY OF ONE THAT
 HAD NOT ENTERED THEREIN WITH ME.

Now because of this strange chance that was come to me--viz., to
discover the Viscount de Galampré in a mean disguise in the city of
Agra--I was much plunged in thought, and this of so opposite a nature,
that it pulled me two ways at once. For since I had left Surat, and
undertaken this journey that had brought me already so tremendous a
surprise, I had been able to contemplate with, I trust, a more
wholesome and sound mind, my passion for Madam Heliodora and the
consequences that had followed thereon. For that which I had seen,
though dimly, even when I was still pressing my suit upon her, and now
perceived clearly, and blushed to perceive it--namely, my great
presumption in so addressing myself to her--seemed to me to bring a
perpetual sting in the remembering it, so that I wondered how I had
ever had the face to look for any answer other than that I got. It had
rightly served me had my lady called upon her father to chastise me
for my intolerable rudeness, but in the stead thereof she had listened
to me patiently, and counselled me with such kindness and gentleness
as seemed to me almost angelical. More than this, she had done me the
honour to tell me of her contract with Mons. de Galampré, which she
might well have kept to herself, but deigned in her kindness to impart
to me, and this piece of news I, in my blindness, had received worse
than all that went before, and hated without cause the gentleman that
it concerned.

Nay, had it not been for the extraordinary liking I conceived for this
excellent person when he was still in his disguise, and his name and
quality unknown to me, I had still, as I was fain to confess, remained
in this uncharitable and unchristian temper. But now, having seen him
and noted the fire and ardour wherewith he did thirst for news of my
lady his mistress, I was seized with pity for him,--in part, I don’t
doubt, because from my own example I knew well the pangs and torments
of a love that seemed hopeless. I was never one to be able to go with
that poet that consoles himself for the unkindness of his mistress by
declaring that if she scorn him, he will scorn her scorn and turn his
vows elsewhere, and I considered still that my life was blighted and
that no happiness was ever to be found for me in love, but it seemed
to me that ’twould ease my sad heart to bear some part in making those
happy that deserved the same but wan’t like to attain thereto. And
this feeling was strengthened by the viscount himself, when I had
occasion to desire him next to visit me, upon some mischance that was
happened to Mr Kidder’s stop-watch.[120]

“I am sorry to incommode you again so soon, sir,” said I.

“Sir,” says he, “the agreeableness of your discourse hath left me
longing for this day since last I saw you. You did bestow upon me then
new life, and yet I han’t never ceased teasing myself with questions
that I should have asked of you, but had forgot. You can’t tell, sir,
what it is to me to hear credible intelligence from one that hath
himself seen my friends. During these four years I have taught myself
to regard Mademoiselle de Tourvel almost as though she were dead, so
entirely did she seem lost to me, but your coming has awakened again
in me such a flood of thoughts as that I can scarce contain myself for
eagerness to get some satisfaction of ’em.”

And with that he poured out such a throng of questions touching Madam
Heliodora that I was moved almost to tears to perceive how he must
have noted and remembered every particular of her daily life. And
perceiving from my answers, as I suspect, the respect and admiration
that possessed me towards this noble lady, he did open his heart to me
still further, discoursing upon her many perfections in a strain of
such lofty and yet tender eulogy, as I had never imagined outside the
covers of a romance, so that I, listening, felt more than ever ashamed
of the cursed presumption of my behaviour, since I had gone so far
(though only in my own mind) as to disparage my lady for her
insensibility towards me. What chance, pray, had I had, even though I
had been as worthy of my lady as I was in reality unworthy, to gain a
heart garrisoned with the remembrance of such a love as this? And here
the viscount, seeing in my countenance how deeply I was moved, looked
upon me sadly, though without any bitterness, and said--

“Ah, sir, sure you are happier than I, for you have seen her later.
Was ever so much beauty and virtue enclosed before in a single form?
Can you wonder that her image is impressed upon my heart, and that
since I can’t behold my lady herself, I seize the occasion to
discourse with one that hath both seen and spoke with her? You are
free to depart, you may perhaps enjoy the felicity of beholding her
once more, though you have remained insensible to her perfections,
while I, to whom she is as much as all the world, must stay here a
prisoner.”

And with that he left speaking, and remained for some time plunged in
melancholy, while I considered his words, though not without some
pain, and took counsel with myself whether I might in any way help
him. And venturing to interrupt his melancholical musings by declaring
respectfully my desire and readiness to assist him, he looked up with
his usual cheerfulness, and answered--

“Sir, you have very much helped me already, and do continue to help me
so long as you are good enough to speak to me of my lady and to let me
speak with you of her. I don’t know why I should thus burden you with
my sad and passionate humours, but I have feared now and again lest I
should go mad through having none with whom I might speak on this
topic, and in you I find always a sympathy that encourages me to
continue.”

Methought that I might well have sympathy with him, since my case was
even worse than his own; but this I did not say, only declaring to him
that whatever I might do for his comfort should be done, and
entreating him to take courage and look confidently for deliverance
and enlargement. And this he did, following my counsel with a very
childlike and perfect trust in God that moved me to admiration, since
he strove always to accustom himself to the will of Providence, and
would pass quickly from despondency to comfort, reminding himself of
the many blessings he enjoyed that one in his situation could not have
looked for nor expected.

And this I may as well say now as afterwards--viz., that that which
time led me most to admire in this gentleman was that he bare all
untoward chances with a great patience, receiving them as from the
hand of God, which at first did much surprise me; for my bane in life
hath ever been a certain heat and rashness, such as hath carried me on
without reflection to do deeds that had been better undone. And these
deeds once done, ’twas natural to me to sit down in a sort of
sullenness and as it were pagan resignation, as who should say, _’Tis
done now, and can’t be undone. Let Fortune do her worst. ’Tis naught
to me._ But the viscount was wont to take the buffets of fate most
calmly, as though they were but parts of a lesson that it should be
well for him to learn, and to strange chances and vicissitudes he
endeavoured always to fit himself, since it was God’s will for him to
undergo them. And I once making him some compliment upon the firmness
and constancy of his carriage, “Mr Carlyon,” says he, “you don’t know
what it is to belong to an oppressed people. In France we Hugonots are
thankful if it be permitted us to breathe in peace, and we are glad to
seize upon any opportunity of quiet living that offers itself without
dishonour. ’Tis a good school for the teaching contentment.”

And I, truly, agreed with him in this, yet must you not think that he
was one of those poor and feeble spirits that seek any shelter rather
than face the storm. Of his exploits as a soldier and a captain I need
not speak, for all the world knows on’t, yet this I would say,--that
in all the rubs and petty trials of that adventure which we did
afterwards undertake together, I found him to be at once a most daring
and experienced leader, and also the most cheerful and pleasant
companion that ever a man had. Of his bravery at this time I will
speak in its place, but so indifferent was he to all the praise and
credit offered him later upon the matter, that he would put it aside
with a laugh, and profess himself to dislike that topic. In a word, he
proved himself to me the kindest and sprightliest of _cameradoes_, and
this none the less that in ignorance of the cause I had for sadness,
he did discourse to me continually regarding her that was the reason
on’t, and look for me to declare my sympathy with him. But in all that
I saw of him (and this wan’t little, since he did speedily made it his
custom, without any pretext of business, to spend great part of every
day discoursing with me at my lodging in the _caravan-serawe_) I
perceived only the more clearly how much better he was fitted than I
to awaken the love of Madam Heliodora, and called myself dolt and fool
for my ever imagining that I could prevail against him. Also the more
I felt my inferiority compared with him, the more I found myself
possessed with a prodigious affection for him, and a desire to do what
I might for the restoring so excellent a person to the happiness he so
well deserved. And this without prejudice to my own resentiments[121]
towards her ladyship; for so sadly and yet so tenderly did I feel
towards her now, when I saw my love to be without any disguise
altogether hopeless, that it seemed to me I would fain see these two
happy, and would then be willing to die. But in thinking thus I was
ignorant of my own self.

And now I did begin to cudgel my brains for to discover in what manner
I might effect the escape of the viscount from this city, and his safe
conveying to some port whence he might take ship for France. And first
I spake concerning this to our friend the physician, that had first
made the viscount known to me; but to my no small surprise, as soon as
ever I had opened the matter to him, he clapped his hands to his ears,
and cried, as though in great fear--

“Don’t speak on’t to me, sir, I entreat you. I am in his majesty’s
confidence, and can’t listen to anything that might touch his state. I
don’t dare meddle in this matter of yours further than to counsel you
most strongly against making any such attempt to carry our friend out
of the city. ’Tis my only hope, to be able to say truly that I know
naught of your plan, and did also scout most vehemently the very
suggestion on’t.”

Much admiring the good man’s prudence and wisdom, I next applied
myself to sound, as the seamen say, Mr Kidder, but with the same
result, namely, that I was straitly forbid to involve the embassage in
any such mad folly, and warned against mixing myself up therewith, our
chief declaring that ’twould undo the work of years, were the Company
to be suspected of lending aid to the enemies of the emperor, and in
especial to the friends of Seva Gi. And upon this I found that I was
thrown back upon myself, and wasted much time in trying to devise
plots whereby, in our return from Agra, I might carry the viscount
with us in some manner of disguise. For I feared very greatly that,
even should I get him safely beyond the city gates, Mr Kidder, urged
on by Mr Spender (that affected to disbelieve my friend’s history of
himself, and jeered at me perpetually for consorting with jail-birds),
might, on discovering the truth, give him up again to the emperor’s
officers, and so render his plight worse than ever before. But God,
knowing the hard task I was fain to attempt, and my small power of
succeeding therein, did come to my help with a certain change and
distraction of our plans that wrought for me all I desired.

For to such a pass was the negotiations with Auren Zeeb now come, that
Mr Kidder was desirous to send word to Mr President at Surat, and gain
his instructions upon the matter, and to this end he determined to
despatch me thither. Being loath to part with me, that was wont always
to play the interpreter for him, he would fain have sent Mr Spender,
but that this gentleman was still too poorly acquainted with the
Indosthan tongue to go on such a journey by himself, and having the
Armenians to be his mediators with the emperor, he resolved at last to
let me depart. But desiring to know somewhat concerning a part of the
Mogul’s dominions that an’t commonly visited by persons from Europe,
he bid me not return by Oudyepour, as we had come, but by way of
Gualleyor and Zauncy,[122] two great towns, very strongly defended,
that lie to the south of Agra. And with this intent he procured for me
the emperor’s _pharmaund_, giving me authority to travel where I
would, with my servants and attendants, and with the help of this
piece of writing, methought I ought to succeed in my great purpose.

And first I consented with myself to reveal my intention to none but
to my servant Loll Duss, whom I knew to be faithful to me, and with
him to devise my plans. Mr Kidder had begged of me not to carry with
me any more of the servants of our party than I should actually need,
but to hire _cooleys_ (which is carriers), and other attendants, from
town to town. And this being so, of our own Surat men I took with me
only Loll Duss, together with my cook, a Moor that was named
Eusoff,[123] and an ancient Mogul soldier named Darah, for to look to
the hired _cooleys_. To these two I allowed Loll Duss to open our
scheme, knowing that they might be trusted, and needing their help to
carry it out, but they were instructed by no means to confide the same
to any of the Agra men that should accompany us. And next I told the
viscount of my purpose, and of the sorry part he needs must play, and,
silencing his words of surprise and gratitude, bade him come to the
_caravan-serawe_ before daylight on the morning of the day when we
should start. I don’t know how he succeeded in leaving the palace at
such an hour unperceived, but God did so order it that he fell in with
no one, and outside the _caravan-serawe_ Loll Duss met him and carried
him quickly to the stable where I was, looking to the packing of all
my equipage. Here were, beside our three selves, namely I, the
viscount, and Loll Duss, only Eusoff and Darah, and our business was
stowing all our necessaries for the journey in those great baskets
wherein the Moguls use to carry victuals and other such things. Then
in one of these we hid the viscount, and fastened down the cover on’t,
though leaving him a due space to breathe, and those victuals and
packets that should have been in that basket we did put into my
_palenkeen_, which was carried with us lest I should tire of riding.
And all the baskets being now filled, the _cooleys_ come in and took
’em away, Darah going with ’em, and all passed through the gate as
soon as it was opened, the sun being up. I had bid them tarry for me
at a certain village some five miles on our road, where was a
rest-house, wherein I was minded to pass the heat of the day, but I
myself and those with me did not start yet for some hours.

And these hours I did feel to be the longest I had ever spent, such
was my terror lest the viscount’s absence should be observed, or some
chance lead to his discovery among my goods. I was fain to comfort
myself with the remembrance of the great Seva Gi himself, who with his
son escaped safely in this manner, but ’twas extreme difficult for me
to show myself calm and careless until after I had bid farewell to Mr
Kidder and his fellows (Mr Spender taunting me at the last with
leaving my jail-bird to his jailers again, spite of all my fair
words), and also to our kind friend the doctor, and to the Armenians
that had been our _druggermen_ about the city. But at the last I was
able to set forth, having my banner carried before me very seemly, and
I riding upon a fine horse, with my _palenkeen_ awaiting my
disposition if I so pleased, and so went through the city and out at
the gate with great pomp.

Now I had had some fear lest the officers of the gate should desire to
look inside the _palenkeen_, but even so I hoped to beguile them,
since they should find therein only my stuff, though this should have
frustrated my design with respect to the bearers, who I desired should
believe that there was a sick man inside. But as it so chanced, we
were let pass without any molestation, and travelling at a fair pace,
I riding beside the _palenkeen_ as though to cheer him that was
therein, came to the rest-house before the great heat came on. And
here I found the baskets and other packages all piled up on the
_veranda_, and Darah and the _cooleys_ awaiting my pleasure. But
having had my _palenkeen_ carried into the house, I dismissed the
_cooleys_ for to take their noontide sleep, as also those that were
come with me, and with my own three men released the viscount from his
wattled prison, and allowed him to walk up and down inside the house,
Loll Duss keeping guard the while. But when the time was come that we
should start again, we put into the basket those things that had been
in the _palenkeen_, and the viscount lay down therein in their place,
the blinds being close drawn, for ’twas of chiefest importance that
the hired _cooleys_ from Agra should not see the face of their
passenger, and recognise the _Ferringhee_. And having made this fresh
disposition of our affairs, we started again on our way with much
cheerfulness.

Now in this manner we did journey on during certain days, going as
fast as we might without awaking suspicion of our designs, the
viscount riding always in my _palenkeen_, and able to walk about and
refresh himself only at night and at noonday. But on arriving at the
great fortress of Gualleyor, we dismissed our Agra _cooleys_ and saw
them safely on their way home again, with a liberal present and
encamped ourselves in a grove of trees without the city, for I feared
prodigiously being shut up with walls and bars, like rats in a trap.
For this town of Gualleyor is a place of much strength, and the Moguls
use to keep their prisoners of state there, so that ten times in a
day, when I looked up to the great fortress that has the air of some
huge lion crouching on his hill, I felt a chill in my very bones to
think of being shut up there, for our friend the doctor had told us
many fearful tales respecting it. Nevertheless, I went to and fro in
the place, and observed it so far as I might for Mr Kidder, and bought
there a horse, _ready for my friend when he should be able to ride_,
as I said to him that sold it me. And at this place we hired _cooleys_
for to go with us as far as to Zauncy, the viscount now, when we were
gat well beyond the city, riding part of the day on horseback instead
of in the _palenkeen_, for to seem as though he were just recovering
of his illness.

At Zauncy we hired new _cooleys_ to go with us the whole of the way as
far as to Broach, which is near the sea-coast not much north of Surat,
and began to hope that we were pretty well beyond the danger of
pursuit. And now the viscount left using the _palenkeen_ at all, and
rid all day beside me, and a mighty agreeable fellow I found him. His
looks also was now much amended, since Loll Duss had dressed his hair
for him, and trimmed his beard into a neat picked[124] shape, for he
would not have it shaved off, since (says he) the beard is a badge of
our Hugonot religion in France. We were both habited after the Moorish
fashion, so as to escape remark from the people, that are prodigious
fanatical in these parts, and thus disguised, we hoped to pass for
Moguls from the north, in especial as both our faces were now much
darkened with the sun. Thus we rid on, enjoying much goodly and
profitable discourse together by day, and at night sojourning always
in villages or on the outskirts of towns, but never in the
_caravan-serawes_ within their walls. This measure of precaution
seemed to me quite necessary, but since we were come so far in safety,
I thought little of taking any other; but in these things my friend
was wiser than I, he looking at ’em with the eye of a soldier, that
sees everywhere an enemy save where he knows a friend to be. I had
observed that the viscount was always forward to examine narrowly
every new tract of country that we reached before ever we passed
through it, but this I set down to his desire for knowledge, little
guessing that he was planning and rehearsing battles, surprises,
ambuscadoes, retreats, and divers other such warlike notions. But this
ignorance and carelessness of mine was to receive a wholesome rebuke,
and my friend’s foresight a most signal justification.

“Sir,” says he, riding back to me one day when as we were coming down
a steep hillside into a valley very thick with woods, “do you perceive
the nature of the place through which our road now lies? Here is a
spot most convenient of all for an ambuscado, and ’twill surprise me
much if it ben’t made use on. With your permission, I’ll take three or
four of the servants as skirmishers, and send ’em in advance on either
side of the train.”

“Methinks the Moors are scarce like to look at this point with your
eye, which is that of a captain, sir,” said I; “but prythee, take the
servants as you desire, and do your will. There is little possibility
that those we have most cause to fear are here before us, but it may
be that there is Rashpoot robbers laying wait for us, conceiving that
we carry with us greater riches than we do.”

“Let me entreat you to keep your servants well in line, sir,” said he,
“and to suffer no loitering, for I am persuaded there is danger before
us in this valley.”

With that he took as many of the servants as he desired (for beside
_cooleys_, we had now with us some ten or a dozen Moors, hired at
Zauncy for to protect us through this wild country, and furnished with
bucklers of skins and their strange crooked _cimeters_), and bid them
search the wood on either side of the road, proceeding with great
circumspection, and seeking to surprise the surprisers. Now our
_cooleys_, observing these precautions, did not, as you would expect,
feel all the safer by reason of the caution of their masters, but
became pale and trembled greatly, so as their knees knocked together,
and I saw that they were ready to run away if the slightest mischance
should occur. Wherefore I placed the Moors so as to hinder them in
this intention, and bade ’em cut down the first _cooley_ that tried to
flee; and having mustered the whole train into as compact a body as I
could, we entered upon the road through the valley. Now at our first
entrance thereon, I noted this, that whereas in such places the birds
of the forest were used to rise up and fly about on our appearing,
here they were already seeming troubled and disturbed, and wheeling
about among the trees as if distressed. Loll Duss come close to me on
seeing this, and _Master_, says he, _there’s men in this jungle_
(which is their name for a wood). And on this strange confirming of my
friend’s suspicions I was at first took aback, but quickly reflecting
that there wan’t no way of continuing our journey save by passing
through this wood, we went on without remark.

But now, when we were about coming to a spot where the road lay very
low between two high banks, there come to our ears on a sudden a noise
from that on the right hand, as of a struggle and a fall, and then the
firing of a pistol. Looking immediately to our arms, we halted for to
await the foe, and ’twas well indeed we did so, for with a most
dreadful noise there come about our ears a whole hail of
matchlock-bullets, and before we might even determine whence these
were, men began rushing upon us from both banks with divers weapons.
It so happened that I had under my Moorish cassock my own hanger and
pistols girt about my waist, beside the dagger that the Moors carry,
and these stood me in good stead, for the robbers all come at me, and
for a time I was in the midst of a whole rabblement of ’em, they
trying to drag me from off my horse or to disable me, but not anxious,
so far as I could see, to kill me. So desperate was their attempt,
that for a time I thought myself lost; but succeeding in maintaining
my ground against their assaults, I did withstand them until Loll Duss
came to my help, my two other servants and the hired Moors being
engaged upon the outskirts of the crowd, and the viscount and his
skirmishers in a brisk battle on the banks above, where some of the
ambushment had stayed for to resist ’em.

So close was we all packed in the narrow road, that there was no room
for any battle-array nor show of military skill, for each man must
needs fight hand-to-hand for his own life. And this we did without
much result for some time, the _cooleys_ baulking us grievously in our
movements, and raising lamentable cries to their false gods to save
’em; but at length the viscount, having vanquished his foes upon the
heights, brought his men down to our assistance, who fell upon the
enemy with such hearty goodwill that such of them as was able quickly
made shift to flee away by the road which we were come. And we,
dreading their return with greater numbers, did only collect our own
wounded to carry with us, making no attempt to secure any prisoners,
and so went on again. But when we were started, up come to me and my
friend my servant, Loll Duss.

“Master,” says he, “these men that we have conquered an’t Rashpoots.
They are Moors, the emperor’s men, and they were sent to carry your
honours back to Agra, alive or dead.”

“How do you know this, Loll Duss?” says I, in a grievous trouble of
mind, for (thought I), if the news of the viscount’s evasion be gone
before, sure the whole country will be raised against us.

“I have questioned one on ’em who is wounded,” said he, and returned
to his place.

“What think you of this turn, sir?” says I to my friend.

“That ’tis a move of our adversary that will need some calculation for
the defeating on’t,” says he, smiling, and taking his figures from the
game of chess; “with your permission, sir, we will meditate our
counter-move.”

And he rid on in silence, yet pondering deeply, as his face showed.
And with this I was content, knowing that he was well seen in all
manner of warlike shifts and devices, having been trained in the Low
Countries under that most famous captain, the Mareschal Turenne, so
that I could not doubt but that he would find some means for to
extricate us from our perils. And indeed, before we had left the
valley, he turned himself towards me with a smile.

“I don’t doubt, sir,” says he, “that you are already arrived at the
same decision as I--namely, that we must avoid all the towns, where
the Moguls have garrisons, and seek shelter only in the small
villages, where there an’t sufficient force for to detain us, even
though the bruit concerning us may have reached ’em. Nor is this all,
for we must leave all thoughts of travelling with a safe-conduct in
virtue of the emperor’s _pharmaund_, which should ruin us the rather,
and instead of going on our way, and proceeding to the sea-coast,
where we are looked for, must turn our steps to the south, and our
minds to Seva Gi, the only man that can help us at this pinch.”

“But, sir,” I cried, “do you propose to traverse all India? Here are
we in the Mogul’s dominions, and you speak quite coolly of seeking
refuge in the Moratty country.”

“On this,” says he, “hangs our lives, so far as I can see. Pray, sir,
if the sea-coast be closed against us, what chance have we but to
outgo the emperor’s commands and reach the border before ’em? Rumours
spread quickly in this country, but I dare be bound that they won’t be
so quick nor so precise but we may succeed in outrunning ’em by means
of forced marches. Hereon turns our fate. In the way we have pursued
hitherto, they are watching against our passage, while in turning to
the south we may make a certain distance before they suspect our
design.”

I could not bring forward any reason sufficiently strong to weigh
against this, though it irked me much to think that an Englishman must
needs present himself as a suppliant at the court of this Moratty
king; but I admired prodigiously the quick motions of the viscount’s
mind, perceiving that Seva Gi was in truth the only man that in this
strait could avail to protect us against the Moguls, and could
further, by his power over the country of Conchon, bring us safely
without let or hindrance to the very gates of Surat. Therefore I
consented with my friend to the plan; and after consulting with Darah
and Loll Duss, we turned off our road towards the south, purposing to
seek out some trustworthy person that might guide us on our journey,
since we knew next to nothing of the way we must take, nor even
whether the Moguls were posted thickly therein or not. And herein were
we in a strait, for we were resolved to avoid all towns and places
where much people should be likely to be gathered.

Towards evening we arrived in a certain small village, where we found
lodging, though poor and mean enough, hard by the _mosch_[125] where
the people worshipped, and here we were glad enough to rest--the
viscount placing sentinels and seeing to their relief with an air of
as great gravity as if in some great war of Europe. The night passed
without any alarm; but in the morning, when we were about breaking our
fast, Loll Duss come to us wearing a lamentable countenance, and
saying that certain of our hired servants refused to go with us any
further, being afraid to disoblige the emperor. They also, said Loll
Duss, had discovered by the discourse of the wounded what they would
be at; and having advised together in the night touching the matter,
had consented[126] to have no further hand in our adventure. I looked
at the viscount on hearing this, as wondering how he should take it,
for indeed I, as a simple merchant, did give up to him the conduct of
affairs now that we were in a strait wherein he, as a soldier, was so
much fitter to act than I.

“Let ’em go,” says he. “We might carry ’em on with us by force of
arms, but they should be a weakness rather than a strength to us, and
might destroy us at some critical point. Do you advise with ’em, sir,
and dismiss ’em, as many as desire to leave us.”

Upon this I went out to the men, and found them to look both surly and
rebellious, so that I saw them to be capable of much mischief if they
pleased; but I was ready to disappoint them, if they desired to come
to a tussle with us, and did but tell them (though I won’t say but
that I did handle them pretty roughly in what I said) that we desired
no cowards to company with us, nor men false to their salt, and bid
’em return from whence they came. Then the greater part of them
departed, though with much muttering and some angry words; but there
remained certain honest fellows that said they had ate of my salt
(which is their way of saying that they were bound to me in honour),
and would not go. Then with these I ordered afresh the burdens that
must be carried, leaving behind such things as we could well do
without, and with this diminished band we prepared to set forth.

But here we were met by a new difficulty, for the people of the
village, though we had rewarded ’em richly for the lodging they had
furnished us, gathered themselves together across our path, and would
not suffer us to pass, declaring that we were enemies of the emperor,
and that they would stop us and give us up to him. And at first I did
essay to win them over by smooth words and much persuading in their
own tongue, but in vain, and then gave place to the viscount. He,
commanding four of our men to prepare torches, and to stand with ’em
close to the nearest houses, drew up the train in array, with the
carriers in the midst, and setting himself at the head, spake to the
villagers, promising them that he would set their houses on fire if
they did not give place immediately. And when the people, being
mightily concerned for their dwellings--for these were but poor huts
roofed with grass, that was dry and would burn like tinder--brake
their rank and began to consult together, he gave the signal to start,
and so led on with a great rush that took us well past ’em before they
so much as perceived our intention.




 CHAPTER XV.
 OF MY SECOND DELIVERANCE FROM EXTREME PERIL OF DEATH.

Now after this escape we went on pretty steadily, keeping ourselves
as remote as possible from the vicinage of men, and prolonging our two
marches as late as we might with safety. Towards evening we met with
an encounter which at first cost us no little alarm, but which proved
to be excessively to our advantage. For riding in the shade of a grove
of great trees, we saw coming towards us an ancient Brachmine, very
meanly apparelled. Compassionating his sorry appearance, the viscount
saluted him courteously, and offered him an alms, which he accepting,
turned, and looked shrewdly at my friend.

“Master,” says he, “we have met before.”

“Nay?” says the viscount, speaking lightly, though his countenance
changed somewhat. “I han’t no recollection on’t. Where was it that we
met, old man?”

“In the hole of the Mountain-Rat,” says the Brachmine, meaning that
strong place or fortress of Seva Gi’s called Rairey.

“Is’t possible?” saith my friend. “I can’t yet call your face to mind.
Stay,--is it indeed Vincaly Row[127]?”

“I am he,” says the old man, not without pride.

“I had not looked to find Seva Gi’s chief friend and manager alone and
disguised in the Mogul’s country,” says the viscount. “Sure you can’t
have forgot that jest of the courtiers which said that where Vincaly
Row was found, there Seva Gi himself might be looked for not long
after?”

“That jest is still true,” said the old man. “I am here, and my lord
an’t far behind me.”

“What! in the Mogul’s dominions?” cried my friend.

“If he ben’t in ’em yet, he soon will be,” says the Brachmine.

“Is he marching on Dhilly?” asked my friend, his eyes flashing. “Sure
here will be feats of arms such as the world hath rarely seen. I am
well pleased to find myself here at such a time.”

“Nay, he goes not to Dhilly,” saith Vincaly Row. “He is here only on a
private errand, the taking of his revenge on Cogia Bux,[128] the
governor of Tashpour.”

“I have heard of him,” said the viscount. “He led the Mogul’s army in
Conchon some years since, and was highly esteemed as a person of much
valour and prudence.”

“Ay,” saith the old Brachmine, “but he came once too near to Seva Gi
for his safety now. The king was out on a hunting expedition, and
halted for the night, with but two or three followers, at the house of
a certain landowner. Hither, after midnight, come Cogia Bux with a
great force, guided by a treacherous slave, and was got as far as the
threshold of the king’s chamber before an alarm was raised. There was
but three men with my lord, one of ’em being Madda Gi,[129] his
cousin, a young man of extreme promise. He sprang to the door of the
chamber, crying out to Seva Gi, ‘Escape, my lord! We will keep the
door.’ And thereupon the king, tying together coverlets and _turbants_
for to make a rope, did let himself down through the lattice and
escaped (the house standing on the margent of a steep), but the two
soldiers and Madda Gi were slain fighting. Which, when the king heard,
he was prodigiously grieved, and made haste to send a message to Cogia
Bux, saying, ‘Tell Cogia Bux that when he visited upon me the door was
shut’” (speaking of their manner of civilly denying oneself to a
troublesome visitor), “‘but I swear on my good sword Bowanny that I
will do myself the honour of returning his visit, and when I come to
Tashpour the door will not be shut.’”

“And ’tis on this errand he is now come?” says my friend.

“Ay,” says the old man, “for he was minded to go against the King of
Gulconda at this time, but the tears and entreaties of Seta Bye,[130]
the mother of young Madda Gi, declaring that her son was left to die
unavenged, prevailed upon him to proceed first against Cogia Bux. As
you may well perceive, all his hopes of success hang on his being
speedy and secret, but in these two things my master wan’t never yet
found wanting.”

“And we may hope to reach him?” asked the viscount.

“If you come on him before he make his attempt on Tashpour,” says the
old Brachmine. “If you be later than that, there will be but smoking
ruins for to greet you. But at present he is only some three or four
days’ journey from you by this road, and little over two days’ by a
rough way that I will show you.”

Then by means of drawing with his staff in the dust, he showed us the
way he meant, and presently departed on his journey again, with our
much thanks. And that night we encamped ourselves in a thick wood,
where we lay in much discomfort for fear of the wild beasts, hearing
them howling around us. And indeed, so greatly terrified was our men
by the alarms of that night that they prayed of us to spend the next
among human creatures. And though we did this with great fear and
trembling, lest our evil fame should have spread before us, yet we
found that this wan’t needed, for the whole place was already in a
ferment, and that for a reason that lay in front of us, and not
behind. For the Gentues were all mighty gratified and proud, as having
heard of Seva Gi’s advance, while the Moors were anxious and uneasy.

All this was pleasing to us, as confirming that we had learned from
Vincaly Row, and when we were safely lodged that night in the
rest-house of the village, and had supped well, though not
extravagantly, my friend and I discoursed much of the means whereby we
might soonest place ourselves in security. For it seemed, by what the
Brachmine had told us, that to reach the Moratty army by the shortest
way we must needs pass through a rugged country, extreme difficult to
traverse with such a train as ours, while the other way, where there
was a good road enough, should occupy us still two or three days. And
moreover, between us and Seva Gi there lay the strong fortress of
Tashpour, whence, as we had no doubt, Cogia Bux would be looking forth
for us, and our train being so large, it was little like that we
should be able to slip past him. These difficulties that threatened us
we discussed with great freedom, at one time even purposing to abandon
all our stuff (which, though valuable, was little in comparison with
life), and take the short road with only our men. But telling this to
Loll Duss, who was making ready where we should lie that night, he
showed himself prodigiously concerned, and entreated with much respect
that we would allow him to make a certain proposition to us. Which we
permitting, he begged of us to leave our train in his care, both the
men and all the beasts, that he might conduct it to the camp of Seva
Gi by the longer road, while we, the viscount and I, rid on without
encumbrance by the short way. It went to his heart (said the honest
fellow) that we should be left without the attendance suited to our
quality, but by submitting to this trifling inconvenience we should be
secure of regaining in the space of a few days all our goods, in the
stead of being compelled to undertake the rest of our journey without
’em. And this plan of his seeming to us very good and well-considered,
we gave to’t our attention, and went to bed resolved upon adopting it.

And setting out in the morning as usual, lest the villagers should
perceive our divided forces, we separated from one another at some
distance from the place where we had slept, our servants and _cooleys_
taking the road to the left hand, and my friend and I that to the
right. Meanwhile, I was not a little exercised in my mind as to
whether we were doing the best we might, and did give Loll Duss many
commands touching what he should do in respect to certain dangers, as
that in case of any pursuit made of them, they must all leave their
packs and escape into the woods, not rashly perilling their lives for
such poor silly stuff as beds and kettles. In all this he heard me
very patiently, though I am well assured he would never have suffered
any such thing to be done, and so we separated from them, my friend
and I riding on in the sweet morning air, the which was mighty soft
and agreeable, with as little concern as if that were not to be the
most weighty day of both of our lives, or at least of mine.

Through all the morning we held on at a good pace, our horses being
sound and swift, and at noon or thereabouts halted for a rest of two
hours, for more we dared not take, if we were to reach Seva Gi and his
army by sunset. Setting out again on our journey after this time of
repose, we found that we must needs progress with great
circumspection, since we now beheld very clearly the great citadel of
Tashpour frowning from its lofty steep before us. And here the
viscount showed very evidently the value of that training he had
received, for his eye told him of every ridge and every grove that
might afford us concealment in our riding, and we were well abreast of
the fortress before we were forced to relinquish our cover. But here
that which we had hailed as our salvation became, so to speak, a
destruction unto us, for we had been riding in the shadow of the edge
of a certain great wood, so that even had any been watching for us
from the castle they had scarce been able to perceive us against the
dark trees, and now we come full upon a huge quag or morass, wherein
my horse had like to have sunk before I could turn him and get him
out. And looking to see where this quag might end, we found that it
spread into the wood for some distance (making a dark and loathsome
mire and mud, very hideous to behold), nay, we could not reach with
our eyes the furthest limits on’t, so that our sole plan was to ride
out upon the plain and fetch a compass about it. And this, because
time pressed, and we might not search in the wood, to seek the other
end on’t, we did set about immediately, though doing our best to ride
leisurely, so as any perceiving us might take us only for honest
countrymen bent on their occasions. But when we come out upon the
plain, our beasts and we were evidently visible against the clear
green colour of the rushes by the side of the quag, and before we
could even circle round the end on’t, the viscount bid me look round,
and I obeying saw a troop of horse coming out of a gate of the castle
in pursuit of us.

Now these men were so close after us that they arrived at the side of
the quag nearest to the fortress when we were still riding along the
further margent thereof with all possible haste for to regain our
road, so that they did let fly at us with their matchlocks, as hoping
thereby to cripple and so delay us. But by God’s great mercy they hit
neither my friend nor me, their bullets all falling short of us, save
one only, which did strike my friend’s horse, making it halt and
stagger for a moment. But he calling out to it cheerfully, for he was
used always to speak to his beast as though it were indeed a rational
creature that could understand him, it went on again bravely, and we
two rid away at our utmost speed along our road.

“At any rate, sir,” says the viscount, laughing, “this shrewd pursuit
saves us from the need of seeking cover for ourselves. Our safety now
hangs on speed, and not on concealment.”

“You are right, sir,” says I, and we rid on at a brisk pace, though
holding our beasts well in hand in case of any fresh danger’s
threatening us in front. Looking back upon occasion to see our
pursuers, we beheld them at an agreeable distance enough, for their
horses wan’t so good as ours, and themselves heavier armed.

“If we can but keep up this pace, sir,” says I, “we shall hold our own
well.”

“Our beasts can do more than this, sir, if need be,” says the
viscount, not knowing of the misfortune that was about to befall us.
For as we rid, we came suddenly upon a river, which, though not very
deep in appearance, had its banks so high and steep that we must needs
ride along some distance to find a place where to descend them,
whereas our enemies knew the spot, and made straight for it. Happily,
we reached it first, though with no time to spare, and putting our
horses to the water, swam them over, mounting the other bank in safety
only a moment before the pursuers reached the first one. ’Twas well
for us that they had not tarried to load their matchlocks again after
firing ’em off, so that they could not shoot at us, but they were so
close behind us that we set our horses to their utmost speed and
tasked them sorely that we might get a good start once more. So well
did the good beasts obey us that we gained rapidly upon them, and had
soon near resumed our former lead, though we durst not slacken our
pace again as yet.

“We shall distance ’em yet, sir,” cried the viscount, casting a glance
behind him, but even as he spoke, his horse began to totter and
breathe heavily. My friend’s face grew pale, but he said nought to me,
only cheering the beast with his voice. But I, remembering the bullet
that had struck it beside the quag, saw that the gallop across the
plain had pressed it too hard, and that it must soon fail, and at the
same time there come into my mind a thought that did set my heart
a-beating quickly. So strongly did it seize upon me, that I saw at
once it must be obeyed, and yet (I am almost ashamed to write it) I
felt myself hang back from following it. Sure you would think that
this life of mine, that was of so little value even to myself, and
still less to others, would be resigned without a pang; but ’twas not
so, and in that moment I did learn the foolishness of all those idle
vapourings of mine touching my blighted existence, and the ease and
carelessness wherewith I would depart from it. For I found myself
cling even to that precarious hope on’t which now remained, and ’twas
with a prodigious effort that I made up my mind to do the thing that
now presented itself to me, and so make the only amends in my power
for my former presumption towards Madam Heliodora, and for the evil
thoughts I had cherished against her servant. Now while these thoughts
was yet in my mind, the viscount’s beast was becoming more and more
feeble, so as I saw it could not long keep on its feet, and even as we
were about mounting a slight ascent, it reared up and fell dead
beneath him. And upon this I did dismount, as though to help him to
arise from the ground.

“Come, sir,” says I, pulling him to his feet, for he was fallen partly
under the beast, though mercifully not much hurt, “mount my horse. We
han’t no time to lose.”

“Will he carry double?” says he, looking round as though dazed by his
fall, but obeying me. “’Tis but a chance, but we may essay it.”

I helped him into the saddle, and would fain have started the horse
with a blow, but he suspected my design, and turned round.

“Why don’t you mount, sir?” says he.

“The beast can’t carry both of us,” says I, starting the horse and
running by his side, as though accompanying him, “and your life is of
more value than mine.”

“Sir,” he cried, very angry, and striving to stop the horse, “have you
forgot that I am a gentleman, and I hope, a Christian, and do you look
for me to leave you to perish?”

“Sir,” says I, “I owe a great obligation to Mademoiselle de Tourvel,
and do desire to acquit myself on’t. And moreover, you have her
ladyship to consider, to whom you owe love and protection for the rest
of your life, and I have no one that need care whether I live or die.
I have often been weary of my life, and I am well pleased for’t to end
in such a manner as this.”

“Am I to forsake you, my friend, the man that saved me out of my
captivity and brought me back to hope?” cries he. “Never, sir! Let us
mount together, if you will, and seek to escape so long as we may, and
then die fighting back to back, like men.”

“No, sir,” says I, “for this I will tell you, which I had not looked
ever to tell any living soul again. There has come to me in my past
life an irreparable loss, so great as nothing imaginable can avail to
compensate me therefor, and after this I don’t care to live longer.
Mademoiselle de Tourvel will unfold my meaning to you if you ask her;
but I pray you, ask no more of me.”

The viscount looked down into my face, and saw, as I fancy, my history
wrote there plain, for he took away his eyes, and “_May God help you,
sir_,” says he.

“You perceive by this, sir,” says I, “that ’tis your duty to live for
her ladyship, and mine to enable you so to do. Go on and reach safety,
and enjoy your happiness with Madam Heliodora, and bid her forgive me
and think kindly of me. Farewell, and God be with you.”

But he would not depart thus, and stopping the horse, catched me in
his arms and embraced me, after the French fashion, weeping the while,
until I bid him hasten on, or he should yet be taken. And at this he
went on, yet with many tears, and turning round for to bid me farewell
once more, and I was left behind, panting from the running and the
turmoil of my thoughts, but joyful and glad of heart for that by my
sacrifice I had secured the happiness of that noble lady and her
servant.

Now my constant enemies (for indeed my enemies are as constant and as
curious in their arts as were ever the friends of Job) are accustomed
to declare that I acted thus from I don’t know what wicked design, or
else that I had good reason to suppose the means of rescue to be near
at hand, which indeed I could not, unless by the aid of prophetic
powers, to the which I don’t pretend. But in answer to these persons,
I may confess, although it be but a sorry confession for an Englishman
and one that hath seen many climates, that when I had suffered my
friend to depart, and turned my eyes to behold the advance of those
bloody and brutal men, that were now close upon me, ’twas with the
greatest trembling that ever I felt in my life.

Then they, coming up quickly, did lay hold upon me with little
gentleness and many ill words, and after binding my arms behind me,
and also making me fast with a thong of leather to one of their
saddles, did hale me with ’em back to the castle. And in this journey
I did endure such discomforts from the heat, the dust, and the smart
pace that my captors kept up, that I had no leisure to ponder over my
situation, nor even to do anything but continue the march. Yet this I
was glad to perceive--viz., that before we reached the castle there
catched us up certain of the band that had been sent for to pursue the
viscount further, and declared that they must needs let him go, for
that all their chasing was of no avail. And I, understanding their
Persian tongue, wondered much what new thought had seized my friend,
that he should so soon have forgot his prudent design of saving his
beast in case of some fresh danger, and be now riding so fast as to
have distanced thus easily and thus quickly all that were following
him. But such speculation as this was of little moment, and I forgot
it speedily when I was carried up that steep and winding road,
commanded at every point from the ramparts above, which leads into the
castle of Tashpour. This is the only way whereby the fortress may be
approached, for on all the other sides the rock is so high and steep
as even a goat could not make shift to climb it, and the
fortifications at the top, which were built by the Moguls on their
first settlement of the country, are in every way worthy of the repute
of that famous and warlike nation, and equal to any in Europe.

Now I being brought up into the castle, they did take me before Cogia
Bux the governor, a person of so ferocious an aspect and discourse
that I looked for nothing else than immediate death at his hands; but
I soon perceived that he durst not hurt me, being commanded to deliver
me up alive at Agra, there to be dealt with as the emperor himself
might determine. And at this I was sorry, both as anticipating a more
dreadful and lingering death than any they had skill to devise here,
and also as finding prolonged this disagreeable space of waiting and
looking for death. But for all this, I would not seem to show myself
afeared before these heathens, but did talk very big, telling them
that those I served would never suffer me to be badly used. But at
this they did laugh mightily, telling me that none of my friends
should so much as stir a finger to help me, since ’twas those of ’em
that were at Agra had given the intelligence that led to my
apprehension. And in this, methought, I perceived the hand of Mr
Spender, but forbore to dwell upon it in my thoughts, desiring to die
in peace and charity with all mankind. Then they did cast me into a
very deep and noisome dungeon, reminding me rather of the _Aljuvar_ at
Goa than of my cell in the Holy House, and bid me be prepared to set
out the next day for Agra. And I, being thus left to myself, and
foreseeing that in travelling with profane and heathen guards around
me I should have little opportunity for profitable meditation and such
as suited with my case, gave my mind to consider my situation.

Now the thought of my present estate brought to me some little
comfort, inasmuch as my misfortune was due to no fault of my own, and
had, as I hoped, secured the happiness of two much worthier persons.
But next my meditations turned upon my past life, and here I found
little to console me, for it seemed that since my marvellous
deliverance at Goa I had done little but go from bad to worse. And
first I considered my temptation at St Thomas, and recalled with shame
how easily I had been led by the nose, as we say, by my lord marquis,
almost to the betraying my duty and the dishonouring myself. And after
this I thought of my life at Amidavat, and of the pain I had caused to
my good friend Mr Martin, and likewise his attempts to lead me into a
more worthy and Christian course, and my declaration that I was no
worse than others. Then that come into my mind which the strange old
seaman, Substitution Darrell, had said to me aboard the
Boscobel--namely, that where force had failed to rob me of my faith,
other measures might succeed--and I perceived at last that this was
not far removed from being true with me. I saw, also, how I had come
forth from my imprisonment at Goa proud and haughty, reckoning myself
one that had suffered great things for God, and counting it only just
that God should recompense me by giving me in future all things to my
liking, so that that word of the apostle’s might have been wrote with
an eye to me, _Though I give my body to be burned, and have not
charity, it profiteth me nothing_. Then I saw how that, applying this
fancy of mine to my mad and presumptuous passion for Madam Heliodora,
I had conceived myself defrauded of my due in not obtaining her, and
had therefore fallen foul of all around me, both God and men, accusing
the first of injustice, and regarding the last with scorn and even
hatred.

By this means I had wasted, and worse than wasted (not indeed in a
material, but a spiritual sense), four of the best years of my life,
spending them in peevishness of spirit and in unworthy pleasures, such
as might best avail to drown my persuasion of the inequality of my lot
to my deserts. Now, when ’twas too late to amend, though not to
repent, I perceived my fault, seeing clearly, not only that I had not
been fitted for the happiness I sought, but also that it had needed
four years to teach me that I had no right to seek happiness at all,
but only duty. And this also I saw--viz., that in my repinings after
the happiness I could not have, I had lost that which I might have
had, as the company of worthy friends, the discourse of ingenious men,
the delights of research and discovery, and the like, wherewith many,
no better situated than I, have made their lives result not only in
good to themselves and solace to their own intimates, but also in
great store of elegant observations for the informing of persons in
England.

And this thought, moreover, to the which I was come, did bring into my
mind that occasion wherein I had most grievously failed in my
duty--namely, in breaking my contract with my cousin Dorothy at the
bidding of a rash and selfish presumption, and leaving her desolate
and bereaved of the hope in the which she was grown up. ’Twas not the
first time that this thought was come to me, but before this I had
been wont to turn a deaf ear to’t, seeking to stifle it, and thus
making my unworthy behaviour worse still. Now, however, I was minded
to do this no longer, and as they say that amendment and restitution
is the surest sign of repentance, so now I solemnly vowed to myself
(though little likely ever to be able to fulfil it), that if by God’s
mercy I should ever be released alive from this second captivity, I
would at the expiration of the term of my service return to Dorothy,
if she should still be unwedded, and marrying her, make to her the
best amends in my power for my former evil carriage towards her. And
having entered into this resolve, I found myself somewhat easier in my
mind, though still bowed down with shame and grief for my unworthy
courses, unworthy both in respect to the good teaching I had in my
childhood and the honourable traditions of our house, and also with
regard to God’s marvellous goodness and care for me throughout my
life. Thus then I was brought to cast myself humbly upon the mercy of
God through our Lord Jesus Christ, and confessing my sins and
entreating pardon of Him, to receive an assurance of forgiveness and
grace, bringing great peace into my soul. And having thus attained
that which my troubled conscience had long lacked, I laid myself down
in the dungeon, and so fell asleep.

I don’t know how long I continued in this happy oblivion of my
situation, but I awoke at last, hearing what seemed to me strange
noises. Now you must know that this dungeon, wherein I lay, was dug
deep down in the bowels of the hill whereon the fortress stood, and
beside the door whereby I had entered, had intercourse with the outer
world only by means of a long and narrow passage, in bigness no more
than a hand’s breadth, but leading out in some way to the open air.
And it seemed to me now that there come to me through this passage, or
air-hole, sounds as of scrambling and of stealthy voices. And first I
thought that the Moguls of the place, being determined to secure me
while I was in their power, were minded to murder me secretly, and
were approaching my dungeon by stealth in this intent. But while I lay
with this thought in my mind, trembling and shaking all over, as is
the wont of those that awake from sleep by reason of any alarm, the
noises seemed to rise higher above me, and so at last to cease. But I,
listening with all my ears, heard on a sudden a most dreadful cry or
shriek, as of one hurled past my window (if I may call the air-hole
so), from above. By this I was assured that there was some fearful
work on foot, and rising up from my place, I came as near to the
window as my chains would allow me, desiring to assure myself more
particularly of what should be happening. But now there come to me
from above a great and confused noise of shouting and the clash of
arms, so that I could discern that some great battle was going
forward.

But though I heard the cries and shrieks (nay, I could even discern
from the sounds the moment of each advance and retreat), yet I might
not discover who the parties should be, that thus met and fought,
until the noises ceased somewhat and the roar of battle was become
fainter. Then I heard hollowed[131] lustily, as though by many
throats, that battle-cry which had met my ears at the time of my
rescue at Goa--namely, “_Hoor! Hoor! Mohawdio!_” This sound recalled
to me at once that former scene, and did cast me into a state of great
confusion of mind, so that when the cry was growing less loud to my
ears, as though they that used it had gathered themselves together and
were marching away, I did sink down in a corner trembling and
perplexed. And thereafter heard I many such confused and strange
noises as never before out of my dreams, but there was no means for me
to determine what was the issue of all that had happened. For I could
not but suppose that Seva Gi and the Morattys, whose war-cry I had
heard, had made an attempt by night on the place, and succeeded in
surprising the sentinel, and so gaining a footing on the walls, but
how they fared thereafter, and whether they still held their ground,
or had been drove over the cliffs, I could not discover, not though
the question was of the deepest moment to me. With such patience,
then, as I could muster, I waited until the sun’s rays began to pierce
feebly into the dungeon through the air-hole, when also I heard
footsteps in the passage outside my door, and other doors opening and
closing, as though a jail-delivery were taking place. More than once I
heard the footsteps pass my very threshold, but they never tarried
there, and at last seemed to depart, while my heart cried out to me
that though others was to find enlargement, I was forgot. And this
bred in me a terrible frenzy and passion, insomuch that I beat upon
the wall with my hands, and called aloud unto them without, my chains
not suffering me to approach the door. And this I did, never
considering that my fellow-prisoners might only be led out to
execution, but possessed with the fear that I was to be left behind to
starve. And the sound of the footsteps having now ceased, there was a
great silence, while I lay in my corner, plunged in despair. But
presently I heard a voice cry very loud in French--

“Mr Carlyon, are you here? If you hear me, cry out aloud, and we will
release you.”

I could not mistake the voice of my friend the viscount, and for
answer I flung myself again at the wall and battered it with kicks and
blows, calling out the while to my friend that if he loved me he
should not leave me to perish. And at this he and the men that were
with him came and burst open the door, for the key on’t could not be
found, and he embraced me very tenderly, and then led me out into the
passage, and up many steps to the daylight. And because I was much
overcome by the sudden passing from hopelessness to hope, so that for
a moment I did cling to his arm and could not stand upright, he would
have me sit down, and brought me with his own hand a dram of some
cordial, and carried himself so gently and kindly towards me as no
woman could have been more tender. And after this he carried me into
the great hall, where I had seen the governor, and here was a very
stately person of middle age sitting upon a throne, to whom the
Morattys were bringing all their spoils from all quarters of the
place. And the viscount bowing very low, I perceived that here must be
the great Seva Gi, of whom I had so often heard speak. And rising to
meet us, I saw that he was of small stature, having arms very long in
proportion thereto, and an air of great activity rather than strength,
his countenance lively and handsome. Who welcomed me kindly enough,
speaking very agreeably to my friend in the Moratty tongue, he
answering in the same, which I understood not.

Then the viscount led me away, and brought me into an upper chamber of
the castle, sending one of the soldiers for food and wine, and while I
did eat and drink, he told me of his doings after our parting. For he
said that he had made straight for the Moratty camp, as Vincaly Row
had informed us on’t, and speaking in their own tongue to the soldiers
that he met, desired of them to carry him at once to their prince,
who, recognising him from of old, did receive him with great kindness,
and promised to do all in his power for my deliverance. And this
promise the king redeemed right nobly, for he called together those of
his choicest soldiers that he had brought with him, men well seen in
all manner of sieges and escaladoes, and led them himself to surprise
Tashpour. And this they accomplished by the help of ladders of ropes,
ascending in this way the cliffs deemed unsurmountable, as hath often
been done before by the Morattys, and having gained a footing on the
ramparts, as I had surmised, beat back the Moguls, and at length made
themselves masters of the place. And my friend then seeking among the
dungeons for me, had almost missed me, from my cell’s being set in an
obscure angle of the passage, had it not been for his assuring himself
by his calling to me that I was there.

This, then, was my second great deliverance, but to me ’twas even
greater than the first, since now I was set free also from those
unhappy thoughts and imaginations that had been my torment for years,
and was resolved, so far as lay in my power, to pursue duty alone for
the future. And that I might the better do this, I begged of the
viscount to make interest with Seva Gi to give us quickly a guard to
the coast, that I might bear to Surat the message I was charged
withal, and return to my business there. And this the king was good
enough to do, although he had at first been minded to have us both,
and in especial the viscount, go with him on this campaign, and assist
him with our counsel. Now this my friend had been right glad at any
ordinary time to fall in with, but he was now so possessed (as well he
might be) with the thought of Madam Heliodora, and the desire to
hasten to her side, that he delayed not an instant to refuse the
Moratty’s invitation, although in the most civil manner imaginable, so
that we parted from him the best of friends. So courteously did this
barbarian carry himself towards us, that while we tarried with him, he
appointed a butcher for our sole service, and had him slay a goat for
us every day, since the Gentues eat no flesh-meat, but he, knowing
that we Europe men was accustomed thereto, would not suffer us to miss
it. And on our departing, he did give us many gifts, yea, even to our
servants and _cooleys_, for Loll Duss was arrived at the camp in
safety with his train two days after us. Then sending with us a
sufficient guard, that should escort us to the gates of Surat, he did
bid us farewell, and went on to prosecute that war which for him ended
only with his death, the same occurring some three years later than
this adventure of ours.

Now we came to Surat, my friend and I, having dismissed our Morattys
at a convenient distance outside the city, with thanks and a genteel
present, and were received with great amazement by the gentlemen at
the Factory, and this amazement was not diminished when our story was
told. My good friend Mr Martin, hearing it narrated by the viscount,
was fit to embrace us both in his joy and happiness, and made his
comment thereon in many strange proverbs, culled from divers tongues.
I delivered the message I brought to his honour the President, and as
’twas now manifestly impossible for me to return into the Mogul’s
immediate dominions (though here out of danger, as being supposed to
have fallen in the sack of Tashpour), another gentleman was sent to
convey the answer on’t to Mr Kidder at Agra, and I was given his place
in the Factory for the time. The viscount also did his best to repay
our Factory for their entertainment of him by instructing divers of
the Company’s servants there in the Moratty tongue, I being one of
these; but so great was the prejudice wherewith the reported deeds and
purposes of the French Factory had invested all their nation in our
eyes (the said French Factory being at once so crowded with merchants
and so poor that they were thankful to leave the viscount to us for
hospitality), that I could not be sorry for my friend’s sake when a
means offered for his return to France.

This was a ship of Havre-de-Grace, coming from Phoolcherry and
returning home, whose master offered a passage to the viscount, and he
departed in her, bidding me farewell with much sorrow, the which I
also did experience for his leaving me. But although he did promise to
write me concerning all his affairs, so little commerce[132] was
there betwixt us and the French that near three years passed before I
heard from him, and then I learned that he had found on his arrival in
France my lord marquis dead, and this, as they said, rather of a
broken heart upon some disgrace he was fallen into with the court,
such as had made him be recalled and kept him idle, than of any more
exact disease. Madam Heliodora the viscount found dwelling in Paris
with a lady of quality that was some kin to her, and they were wedded
almost immediately upon his return, departing thereafter to his
estate, which was situate on the borders of the provinces of Languedoc
and Gascoign,[133] and _where_ (_says he_), _we shall endeavour, with
God’s blessing, to spend our lives in alleviating the miseries and
amending the situation of such as depend upon us_. And this letter my
friend did close with so many and such lofty expressions of the
gratitude that both he and his lady experienced towards me, that I
can’t quote from ’em; yet I won’t deny but they were very pleasant to
me, and that I loved to flatter myself with the belief that these two
persons, whom I did so greatly esteem, thanked me for some of the
happiness I now contemplated in them by means of this letter. And with
this persuasion of the good fortune of both my friends I did content
myself during several years that I heard naught from them, believing
them to be so greatly busied with their gracious designs for their
tenants that they lacked the time to write to me, and never suspecting
that first of all their letters had miscarried, nor later that evil
was befallen them, until I heard it from their own lips.

Now about a year after my return to Surat our ambassadors came back
from Agra, their business well ended, and I, who conceived myself to
have, as you may remember, a crow to pick, as we say, with Mr Spender,
did demand of him his reason for denouncing me to the Mogul, and
thereby imperilling both my life and my friend’s. But instead of
betraying shame or confusion, such as you might expect, at my
knowledge of his treason, he turned aside my question with the
greatest coolness in the world, saying only that ’twas a person’s
bounden duty to use any means in his power to succeed in his designs.
And I then leaving him, fearing lest in my rage at his effrontery I
should lay violent hands upon him, learned from others of the
ambassage that the viscount’s escape was at first kept as a secret by
the Moguls, but that when it came to the ears of the ambassadors, Mr
Spender gained an audience of the emperor, and all for to tell him
that our _cooleys_ returned from Gualleyor had spoke of a second
Europe man in my train, whose face they had never seen, and this (said
Mr Spender), might well be the escaped prisoner. And the Mogul,
hearing this, did take those measures to stop us whereof you know
already, and showed himself very favourable towards Mr Spender and the
rest of the ambassage.




 CHAPTER XVI.
 OF MY DEPARTING FROM EAST INDIA, AND RETURNING TO MY HOME AND DOROTHY.

Now after my friend was departed I did spend seven years, more or
less, in the service of the Company at Surat, serving them to the best
of my ability, and enjoying at the last the dignity of
warehouse-keeper, which is a place of some honour and profit. Yet I
wan’t, during all this time, tied, so to speak, to my desk in the
Factory, for I made three short voyages to the Further East on the
Company’s occasions, sailing once to Bengall, and again to Bantam in
the island of Java, and once again to the great kingdom of Syam, from
all of which journeys I did bring back experience and profit for
myself, as well as advantage to my employers.

Now it so happened that there was at Surat, at the time of our sailing
on the third of these voyages, a certain Popish priest, a Portugal,
that did take passage with us to one of the Portugals’ settlements
lower down the coast, and from this gentleman, that showed himself
very agreeable, and no bigot, in spite of his creed, I learned
somewhat touching an old friend that I had of late years (I shame to
say it) near forgot. For asking of him some question touching divers
persons at Goa, though cautiously lest he should recognise me and
denounce me to the Inquisition, and I should thus again come into
their hands, he told me of a band of Jesuit missionaries that was sent
to convert the savage people of a certain great island lying not far
from Java. Of these Paulistins (says my priest), there was one that
had shown himself extreme devoted, more than all the rest, and very
forward in all the work that was undertook, so that when the savages
turned against them and ill-treated them, as they did after the space
of some six months, they did torment him in especial with great
tortures, which did so work upon his frame that soon after, being
rescued by a Spanish ship of war, he died in great suffering and in
the odour of sanctity, and the name of this person was Theodorus.
Furthermore, it was whispered among the other fathers that this Father
Theodorus was wont to use himself thus hardly by reason of a certain
monstrous sin that he had once committed, and this (said my priest to
me in great confidence), was said to be some inadvertence or lightness
of speech of his whereby some heretic had been enabled to escape the
punishment due to his evil deeds, but this was gathered only from his
sayings on his deathbed, and could not be confirmed. But I, as you may
well guess, knew the truth of this matter, though I would not reveal
it to my friendly priest, and grieved myself much to think that the
good man should have conceived that this piece of kindness needed to
be so hardly atoned for. But the priest never knew that he had told
his tale to one so closely involved therein, and he left us at his
journey’s end without remark.

This, then, was a result of one of my journeys, but I wan’t idle now
when at home, even during the slack times of our business at Surat,
for I laid up great store of observations touching the Indians and
their ways, and also the Europe men settled among ’em, all to be
employed later in a way that I shall show you. And in all this I had
the help and countenance of my good friend Mr Martin, who displayed as
great an alacrity to assist me regain my earliest dispositions as many
men’s friends do to lead ’em into ruin, so as I must ever be grateful
to him. Likewise among the other gentlemen at the Factory, with but
few exceptions, I did find much kindness and friendship, and had also
another friend, that was a faithful though a humble one, in my servant
Loll Duss. This man, shortly before my leaving Surat, professed
himself openly a convert to Christianity, and was admitted into our
holy religion with the use of that form set forth of late years for
the baptising of natives in our plantations, and suchlike cases. The
minister of the Factory had willingly took him into his service when I
departed, but such a prodigious affection had this faithful fellow
conceived for me, that he must needs forsake his country and friends,
and follow me in my return to my native land, whereof I will now
unfold to you the particulars.

Now you must know that though I had, as in honour bound, wrestled with
and conquered my passion for Madam Heliodora, that was now my friend’s
wife, yet this had not wrought in me any reviving of my former
affection for my cousin Dorothy. Though I still persisted in my design
of marrying her, considering this to be my duty, I had not announced
it in my letters to Mr Sternhold, conceiving it to be only just that
she should have the chance to find a servant more to her liking, and
that loved her better, if she so willed it. Yet I did read with a
certain anxiety each epistle of the old lawyer, whereof he writ to me
regularly one in the year, and wan’t by no means displeased to
perceive therein that my cousin still remained a maid; for, strange
though it may appear, yet the thought of a life at Ellswether with
this beautiful and virtuous woman for my wife wan’t at all
disagreeable to me, though I loved her not. ’Twas a pleasant dream to
admire at times, when I had little else to do, and sat alone in my
chamber, but so little did it touch my heart that I was content to
work on year after year and never seek to go home, until a simple
chance awaked some spark in me, and kindled it to a flame. And that
you may perceive how this come about, it may be as well for me to
relate the substance of a discourse that was had one evening between
Mr Martin and myself.

“Ned,” says my friend, when I found him sitting in the gallery outside
his chamber on my return from a ride, “have you forgot that to-morrow
you must needs declare whether you will accept of the proffer of the
agency at Carwar, or not?”

“I han’t forgot it, sir,” says I, “and until to-day ’twas my design to
accept on’t, but (though I am almost ashamed to tell it you) I have
this evening been led altogether to change my mind.”

“Come!” says he, “sure this is a sudden determination, lad. What hath
led you to’t? and what do you purpose to do if you don’t accept of the
agency? It an’t every day that such places go a-begging.”

“Well, sir,” says I, “I don’t doubt but you will be prodigious
astonished to hear that I feel myself very strongly drawn towards
home.”

“Home? England?” saith he. “Why now, Ned, you do indeed astonish me. I
can’t blame you, and yet it seems strange you should desire to leave
the service so young.”

“Not so monstrous young, sir,” quoth I. “I am thirty-eight years old,
under your favour.”

“So you are,” says he. “’Tis twenty years and more since the day I met
you upon the landing-place at Swally. But prythee, Ned, tell me,
whence come this new plan?”

“Why, sir,” says I, “I am almost ashamed to tell you, as I said. But
indeed I was visiting upon our friend Mr Stokes but now, and entered
his house suddenly, sending no word of my approach. Coming then into
the inner court, I found him at supper with his wife and children
(for, as you know, he is married to a country-born woman, half
Portugal and half Gentue, and hath several children by her), and they
had no time, by reason of my hasty entrance, to retire, as is their
custom when his friends appear. And--(but this, sir, must appear to
you so strange and foolish that I ask your pardon for’t beforehand)
the sight seemed to breed in me a certain longing and desire for such
a home of my own, and recalled to me that I might have had such an one
now had I wished it, and in fine, it did awake in me a vehement design
of returning at once to England and espousing my cousin.”

“So, so!” says Mr Martin, looking upon me jestingly, “is this your
mind, lad? Well, _Every man knowes where his shooe wrings him_, but
I’ll own I han’t looked that yours should wring you here. You will
wait, I presume, for the Boscobel, that is expected every day at
Swally on her homeward voyage, or are your occasions so urgent that
you must needs charter a country junk, and perform your journey in
her?”

“Sir,” says I, “I perceive that you regard this sudden determination
on my part as foolish and laughable, and indeed I can scarce see it
otherwise myself. But give me leave to remind you that the purpose for
the accomplishing whereof I came hither is much more than performed,
for I have long since heard from my attorney that all the burdens and
mortgages on my father’s estates are paid off, through the sums that I
have remitted to him, and all necessary improvements effected, and now
I have a genteel competence assured me from my rents as well as from
the moneys I have put out to interest at home and adventured in divers
cargoes, &c., here. I have no desire for prodigious wealth, and do now
possess more than any of my family has done, though what I have
invested here must needs continue to increase, so long as our trade
subsist. Why, then, should I tarry longer in the Indies, becoming
strange to my own country and growing old and crabbed, when at
Ellswether I may live in modest comfort, cheered by the company of one
of the best women in the world?”

“Why,” says he, “your argument of your case is mighty convincing. But
I pray you remember, Ned, that _He that reckons without his host, must
reckon twice_. What if the lady of whom you speak don’t care to wed
you?”

“Oh, but that is understood, sir,” says I.

“Well, Ned,” says he, “go, and may you enjoy all the good fortune you
look for. ’Tis well you can disengage yourself from the pursuit of
wealth thus early, in the stead of toiling on for the mere sake of
toiling, as ’tis with others, and with me amongst ’em. How shall I do
without you, lad?”

“Nay, sir,” says I, “come home with me, and sure we will show the
world a modern example of that friendship which they say is now passed
away.”

“Nay,” said he, “not yet. I have no bride awaiting me, Ned, nor no
cause for haste. In five years or so, if it please God, I may come
home and pay you a visit. But Surat is as dear a place to me now as
any save one, and that I trust to see once more before I die. My
parents lie buried there, and one that I had hoped should be all, and
more than all, to me that Mrs Brandon is to you, lad. That spot I
would fain see again, but little time will be required for that, and I
look still to be of some use here. Though Mr Ned Carlyon ben’t my
fellow no longer, I may yet find some young writer but newly arrived
hither that will bear with an old man’s infirmities and listen to his
counsel. But your work lies at Ellswether, Ned, as I see now clearly,
and therefore I can but bid you go home to’t immediately. _Take time
when Time commeth, lest Time steale away._”

Now this advice assorting so well with my inclination, I made haste to
follow it, to the extent even of sending in my resignation of my place
to Mr President and the Council, and calling in such moneys as I had
that I did not design to leave in Mr Martin’s hands. Three days after
this sudden determination of mine, the Boscobel did cast anchor in
Swally Road, and up come Captain Freeman to the Factory, much moved by
the prospect of having my company on his voyage home. ’Twas his last
voyage also, says he, for he was growing old, and might no longer
depend on his bodily strength in any strait, as he had once done, and
therefore he was minded to ask a decent pension from the Company, and
with his savings build him a likely house by the riverside down
Deptford way, and live there with his old wife, laying down the law to
the younger skippers, and shaking his head with the old ones over the
new-fangled ways favoured by the officers of his majesty’s dockyard.
And here, said he, must I come to visit upon him, and we would smoke a
pipe together in an arbour by the water, with the smell of tar and
rope all about us, and talk of our former voyages in the Eastern Seas
the while we watched the king’s ships floating down with the tide. And
I was well pleased to humour my old friend in this simple dream of
his, so that we spake on’t many an evening on deck during our voyage.
For I was able to make an end of all my occasions before the ship
sailed, and therefore embarked in her, with Loll Duss my servant, and
many great chests and boxes filled with precious merchandises and
strange toys[134] that I had lit upon in my travels.

Thus, then, did I bid farewell to that most rich and pleasant town of
Surat, and to my fellow-servants of the Company there, that had showed
themselves, with scarce any exception, as genteel and agreeable
persons as any man need desire for his fellows. And I am right glad
now that I departed from East India before this famous city lost her
pre-eminence in our trade, the which was given over to that low and
sultry island of Bombaim, to the great scandal of all in the Factory.
But this, as I have said, happened only after I had left the place.

Now this last voyage of mine with Captain Freeman was a mighty
prosperous and agreeable one, so that from the day we left Swally to
that wherein we were able with our perspective glasses to discern the
white cliffs of our own island, we met with little rough weather, and
no calamitous accidents. And on this quietness and lack of danger our
captain did much felicitate me, saying that had the pirates and the
Barbary rovers, whom he feared, but known of the wealth that I brought
home with me, it had gone hard with them if they had not come against
us in so great force as to overpower us, when we must all have ended
our days as slaves in Algier or Sallee. But this danger, like the
others on our path, we passed without encountering ’em, and so arrived
safely at Graves-End, and there landed, where I had embarked more than
twenty years before, on the third day of October 1684.

Now in London I must needs repair to the Company’s House in Leadenhall
Street, and there give some account of myself, delivering, moreover,
the letters wherewith I had been charged by Mr President at Surat, and
’twas also only fitting that I should pay my respects to my lord Duke
of London, the son of my own learned and virtuous patron; and when
these things was done, and likewise much business of my own, with
respect to that merchandise I had with me, Captain Freeman would have
me visit him at his inn where he lodged, and make the acquaintance of
his wife and children. But I can declare to you that I hurried through
these duties with the greatest haste in the world, desiring nothing so
much as to have ’em over, and so feel myself free to ride into
Northamptonshire and seek my own home. For during all our voyage, that
longing that had seized me at Surat did but grow stronger and
stronger, so that Captain Freeman told me I was like a sailor-lad
coming home to his sweetheart, with so great eagerness did I watch for
favouring winds and desire the first sight of the shore. And now that
I was once more in town, and saw on every side the spots where I had
wandered as a lad, with my head full of glory and of Dorothy, the
spirit of those past days seemed to return upon me, and I could scarce
wait to complete my business before I bid Loll Duss have the horses
saddled for a start betimes one morning.

I had been careful to send to Ellswether no word of my coming, for I
desired to take my friends by surprise (alas! to what evil discoveries
hath this same desire led many!), and now I could scarce bring myself
to allow of the needful halts upon the road, nor to refrain from
riding our poor beasts to death. I had brought with me only such
things as was strictly necessary, that so we might travel the lighter,
and had bought two good horses for myself and Loll Duss and our
saddle-bags, and our journey wan’t thus a long one, though it seemed
so to me. ’Twas on an evening near the end of the month of October
that I reached Puckle Acton, and then found myself in such a heat and
excitement from being so near my journey’s end that I could not
resolve to lie there the night and ride to Ellswether in the morning
as I had purposed, but leaving Loll Duss and the horses at the inn,
set out to walk thither at once. Now this was a time when the town was
very quiet, and the people all agog for news, and ’twas quickly
reported amongst ’em that a strange gentleman with a blackamoor
servant was arrived at the inn, whereupon there come together a great
company of the lower sort for to talk with Loll Duss in the kitchen;
but I had bid him tell them nothing, and therefore he feigned not to
understand them, so that they were forced to let him alone, though
they tried him even with broken English, thinking to make him conceive
them easier, so that I laughed to hear them. And before I could get
away from the place, come the landlord with a message from certain
gentlemen that were wont to spend an hour or two of an evening in the
parlour there, asking the favour of my company to drink a bottle of
_Porto-Porto_ with ’em; but this I made haste to decline, though with
all due civility, saying that I had friends near that ’twas a great
concernment to me to see at once. And upon this the landlord, desiring
to know who these were, offered to guide me in case I knew not their
dwelling; but this also I did refuse, saying to him that I knew my way
well.

And thus at last I set out, but found to my surprise that there was so
many changes in the town since I had seen it last that I had been well
advised to accept of mine host’s offer, for I lost my way in the
darkness, and could not find it again. Seeing then an ancient person
coming along the street, very reverend in his bearing, and apparelled
with an air of great seemliness and prosperity, with his servant
carrying a lantern before him, I approached him and asked of him the
way to Ellswether, the which he told me very kindly.

“My house lies on that very road, sir,” says he, “and if you’ll give
yourself the pains to accompany me thus far, I can direct you from
thence with more conveniency than here. Pray, may I ask whether you be
charged with any letter or message for the ladies at Ellswether?”

“No letter, sir,” says I, “but a message, maybe.”

“Sir,” says he, looking into my face very hard, “your voice seems
known to me, but your features I can’t recall. You will pardon me if I
should know you.”

“You may well be pardoned, sir,” says I, “for twenty years’ absence is
like to change men beyond recognition.”

“Twenty years?” said he. “Tom, come hither. Sir, pardon my rudeness,”
and he took the lantern from the servant’s hand and held it up so as
the light thereof fell upon my face. “Why, as I live, ’tis Mr Carlyon!
Welcome home, sir; glad I am to be the first to greet your honour in
this place.”

“Sure ’tis a happy omen, sir,” says I, “that the first person to greet
me should be so tried and faithful a friend as yourself. Pray, how do
Mrs Sternhold and your daughters find ’emselves? I trust they are all
three in good health?”

“The best of health, sir, I thank you,” said Mr Sternhold, for he it
was. “My daughter Sisley is married to Frank Packworth, that your
honour was wont to fight with at the Grammar School, but is now my
partner, and a very worthy man. Diony dwells still with her mother and
me, and is the very light of our eyes.”

“I am rejoiced to hear your good news, sir,” says I. “Pray make my
most respectful compliments to the gentlewomen, and assure ’em that I
shall find myself impatient until I may be able to renew my
acquaintance with ’em.”

“You are very good, sir,” says Mr Sternhold. “May we hope that you are
now returned to abide among us as did your honoured father?”

“That is my design,” said I, “though I don’t dare hope to approach my
father’s virtues. Will it be surprising to you, sir, to learn that
after all my wanderings I am returned to my port of departure,
determined to marry my cousin and settle down in my place here?”

“I account, sir, that the question of your honour’s marriage hangs in
some slight degree upon Mrs Brandon’s inclinations?” says he, and
seemed to hint at something, though what I could not tell.

“Oh, without doubt, sir,” says I, carelessly enough.

“Ah, well,” says Mr Sternhold cautiously, “I can’t pretend to answer
for Mrs Brandon’s resentiments,” and with that he stopped, and I could
not frame to question him further on the point, though I had fain
known whether he sought only to check my too-eager assurance, as had
Mr Martin, or whether he did hint obscurely at some actual and
apparent rival. But now we were come to Mr Sternhold’s house, and
though he would fain have borne me company to the Hall, I would not
suffer it, accepting only his proffer of his servant and lantern for
to light me thither. And we walking on together--viz., the servant Tom
and I--I desired much to question him touching Dorothy, with the view
to learn the truth regarding the matter that puzzled me, but
refrained, thinking shame to encourage a serving-lad to play the spy
on my cousin. Arriving then at the gate, I dismissed him with a
present, and went on alone up the fir-walk, remembering how the last
time I had rid down it Dorothy had stood and cried to me, saying,
“True knight for true lady, Cousin Ned!” With these words of hers in
my ears, I rang the bell at the great hall-door, and presently heard
the bolts and bars undone within, and an ancient serving-man opened
the door a small space, and looked out for to see who was there. And I
seeing it to be Miles, that I had known well of old, it was in my mind
to play him a trick.

“Who’s there,” says Miles, peering at me, I standing before him on the
step.

“An honest traveller,” says I, “with news from East India.”

“This an’t no inn,” says he. “Why not bring your news in the daytime?”

“Because I an’t but just arrived in the town,” quoth I. “Prythee, good
fellow, let me in, and give me speech of Mrs Brandon, for I am come to
bring her word of an old friend.”

“From the Indies?” saith he, opening the door wider. “Why, then, give
me your message, so I may take it to Mrs Dorothy, and ask her if she
will please to see you.”

“Nay,” says I, “I’ll give my message to none but Mrs Brandon herself.”

“I see you are an impudent fellow,” says he. “If I may not serve you,
sure you may go whistle for Mrs Brandon, for I won’t disturb her nigh
upon supper-time for to come to the door on a fool’s errand.”

“You lack a master here, indeed!” said I, in some heat, but ceased
suddenly, for I beheld a lady come down the great oaken staircase, who
stood still on a sudden at the sound of our wrangling, and looked
towards us. As she stood there, holding a great candlestick of silver
in her hand, I could almost have thought her a painted portrait,
framed in the doorway of the gallery behind her, so clearly could I
mark her gown of flowered tabby and black satin petticoat, her dark
hair curled under a high cap with lace, and even the silver buckles on
her shoes. Though I could see all this so well, ’twas but for a moment
that she stood thus, her face wearing a quick, eager look, then came
down the stairs, and setting her candle on the table, came towards us.

“What is this, Miles?” says she. “Why do you keep this gentleman at
the door?”

“_Gentleman_ do you say, madam?” says Miles, very angry, and would
have grumbled on, but she cut him short and turned to me--

“Sir, I entreat of you to pardon this incivility, and to give yourself
the pain to come within. You have a message for one here, I believe.
May I ask whether your business lie with Mrs Skipwith or myself?”

“I count, madam,” says I, “that I have the honour of speaking with Mrs
Brandon? This being so” (and she made a sign of assent), “I may tell
you that I am come from the Indies, and that I have been asked to
bring you news of the welfare of your cousin, Mr Edward Carlyon.”

“You are my cousin’s friend, without doubt, sir?” says she. “Pray give
us the happiness of your company to supper, and let us know all your
news. My friend Mrs Skipwith will rejoice to hear it as well as I.”

“Madam,” says I, “your commands is too agreeable not to be obeyed,”
and thereupon I followed her into the parlour, where was an old
gentlewoman sitting, dressed very seemly in black, with a white cap
and handkercher.

“Madam,” says Dorothy, “this gentleman is a friend of Mr Carlyon’s,
that is come from the Indies with news of him. Sir, allow me to
present you to Mrs Sophronia Skipwith.”

“Sir,” says Mrs Skipwith, when I had saluted her very civilly, “any
friend of Mr Carlyon can’t but be always welcome to us. Dorothy, my
dear, pray bid Miles hasten with the supper.”

Being invited by Mrs Skipwith, I sat down beside her, discovering that
she was grown very deaf and that her eyes were become dim, and did set
myself, when Dorothy was returned, to answer their questions in the
best way I might. They would fain know when I saw Mr Carlyon last, how
he looked, whether he had any thought of returning soon to England,
and the like, and these all wan’t troublesome to answer. But presently
Mrs Skipwith saith all on a sudden--

“And pray, sir, is Mr Carlyon yet wedded?”

I would not choose to look at Dorothy, but I saw her start and catch
her breath, and made haste to reply--

“Mr Carlyon hath altogether abandoned the hopes he once cherished in a
certain very high quarter, madam. The lady to whose hand he pretended
hath for some years past been the wife of another.”

“Ah,” says Mrs Skipwith, with an air of much contentment, “hath she
jilted him, sir? No doubt ’twas the best thing could happen to him.
’Tis ever a mistake for young persons to look too high in marriage.
Not that I would say”--she seemed to remember that she must needs
uphold the honour of the house to a stranger--“that a French countess
is over high for a Carlyon of Ellswether, but when----”

“An’t you afraid of wearying this gentleman with our family matters,
dear madam?” says Dorothy quickly, as though she feared what the old
gentlewoman might say next; “should we not do well to speak of things
more entertaining to him? But here is Miles to tell us supper is
ready. Sure we must delay for a time the rest of our discourse.”

And in truth, there stood Miles at the door, still glum enough of
aspect from his late defeat, and announced supper. Then I, by no means
loath to escape from the questions that I found wellnigh as
disagreeable as did Dorothy, did offer my hand to Mrs Skipwith for to
lead her into the dining-room, my cousin following. The chamber was
still altogether as I remembered it, save that the portraits in
little[135] of my father and mother hung now on either side of the
chimney. The table was set as I had always been wont to see it, with
the state and dignity that my father had accounted essential to his
quality, and covers was laid for Mrs Skipwith and Dorothy at the head
and foot, and for me at the side. Noting this, I handed Mrs Skipwith
to her seat, and turned to lead Dorothy to hers. She accepted of the
civility, but when we reached the place, dropped my hand suddenly, and
with a courtesy--

“Take your own place, Cousin Ned,” says she.

Then, as I can assure you, there was a noise indeed. Mrs Skipwith
weeping and laughing both together, and crying out that ’twas a mighty
pretty piece of fooling, and she had known the truth all along (which
indeed she had not, nor even guessed it distantly), and Miles begging
my pardon and cursing himself for his dulness, and then crying out to
the other servants that the young master was come home, until they all
come for to see the sight--cook and maids and the boy that helped in
the garden, and all--and wept and talked and remarked upon me until I
was fain to shake hands with ’em all round and to send ’em back to
their kitchen, saying that I was hungry and desired my supper. But
first I saluted a second time Mrs Skipwith, that did weep over me
again, and call Miles to witness that when I was a young urchin newly
sent to school she had prophesied that I should be just the man I was
to-day. And then I came to Dorothy, that sat in her place by the
table, very white and pale, and though I would fain have took and
kissed her as I had been used to do, I durst not offer it, so noble
and unbending was her air, but kissed instead on’t the hand she held
forth to me, and felt that this was above my deserts. So then we sat
down to supper, a right merry party, for Dorothy had thrown aside her
ceremony and talked and laughed with the best, so that she seemed to
me to be indeed again the little cousin that I had loved so long
before; but in all her mirth this I noted, namely, that she would not
meet my eye, and when she found me looking at her, turned away her
head as though displeased. And this caused me some slight
apprehension, remembering Mr Sternhold’s words; but I did quickly put
it aside, being resolved to enjoy to the full this the first night of
my return to my ancient home.

Now after supper we returned again to the parlour, and talked there
until it was late, and the more my eye rested upon Dorothy, and the
more I heard her speak, the more she seemed to me to be the same as
ever, and never to have lost her former place in my heart. But when I
would have showed somewhat of this in my discourse, calling her
“Little cousin,” and “Sweet Doll,” I was grieved to perceive that she
turned from me again, as showing that she had no liking for such
familiar fashions of address. But this, says I to myself, was
doubtless but the effect of our long absence and estrangement one from
the other, and after that I had bid her good night, I did thank God
for the prospect of happiness opening before me, not knowing that I
was about to pass through some of the sorest trouble of my life. But
nevertheless, this I did perceive, that whereas it had seemed to me
when in East India, and even on the voyage and since I was arrived in
England, easy enough to offer to Dorothy myself and my lands, though
without my love, yet now this should seem to me, as to her, an
outrage, and I determined with myself to wait and say naught until she
should know me better.




 CHAPTER XVII.
 OF MY SETTING TO REAP THE HARVEST I HAD SOWN.

Now in pursuance of this resolve of mine, I did determine to watch
and study Dorothy, and so to perceive how I might best recommend
myself to her favour. And with this view I did take care to spend
great part of my time in company with her and Mrs Skipwith, hearing
from them of all the changes that had took place since my departure,
and telling them such things as they desired to know touching East
India and my travels there. But since I had begun this procedure as a
matter of calculation and prudence, I was surprised, when no long time
had passed, to find myself hanging upon my cousin’s least word, and
seizing every occasion of offering myself as her _cavaliero_. And
perceiving this, I was startled. “Can this,” says I to myself, “be all
repentance towards Dorothy for my former hard usage of her? and if it
ben’t that, what is’t? Come now,” says I, “let me examine and see how
I should regard her were I but to fall in with her in company as a
stranger, and what resentiments I should entertain towards her.”

And this I set myself to do, but in the course on’t Dorothy did
discover so many new beauties, both of person and of heart, that I was
long in the doing; but setting down coldly all my observations, this
is the sum of them. She was of an excellent middle stature, neither
low nor over-high, and in all her motions an easy sprightliness that
compared well even with the slow grace of Madam Heliodora. Her eyes
was dark, bright, and piercing, her hair not far removed from black,
her complexion of the last degree of loveliness, mingling, as it did,
the pleasing tints of the lily and the rose. But you could not rightly
admire her features for your admiration of the mind that informed
them, and rather than her face you would observe her mien of sweet
contentment, such as a good conscience and a worthy life alone can
furnish, though overspread with an air of chastened melancholy, which
did but contribute to enhance her charms.

And this also I perceived during this time, that whereas Mrs Skipwith
was never backward to ask questions of me, and likewise to pass her
judgment on those things I told her, Dorothy spake little, but such
words as she did say, was marked with such sense and gravity as did
charm me mightily, reminding me at first of Madam Heliodora. But I
soon perceived a great difference between these two ladies, yet such
as wrought in no way to the disadvantage of either. For Madam
Heliodora had been wont to utter her thought in its fulness, with a
certain noble modesty, and yet with assurance, as knowing it was well
worth our hearing, and that she had the right to say all she desired;
but with Dorothy I had always the belief that she uttered only some
small portion of her thought, and that there was much more behind, the
which ’twould indeed enrich me to hear, could I but win upon her to
give it forth. But this with all my art I could not attain unto, which
did tease and allure me mightily, making me cry to myself, “Sure how
happy will be that person to whom Dorothy shall open her whole heart!”
and more and more did I learn to desire that it might fall to me to be
that person.

But, strange though it may appear to you, the more I grew to value at
their proper price my cousin’s beauties of mind and heart, the further
from her I seemed to be,--nay, I was become so low and mean in my own
sight, that that proposition which I had designed to make her, and
which I had postponed on my first returning, lest the coldness on’t
should shock her sensibilities, seemed now to me so rude and insulting
as I might not dare to offend her ears therewith. For, says I to
myself, how can I say calmly to such a woman as this, that I have
wasted the best part of my life in a passion for that which belonged
to another, and that all love is dead in my heart, and yet ask her to
share with me my dignity and wealth, out of consideration for an
ancient contract that I myself was the first to set aside? Sure ’twere
profaneness and sacrilege to speak to a creature like this of marriage
without love. Let me rather, says I, try to discover what manner of
life, and shared with what person, she should esteem most to her
taste, and endeavour to secure it for her, and then live out the
remainder of my lonely existence happy in her happiness. But the more
I reasoned thus with myself, the more I felt that that ideal or
phantasm of wedded life that had presented itself to me at Surat was
the only thing that could promise me earthly happiness, and that,
without Dorothy were mine, this ideal could never be. And though I
chid my foolish heart almost hourly, demanding on’t now how I could be
so insensible as not to love a creature of such transcendent
excellence, and now how could I expect to love her when love and the
power thereof was dead within me, yet my resentiments were never a
whit diminished in this way, but rather increased, so that I walked
abroad daily in a mighty turmoil and confusion of mind, until that
chanced which confirmed the fear that had been aroused in my heart by
Mr Sternhold’s words on our first meeting.

For ’twas my custom at this time to ride over a certain part of my
estates every day, visiting the farmers and cottagers and making
myself known to ’em, and everywhere I received the greatest kindness
and a prodigious warm welcome, and many also, hearing that I wan’t
wedded to any gentlewoman in foreign parts, believed me to be returned
with the intent to marry Dorothy, and so encouraged me thereto,
heaping many blessings on her head. Now one afternoon, when I was
returning from such a visit as this, I felt a desire for solitude and
communing with myself, and so sent my horse back to Ellswether by Loll
Duss, that rid after me, and walked on by myself. But I wan’t doomed
to enjoy my solitude long, for scarce had I walked a quarter of a mile
before I heard the sound of wheels in the mire, and looking back, saw
a neat coach come along behind me, with a lady beckoning to me with
her fan from the window on’t. And I going to see what she would have
with me, found her to be my ancient acquaintance, Mrs Packworth, and
with her Mrs Sternhold her mother, and not having yet seen either of
these gentlewomen since my return, save only in church, they did
desire of me to come into the coach with ’em, and they would carry me
home, while I told them concerning myself and my travels. And this I
wan’t by no means loath to do, finding my single meditations little
comforting, and so entered the coach and sat opposite to them, and for
a time we were very merry, the two gentlewomen asking me questions,
and I answering them.

And when all their questions was done, I said to them that ’twas my
turn to ask, and they consenting that this was only fair, I did begin;
but no sooner had I touched, though in the most delicate way
imaginable, upon Dorothy, than Mrs Sternhold looked upon me as though
grieved and astonished for the hardness of my heart, and Mrs Packworth
seemed all at once to become angry and contemptuous of me.

“Come, sir,” says she, “sure you need discover no interest in Mrs
Brandon, for we all know that you have resigned all pretension to
her.”

“Sisley, my dear daughter!” says her mother, but Mrs Packworth would
not agree to withdraw from her position. “An’t it true?” she says to
me.

“Madam,” says I, “perhaps you’ll allow me, speaking in confidence, to
say that ’tis possible for any person to repent of his early sins and
follies, and, having been duly punished for ’em, to do his best to
amend ’em.”

“I presume, sir, that Mrs Brandon’s inclinations will carry some
weight in such a matter?” cries she, just as had her father.

“I think, madam,” says I, “that you can scarce deem me likely to wish
to force Mrs Brandon’s inclinations? Nevertheless, ’tis allowable in
me to cherish a hope that, while demanding no more favour at starting
than any other person, I may be able to show my regret for my former
carriage, and perhaps in due time to enlist her heart in my cause.”

“And in what kind of cause is that?” says she. “Can you dare to hope,
sir, can you even wish, that Mrs Brandon should give her heart into
the keeping of a person that han’t so much as a heart, though never
such a poor one, to give her in return, since his own was lost in
foreign parts long ago? Nay, madam,” for her mother was showing
herself desirous to arrest her in her discourse, “prythee let me
speak. ’Tis but just that Mr Carlyon should hear the truth. There an’t
none at the Hall will tell it him, and ’tis well he should know how
Mrs Dorothy’s friends regard him. Pray, sir, do you think that Mrs
Brandon is your property, like your horse or your blackamoor, that
having once cast her aside, you may gain her again at your
conveniency?”

“Indeed, madam,” quoth I, “I am but too much sensible of my faithless
and evil conduct in the past, and yet at times I entertain such
confidence in Mrs Brandon’s gentle and forgiving spirit as I am almost
ready to believe she will admit me to her favour again upon assurance
of my sincere repentance.”

Now this indeed was that very thing whereof I was perpetually doubting
nowadays, and nothing was further from my intention than to make such
a boast, but yet I could not resist giving utterance thereto, being
somewhat heated by Mrs Packworth’s condemnation of me. But she was a
better fighter than I.

“Welladay!” she cries, “that I should live to hear a gentleman affirm
coolly that he desires and expects a lady to receive him into her
favour when not only he don’t offer her any love, but glories in
having none to offer!”

“In truth, madam,” says I, mighty uncomfortable, “you know more of my
heart than I, for it is so prodigiously tumbled up and down that no
pains will enable me to read it aright.”

“Is that so, sir?” saith she. “Then pray listen to me, for I have that
to tell you which shall quickly resolve your doubts as to the nature
of your resentiments for Mrs Brandon. Two or three minutes back you
seemed (though little as if you feared any such thing) to remember
that ’twas possible Mrs Brandon might entertain other views for the
disposal of her hand. Now thus much I can tell you, that there is a
certain gentleman in whose cause her heart is very deeply engaged, so
much so, that I am well assured she should never entertain with
pleasure a proposition of marriage from any other. And I don’t say
this out of malice only, for ’tis absolute truth, as my mother will
assure you.”

“And this gentleman’s name?” said I, with an air of as great calmness
as I could assume, though it seemed to me as if a sudden thick
darkness were spread all around me.

“That I must not tell you,” says she. “Nay, mother, I’ll not have you
speak, if you please. What! shall we betray Mrs Dorothy’s confidence
that she hath reposed in us?”

“I can’t tell,” said I, though slowly and with difficulty, “who this
person may be. Hath he visited upon my cousin since my return?”

“Not since your return, sir,” saith Mrs Packworth mighty demurely, but
with something of mystery in her air that I could not understand.

“I must needs inquire his intention,” says I, scarce knowing what I
said.

“Sure, sir,” says Mrs Sternhold, “your best course were to inquire of
Mrs Brandon herself. She would be little like to relish our making a
common talk of her matters, but she could scarce refuse to grant you
such satisfaction as you may desire touching ’em from her own lips.”

“I must needs follow your counsel, madam,” says I. “Meanwhile, may I
entreat of you and Mrs Packworth to dispense here with my further
attendance? I see we are arrived at the path leading to the Hall
through the woods, and I would fain hasten home.”

Thus speaking, and making apologies that I understood not while I did
utter ’em, I left the coach, standing uncovered until it was departed,
and hearing the voices of the two gentlewomen in contention, as though
Mrs Sternhold desired to tell me that which her daughter had refused
me. I could not doubt but they were triumphing over me, but I cared
not a whit for their triumph. Though they had done no more, they had
at the least fulfilled their purpose, in showing me my own heart, and
they had doubtless rejoiced to have beheld me hasten into the wood,
and cast myself, in my anguish, on the ground. And this because Mrs
Packworth’s discourse had revealed to me on a sudden that I had
misread my resentiments, and that, so far from my heart’s being dead,
it was alive, and loved Dorothy. And this seemed to me so ironical a
stroke of fate that I groaned aloud, namely, that when she had been
free and waiting for me I had rejected her, but that now, when her
love was given to another, I was returned, and had learned to love
her. Thus I could not deny that I was rightly served, and could blame
no one but myself, that had behaved so foolishly both in the one case
and in the other.

And this led me to perceive that ’twould be prodigious unjust in me to
cause Dorothy and her servant to suffer for either the one or the
other of my faults, and that ’twas my duty to give all my pains
henceforth to render them happy. And this arrived at, I did rise up
from the ground, somewhat ashamed of this outburst of unmanly despair,
and did turn my steps towards home, revolving many things in my mind.
For I determined that if Dorothy’s unknown servant should prove a
convenient match for her, as I could scarce doubt but he should, I
would see them safely married and resign to them Ellswether for to
dwell in, and return myself with Loll Duss to East India, entreating
the Company to have me appointed to Bombaim or Bengall, whither few do
go by choice, these places being esteemed deadly for the English. And
musing upon these plans, I could not resist comparing ’em with my
joyous anticipations in returning home, and bewailing myself therefor,
and so wandered on (having forgot that I had told Mrs Packworth I must
needs hasten home), until the darkness began to overtake me while I
was yet in the wood. And upon this I made haste to find the right
path, fearing lest it should become pitch-dark, and I miss my road.
Hastening on, then, in the way I had chosen, I saw in front of me the
form of a woman wrapped in a hooded cloak, hurrying very fast as
though in fear. I could scarce believe my eyes, but yet to me that
shape wan’t to be mistook, and I come up with the woman quickly, and
touched her on the arm. She turned round with a face that was white
even in the twilight, but cried out with delight for to see me.

“Oh, Ned, ’tis only you!” she said, and took my hand, for all the
world as though we had been children together again.

“What do you here, cousin, at this hour and alone?” said I.

“I have been to see Jobson’s wife,” says she, “and to carry her some
broth.”

“Jobson the poacher?” says I.

“Ay,” says she, “but poachers’ wives have need of meat and physic as
well as other men’s.”

“I don’t chide you for that, cousin,” says I, “but for your coming
here alone. ’Tis commonly known that Jobson is a rude and dangerous
fellow, and much given to strong liquors, and I would not have you
fall in with him when he is in his cups. Sure Miles should have been
with you, with a lantern and a cudgel.”

“He was ready to come,” said she, “but I preferred to be alone, and so
bid him go back.”

“Would Mrs Skipwith approve of this, cousin?” I asked.

“I never asked her,” says Dorothy. “I an’t a small child, Cousin Ned,
to be bid where to go, and chid for all I do.”

“No, indeed,” says I. “I can well remember, Doll, the time when Mrs
Skipwith was governess to you, but now you do seem to me to govern
her.”

She laughed, yet not all pleasantly. “I am well ruled, none the less,”
said she.

“And it seems to me that it an’t unneeded,” says I. “See you here,
cousin, if you find it irksome to be without any fellow[136] save Mrs
Skipwith, I will endeavour to seek out some young damsel of agreeable
conditions that shall bear you company, and assist you to divert
yourself; but since you are in my house, I must beg that you won’t
walk abroad unless attended suitably to your quality. Sure you must
perceive that this is only right.”

But Dorothy snatched her hand from mine, and walked on with her head
held high, as she had done when we had last passed through this wood
together.

“’Tis very courteously done in you, to remind me of my situation as a
dependent in your house, cousin,” she cried, and stopped as though too
angry to continue.

“Cousin,” says I, “your are unjust toward me. I desire naught save
your honour and advantage,” but she would not vouchsafe neither to
answer me nor speak to me, and we came home in silence. And all that
evening would she scarce say a word to me, nor even look at me. And
though you would think that I should rejoice in this, inasmuch as
’twould enable me the more easily to conquer my love for her, yet it
wan’t so, but I must needs offer all the courtesies in my power, and
follow her with my eyes, silently demanding pardon for my unwitting
offending of her. But all this moved her not a whit, so that I went to
bed very unhappy, but loving her more than ever.

And the next day, which was prodigious wet and stormy, Dorothy busied
herself all the morning with the maids up-stairs, scrubbing and
cleaning and doing other such things, and raising such a noise and
dust as that she was fain at dinner-time to abide in her own chamber,
saying that she was attacked with a fit of the megrims.[137] And
after dinner, the weather mending somewhat, I rid out after my usual
fashion, with Loll Duss behind me, very unhappy by reason of the damp,
and I much more unhappy, by reason of the turmoil in my mind. But
coming in after dark, prodigious weary and miserable, I found an
agreeable surprise to await me, for casting myself with a sigh upon
the oaken settle beside the great fire in the hall, thinking no one to
be near me, I did behold Dorothy sitting opposite to me in the shadow,
when my eyes grew accustomed to the light.

“You han’t been abroad to-day, cousin?” said I.

“No,” said she. “Mrs Skipwith is gone to drink a dish of _thea_ with
Mrs Sternhold, and Miles is attending upon her.”

“I’ll wait upon you with pleasure, cousin, whithersoever you may
desire,” says I, “and esteem it an honour if you’ll accept of my
services.”

“I thank you, cousin,” says she, “but I han’t no list to walk abroad
to-night.”

And with that we were silent again, I watching Dorothy curiously when
the firelight revealed her face to me, and wondering whether I might
now trust myself to ask her concerning her servant. But on a sudden my
eyes lit upon a certain great old book in a brown binding that lay
beside her on the settle, half hid by her gown, and stretching out my
hand I took it up.

“Why, here is the ‘Arcadia’!” says I, undoing the silver clasps. “Have
you been diverting yourself with the pretty fancies of the gentle
knight, cousin?”

“I chanced upon the old book up-stairs this morning,” says she, “and
brought it hither for to recall old days withal.”

“Suffer me also to recall ’em,” says I, and opening the book, sought
out that pathetical piece of the parting of Argalus and Parthenia,
over the which we had so often mingled our tears when we was children,
and thereafter the moving scene wherein Parthenia is slain by
Amphialus, the which did draw tears from Dorothy even now. And as for
me, I found it hard to read, for the remembrance of the early days was
so strong upon me that I conceived a double meaning in all the words,
seeing Dorothy in Parthenia when she cries to Argalus, saying, _Woe is
me; what shall become of me, if you thus abandon me?_ And in this I
wan’t alone, for I perceived that my cousin was much moved by those
other words of Parthenia--viz., _O Life, O Death, answer for me, that
my thoughts have not so much as in a dreame tasted any comfort since
they were depriv’d of Argalus_. “Sure,” says I to myself, “I am a
worse murderer than ever was Amphialus, and should experience a
greater remorse, since I have slain that sweet love and confidence
that my cousin once reposed in me.” But this was when I had ended my
reading, and Dorothy was wiping away her tears.

“’Tis all one as though we was children again,” she said, as though
excusing herself. “We have sat here so often just as now, and you have
read Argalus and Parthenia by the firelight.”

“I have wished more than once, cousin,” says I, “that we might be
Polyxandra and Cleombrocles again, with all our troubles but a
phantasy.”

“And so have I,” she said, and was silent, and neither she nor I spake
one word for some time. Then Dorothy rose up suddenly.

“’Tis a foolish wish, cousin,” says she. “We an’t babes now, but man
and woman grown, and as our lives are, so we have made ’em, and so
they must be lived.”

And thus saying, she left me, I feigning still to read in the old
book, but seeing none of the words in its pages. For I knew that my
cousin was not wont to be thus difficult and bitter, as in these last
two days, except upon occasion, and I could well conceive that this
occasion arose upon the trouble in which she found herself with regard
to her servant, she not knowing whether I would entertain his suit
with favour or not. I being then mighty grieved to cause so much
sorrow not only to myself but to her, did determine to learn from Mrs
Skipwith this gentleman’s name and quality, and so invite him to visit
me, when I might endeavour so to order matters as to lead to their
happiness. But as it chanced, I could do no more that night, for there
come from London by waggon all my heavy chests of toys and suchlike
bought in the Indies, and I had much ado to stow them all away. I was
minded at first to open them, but in the first that come to hand was
there naught but jewellery and other furniture that I had bought with
an eye to Dorothy, at that time when I so foolishly and presumptuously
believed that if I did but return home and ask her, she should be
ready to marry me on the instant. And these I could not now bear to
see, both from the shame and the sorrow that possessed me, so that I
thrust ’em back into their box, and had ’em all put out of sight at
once. And after that was there only time for my one game of chess with
Mrs Skipwith, and then to bed, very weary and prodigious unhappy.

And in the morning, reflecting that when a disagreeable piece of
business is to be done, it were as well done sooner as later, I sought
Mrs Skipwith at an hour when I knew that Dorothy was wont to be in the
kitchen or the still-room overlooking the maids. And first of all I
made her a compliment upon my cousin’s figure and her good breeding,
saying that sure no country lady had ever such elegant manners before.
But this, says I, was evidently to be traced to the excellence of her
instructress in the same line. And at this Mrs Skipwith smiled and
bridled, conceiving herself highly flattered, and declared that she
and Mrs Sternhold had ofttimes said one to another that ’twas a
thousand pities that so divine a creature should be so little seen and
admired.

“Do I understand you to intend, madam,” says I, “that my cousin han’t
seen no genteel company, such as her quality and her breeding alike
fit her to adorn?”

“Nay, sir,” says Mrs Skipwith, “there is several gentlewomen, the
ladies of persons of substance in the county, that have shown
’emselves prodigious kind to Mrs Brandon, and I have often waited upon
her to their houses. ’Twas your honoured father’s desire that she
should enjoy all the diversion she might properly obtain, and this in
especial after that letter of your honour’s come from that French
place,--some Popish name it had, but I have forgot it. But, as I was
a-saying, Sir Harry says to me, on his receiving this letter, that Mrs
Dorothy must needs have her chance, for ’twas indeed her right, and if
she should meet with any gentleman of suitable fortune that wan’t
disagreeable to her, he would not keep ’em from marrying. And sure she
had her chance, if ever a young damsel did, for there wan’t a
gentleman in these parts (that was unwedded, I would say) that did not
seek her company, and there was very many made proposals of marriage
to Sir Harry for her.”

“And pray, madam,” says I, groaning within myself to perceive how many
were desirous to obtain the treasure that I had been so ready to cast
away, “in the cause of which of these gentlemen was my cousin’s heart
the most engaged?”

“Why, sir, for none of ’em,” quoth she very quickly, as though in
astonishment; “not even my Lord Harmarthwaite nor my lord Duke of
London (that are both wedded now, and very high indeed), could touch
her heart. The second (as I know, for Sir Harry told me on’t, though
Mrs Brandon never a word) was very urgent with her to wed him, saying
that she was designed by nature to be the star of the Court, and not
to be lost here in the country, but she thanked him very modestly for
the honour he had wished to do her, and begged him to pardon her
refusing his proposals. And touching my Lord Harmarthwaite, I think Mr
Sternhold writ to you, sir, for he was very well affected towards him,
and thought Mrs Brandon a fool for her pains in refusing him.”

“Then,” said I, cursing myself once again for my folly in rejecting
the happiness that had once been mine for the asking, “I must ask you,
madam, to make clear for me a certain matter. ’Tis told me that my
cousin entertains a preference for a gentleman whose name is unknown
to me. Who is this person? and where did Mrs Brandon fall in with him
if not in company?”

But upon this Mrs Skipwith seemed confused and out of countenance.

“I’ll answer for’t that she han’t met with him in company,” was all I
might prevail upon her to say.

“But pray, madam,” says I, “how am I to discover this gentleman if you
won’t be good enough to tell me his name? Must I ask it of my cousin
herself?”

“Sir,” says she, “I can’t doubt but you’ll find that your best course,
for I hold no authority to give you any news of this person.”

“Pray, madam,” says I, somewhat angry, “am I to understand that my
cousin hath forbid you to touch on this topic with me?”

“Truly, sir,” quoth she, “you wan’t far wrong in understanding that I
am promised to tell you naught of Mrs Dorothy’s private matters.”

“But surely, madam,” said I, “the mere name of her servant----”

“And pray, sir, an’t that Mrs Dorothy’s private matter?” says she, and
I could not deny it. Wherefore I found myself compelled to resort to
Dorothy herself for that I did desire to know, since none of her
friends would vouchsafe to tell it me, and this I did most especially
dread, lest in treating of her love I should reveal my own, and thus
disturb and trouble her. But since this measure could not be avoided,
I resolved that it should be undertook on the morrow, and so rid
abroad a long way in the afternoon, seeking to escape from myself and
my own thoughts, and succeeding not at all in either design. Then in
the evening, having twice begun my game of chess with Mrs Skipwith,
and been routed with great loss, so that she declared I was surely
losing my intellectuals, and I was fain to believe the same, I left
trying to play, and sat in a corner staring at Dorothy, not knowing
that I did it until I saw her turn from red to white and change
countenance before me. And upon this I was mightily ashamed, and
leaving the parlour, went out into the stormy night, and began walking
up and down the fir-walk in the darkness by myself, hearing the
branches of the trees creak in the wind overhead, and watching, though
without any purpose of so doing, the dark clouds scud across the face
of the moon. And thus walking, I did begin to rebuke myself very
heartily.

“Come, Ned Carlyon,” says I to myself, “is this your courtesy towards
this poor woman, to stare her out of countenance until she can’t so
much as lift her eyes in your presence? An’t it your desire to carry
yourself as a gentleman, as the person that loves Dorothy Brandon
(though without any hope of winning her favour) should do? What right
have you, that owe all your miseries to your own blindness, to
endeavour to involve her in ’em? Be a man, and find your happiness in
hers. If the contemplation of so lovely and gracious a creature
enjoying all the felicity that she deserves can’t content you, you are
a sorry fellow, and the more that ’tis in your own power in some
measure to bring about and ensure this felicity. Be thankful, then,
for that, and accept of your troubles as your rightful punishment.
Remember the sweetness and cheerfulness wherewith the viscount, your
friend, endured the long separation from his love--nay, the noble
constancy and equanimity of Madam Heliodora herself--and model your
actions upon ’em.”

Thus then I reasoned with myself, but only arrived at remembering that
the viscount and Madam Heliodora were confident each in the other’s
constancy, and might look forward to a time when this should be
rewarded, which I might not do. And so, little comforted, to bed,
resolving to speak with Dorothy on the morrow. And in the morning,
being purposed not to suffer her to escape me, I laid wait for her on
the stairs, when she come down with a great posy of dry lavender in
her hand, intended, as I suppose, for some use in her household
economy, and begged of her to come with me into the garden. And this
entreaty she granted (though not without some alarm, as it seemed to
me), and tying quickly a great straw hat over her cap, she threw a
scarf about her shoulders, and joined me, when we walked along the
terrace-walks in the pleasure-garden. Now the night had been extreme
boisterous, and the wind had torn from the trees the few fading leaves
that were left them, so that they lay about our feet golden and brown
and red, or fluttered feebly upon the grass lawn.

“Sure this is a picture of my life,” says I, looking upon ’em; “a
stormy dawn, ending in desolation, and more storms to come.”

“Nay, cousin,” says Dorothy, “you have tarried so long in the Indies
that you have forgot your English weather-wisdom. By the tokens of the
sky I prophesy a fair day and a calm sunset.”

“Be it so,” said I. “The omen is yours, cousin, and I am glad on’t,
though the compassing your happiness may mean my further undoing.”

“You speak in riddles, cousin,” says she, looking at me with some
indignation.

“I hope,” says I, “that my cousin Dorothy believes that I set her
happiness above my own.”

“And I hope,” says she, “that my cousin Ned don’t think so meanly of
me as to believe that I would buy my happiness at the cost of his.”

“Alas, Doll!” says I, “you would not, but it an’t any longer in your
power to buy or refuse. And this very matter is’t that I would fain
treat with you this morning. I had been better pleased to have settled
it all to your liking without troubling you thereabout, but all your
friends do show ’emselves so prodigious tender of your punctilio that
they will none of ’em tell me that which ’tis needful for me to know.
I ask your pardon beforehand, cousin, if I offend you in this
straightforward dealing, in spite of all my precaution.”

“Pray tell me your meaning, cousin Ned,” says she, as though
perplexed.

“I am told, cousin,” said I, “that there’s a certain gentleman
addressing you, in whose suit your heart is deeply engaged. Pray
pardon my roughness” (for she seemed to be about to say somewhat, but
her face was turned away from me and I could not see it, wherefore I
did continue), “but sure you must know that I desire above all things
your good, and would fain see you happy with this gentleman, though it
were to prove my own perpetual misery.”

“Pray, cousin,” says she, with a sound as of a sob in her voice, “an’t
you a little hard towards a person that can scarce have injured you?
Sure the poor man’s happiness need not inconvenience you, nor far less
cause you perpetual misery.”

“Nay, Dorothy,” I cried, amazed at her misreading of me, “you are
unjust towards me, and to clear myself I must needs reveal that which
I had determined to keep hid. At least pity me, for though I have
wronged you, yet now I am punished for’t. If I have despised you in my
blindness, I have learned to love you when too late, and have been
given to know my love in vain. The victory lies with you, cousin, only
use it mercifully. ’Tis my desire to show myself not unworthy of
loving you, and I would not prove a churl. I hope yet to see you
happily wedded to your servant, and settled here at Ellswether, if
this should please you, for I purpose returning again to East India.”

“Ned, my dear cousin!” she cried, turning upon me her eyes full of
tears, “but why not remain here?”

“Nay,” said I, “I an’t a stone, Dorothy, and I fear lest my
melancholical humour should cloud your happiness. But let that pass.
You know, cousin, that though I han’t any real authority over you, yet
in the eyes of the world I am your guardian, and that it rests with me
to order all things with your servant. Tell me his name, then, if you
please, that so I may have some commerce with him.”

“But that I can’t tell you--no, never,” says Dorothy, beginning to
twist the edge of her scarf with her fingers.

“An’t this an excess of sensibility, cousin?” said I.

“But how can I?” says she, very red. “Sure you are too hard upon me,
Cousin Ned. A plague on all those good people that meddle in my
matters! Here’s a pretty pass they have brought me to.”

“Surely, cousin,” said I, “only his name, to give me to know who he
is?”

“Ask yourself, sir,” says Dorothy, and runs away from me, leaving me
as much at a loss as ever. And no further occasion did she vouchsafe
me for to inquire of her, for she was among the maids all morning, and
at dinner she sat with eyes cast down and blushing face, nor never
looked at me once, so that after I did go out in despair.




 CHAPTER XVIII.
 OF MY ATTAINING MY DESIRED HAVEN AFTER LONG TRIAL OF STORMY SEAS.

Now after dinner I did set out as usual upon my ride, but I was come
no further than to Puckle Acton when I found that my horse had cast a
shoe. And for this there was evidently naught to be done save to chide
Loll Duss for his not looking better to his duty, and to bid him carry
the horse at once to the smithy and have the blacksmith look to him,
while as I walked on by myself. And after walking through the town and
turning back, I came by another way to Mr Sternhold’s house, and there
found Mrs Diony in the garden, with a scarf thrown over her cap,
overseeing the gardener that was at work sweeping up the dead leaves
and broken twigs on the paths. Now Mrs Diony was ever my favourite of
Mr Sternhold’s two daughters, and had been wont to show great kindness
to Dorothy and myself in our childhood, so that it seemed to me that
she might give me some help in my perplexity. And for this reason I
wan’t sorry when she, coming to the gate for to inquire of me
concerning Mrs Skipwith’s disease in her eyes, that was become an
extraordinary great trouble to her of late, begged of me to come
within, saying that she had scarce so much as caught sight of me since
my return. Now after some discourse had betwixt us on indifferent
topics, she did begin to rally me upon my mournful looks, saying that
it wan’t by no means becoming to a gentleman but just come home to a
fair estate and a sufficient fortune to bear such a melancholical air.
And upon this I did open to her my trouble, showing her how my fair
estate and my sufficient fortune was as naught to me without the woman
that might have been mine had I not slighted her, and passing that
over, pointed out how that all my plans for my cousin’s happiness were
made of no avail by this strange conspiracy wherein all her friends
were entered for to keep her servant’s name a secret.

“Ay,” says Mrs Diony, “I have heard something on’t from my sister
Packworth.”

“All the world knows on’t save myself,” says I. “Pray, madam, do me
the favour to tell me the gentleman’s name.”

And here I thought I must have success at last, but Mrs Diony shook
her head, and looked at me with an air of pleasantry.

“I scarce think Mrs Brandon would be well pleased if I so did,” says
she. “No, sir, take the advice of one that knows your cousin as well,
I may say, as any, and put your question to her again. I believe I
don’t err in saying that she regrets this misunderstanding as much as
yourself, and I would counsel you to take her apart as soon as you
can, and ask her what you desire to know, refusing to let her depart
until she have given you an answer.”

“’Tis passing strange,” says I, “that all my acquaintance should
combine to keep me in the dark concerning such a simple matter. But
I’ll follow your counsel, madam, though I had fain evaded another
privy talk with my cousin, for this perpetual pleading in favour of
another person is become very irksome to me, and I care little to be
forced to work so long at perfecting my own future misery.”

And with that I took my leave and departed, refusing even to drink a
dish of _jockolate_ with Mrs Diony (though she assured me it was of
the best, and brought from London by Frank Packworth in his late
journey thither), for I was desirous to end this matter and be done
with it. But I wondered much that no one seemed fully to understand my
reasonable unhappiness, yea, even Mrs Diony herself, though she
essayed much to comfort me, yet I am sure that I heard her laugh as I
went my way. But I was in no mood neither to turn back for to upbraid
her, nor yet to seek for any other counsellor, but went on straight
towards Ellswether, being minded to get over my business with Dorothy
so soon as might be. And coming towards the house through the small
coppice that abuts on the pleasure-garden, I saw before me my cousin
Dorothy, sitting on a grotesque wooden seat there, and weeping. And
seeing this, I quickened my pace, my heart smiting me for unkindness
and impatience towards her in the morning, but before I came up with
her (my footsteps making no sound upon the turf), she rose up from her
seat, and drying her eyes with prodigious care and art, began to walk
towards the house. And I overtaking her, she turned towards me with
great cheerfulness (such is the strength of mind in woman), and seemed
prepared to discourse very pleasantly.

“I trust, cousin, that you have passed an agreeable afternoon?” says
she.

“I trust yours has been a better one, cousin,” says I.

Then we walked in silence for a time, until we come on to the terrace.

“Sure we shall have rain again to-morrow,” says Dorothy, looking at
the sunset.

“Your prophecy of a fair afternoon is come true, cousin,” says I. “But
now that we are again arrived upon the same theme, perhaps you’ll be
so kind as to vouchsafe to resolve the mystery beneath which I am
labouring. I think you must perceive, cousin, that I am anxious to
assure your happiness, so far as lies in my power, but this I can’t do
without you tell me your servant’s name.”

“Will you assure me, upon your word and honour, that you can’t imagine
it, cousin?” says she, looking at me very hard.

“Upon my word and honour, cousin, I han’t the slightest hint on’t,”
says I, and was surprised to see Dorothy laugh, though her eyes were
full of tears.

“Was ever man so blind?” she said, “and was ever poor woman in so hard
case? Oh, Cousin Ned, I am afraid to entrust my secret to you, you are
so prodigious dull concerning it. You would have me use you pitifully,
you say, but how are you using me, in forcing me through pity to
disclose to you so delicate a matter? Sure you must promise me that
should you afterward repent of this day’s work you’ll bear me out that
’twas undertook at your earnest entreaty, and not through any
forwardness of mine. Have you thought me forward, cousin?”

“Never!” says I. “The very strictest prude is forward in comparison
with you, cousin.”

“That relieves my conscience,” says she. “Now, must I needs tell it,
Ned? But no,” she stopped, and I saw her lips was all trembling, “I
can’t tell it abroad here. The birds might chance to hear it, or the
herbs in the borders,--who knows? Come with me into the oaken gallery.
Maybe I can speak there easier.”

So we two come into the gallery by the outside stair (the same whereby
my grandfather had once escaped from a band of Roundhead soldiers sent
for to apprehend him), and Dorothy did lead the way to the further end
on’t, until we come opposite to the pictures of her parents, and the
spot where we had once stood together near one-and-twenty years
before. She went and stood between the portraits, needing now no chair
to bring her pale face (whereon the light of the sunset did shine
through the window) to a level with the painted faces on the wall
behind her,--faces superior to hers neither in the beauty nor in the
courage depicted therein.

“Ned,” says she, fixing her eyes upon me, “methinks I can tell you my
tale easier here than elsewhere. More than twenty years ago, my
servant and I met in this place, and he passed me his word to return
and marry me if certain conditions that he imposed were fulfilled. I
can’t tell whether they be fulfilled or no,--so far as I might, I have
strove to carry ’em out, and if I han’t succeeded, prythee blame my
power or my wit, and not my will. I wan’t loath to wait for my
servant, even though ’twere for many years, for I loved him, and I was
often wont to steal away hither, and repeat with myself that discourse
I had with him, desiring naught so much as his return and approbation.
But for that, Ned, I have waited twenty years.”

“Dorothy!” I cried in an agony, “spare me this recital, though I grant
you ’tis well deserved. Consider how much more I am tried in losing
you, than you in failing of me,--you, moreover, that have your
favoured servant to supply my place. Why torture me with the
remembrance that hath already near drove me mad, instead of ending the
business that brought us here? For pity’s sake, tell me this
gentleman’s name.”

“Mr Edward Carlyon,” saith she, dropping her eyes and standing as
though guilty before me.

“But the other gentleman, cousin?” I cried, seizing her hand.

“There never was no other,” saith she. “The whole tale was devised by
my good friends, thinking to do I don’t know what good turn to me.
Nay, Ned! Cousin! I do entreat you--sir! without so much as leave
asked or given----”

For I had not been able to refrain from embracing her, when it come to
me all at once that these ladies, whose words had so sorely perturbed
me, had been pointing all the time at myself, when they signified my
cousin’s preoccupation in behalf of a certain gentleman, designing at
the same time to punish my faithlessness and to increase my ardour,
though this, indeed, wan’t necessary. But upon Dorothy’s remonstrance
I did perceive my hastiness (though I can’t say that I repented on’t),
and begged her pardon very humbly, when she relenting gave to me her
hand for to kiss. And thereafter my love and I stood long at that
window in the gallery, where we had stood so long before, and talked
of many things. And Dorothy told me that on my return she had
perceived that my ancient love for her was dead, and did therefore
determine to hide and conceal her own, lest I might turn to her again
out of pity; but whether she would have succeeded in this design, or
would later have penetrated into my true sentiments, can’t now be
known, since her friends were advised to practise that strange piece
of artifice which had brought us happily together at last.

Now at supper-time, going together into the parlour, we found Mrs
Skipwith fallen into a grievous trouble of mind touching us, in that
she had missed us both, and there was none could tell her where we
were, nor did she, knowing the posture of affairs between us, once
suppose us to be together, which, had she thought on’t, had set her
mind to rest. And she springing up from her chair to greet us with
great joy, I did lead Dorothy to her.

“Mrs Dorothy desires to present her servant to you, madam,” says I.

“Her servant!” cried the old lady, looking from the one of us to the
other in no small bewilderment, “but who is he? I had understood that
she loved you, sir.”

“Oh, madam, pray don’t betray my secrets,” says Dorothy in her saucy
way; “han’t I leave to change my mind?”

“Madam,” says I, “I’ll hope Mrs Dorothy han’t changed her mind since
she gave you that assurance, for she hath done me the honour to accept
of me as her servant for the space of my whole life.”

’Twas still some little time before Mrs Skipwith might be brought to
conceive the truth properly, but when she did so, she fell a-kissing
us both with great delight, and did entertain us mightily at supper by
the reciting both of all her hopes and fears with respect to us, and
also with divers pretty tales of the courtship of my honoured father
and mother, and of my Lord and Lady Brandon. And seeing what delight
this manner of talk gave to the good old gentlewoman, we did indulge
her in’t, but when afterwards she waxed drowsy, and nodded in her
chair, I gave my hand to Dorothy, and we did creep into the hall, and
sat there upon the settle by the fire, hand in hand, as if we were
children again. And here in the firelight, I did make to Dorothy a
full confession of all those things whereof you know already, not
sparing, as I hope, myself, for indeed I had no design to do this, but
declaring the honour and esteem I still cherished towards Madam
Heliodora, to whom, as I told Dorothy, I must remain humbly devoted
all my days. For though I did, and shall throughout my life, thank God
for her refusing of my suit, and her for showing me so clearly and
plainly my duty, yet her image remained enthroned in my mind like the
figure of some queen or saint, the pattern and model of all good
women. But this Dorothy would have it that she did not desire to see
changed (though she said merrily that I must not seek to mould her
upon the figure of this paragon of mine), declaring that she loved
Madam Heliodora from my character of her, and that she would be well
pleased to see her ladyship at some time, and hold discourse with her.
And both of us being thus content, we were silent awhile, and then
fell to talking of my life at St Thomas, when I found courage to put
to Dorothy a question that I had lacked boldness to ask her before.
And indeed, though she made shift to answer it then, and though I have
always been wont to study and admire the histories of the marvellous
patience and kindness of good women towards most unworthy men, yet I
can never cease wondering when I ask myself that question yet.

“Tell me, sweet Doll,” says I, “how is’t that your love for me hath
thus wondrously outlived these many years of sorrow and unkindness
since we parted?”

“Nay, Ned,” says Dorothy, leaning her chin on her hand, and looking
into the fire, “who can tell how love grows and is nourished up? Sure
I had known and loved you all your life until your setting forth, and
the remembrance of you, so far from becoming faint, did but grow
stronger and more fond by reason of your letters and the compliments
made to Sir Harry on the possession of such a son by good Mr Martin,
when he took occasion to write to him. For that which I recollected
not, my fancy wan’t idle, and truly I think I loved you as well,
though absent, as if you had been always with me, for, possessing you,
I seemed to be lifted up above the cares and hopes of the other young
gentlewomen of my acquaintance. There was many of ’em handsomer and
richer than I, but there was none had such a servant as I had in you.
Sure you will laugh when I tell you that the confidence I reposed in
you had been huge even in a romance, and could have borne any strain
save the breaking of our bond by your own hand. ’Twas this confidence
sustained me when we heard that you was fallen into the hands of the
Inquisition, and your misfortune did but increase my love, for sure I
must have loved you then, though I had never seen you in my life.
Before that time, Ned, you had been to me a hero, but now a martyr and
a saint. I don’t know whether I prayed most for your enlargement, or
thanked God for your steadfastness, but sure the happiest time of my
life was when Sir Harry received your letter sent by Captain Freeman,
telling of your marvellous deliverance and escape.”

“And thereafter, Dorothy?” says I, when she ceased, having told me
this not all at once, but with divers arrests and pauses.

“After that,” she said, “I enjoyed a space of the most delectable
contentment that ever young damsel passed through. But what came next,
I won’t tell you, for fear it make you too proud. I beg that you won’t
question me touching the time that passed after that day when Sir
Harry called me into the parlour, and showing me your letter wrote
from St Thomas, bid me think no more of you.”

“Alas, wretch that I am!” I cried, “to have entreated so hardly such a
woman as you, and such a father as I had. Sure I deserved that he
should lay his curse upon me for ever.”

“Nay, Ned, my dear Ned,” says she, laying her hand upon my arm the
while I covered my face and groaned in my grief. “Sir Harry never did
that. True, he was grievously vexed at the way you carried it; but he
softened much towards you in his latter days, and blamed himself that
he had sent you, while yet young and tender, into so great temptation.
Also he sent you his blessing at the last, as you know.”

“Ay,” says I, “and I can well guess through whose intercession he did
so, Dorothy, my dear. But tell me,” for a sudden thought was come to
me, “what that signified which you writ to me in that letter telling
me of my father’s death? You said that he bid me be worthy, and there
stopped. Worthy of you, Doll, and of your faithful love--wan’t that
what he would say?”

“My dear Sir Harry said many kind things that I han’t set down,” says
Dorothy, but I knew that I was right.

“That you could love me still, after my evil usage of you, is more
than I could have supposed,” I says to her.

“I loved you, Ned,” says she, as though this were reason enough. “Not
perhaps the Edward that my fancy portrayed, but still----”

“Yes,” says I, “not the hero and the saint, but the poor sinner that
was fallen into temptation. Little though he deserved it, yet he moved
your pity, Doll, and so in some way your love.”

“I might always pray for you,” she says slowly. “Though I strove at
first to pluck this love from my heart, knowing that you should soon
be the husband of another, yet my prayers have ever been yours, Ned.”

“Tell me again, Doll,” I cried, remembering on a sudden that vision or
apparition of her that I had beheld at St Thomas, and that had wrought
so mightily with me, even withholding me from yielding to my lord
marquis his will, “have you any particular recollection of a certain
night” (naming the year and the day) “when you might have had
intelligence of me in a dream?”

“In a dream?” says she. “Why, Ned, I have often dreamt of you, so that
would be no strange thing. But intelligence, do you say? I do indeed
remember that one night, about the time whereof you speak, I had a
very clear and distinct sight of you. I was about saying my prayers in
my chamber, and it seemed afterwards as though I was fallen asleep as
I knelt, for I had a vision of you, Ned, though I might not perceive
plainly where you were, knowing only that I saw you, and that ’twas in
my mind that you were threatened by great danger of dishonour. And so,
looking upon you, I cried out to beg of you that you would resist the
dishonour that was hanging over you, and then immediately awoke, and
Mrs Skipwith, hearing me cry out, came into my chamber and chid me for
sitting up too late a-reading romances.”

And this seemed to me, though I can’t pretend to explain the matter,
to be connected, without any possibility of doubt, with that vision of
mine, and I wondered much, and do still, at the strange providence
that did vouchsafe these visions to both of us at that very time when
I stood in so great need of some such warning, showing me distinctly
the very face and form of Dorothy, then far removed from me in
England, and making me to hear her very words. And of this matter we
spake much, admiring prodigiously the action of Providence therein,
but arrived at no explication on’t more satisfactory to the scoffer
than that ’twas a particular interposition of God in our favour.

And this determination come to, we talked on divers other topics, and
I learnt, though only slowly and in part, something of what should
have seemed to me the slow and deadly dulness of the life that Dorothy
had led at Ellswether. Sure ’twas naught but a truly religious spirit
and a steadfast devoting of herself to duty that could have bound down
a young woman to such a course of life at that age when young persons
are most wont to covet new scenes, and this in especial when they are
possessed of such wit and parts as was she. And for this sad and sober
life I blamed myself, as for her many other undeserved sorrows, until
she was moved to rally me on the matter, and ask me what sort of wife
I counted to have had in her if all her days had been gay and
joyful--yea, even to ask me if I now liked her so ill that I had
desired another fashion of breeding for her. And to this I could have
but one answer--viz., that I liked her so well that I would not have
one feature nor one condition in her altered, whereupon she laughed,
and bid me be content with the present, and not seek to meddle with
the past. And so with great profit and contentment we did talk until
late at night.

Now meditating the next day on my good fortune, it seemed to me that
there wan’t no reason why we should hold back, and not be married so
soon as our banns might be asked. But opening my mind to Dorothy, she
laughed at me for my haste, saying--

“I must know more of your conditions, Master Ned, before I wed you.
Nay,” says she, but dropping her jesting air when she saw my face
troubled, “do you look for me to give up my servant so soon? ’Tis
little chance to rule that any woman hath, and I can’t agree to be
choused of mine. Trust me, Ned, we shall be the happier for learning
to know each other better before we wed.”

Nevertheless, she did suffer me, upon my very instant entreaty, to lay
the matter before our friends, Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold, for to
decide, I looking that they should have given the case at once in my
favour, but instead on’t they consented to give judgment against me.
And more, they showed me, with many words and great plainness of
speech, that I was an absolute barbarian for carrying it so, and that
Dorothy might not by any possibility be wed before the spring, she
having no wedding clothes ready. And to this I replied that wedding
clothes wan’t no concernment at all to me, but only Dorothy alone, and
that if she would marry me at once, I would carry her to London, and
there buy her whatever she might desire. But at this they cast up
their hands in horror that my Lord Brandon’s daughter should be wedded
without any convenient preparation, and did beseech me almost with
tears to suffer all to be duly done. And upon this I bid ’em make what
preparation they should consider seemly, only to have it over
speedily, and demanded of them what sum of money should buy all that
was needed in as short a space as was possible, for that I would pay
it at once, that they might begin straightway.

But at this proposition again they did testify great dismay, assuring
me that ’twas right against all decency for me to have to do with the
matter, and that Dorothy’s punctilio required that she should furnish
all her wedding clothes herself. And I resenting this as a thing
contrary to that right of propriety[138] I had acquired in her, and
further objecting that she had naught wherewith to furnish ’em, they
showed me that my father had been wont always to give to Mrs Skipwith
for her use and Dorothy’s the money gained by the sale of small
matters within their province, as honey, poultry, and the like (such
as many of our gentlewomen use to have for their own spending), and
that she had now by this means a considerable sum laid by, and all
this was to be spent for wedding clothes. And the end of this then
was, that Dorothy and Mrs Diony rid up to town in my new coach, I
waiting upon ’em, and there did choose and buy such things as seemed
to them to be needed. And very merry were we during that time, though
’twere too long to tell of all that we did, or of all the sights that
we saw.

For we visited upon Captain Freeman, now dwelling in a neat house at
Deptford, with a garden reaching as far as the river, and a flagstaff
of the bigness of a ship’s mainmast, whereon he was wont to hoist up
the St George’s Cross and the Company’s ancient on holidays, and he
conceived a high esteem for Dorothy, and told her much touching the
voyages we had sailed together. And likewise we went to see the lions
in the Tower, and walked in the Park and Spring Gardens for to behold
the court ladies and gallants in all their bravery, and resorted to
the New Exchange and divers other places of public assembly, which
pleased the two gentlewomen mightily. And meeting one day with my lord
Duke of London (Dorothy’s ancient servant) and his Duchess (that was
formerly my Lady Barbary[139] Harrington, of the Duchess of York’s
household), they bade us to an assembly at their house, where was many
fine clothes and very pretty dancing, and so many persons of quality
as I never saw, but among all the ladies not one that could compare
with Dorothy, nor came near to do so. And moreover, my old lady
Duchess (widow to my own noble patron, and she that had aforetime
hindered him from doing any kindness to Dorothy, as he had purposed)
was so much taken with my dear love, both with respect to her beauty
and her breeding, as nothing would serve but she must come down to our
wedding, though in the month of February, and this she did, diverting
the country people mightily with her great coach and her London
apparel and manners. And being thus honoured with the presence of so
great a lady, we were married on the fourth day of the month under
very happy auspices, our friends filling the church, and testifying
extraordinary great kindness towards us on the occasion of that happy
event, the which (and I do most heartily thank God therefore) I have
never found cause once to regret, nor my wife neither, as she assures
me. And this though we have passed through certain trials, whereof one
(that hath been the cause of the composing this book), was most heavy
and grievous, as I shall show in due time.




 CHAPTER XIX.
 OF CERTAIN ANCIENT FRIENDS OF MINE THAT WERE SUFFERERS FOR CONSCIENCE’
 SAKE.

’Twas ever a merry jest of mine with Mrs Skipwith and Mrs Sternhold
that I had done well to hurry on my marriage, so as it took place when
it did, for but two or three days later come the news of the death of
his majesty King Charles, so that all our festivities was broke up,
and had we not been already married, we had been forced in all
seemliness to have put it off. But this necessity happily escaped, we
did take up our abode at Ellswether with great happiness and
contentment, and cared, I fear (and may God forgive us for’t), only
too little for public events, considering but our own good fortune.
And in this way that year--viz., 1685--passed away, the tidings of the
troubles in the West Country and in France reaching us but distantly
as rumours, my wife being busied with her household economy and I with
the managing my estate, and each of us with the other, for in Dorothy
I did continue to discern fresh excellences, such as commended her to
me more and more the longer I knew her, and not the least of these in
my eyes, the kindness and forbearance that she did continually
maintain and increase towards me, her unworthy spouse.

Now as time went on, we did engage together in a very weighty
enterprise, namely, the writing that book of mine whereby my name (if
remembered at all) is now known to the world of polite letters. In so
great a work as this I durst not trust my own judgment, but read to my
wife all that I had wrote, and took her counsel thereupon, and so made
her (says she) near as learned as myself in all that hath respect to
the Indies. For it had long seemed to me that there was a prodigious
lack of a book that should set forth plainly, yet in full, all that
was to be known touching the East that might prove of service either
to gentlemen proceeding thither or to persons interested in the matter
in England. And this object I flatter myself that my work aforesaid,
‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East India,’ hath attained, for
not only doth it treat at length of the manners of the Indians,
whether Moors, Gentues, Parsies, or Black Jews, but it hath also a
considerable account of all the Europe garrisons and factories,
whether English, Dutch, French, or Portuguese, beside the Mogul Empire
and the Moorish kingdoms only now destroyed, and likewise of the
Moratty power. And this book we did inscribe, as was only meet, to my
lord Duke of London, son to him that had done so much to embark me
upon my Indian enterprise, and prefaced it with a neat dedicatory
epistle in Latin, full of conceits after the classical style, which
gave my wife and me a world of pains to write.

Now this book, being in due course printed, brought upon me so much
notice, and so many letters from several ingenious and erudite persons
(many of ’em making me very handsome compliments both upon my style
and matter) as filled my wife with pride, and made my name to be known
even at the court, where his majesty King James II. was pleased to
commend the work very prettily. And this, as I can’t but think,
determined my lord Duke of London, that was lord lieutenant of the
county at that time, to place me upon the commission of the peace for
Northamptonshire. And in all these matters the time did pass so
quickly away that ’twas three years after our marriage before I had
either leisure or desire to give more than a passing thought to my
former friends that I had known in the Indies, and this only because
an unlooked-for accident did restore them suddenly to my mind. And the
chief of these friends were, as you may well guess, Madam Heliodora
and her spouse. Yet must you not believe that we had quite forgot
them, for we were wont often to wonder how they had fared in those
troubles that followed the undoing of that famous Edict that made sure
to the Protestants of France their liberties, called after the city of
Nantes. But on making inquiries concerning ’em of such of the
fugitives as we had acquaintance with, and also of those that knew
more of the great number of them than we were able to attain to, we
could not find any that were come out of their neighbourhood. And this
being so, we were content to hope that the persecution had not reached
their province, and that they remained unmolested, and so satisfied
ourselves with sending such help as we could furnish to the great
company of these poor people, and sought no more for news from
Galampré.

But a period was put to our comfortable security one evening in the
month of April 1688, when, as my wife and I was sitting in the parlour
talking by the firelight, there come in Miles and says to me, “If you
please, sir, Mr Duss is returned from the town, and would be glad to
speak with your honour.”

“Bid him come hither,” says I, and laughed to myself, as I often did,
to think of the esteem wherein Loll Duss was held by our servants and
country-people, they verily conceiving him, as I believe, to be a
prince in his own country, from all he told ’em touching the wearing
of cotton stuffs every day and the like (though indeed calicut and
muslin is as common with the Indosthans as linen and woollen with us).
The villagers all called him _the ’Squire’s black gentleman_, though
indeed he was but little blacker than themselves; and now that the
maids had left off to hollow and run away if they chanced to meet him
in the passages, the other servants did all take a pride in the air of
distinction that he shed upon the household. These thoughts being in
my mind, he came in, wearing a laced suit of my livery and a great
_turbant_ of cambric, very neat, and saluting us after the Indian
fashion (which I always had him use, it having so much more noble an
air than the customary bowings of our servants), awaited my pleasure.

“Well, Loll Duss,” says I, “what is’t?”

“Master,” says he, “at the inn in the town is the Ferringhee lord that
come from Agra to Surat with your honour, and his lady, that are come
from London in my Lady Harmarthwaite’s coach, going on a visit to her
ladyship. But the Ferringhee lord was took very sick on his journey,
so as they was forced to tarry at the inn, and the gentleman physician
from the town hath been attending upon him, so that he is by now
somewhat eased.”

“The viscount and Madam Heliodora here!” says I, and was so much
astonished at the news that I could say no more, but only looked at my
wife, who answered Loll Duss for me--

“Is my lord viscount very sick, Loll Duss, or will he and his lady
continue their journey to-morrow?”

“The Ferringhee lord is somewhat amended, mistress,” says Loll Duss;
“but I heard say at the inn that he must needs abide there some two or
three days.”

“Perhaps ’twould be well for me to go see whether I can be of any
service, my dear?” says I.

“Not to-night, sir,” says Dorothy. “’Twould but incommode his lordship
at this hour. Pray return to the inn, Loll Duss, and inquire whether
this house can furnish aught that may contribute to his lordship’s
recovery, and say that Mr Carlyon and I will do ourselves the honour
of waiting upon my lady viscountess in the morning, if it suit with
her convenience.”

Loll Duss saluted us again, and departed, and Dorothy and I sat silent
for a while. At the last she looked up suddenly.

“Ned,” says she, “should you now be happier if Madam Heliodora
had--had never rejected your vows at St Thomas?”

“Why, Dorothy!” says I, “jealous?” But seeing that her eyes was full
of tears, I made haste to assure her with great solemnity. “My dearest
life,” says I, “I can say but this one thing, that from the first day
that I returned to Ellswether until now, I have thanked God night and
morning that she did so reject ’em, and thus leave me free to return
to that duty which is my highest pleasure, and to the best and dearest
wife that ever a man had. And this thanksgiving I look to renew
to-night, and likewise every day until my life’s end.”

“My dear Ned,” says she, coming behind me and kissing me, “forgive me.
’Twas but that my foolish heart would not rest content without a fresh
assurance of your love. You had not thought me so timorous, had you?”
But I felt a tear drop on my forehead. Then I took her in my arms, and
said to her much more than I could set down, or than ’twould be
profitable so to do, until Miles brought in the candles, and my wife
said that she must needs go to see that the babes were asleep, and to
inquire how Mrs Skipwith found herself, she being kept to her chamber
with a rheumatic fit.

Now the next morning the coach come round with great magnificence for
to convey us to the inn, and my wife appeared wearing her best brocado
gown--a thing that made me laugh.

“We go prodigious fine to-day, madam,” says I, handing her into the
coach.

“I trust, sir,” says she, “that I know what is decent better than to
go pay my respects to her ladyship in a camlet gown with muslin
tuckers. Though she be in misfortune, I han’t no desire to insult over
her,” and with that I must needs be content.

We were not long before we come to the inn, and the landlord welcomed
us at the door, and carried us up-stairs with extraordinary great
respect. The chamber whereto he brought us was of a moderate size, but
cheerful enough in its aspect, and furnished very decently. Upon the
settle, which was drawn up close beside the fire, lay my friend the
viscount, so wasted and thin as it made my heart bleed to behold him,
being worn, indeed, into the very ghost and shadow of a man. Sitting
with her back towards the door was a lady in a gown of some black
stuff and a high _cornette_ cap, and she turning round, I saw it to be
Madam Heliodora. At my first sight of her, her hair seemed to me to be
powdered, and I wondered much that she should use so great ceremony
thus early in the day; but coming into the light I saw that ’twas all
turned grey, and her face was very thin. Yet in spite of this, and of
the meanness of her attire, she still seemed one of the most beautiful
women imaginable, and moved as queenly in that poor chamber as ever in
my lord her father’s palace at St Thomas.

“’Tis the ’Squire and Madam Carlyon, madam, come to wait upon your
ladyship,” says the landlord that had carried us up hither, and
departed, and Madam Heliodora came forward to us.

“I take this very kind in you, sir,” says she, “to remember our
ancient friendship so punctually. Pray do me the honour to present me
to your lady, though indeed I may almost pretend to know her already
from your discourse. I have long desired the felicity of meeting with
you, madam.”

My poor Dorothy was so much took aback by Madam Heliodora’s noble air
and her graciousness that she could do little but curtsey in reply;
but my lady kissed her on the cheek, and took her hand for to lead her
to a seat.

“Won’t you present me also to Madam Carlyon, Edward, my friend?” says
the viscount from his couch. “Though I can’t rise to salute her as I
should, yet I would fain make shift to kiss her hand, if she’ll permit
me that honour.”

“I am rejoiced to find your lordship so much recovered,” said I, when
he had kissed my wife’s hand with prodigious gallantry, and she and
Madam Heliodora were withdrawn a little to talk apart.

“I an’t like ever to be able for much again,” says he. “I fear I am a
poor useless wreck, and yet, if there should be any fighting for the
Faith, as men say there shall be, I trust I shall be permitted to take
a part in’t. But how goes the world with you, Edward? Better than when
we bid each other farewell at Surat, I trust?”

“I am the happiest man in the world, sir,” says I.

“Why, then, there’s two of us,” says he, “for so am I.”

“You don’t look to have overmuch that should make you say so, sir,”
quoth I.

“Why,” says he, “sure I am free, and not a prisoner--in England, and
not in France--in a certain ease, and not in pain--and, best of all, I
have my wife with me, in the stead of only catching glimpses of her
through prison-bars, and that in itself should suffice to make a
joyful man out of the poorest wretch in the world.”

I could not but admire the excellent spirit of my friend in thus
remaining contented in spite of all his troubles, and I had fain asked
him to tell me somewhat more fully of the trials he had endured, but
that I feared to move him too much, and so refrained myself to do no
more than speak of current events. But chancing to cast a look now and
then toward my wife and Madam Heliodora, I perceived that the
discourse between ’em was begun with much ceremony, and with many
_Your ladyships_ and _Dear madams_, but that as it went on, they did
become much more free one towards the other, so that my wife laid her
hand upon her ladyship’s, and they did mingle their tears together.
Nay, when we come to depart, Dorothy did throw her arms about Madam
Heliodora’s neck and kiss her, which seemed something to surprise my
lady, but she kissed her on both cheeks very kindly in return.

“Madam,” says the viscount, as we were departing, “I trust yet to hold
some discourse with you. I fear lest your spouse han’t never gave you
a true relation of our escape from the Moguls. He saved my life with
the risk of his own: you know so much?”

“Yes, my lord,” says Dorothy, looking upon me with her eyes shining.

“See now,” says he, “what a fine thing it is to be admired by one’s
wife! For me, I can but content myself with admiring mine, but in that
there’s so much to do as needs all my skill.”

“My friend!” says Madam Heliodora, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“An’t it true?” says he, kissing her hand, which was a very pretty
sight, but seeing Madam Heliodora ready to chide him, we did withdraw.

“And your ladyship will send your servant to fetch the cordial water?”
says Dorothy to Madam Heliodora, on her carrying us to the head of the
stairs. “’Tis of my own distilling, and should, though I say it, be of
much benefit to his lordship.”

“You are too good, madam,” said my lady. “Be assured that I will send
for’t with much gratitude.”

So we two to our coach, the landlord bowing us out very officiously,
and as soon as we were there, my wife fell a-weeping, to my much
surprise. And I asking her what ailed her, she told me ’twas for Madam
Heliodora that she wept.

“She is an angel,” says Dorothy, drying her eyes, though uselessly,
“and she should by rights be dwelling in a palace, with all
conveniences and luxuries secured to her. But she must needs wear a
sorry camlet gown, and the lace of her ruffles all mended and darned.
Yes, Ned, I saw ’em, though it han’t caught your eye. And she hath
suffered such a quantity of misfortunes, with my lord in prison and
sick, and near all their goods confiscate! And then, her babe died in
Paris, so as she can’t even weep over its grave--think of that, Ned.
Think if it had been our little Hal or Bob. Poor, poor lady!”

I did my best to comfort her, though indeed my own eyes wan’t free
from tears, and asked her what it was that had brought so much sorrow
upon our friends. But this she could not tell me particularly, and we
resolved therefore to ask a full relation from their servant that was
to be sent to fetch the cordial water. And he coming when we were gat
home, we had him up, and found him a very honest fellow and a
_Hugonot_, Andrew by name, and asked him of his master’s history since
I had last beheld him.

“Sir and madam,” saith he in answer, “I’ll tell your honours what I
can. You must know that when that evil deed was done of revoking the
Edict, there was a permission granted to the Reformed to remain
unmolested until they might convert, provided only that they did not
exercise their worship in public, and my lord, confiding in the king’s
honour, thought well to avail himself of this delay, at any rate until
the spring. My lord’s estate is situate in a very remote part of the
province, and we were left in peace all the winter. In the month of
March was born the young lord, the heir that my lord and lady had so
long desired, and it so chanced that just at that time my lord did
give shelter in the castle to one of our pastors that was fleeing from
the persecutors. This he did not tell to my lady, fearing to trouble
her; but he had been wiser to do’t, for she suspected certain spies
among the Popish servants, and would have warned him against ’em. But
he suspected naught until there come a warning from one in authority
that was friendly to my lord, bidding him beware, for that a troop of
dragoons was about to be despatched against him. Now when my lady
learned this she was very urgent with him to start immediately for the
Swiss border. And she being so instant, the coach was had round and
loaded with luggage, but my lord going into the village to bid
farewell to his old nurse (that was of the Religion, like ourselves),
the dragoons came upon us while he was away. And my lady receiving ’em
with great civility (they not caring to hurt her, who was commonly
reported to be yet a strong Papist), sent a boy into the village to
bid my lord take a horse thence, and ride at once to the frontier. But
my lady having no time to choose her messenger, she lit upon one that
was scarce better than a fool, and he finding my lord, cried out to
him in a prodigious terror that the castle was in the hands of the
dragoons, and that my lady was keeping ’em in talk until he should
escape. But he, not knowing that the commandant of the troop was an
ancient comrade of his, and the one that had sent him warning of their
coming (as afterwards appeared), would not hear of leaving my lady to
their mercy, but returned at once, and was took prisoner.”

“Ah, noble heart!” cried I. “But prythee continue, Andrew.”

“My lady was permitted,” said Andrew, “to bear him company as far as
to Thoulouse, and she was present through his trial, engaging in his
defence the best advocates that might be obtained, and instructing ’em
herself in their pleadings. But ’twas of no avail, as indeed it must
in any case have been, unless some chance quibble in the law had
turned to my lord’s advantage, as was little like to happen, and my
lady, standing in the court, heard him sentenced to the galleys for
his life, his preparations to escape being made much of against him,
since they had found the coach ready loaded for to carry him to the
Swiss border. My lady remained very firm and steadfast through it all,
but their parting was so pitiful that even the officer that saw’t was
moved at the sight, and Mary the nurse, that was suffered to bring the
babe for his father to see, could never speak on’t without tears. But
when my lord was carried to the city of Toulon, whither they would not
suffer my lady to accompany him, she did set out at once for Paris,
travelling almost night and day, and there besieged the king for at
least a mitigation of his sentence. So instant was she in her
entreaties as at last King Lewis was moved to cry out, _Remove from me
this Mad. de Galampré! She wearies my sight_; and one of his
councillors, whether impelled by kindness, or by the remembering that
parable touching the Unjust Judge, advised that my lord’s sentence
should be changed into imprisonment for life in one of the king’s
fortresses. And this they did, so as my lady returned from Paris with
that small grace, but leaving behind her her babe, that had fell sick
and died in the city.”

“Alas, poor soul!” cried Dorothy. “Sure now she was desolate indeed,
to have lost this also.”

“My lady turned her steps to Toulon,” went on Andrew, “and coming
thither, was granted the favour to inform my lord her own self of the
change in his sentence, when it fell to me to attend her to the
dock-gates, that we might see pass us the galley-slaves on their
return from a voyage. I won’t shock your ears, sir and madam, with the
recital of the horrors we beheld that day, when we saw file after file
of grey-clad slaves pass us, with here and there among ’em one of
those scarlet doublets that proclaim the wearer to be, as we call it,
a _felon for the faith’s sake_.[140] I could never have recognised my
lord again, but my lady knew him the instant he came near, and thrust
aside the soldiers, and threw herself upon him with tears of joy,
knowing him in spite of his mean dress and his close-cropped hair, and
the changes that his imprisonment had wrought. For you must know that
the felons for the faith’s sake are worse entreated than any of their
fellows, and their foul and heavy durance made harder than it need be,
so as they die faster than the rest, but so many are the condemned
that suffer for the Religion that the numbers are never too few. Then
they took my lord out of that living death, where he had found the
blasphemings and wickedness of the malefactors he was chained withal
worse than any of the rest, but had supported it with meekness as his
Master did, for his Master’s sake.”

“And sure his Master will reward him for’t!” cried Dorothy, the tears
standing in her eyes.

“And before they took my lord to that fortress where he should be
kept,” says Andrew, “they did tempt him with great promises to recant
his faith (for the king, knowing his skill and training, desired much
to confer upon him a place in his army, such as had made him rich and
great at once), but he refused to listen to ’em, and even had he been
otherwise minded, my lady had kept him firm. _Act as your conscience
bids you, sir_ (says she): _if you can endure the sufferings that must
follow, sure I can endure ’em for you_, and so upheld him until their
parting with such nobleness and constancy as made the Papists
’emselves wonder. And even when he departed to his imprisonment, she
would not consent to yield him up altogether, but followed him, and
hired a lodging for herself in a high house, whence she might enjoy a
view of a certain gallery in the prison. Here, by the kindness of the
commandant of the place, my lord was allowed to walk for a few minutes
in every day, and thus he and my lady exchanged signals, and had a
distant sight one of the other. But they in the fortress had received
orders to use my lord with great severity, to the intent that they
might the more easily bring him to recant, and by reason of his late
and present sufferings he soon fell sick, for his sojourn in the
Indies hath caused him to be extreme sensible to cold. And through
this sickness ’twas thought that he must die, so desponding was he
through the not beholding my lady daily any longer. But she found
means to send him a message by the hand of an ancient priest that
visited the prison (a very kindly person, that was said by those that
were unfriendly to him to be one of the people called Jansenists), and
it was this, _Live for your God and for the Faith, my friend, and also
for your wife, for they all need you_. And upon the receiving this, my
lord took heart again, and grew better. Then all became as before
until this last month, when King Lewis, finding that he had no success
among those of the Reformed that he had shut up in his fortresses
(these heroic confessors being chiefly persons of great birth and
riches, or noted for their distinguished parts), gave ’em a general
releasement, banishing ’em all from his kingdom for their lives. And
among these my lady also did receive back her lord, as though indeed,
as Holy Scripture saith, he had been raised to life from the dead.
Then they did take ship as soon as they could come to Bourdeaux, this
being a nearer way than through Roan[141] and Dieppe, and came into
England by way of the city of Bristow. And upon their landing there,
my lady says very suddenly to my lord, _Call me no more a Catholic,
for I have seen too much their works. I am henceforth as thou art, thy
people mine, and thy faith my faith_. And this, says my lord, was a
sufficient comfort to him for all his pains, to know that my lady was
at one with him in their religion.”

“You’ve told us very handsomely all your tale,” says I to Andrew, when
he was ended, and dismissed the good fellow with a present, while my
wife dried her tears, saying that one ought rather praise God for such
confessors than weep over ’em. And indeed, the more we saw of our
friends, the more we learned to admire them, and could not but wonder
both at their constancy in the past and their cheerfulness in the
present. I made it my custom to go down every day to the inn and pass
some time with the viscount, when we were wont to discourse very
agreeably touching our former life in East India, while my wife
carried Madam Heliodora for an airing in the coach. But of his own
past trials would my friend never tell me, seeming to look back upon
’em with such aversion as he would not name them save to thank God
that delivered him out of them, though he showed himself always ready
to commend the virtues of my lady his wife. But though we did
endeavour very earnestly to win them to leave the inn, and to take up
their abode for the present with us, they refused constantly to do
this, and we saw neither of them at Ellswether, until one forenoon
Madam Heliodora walked up from the town, attended only by Andrew, and
signified that she was come for to ask a favour.

“Lend me, dear madam,” says she to Dorothy, “your elder child for a
few hours, if you’ll be so good, for the viscount do affect the
company of children to an extraordinary great degree, and ’twould
lighten his hours of pain to divert himself with your little son.”

“Madam,” says Dorothy, albeit none too gladly, for she feared letting
her babes out of her sight for an hour, “sure you have but to desire,
and if it lie in our power, the thing shall be done. My Harry shall
wait on your ladyship home.”

But, nevertheless, my wife watched her Harry (named for my honoured
father) depart on Andrew’s shoulder with no small uneasiness, and
could not be happy until she had him home again, bringing in his hand
a great cake for his little brother. She desired much to learn how he
had fared, but though she set him on the table and questioned him
particularly, yet she gat nothing but to hear that the pretty lady had
wept, and that in the house where she took him there was a sick
gentleman that did keep comfits in a gold box in his pocket, and that
had promised to make him a coach and horses out of pasteboard. But
when she heard tell of Madam Heliodora’s weeping, my wife looked at
me.

“Sure our Harry must be near the same age as her babe that died should
be by now,” saith she, as if conscience-smitten. “Well, if Harry’s
company can avail anything to comfort either of these excellent
persons, he shall visit upon ’em every day.”

But Dorothy’s compassion wan’t long tasked, for shortly afterwards the
viscount was found sufficiently recovered to continue his journey, and
he went on with his wife to my old Lady Harmarthwaite’s dower-house in
the county of Cheshire. And here, as it chanced, they were thrown
among those that were busy planning to preserve the Protestant faith
in these realms by changing the then king for another, and were thus
led to take a very forward part in their schemes. Nay, when his
majesty that now is was securely established on the English throne,
though not recognised save in this kingdom, the viscount, being now
somewhat restored to health, and receiving the command of one of the
regiments of French exiles then forming for service in Ireland, gained
by his military exploits in that country the fame that now deservedly
attends his name. For both at the battle of Boyne Water, and in
numberless small engagements, he did win the reputation of a most
valiant and redoubted soldier, and one no less artful and seen in his
dispositions and stratagems, than brave in fighting. Yet through it
all was he in almost perpetual bodily anguish, so that those that saw
him marvelled at his hardihood in thus despising pain, and esteemed
him as Christian in his fortitude as he was skilled in the military
art. Now the war being ended, he was granted a decent estate in
Ireland, the confiscated property of a rebel that was fled, but not
being content to retire thither and live in idleness, he carried his
regiment to the Low Countries in the war that there brake out, and
duly supported his majesty in those campaigns that did bring us little
glory but much honour. But at the battle of Landen he was struck by a
cannon-shot and entirely disabled, so as he could never again mount
his horse, and Madam Heliodora, hastening to his side, brought him to
England, and so, borne in a litter by short stages, to his Irish
estate, where he lives still, a shining model of contentment in spite
of much adversity, her ladyship likewise, after all the changes of her
life, completely happy in him.

But with regard to that change in our rulers whereof I spake but a few
lines back, I must (though this be no chronicle of public events, but
only my own history) devote some mention to’t, for ’twas a matter of
moment to me, producing, as it did, the only quarrel I have ever had
with my wife, or rather difference, since it never grew to a quarrel.
And the ground of this difference was no light one, since I was
desirous to take sword and horse for the Prince of Orange, while as
Dorothy was hot for King James.

“My dear,” says I to her, when we were speaking of the matter, “I have
seen so much of Popery as I am determined never to support it here.
Sure you’ll have heard from the French fugitives what should have
armed you against it. Had King James followed his own religion in
peace, I had never murmured, but when he shows himself desirous to
thrust it upon us, we have a right to resist him.” In which I was
coming much nearer to the politics of my old acquaintance Substitution
Darrell than ever I had at one time thought likely, but we live and
learn.

“Alas!” cried Dorothy, the tears running down her face, “that I should
live to hear my husband, my dear Sir Harry’s own son, speak thus! Sure
’tis enough to disturb your father in his grave, sir. If God will,
can’t He protect us Protestants without any help of ours? and if it
ben’t His will to save us, let us suffer, but don’t let us sin in
rebelling against the Lord’s anointed.”

“I will have no hand in bringing in Popery,” says I in a great heat.

“Let us do the right, and care naught for what may come after,” says
she.

“But sure that can’t be the right which should enslave our country,
and bring over again the days of Bloody Mary,” says I.

“That can’t be the right which would take part against our lawful
king, and set a stranger over us,” says Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” says I, after much further talk, “if you’ll agree, I’ll
consent with you to meet you half-way. I won’t offer my sword to King
James, but neither will I at present raise a troop for the Prince. Yet
if we see the Protestant cause in danger, sure you must even let me
go. Are we to have a Bloody Assize throughout all England?”

With this she was forced to be content, and I did my best to be so
too, though I had fain joined the Prince’s standard even at Tor Bay,
but refrained, being persuaded that I had no right altogether to
dispose of myself without my wife’s consent. But by this course I
pleased no one, neither the friends that advised me I was playing the
part of Meroz in Holy Writ, for not seeking the Prince so soon as he
landed, nor Dorothy, that would with the best heart imaginable have
packed up for to go into exile with King James. I can only hope that
by as much as this middle course was distasteful to me, by so much was
it right and profitable, for ’twas altogether abhorrent to me thus to
remain idle when I might have borne a part in this, the second and, as
it seems to me, the only justifiable revolution of this age; but, as
you know, the Protestant cause was saved without my help. But through
all this time I was enabled not only to abstain from all wrangling or
quarrelling with my wife, knowing that no talking should ever displace
that loyalty that was grown up with her growth, and had been nourished
in her mind during her lonely youth, but I also strove in all things
to show her an increased honour and affection, to the end she might
perceive that ’twas no caprice nor unkindness, but love of right, that
moved me. For indeed it did cost me much to forsake the old cause, for
the which my father and my uncles had fought so long and suffered such
grievous loss, and that I myself also had loved so much, and for no
other reason could I have done so but for this one--viz., that the
safety of the Protestant Religion must be set before the advancement
of a party, or even of a royal house. And although I had this grief,
namely, to abandon my old party, and not to join myself to that one
which did commend itself to me, yet the cause triumphed, and there
come no dissension between my wife and myself. For she, perceiving the
hardness of my case, came by degrees to respect, though she might not
accept, my principle of action, and our opinions did not come between
us. Nay, ’tis my belief that now (though no torments should bring her
to confess this) she rejoices in the victory of the Protestant cause,
though her heart still yearn over the House of Stewart.

Thus, then, I have set before you (as I trust, without malice or
colouring) the history of my life, not hiding those things that
reflect ill upon myself, but desiring to give a true relation of all
that has befell me. Sure if any man had ever cause to render most
sincere and hearty thanks to Almighty God for the mercies of a whole
lifetime, I have more, for my situation is far above my deserts, and
in nothing have I more cause to be thankful than for the dissipation
in the course of time of that midsummer madness and raging fever of
love that did once consume me for Madam Heliodora, to the temporary,
though all too long, obscuration of my true love for her whose
faithful spouse and servant I have the happiness to be, and do purpose
to remain so long as life shall last,--my dear wife, Dorothy Carlyon.




 CHAPTER XX.
 A CHAPTER EXTRAORDINARY, ADDED ON THE ADVICE OF THE AUTHOR’S FRIENDS,
 FOR TO DECLARE HOW IT COME ABOUT THAT THIS BOOK WAS WROTE.

Here then, my relation should have ended, and I had laid down my pen
with joy to think that for this book, at least, there should be no
further need of mending of quills and of buying fresh paper, when
there come upon me those two good friends that stood by me through
those troubles I am about to relate, and advised me that beside all I
have done already, ’twere well also to set down a true account of the
said troubles for the sake of those that shall come after me. Being
taught, then, by experience, that my best hope lies in following the
counsels of these two persons, I do my best to obey ’em, desiring that
it may first be noted that I bear no malice against those that so
lightly gave credence to reports to my discredit, for they had much
excuse for’t. Nevertheless, I would warn my children to receive a
lesson against the too hasty judging any person upon what they may
hear said concerning him. But to my tale.

During the first six or seven years of the reign of his present
majesty my wife and I lived very quiet and retired, being occupied
with the bringing up our two sons, whereof the elder was nine years of
age at the time of which I write. But in the year 1695, I was called
suddenly to London, that I might give evidence before the Lords’ House
of Parliament on the behalf of my old Company, in the matter of a
petition brought against ’em by a certain person named Jameson. And in
this matter, which did make some noise at the time, my evidence was
considered to be of no small moment (insomuch that one of the lawyers
present told me I had saved the Company, Jameson’s petition being
dismissed), and in some way my name was brought to the king’s notice.
His majesty, having been made acquainted also with my work, which I
mentioned some while back, ‘An Inquiry into the Present State of East
India,’ sent for me and talked with me very graciously, saying that I
should by rights hold some office in the Company’s home establishment,
having such knowledge of Eastern matters. But for this I had neither
favour nor inclination, and so I told his majesty, who said that he
would fain do me some pleasure his own self, and thus I did return
home, expecting little from this flattering compliment. But the next
year I found myself pricked for High Sheriff of the county, and
perceived that ’twas this the king had signified when he spake of
procuring me some advancement.

Now this honour I was by no means loath to accept, lacking, as I hope,
neither the property nor the wit requisite for fulfilling the duties
of the office, but I could not feel surprised that many gentlemen
among my neighbours looked differently upon the matter. They were wont
to regard me extreme distrustfully as a person of outlandish manners
and given to innovation, likewise they did consider me to be but a
lukewarm and half-hearted Whig (as was indeed the truth, saving only
in the cause of the Protestant Faith), and we had also certain
differences over the sentences that were wont to be passed by the
bench of justices, whereof I was one, and did lean more to the side of
mercy than suited with their minds. But that they would make any
endeavour to hinder my accepting of the office (and that with a mighty
strong show of reason on their side), I had never so much as imagined,
and did remain in this secure and careless confidence until the very
week when I was to be sworn to the punctual performance of my duties.

’Twas on a certain Tuesday, in the morning, that the blow fell upon
me, when all the household was moved and stirred touching the great
ball to be danced the next night at Puckle Acton, my lord Duke of
London, the lieutenant of the county, coming over from Belfort with
his duchess for to do honour to the occasion. For over two hours I had
been busy in seeing that the coach and all the trappings of the horses
and the men’s liveries likewise were in good order and neat, and I was
preparing to ride abroad with my wife, when Loll Duss did bring me
word that Sir Ambrose Spencer and Mr Waterdale desired to speak with
me. And at this I was something astonished, for the first (a younger
branch of the great house settled at Althorp in our county) was a very
fanatical Whig, and had held little discourse with me since my
remaining at home in the stead of joining King William’s army. But
though amazed at his visiting at my house, I considered that he might
by now be willing to be reconciled with me, and so went into the
library, and found him there with his friend.

“Pray be seated, Sir Ambrose, and you, sir,” says I, when I had
saluted these gentlemen, and inquired after the health of my Lady
Spencer.

“Sir,” says Sir Ambrose, very stiff, “we are here on a business that
can’t fail, I fear, to be disagreeable to you. May I inquire whether
you be still minded to accept the honour of the shrievalty, or not?”

“So far as I am aware, sir,” says I, something angered at his air, “I
am to be sworn on Friday of this week.”

“Then, sir,” saith he, “’twill be our disagreeable duty to acquaint my
lord Duke, and through him his majesty, of certain facts that seem to
us to unfit you, not only for this office, but even for the company of
gentlemen.”

“You are prodigious flattering, sir,” says I, almost believing him
mad. “Pray have you forgot what is the only answer I can offer to your
words?”

“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, bringing a paper from his pocket, “before
Sir Ambrose or any other gentleman can place his sword at your
service, the charges wrote here must be disproved. This paper is the
copy of a letter wrote to Sir Ambrose by a gentleman that had the
honour of your acquaintance in the Indies.”

“And pray, sir,” says I, in great heat, “do you pretend to condemn me
on the unsupported testimony of the letter of some adventurer that
hath conceived himself disobliged by me?”

“Sir,” says Mr Waterdale, “methinks you should rather thank Sir
Ambrose for his present action than revile him, when you hear the full
history on’t. Some two or three days past a number of gentlemen of
this county was met together in Northampton upon the occasion of the
horse-fair in that city. At the ordinary in the evening, your
nomination to the post of High Sheriff was mentioned and discussed as
a matter of common notoriety. On the first mention of your name in
such a connection a certain gentleman that was the guest of Mr
Willesford of Chipping Acton, and is, as I believe, a cousin of his,
displayed great concern, and on being pressed, confessed that he had
known you throughout your life in East India, and had been aware of
many things in your character and history there that had ought to
prevent your holding this office. Upon this the gentlemen that was
there did advise him very earnestly to consider what he did before
assailing in this manner the name of a person of your quality, to
which he replied with great solemnity that he could prove all his
charges, and would set ’em down in writing for to be shown to you.
Then those there, having heard all he had to say, took counsel
together to keep the matter a secret until you had been allowed to
disprove the accusations made against you, if ’twere in your power so
to do.”

“After this, sir,” says I, “you don’t need trouble yourself to mention
the name of my accuser. I recognise the hand of Mr Vane Spender.”

“You have guessed well, sir,” says Sir Ambrose, “and you will now
permit us, leaving this paper with you for your further consideration,
to depart. We were loath to bring disgrace on the son of one so
well-known and respected as Sir Harry Carlyon, and ’twas therefore
agreed among us not to publish the matter abroad on your admitting the
charges and excusing yourself from serving as sheriff.”

“I thank you for your delicacy and civility, sir,” says I. “And pray,
what if I deny the charges and accept of the shrievalty?”

“Why, then, sir,” saith he, “we shall feel compelled to take some
public notice of your conduct at the ball to-morrow night.”

“And what if by some miracle (considering the short time allowed me) I
can disprove the charges?” said I.

“In that case, sir, we shall have great pleasure in acknowledging
ourselves mistook,” says he, but not as though thinking it likely.

“I think, Sir Ambrose, that we have performed our office, and may now
let this visit be closed,” said Mr Waterdale, and I carried ’em to the
door, being mindful that, in spite of their errand, they were still my
guests. As we crossed the hall, Dorothy come down the stairs in her
riding-coat and hat, ready prepared to ride abroad with me, and both
the gentlemen bowed and saluted her.

“Sure, Sir Ambrose,” says she, “you an’t minded to depart so soon? And
you also, Mr Waterdale; it an’t so often we see you that we can suffer
you to leave us after so short a visit. Pray stay and take dinner with
us, or at least eat some little lunch before you ride home.”

“Madam,” said Mr Waterdale, with a mighty uncomfortable air, as Sir
Ambrose had also, “you see us here on a prodigious disagreeable
business, and ’twould ill beseem us to eat in your house while engaged
in’t. But permit me to assure you, madam, that whatever be the issue
of this affair, only the very greatest respect and kindness will be
felt by all the county for yourself.”

“I don’t perceive your meaning, sir,” says Dorothy, casting upon him a
look that seemed to render him doubly uneasy. “Pray, why do you
separate my name from Mr Carlyon’s? Whatever blame or unkindness be
awarded him, whether by the county or by his near neighbours, sure I
shall share the half on’t. I’ll wish you a very good day, sir, and you
also, Sir Ambrose.”

With that she swept into the chamber we had but just left, where, when
I was returned from dismissing the gentlemen, I found her reading the
paper that lay on the table. Looking up with a scared face on my
entering, “What’s this, sir?” says she.

“Heaven only knows,” says I, “though I fear it brings grievous trouble
upon us. Let us read it together, my dearest love, for sure, as you
say, it concerns us both alike.”

Dorothy spread forth the letter on the table, and smoothed it out,
then sitting down she did begin to read it, and I read it likewise
over her shoulder. It was sufficiently long, and I verily could not
forbear to marvel, as I looked upon the closeness of the writing, that
he should have wrote it who most abhorred all use of pen and ink, and
who had scarce been trusted at Surat even to make out an invoice
correctly; but I suppose that bitter hate, like love, do lend
assistance to persons in their designs.


 “Honour’d Syr” (it began)--“In Obeediance too ye Commds. you lade
 vpn. mee at our last Meatg., I take up my Penn (tho’ litle usd. to
 soch Work), too lai befower yor. Honr. a full Act. of ye Dogs. of Mr
 _Carrlyonn_ in ye _Indes_. ’Tis doubtls. Matter of comn. Rept. in Yor.
 County, yt. ys. Gent. tird. erly of ye Contrt. maid forr hym by his
 Fader wit. my Ld. _Branndon’s_ Dghtr., & soght Occn. too escape, ys.
 comg. in Form of ye mistakn Kindnesse of a certn. Nobleman, who, beg.
 greiviously disseavd. in hym, innabld. himm to inter ye Servc. of ye
 Co. yt. I haue long hd. ye honr. to serue. ’Twas at ys. Tyme yt. I
 first fell inn wit. him, & likd. him letle yn., and lesse ye mower I
 knew of hym. Of hys injuryous Condct. toards My selfe I won’t speake,
 only sayg. yt. hee mayde him Self my Innemy at all Times, not scruplg.
 euen too attempt my Lyf on moer Occns. yn. one, especialy in ye Citty
 of _Tangeer_, wr. he did assault mee wit. soch Fury unarmd. and
 unprouoqd. as yt. he bad fare too sla me, bot was removd. fr. me by
 Force of ’em yt. was prest. Both in ye Vyage to ye _Indis_ and at
 _Surratt_ hee mayd him Self extream particular by his continuall
 Consortg. wit. low & blackgard Fellowes, Saylors and ye like, & proud.
 him Self a most pryg. & persistant Busie-Body, so yt. at last ye
 Councell was fayn too send him too _Goa_ for to ridd ’em Self on hym,
 not wtht. hopg., perhaps, yt. hee might fall into som Troble yt. shd.
 make an End of him. Likewise at _Goa_ he did continue hys evill
 Courses, frequentg. Places of comn. Amusemt. & dog. his best too becom
 a Faverit wit. ye Ladys, inn wh. hee did socceade to soche a Degre as
 too excyt ye Jalousy of one of ye wilde yong Gallts. yt. was of hys
 Acquayntc., & ys. Personn, watchg. hys Chance, soone discoverd. Mr
 _Carrlion_ pryg. into ye Misterys of yr. Relign. wit. Intent to mak a
 Sport on ’em, & so dinowncd. hym too ye _Inquisition_, by ye wh. hee
 was arrested, & kept thre Yeares in Prisonn, not for hys Faith, wh. he
 was willg. to recant at once, bot as a Penaunce for his naughty Lyf.
 At ye Expiry of ys. Tym hee was dischargd. & mayd hys Wa on Bord of
 one of ye Hon. Co.’s Ships, wit. a Story of his haug. escapd. fr. a
 gret Burng., & ye Ship’s Maister, beg. one of ye simple Felows wit.
 whom hee had once ben frendly, did beleave his Tale, & tooke hym on
 his Voyage. Now ys. Vyage proud. one of grete Desaster, soe moche so
 as all on Board beleavd. they was punishd. by Heven for ye Sake of ys.
 one Sinner, bot weare at Leangth rileasd. by his discertg. ye Shipp
 wit. greate Effrontery at ye Towne cal’d _St Thomass_, wr. ye _French_
 yn. hd. a Post. Now at ys. Place Mr _Carlion_ did carry it soe as too
 gaine ye Faver of ye _French_ Captain-Generall, desclosg. to hym all
 ye Seacretts of ye Co. yt. hee knewe, & instroctg. hym how hee might
 best use ’em for ye Injurg. their Trade. So vsefull ded he proue him
 Silf, yt. ye _French_ was abt. too adopt hym into there Seruice, wn.
 there was discouerd. yt. he hd. intangld. him Self in a disgracefull
 Manner wit. ye Genrall’s Doghter (ye same is now my Lady V. countesse
 _Gallompry_). Ys. yong Lady beg. of tendir Yeares, Mr _Carlyonn_ had
 persuaded hir to fly wit. hym, & they was gone some Wai before they
 might bee stopt. ’Tis sayd by som yt. ye Lady her Selfe was veray
 forward in seekg. hys Lov, & ys. I haue herd Mr _Carlyon_ repeat not
 once only nor twice, hee mockg. finely at hir for hir litle Moddesty,
 bot of ye Truthe of ys. I can’t speake. & upon ys. Discoverie, Mr
 _Carrlion_ was expel’d wit. gret Contimpt fr. yt. Place, & did jurney
 to _Bombaim_ thro’ _Duccan_ disguysd. in ye Trayn of a certaine
 renegadoe _Portugall_, wit. whom hee was verrie frendly, so reachg.
 _Surrat._ & here, beg. forcd. by certn. of hys Frends, agst. ye Will
 of ye Rest of ye Councell, into a Place of Troste, he joynd. him Selfe
 too ye Factry at _Amedavat_, & their livd. for thre Yeares in a most
 naughty & ryotous Manner, so as to bee a Scandall too ye veray
 Heathens ’em Selfs. Norr was ys. all, forr ’twas credibly proud. yt.
 hee hd. defrawded ye Co. of grete Soms of Money, besides beg. soe
 slacke in hys Busynesse yt. he loste ’em moch mower. & after ys.,
 vizittg. ye Citie of _Agra_ wit. divers or. Gents. upon an Ambassage,
 hee did consort yr. wit. certn. vyle & dangerous Personns, Felons &
 Criminalls & ye like, & fynally, ’scapg. fr. ye Towne in greate Hast
 for to avoyd ye Reward of his evill Deedes, hee dyd carry wit. hym one
 of these, a renegado _Cristian_, tochg. whom no Good cd. by any Means
 be sayde, & conveyd. hym out of ye Country, too ye grete Hurt &
 Dammage of ye Imperour yt. rules therein. & ys. he did, rufflg. it so
 brauely as yt. hee come to Blows wit. ye _Mogull_ Souldiers sent too
 fetch him, bot killg. som on ’em, brogt him off, wit. ye Ayd of a Gang
 of _Torys_ his Helpers, and soe had him too _Surratt_, to ye gret
 Displesure of his Ma’tie’s Subjects yr., yt. must needs intertayn ys.
 escapd. Fellon untill hee might returne into hys owne Country. & agayn
 after ys. did Mr _Carlyonn_ shew him Self an extream bad Servt. to ye
 Co., tho’ he managd. his Peckulacions wit. soch Art as ye greter Part
 on’t wan’t dyscouerd. untill hee was departed. Bot ’twas a comn.
 Report, & ye Cause of greate Scandall, yt. he went soe moch wit.
 _Moores_ & or. _Indians_, so as many averr’d hee was a seacrett
 Renegadoe. Bot it beg. at length discoverd. (& I am nt. ashamd. too
 say, yt. ’twas I discoverd. ye same, forr ye wh. Cause he is greately
 increast in Enmity agst. mee), yt. he had applyd. large Soms of Mony
 too hys own Uses, & hd. forwarded to _Europe_ much yt. hee was gat
 possesst of by no Right at all, ye Councell was advisd. too dismiss
 hym wit. Disgrace. Bot ye Frends yt. hee had disceavd. was still
 suffict. too influence ye Counsell, soe as all was don privily, and
 not made publiq. & he levg. thre Days later for _England_ no moer was
 said, tho’ ’tis still perpetually found out yt. his Thefts was euen
 worse yn. yn. appear’d. I han’t herd no more concerng. hym for som
 Yeares, but beg. returnd. too _England_, & vizitg. upon my Cossen
 _Willsford_, I did heere by Chance yt. hee was prickt for Shirreff.
 Yn. beg. assurd. yt. ys. hd. not ought take Place, I did make yse.
 Matters publick, bot out of no Malis, bot only Lov of Right. Wit. ye
 highest Respect,

                                        I haue ye Honor too be,
                         Sirr, Yor. Honr.’s most obedt. Servt.,
                                                   V. Spender.”


“Ned,” says Dorothy, “this is worse than the worst I had feared. Tell
me, is there, in all that this person says, that one grain of truth,
whereby he might hope to establish these charges?”

“None,” says I; “at least in the charges respecting money, and in the
rest such twisting and turning of things innocent or at most only
foolish as makes ’em appear crimes.” And this I said without any grief
or bitterness that my wife should seem to doubt me, for in truth,
after reading this letter that with such devilish cunning (for indeed
no other word will name it fitly), sought to turn into evil all the
deeds and intentions of my life, I could scarce myself believe but
that I was guilty of the shameful things attributed to me.

“If they ben’t true, sure there’s some means to disprove ’em,” says
Dorothy. “Let us see what those be.”

“To my rescue at Goa,” says I, “Captain Freeman can speak, but that is
but a very small part of the whole. There’s no one nearer than Surat
could testify the falsehood of those charges that concern my life and
conversation there, and but one man even there that hath both the
power and the will to do’t.”

“And who is that?” says she.

“Mr Martin,” said I; “but, as you know, my life, he seemed to have no
present design of returning when he writ to me last, and I doubt
whether a letter should serve this turn.” For my good friend had not
yet carried out his purpose of retiring from the service, but remained
still at Surat, whence, on hearing of our marriage, he had sent my
wife a collar of pearls such as for their fineness and whiteness had
not their equal in the county, and later, when we writ him word that
we had named our second son for him, he did despatch to us, by the
hand of a sea-captain of his acquaintance, a cap of goldsmith’s work
for his godson, such as the Indian babes are wont to bear.

“And a letter should need a year and a half at the least, and more
like two years, for to go and come back,” says Dorothy.

“We can scarce look for our enemies to hold over their threatened
action for that time,” says I.

“No,” says Dorothy bitterly; “if you should now yield up the
shrievalty for peace’ sake, and write to the Indies for proofs of your
innocence, Mr Spender hath gained his point, for what will it profit
if in two years you can show yourself guiltless? We know how ’twill
be. ‘Wan’t there some strange tale touching ’Squire Carlyon?’ ‘Ay,
indeed. Such strange things was said as my lord duke was forced to
refuse him the shrievalty. ’Tis true, one heard they was contradicted
later, but such things an’t said without some truth in ’em. Oh, be
sure it wan’t all for nothing.’ Whatever we do must be done at once,
Ned, for sure if the gentlemen cut you at the ball, and refuse to
grant you satisfaction, the mischief is done.”

“And since we can’t do nothing at once,” says I, “and, on your own
showing, what is done two years hence is done too late, sure ’twere
well to resign all effort, and accept the judgment of Sir Ambrose and
his friends.”

“Shame on you, Mr Carlyon!” cried my wife, rising and standing in the
window, and lashing her petticoat angrily with the whip she held;
“sure something must be done. Will you condemn your wife and children
and yourself to infamy? Prythee, play the man, and don’t show yourself
a coward before the first misfortune that comes upon you.”

“But what’s to be done?” said I.

“Why, that’s for you to resolve,” says she. “Sure you, that’s seen so
many climates, and passed through so many strange chances, ought be
able to think of what should be done now. Go post to London if you
will, and carry thence hither Captain Freeman or any other person that
may be able to support your word. Spare no expense. What signifies
money in such a case? If disgrace be escaped, poverty is naught.”

“Spoke like my Lord Brandon’s own daughter!” says I. “Well, Dorothy,
I’ll do as you would have me (though I am well persuaded that ’twill
advantage me nothing in this present matter), since I would not that
you should believe that I slight your counsel. I han’t so many friends
that I can afford to lose any of ’em.”

“Ned,” cries Dorothy, running back to me and casting her arms about my
neck, “prythee, don’t think me hard. I did but desire to rouse you
from that despondency which is wont to seize upon you and forbid you
to act. Let us at least do what we can, for sure the weakest effort is
better than none at all, and when we have done our utmost, it may be
heaven will send us what other help we need.”

“Sure heaven hath done much already in giving me such a wife,” says I,
and kissed her, feeling that I was indeed blessed above my deserts.

“Hush!” says Dorothy on a sudden, going again to the window. “Here
come our sons. There’s no need for ’em to hear of this trouble.”

Almost as she spake, the door was burst open, and our little Bob ran
in.

“Oh, madam!” says he to his mother, “I had been looking for you. May I
have a ride on my papa’s horse? I ran on before Hal and Mr Tilney on
purpose that I might ask you.”

“We han’t gone riding this morning, my son,” says I. “But what’s that
coming up the fir-walk?”

“Oh, ’tis a coach,” says Bob, “as fine as ours but not so large, and
splashed all over with mud. There’s an old gentleman inside, that
shook his stick at me when he saw me run, and a servant like Loll Duss
riding behind.”

“Is this another messenger of disaster?” says I to Dorothy.

“Or a messenger of hope?” says she. “Do you know the gentleman, Bob?”

“No, madam, but I heard him call to Hal and bid him take a seat in the
coach with Mr Tilney, since he desired to speak with him. ‘Are you the
son of my old friend Ned Carlyon, my little man?’ says he, and Hal
says he was.”

Dorothy and I looked one at the other, for the same thought was come
in both our minds, but seemed too good to be true. But now the coach
had reached the door, and there come into the parlour Mr Tilney, the
boys’ governor, a very ingenious young man and one of excellent parts,
that had passed through his studies at the University with infinite
credit to himself, and was glad to hold this respectable place in my
family until he should have some hopes of preferment in the Church
offered him.

“Sir,” says he, “there’s a gentleman without that says he is a friend
of your honour’s, but don’t desire to send in his name. I have bid
Master Harry entertain him until I could find you.”

Still wondering whether our thought might be right, Dorothy and I went
out into the hall in time to see our son Harry assisting out of the
coach with great civility an ancient gentleman with a great white
peruke and a heavy gold-headed cane, an Indian servant standing beside
the coach-door with his master’s cloak. Seeing us, the old gentleman
held out both his hands with a merry laugh.

“Ha, Ned!” says he, “here I am, and do hope you are but half so
pleased to behold me as I to meet you again. _Love and lordship like
no fellowship_, ’tis said, but methought you would find room for your
old friend for a day or two. Pray, is this my fair friend Mrs
Carlyon?--my friend, I say, though I never yet saw her, from my
hearing so much touching her. Madam, I could well believe, but for the
presence of these young gentlemen, that you were married but a year at
most. And pray, where is my godson? Is he that naughty rogue I saw run
on but now when his governor called him back? Fie, lad, fie! Did you
never hear that _He that will not be rul’d by his owne dame, must bee
ruled by his step-dame_? this signifying that a harder discipline must
be used where a milder fails. Nay, Ned, my dear lad, I an’t
Methusalem!”

This because Dorothy and I had now conveyed him into the parlour (he
talking fast all the time, for to keep back the tears that were near
his eyes), and were desiring him to sit and rest himself in my
father’s great chair, that was never used by us, but stood ready with
its cushions even as he had last left it. But my dear Mr Martin was
like a father to me, and I would fain have him sit in Sir Harry’s
chair. And here at last we gat him seated, when he looked round upon
us with a prodigious happiness in his face.

“You will remain with us, dear sir?” says Dorothy.

“If you’ll put up with a peevish old man, madam,” says he.

“For shame, sir!” says she. “Hal, go bid Mr Martin’s coachman drive
round to the stables, and tell Loll Duss and Miles who is arrived.”

“May I go with Hal, madam, and see the horses put up?” says Bob.

“See here, my little man,” says Mr Martin, “if your governor will
suffer you, go to my servant Rum Cunder, and ask him to let you see a
certain beast that he hath in a cage. Maybe you han’t neither of you
often seen his like.”

“Oh, sir, please come at once,” says Bob in a great hurry, and departs
with his brother and Mr Tilney. Mr Martin turned to my wife and me
when the door was once shut--

“You were in some trouble when I arrived, Ned, and you also, my dear
madam. I saw so much in your faces. If you had rather that I tarried
at the inn, and not here, don’t scruple to tell me so. _A friend is
never knowne till a man have need_, and what good is he if a man don’t
dare tell him when he would fain not entertain him?”

“On the contrary, sir,” says I, “though we should at any time be ready
to welcome you with delight, yet now especially are we in such a case
as we had as soon see you as an angel from heaven.”

“An enemy hath but just made most shameful charges against my husband,
sir,” says Dorothy, “and he is in some degree minded to submit and
make no attempt to clear himself.”

“Well,” saith Mr Martin, “_Every man as he loveth, as the good man
said, when hee kist his cow_; but in this case I would say that if
these charges may be disproved, they should be so. And pray, madam,
what may they be, and who is’t brings ’em?”

For answer we did lay before him Mr Spender’s letter, which Mr Martin
read through very carefully, and then sat for some time considering,
with his chin on his hand.

“Well, sir?” saith Dorothy at last.

“I think, madam,” says he slowly, “that you were right to suppose that
I might furnish you with weapons against this person’s accusations.
When must your answer be returned to the charge, Ned?”

I told him of the ball to be danced on the next evening, and of the
threats of public insult there that I had received.

“Then this,” said he, “is my counsel. Send word at once to Sir
Ambrose, begging him and the other gentlemen that are interested in
the matter, and in especial Mr Spender himself, to meet you in a
private room at the inn an hour before the dancing begin. Say that you
hope to have an answer to the charges, but make no mention of me, and
bid your servants not betray my arrival to any one in the town. ’Tis
well I came from the t’other side of you, and so had no need to pass
through Puckle Acton.”

“Then you can confute this man Spender, sir?” asks Dorothy.

“Madam,” says he, “I make no doubt but to-morrow we shall see a very
pretty comedy played in the inn-parlour. _The False Charge, or the
Accuser Unmasked_, hath an agreeable sound, han’t it? They say, _He
that mischief hatcheth, mischief catcheth_, and methinks Mr Vane
Spender won’t find it otherwise.”

“You are indeed an angel, sir,” says Dorothy, and kissed him on the
forehead.

“Nay,” says he, “though I could wish I were, if I should always be
rewarded thus.” And so, with much laughter, to the business of writing
a billet for Loll Duss to carry to Sir Ambrose his house, and this
despatched, to talking of Surat and the sore changes there, and
likewise the great ambition and strange doings of the Emperor Auren
Zeeb in his wars in Duccan, which all was as a breath of native air to
me, and filled me with great contentment to speak on’t. And thus the
day passed agreeably enough, and the earlier part of the next
likewise, until it was high time to prepare for the ball. And for this
we dressed ourselves with prodigious care, not choosing by any lack of
neatness in our apparel to give cause for them that saw us to say that
we had lost confidence in the justice of our cause, and so sought to
move pity by our neglected aspect. And indeed, when my wife was
dressed, she looked as well as I have ever seen her, wearing a gown of
very rich brocado, the colours blue and gold, and her lace prodigious
fine. Likewise also she was wearing the pearls that Mr Martin had sent
her on our marriage, and this piece of gentle flattery did please our
old friend mightily.

Now when we were dressed, we set forth to the town my wife and Mr
Martin in the coach, and I riding beside them. And coming to the
cross-roads, whom should we meet but my lord duke and the two
duchesses, his mother and his lady, coming from Belfort, the which was
done with no small difficulty, the ways being so miry as it was hard
to get the coach along ’em. And I seeing that his grace was clearly
acquainted already of the particulars of my fancied dishonour (though
he did greet me with all kindness), thought it well to confide to him
the whole matter, and engage his help for the completer discomfiting
Mr Spender. And upon this he waxed very merry, promising himself a
huge enjoyment in the comedy we purposed to ourselves, and showed
himself very friendly towards me. Likewise the ladies also did make
much of my wife, kissing her when they met, and making her a handsome
compliment on her brave attire, bidding her also come to visit upon
them at Belfort, the which any gentlewoman in the county would be
proud to do. And being now arrived at the inn, Dorothy did wait upon
their ladyships to the chamber they had bespoke, while my lord duke
engaged the help of the landlord, and so brought Mr Martin up-stairs
into the room where the colloquy should be held, and placed him
secretly there in a window, being hid from those in the chamber.

The other gentlemen then coming in one by one, his grace sat down at
the head of the table, with Sir Ambrose and Mr Spender on either hand
beside him, and so opened the business. And I, as Mr Martin had bid
me, did proceed (Mr Spender having declared himself willing to answer
all reasonable interrogatories) to examine him straitly upon the terms
of his letter, and soon perceived, as I had expected, that he had
given himself only to invent a history that should sound likely and
convenient for the present season, looking forward to a period of two
years or thereabouts before I could obtain my justification from East
India, but had taken no thought to forge any false papers that might
maintain his slander longer. And this I considered extremely prudent
in him, since he might well believe that some traces of the
accusations would always remain against me, as Dorothy had said,
though nothing plain and clear could be alleged. But when he had
finished declaring the truth of all that he had wrote, as also of all
that he had now said, and all the gentlemen was beginning to look very
black upon me, there was a sound in the window as of a chair’s being
pushed back, and Mr Martin came out from the curtains, at sight of
whom Mr Spender turned pale, and made as though he would have fled,
but that Mr Waterdale bid him angrily remain.

“Gentlemen,” says I, “this is Mr Martin, lately in the Hon. East India
Company’s service as Accountant at Surat, which post is, I may tell
you, second only to the President himself. He hath been of my
acquaintance since first I went to the Indies, and will answer any
question you may be pleased to put to him.”

“But first,” says Mr Martin, “with your leave, gentlemen, I would fain
put one only question to Mr Spender--namely, whether he consider it
prudent for a person dismissed the Company’s service for unlawful
trafficking with interlopers to bring such charges as those in this
letter that I hold?”

The gentlemen present, not knowing the nature of the Company’s
business, did not understand this question, saving his grace, and did
ask of Mr Martin what it meant.

“The Honourable Company,” saith he, “hath the monopoly of the East
India trade in its own ports, and all those infringing this monopoly
are termed interlopers. Not two years ago it was discovered that there
was many of these interlopers trading in the Company’s ports by virtue
of permissions signed by the President of the Indies, now at Bombaim,
and upon inquiry being made, it was found that these were obtained
from Mr Spender in return for a genteel sum of money, he acting
secretary to the President, and placing by sleight of hand these
papers among those that were to be signed, without his honour’s
perceiving it. Upon this Mr Spender was dismissed the Company’s
service in disgrace, and I scarce think that this record do entitle
him to credit from you.”

The gentlemen all looked much disturbed on hearing this, and next Mr
Martin took the letter in hand, refuting each particular in turn as he
came to’t, some upon the testimony of Captain Freeman and others, but
most of ’em upon his own recollection. The few charges that he could
not treat from his personal knowledge was so small as they mattered
little beside those he was able to confute, and so great was the
contrast between his reverend aspect and the shamefaced air of Mr
Spender, that none could doubt whether of the two should be believed.

“Now, sir,” says my lord duke, “what have you to say in answer to this
gentleman?” looking for some further bravado from my accuser.

“I must regret that I was misinformed, your grace,” stammered he, and
did push back his chair for to depart.

“You do well to leave us, sir, indeed,” says his grace coldly. “I
presume, gentlemen, that there an’t no doubt in any of your minds but
that Mr Carlyon hath fully vindicated his honour?”

“If you desire satisfaction from me, Mr Carlyon, I shall be happy to
receive any friend of yours,” says Sir Ambrose gruffly.

“And so shall we all,” says another gentleman, Mr Spender and his
cousin Mr Willesford being by this time departed.

“Nay, gentlemen,” says Mr Martin, very earnestly, “I do entreat you to
entertain no thought of having recourse to that most foolish and
unchristian custom of the duello. My lord duke, sure your grace must
agree with me. Is it reasonable that Mr Carlyon, who hath but just
vindicated his honour, should now be forced to peril his life against
each of these gentlemen in turn, through no fault of his own? Sure
there’s no pagans would behave so wildly.”

“You are right, sir,” says his grace, “Mr Carlyon’s honour is now
established beyond a doubt, and I think he won’t deny but these
gentlemen have all acted in good faith. ’Tis my express desire that
you be all reconciled, and that the matter drop here. Pray give me
your hand, my good cousin Carlyon.”

He grasped my hand very heartily, and after him each of the gentlemen
in his turn, and Mr Martin, with great joy, last of all.

“And now,” said his grace, “I’m well assured that the gentlewomen are
believing us lost, or busy hatching a conspiracy, at the very least.
If you be of my mind, let us rejoin ’em, and quiet their anxieties.”

So we all to find our wives, and then to the ball-room on the
ground-floor of the inn, where was dancing kept up until very late,
his grace leading out my wife, and she having such a radiant air by
reason of her gladness as that all others, and not I alone, saw her to
be the finest woman in the room. And so at last home, thanking God
very heartily for His great goodness and mercy towards us.

Now the next day Mr Martin, in talking with my wife and me, did
counsel me to write in full a history of my life, setting down in
order all that was befallen me, to the intent that should these
slanders be revived in later years, our children should find their
answer ready to their hand, and so defend not my honour only, but that
of Madam Heliodora, so foully assailed by my accuser. And this I have
now done, writing all my history for my children’s sake with much time
and labour, and designing to lay the book away safely in the cabinet
wherein my wife keeps her most precious jewels, that so our sons may
not be troubled with fears of evil should no necessity arise, and yet
may have help at hand when they shall find the need on’t. And in this
book, lest I should in any way obscure the truth, I have striven to
extenuate nothing that might appear blameable in my own nature or
carriage, but in like manner as I have faithfully set down the
perverse humours and youthful passions that did lead me into
wrong-doing, so also have I not scrupled to bring forward those things
which, in my plainer judgment, may serve in some measure to account
for, though by no means to excuse, my evil deeds. Such, then, was my
design in the writing this history, and though the composure on’t have
cost me infinite pains, yet I don’t consider the price to be too dear,
but toil well expended, if, in addition to the good mentioned above,
the perusing it may avail to keep any offspring of mine from any of
those pitfalls wherein I fell.

                                                       E. CARLYON.

====

_Notandum._--That I have read through this book, and do confirm all
that is wrote in’t to be true, in so far as the matters therein
related came under my cognisance, and for the rest, I am confident in
the good faith of my friend, Mr Edward Carlyon.

                              And to this I set my hand and seal,
                                           (Signed) Robt. Martin,
              Of the Bathe, in the county of Somerset, gentleman.


At Ellswether, this 23_d day of September_ 1698.




 APPENDICES.

 APPENDIX I.
 THE NATIVE RACES OF INDIA.

The early European travellers and sojourners in India designated the
inhabitants generally by the name of Indians or Indosthans. Of these
they recognised two main divisions, Moors and Gentues. The word
_Gentues_, which has survived in certain parts of India to our own day
in the form Gentoos, is, as Fryer tells us in his ‘New Account of East
India and Persia,’ “the _Portugal_ idiom for _Gentiles_,” and
signifies the whole Hindu and aboriginal (or non-Aryan)
population--that is to say, all the peoples of India with the
exception of the Mussulmans, Parsees, and Jews. Of the Gentues, the
race which came most frequently in contact with the English factories
in Western India was that of the Mahrattas, Marathas, or Marhatas,
under their great chief Sivaji and his successors. The Christians of
St Thomas, incidentally alluded to in the text, belong to the
non-Aryan races of Southern India. The other great division, the
Moors, comprises all the Mahommedan invaders and their descendants,
from the time of the earliest raids in the seventh century, together
with the converts gained from among the Hindu and aboriginal races.
This name, also, survives to the present day in the “Moormen” of
Bengal and Ceylon. Until shortly before the date of our story, the
results of these earlier invasions of India were apparent in the
existence of the Mahommedan kingdoms of Bijapur, Golconda, Gujerat,
and others, which were gradually swept away by the growing Mogul
power. The name _Moguls_ was used to distinguish from the general mass
of Moors the later Persian and Afghan invaders, often of high rank in
their own country, who entered India in the earlier ages as leaders of
predatory bands, and at a later date with peaceful intentions, to gain
power and honour in the service of the emperors of their own race at
Delhi. The Parsees (spelt Parseys or Parsies), and the Black Jews of
Malabar, are frequently mentioned by old writers, as also an African
colony of Abyssinians not far from Surat.




 APPENDIX II.
 THE SPELLING OF PROPER NAMES.

In dealing with foreign names, the English author of the sixteenth,
seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries pursued one unfailing method. In
the case of European personal names, if he could find an English
equivalent, he used that, and if not, he resorted to a Latin form,
boldly rendering Emil by Æmilius, for instance. Sometimes he even
applied this method to surnames, as the forms Thuanus and Montisquius,
found for De Thou and Montesquieu in the ‘Book of Martyrs,’ will
testify. As an example of a foreign Christian name replaced by its
English equivalent, we need only recall that of the famous Don John of
Austria. Mr Carlyon is, therefore, only following the custom of his
time when he renders Sebastiaõ, Francisco, and Deodoro as Sebastian,
Francis, and Theodorus. In the same way Madam Heliodora’s real name
was Françoise Marie Louise Anne Aimée (or Amantine) Héliodore, and
her father’s Gaspard Dieudonné. With regard to names of places, the
case was different. It was only occasionally that an English form
could be used, as with Gascoign for Gascogne (a closer approximation
than our own Gascony), and St Thomas for San Thomé. The effort of the
writer seems generally to have been to make the names look as English
as possible. Hence we have Dhilly for Delhi, and Geminy for Jumna. He
had a marked objection to the letters _b_ and _k_, and a fondness for
_v_, _x_, and _z_. _J_ and _sh_ he often replaced by _ch_ or _s_.
Indian personal names come under the same category, for which reason I
have left them to the last. Here, as with the place-names, our
author’s spelling was strictly phonetic, in so far as he could make it
so. Loll Duss, Cogia Bux, and Rum Cunder are recognisable as Lal Das,
Khoja Baksh, and Ram Chanda; but Madda Gi is not easy to interpret as
Madhoji, and the modern spelling of Vincaly I have not been able to
discover. Eusoff is Yusuf. What adds to the difficulty of identifying
these Eastern names is that in many cases the chronicler adopted them
from a Portuguese or Dutch predecessor, who had left his own mark upon
them in the shape of a previous modification of the spelling in
accordance with his national taste. I have thought it better in all
cases to leave the names in the text in their original form (and so
also with a few misspelt English and Indian words), merely explaining
in a note those about which there might be some doubt, thus retaining
the quaint effect.




 APPENDIX III.
 PRIVATE TRADING BY THE COMPANY’S SERVANTS.

In the early days of the East India Company, its relations with its
_employés_ were of a kind which seems very strange to modern ideas.
Those in its service were expected to work at starvation wages, a
usage which dated probably from the time when the Company (like others
of its kind) was a mere association of adventurers for purposes of
trade, each man investing what he could spare in the general fund, and
receiving in return board and lodging and a small sum as pocket-money,
until, on the termination of the adventure, the profits could be
equally divided. Applied to a permanent undertaking, and to men who
had no property to invest, but depended for their livelihood on what
they could earn, this system was certain to break down, and the
natural result was that the Company’s servants made use of the
information they gained in their official capacity to engage in trade
on their own account. The Company looked askance at this, but it was
impossible to prevent private trading so long as a writer was forced
to serve for five years for £10 a-year (about £30 of our money), and
even a full merchant earned only £40 a-year. This
penny-wise-and-pound-foolish policy was, nevertheless, persisted in,
with the natural consequence that while the Company’s servants grew
rich by means of private ventures, the Company’s own trade barely paid
its expenses.




 APPENDIX IV.
 OLD AND NEW GOA AND MODERN GOA.

The Goa of our days is not that known to the visitors of the
seventeenth century. The quarter which they called Old Goa has
disappeared from the earth, and the splendid city of New Goa is the
Old Goa of to-day. Its greatness began to decay with the decline of
the Portuguese power in India, and the removal of the government to
Panjim, nearer the mouth of the river, completed its ruin. Dr Claudius
Buchanan, who visited it in 1808, describes it as a city of churches,
but observes that there were seldom any worshippers besides the
officiating priests. Since his day matters have gone steadily from bad
to worse, and the population, thinned by pestilence and emigration, is
now scarcely that of a small village. Churches and public buildings
alike have fallen into decay, and the ruins are fast being overspread
by the growth of tropical vegetation. Panjim, the “New Goa” of to-day,
is about three miles from the mouth of the river, and enjoys the small
remains of the state and commerce which once made Goa the chief city
of the Indies.




 APPENDIX V.
 THE FRENCH AT SAN THOMÉ.

The seizure and occupation of San Thomé by the French after their
departure from Trincomalee is a historical fact. The place, which is
also called Mailapur or Meliapore (the peacock city), is now a mere
suburb of Madras. Its earlier vicissitudes are detailed in the text.
The French took possession of it in 1672, and after sustaining a two
years’ blockade, enforced both by land and sea, marched out with the
honours of war in 1674. Accounts vary somewhat as to the exact dates
and other details connected with this siege. I have followed Fryer’s
narrative, as being that of a contemporary. The first head of the
expedition was Caron, who was drowned in a shipwreck after being
summoned back to France to give an account of himself. The next leader
whose name has been preserved is François Martin, the founder of
Pondichery, but as Fryer speaks of a “viceroy,” to whom the credit of
the long and skilful defence was due, I have ventured to introduce the
character of the Marquis de Tourvel. In any case, the incidents
(including that of the stratagem by which the Dutch fleet was
temporarily driven away) are real, the persons only fictitious. The
history of this little band of Frenchmen, as also their subsequent
adventures at Pondichery, reads like a romance.




 APPENDIX VI.
 THE HISTORICAL BASIS OF THIS STORY.

In writing ‘In Furthest Ind,’ my object has not been so much to
trace the course of any definite series of events, as to give a
general idea of the fortunes and misfortunes likely to fall to the lot
of an Englishman in the East during the earlier stages of what it is
correct to call the Expansion of England. Hence I have left it to
historians to follow the precise details of the relations which
existed between the English at Surat and Bombay, Sivaji, and the
government of Aurangzib, and have avoided as far as possible
introducing real personages into the story. This naturally involves a
fictitious element in the events in which the characters take part,
although the incidents are in the main true in their origin, if not in
their arrangement. Thus, the account of the dealings between Sivaji
and the French is true, but the personal adventures of the Vicomte de
Galampré are fictitious, and the two occasions on which Sivaji
appears are not historical, although they may be paralleled many times
over from his life. The history of the French at San Thomé has been
fully dealt with in a preceding note. Although Mr Carlyon’s escape
from the _Auto da Fé_ is fictitious, yet many of its details are
taken from an actual case. In a word, my effort has been rather to
present a picture than to construct a history, selecting from the mass
of available material such data as might best contribute to the result
in view.

 THE END.




 ENDNOTES.

[1] _servant_] Suitor.

[2] _Bristow_] Bristol.

[3] _the post of writer_] Afterwards called cadet.

[4] _laced waistcoat_] Jacket-bodice.

[5] _harness_] Armour.

[6] _escrotore_] Escritoire.

[7] _the book_] Evidently Lord Broghill’s ‘Parthenissa.’

[8] _January 1663-64_] 1664 by our reckoning.

[9] _with the family_] Household.

[10] _original_] Origin.

[11] _letters of mart_] It is possible that this spelling may give a
clue to the generally disputed origin of this word.

[12] _fusees_] Muskets.

[13] _Gamboa_] Gambia.

[14] _Bon Esperanzo_] Properly spelt Boa Esperança, the Cape of Good
Hope.

[15] _polite_] Civilised.

[16] _Cangoxima_] Kagoshima.

[17] _Ceilon_] Ceylon.

[18] _Swally_] Suwali.

[19] See Appendix for the races of India.

[20] _customers_] Custom-house officers.

[21] _go-downs_] Sheds or warehouses.

[22] _Dhilly_] Delhi. See Appendix for spelling of proper names.

[23] _Auren Zeeb_] Aurangzib.

[24] _Morattys_] Mahrattas.

[25] _Moruchtraw_] Maharashtra.

[26] _Seva Gi_] Sivaji.

[27] _Visiapour_] Now Bijapur.

[28] _Bounceloe_] Now spelt Shahji Bonsla.

[29] _Caun_] Khan.

[30] _Duccan and also of Conchon_] The Deccan (or Dakhan) and the
Konkan.

[31] _road_] Raid.

[32] _Lord Malbery_] Marlborough; not the famous duke.

[33] _Bombaim_] Bombay.

[34] _ancient_] Ensign.

[35] _Brachmines_] Brahmins.

[36] _Juddah_] Jeddah.

[37] _plate of China_] Porcelain.

[38] _banyans_] _Bunnias_ or _baniyas_.

[39] _lunch_] This name was given to any slight or impromptu meal.

[40] _thé_] Tea.

[41] _particular_] Peculiar.

[42] _palepuntz_] Punch.

[43] _acquavitæ_] Brandy.

[44] _musters_] Patterns.

[45] _Persian and the Indostan languages_] Apparently Urdu.

[46] _attempted_] Attacked.

[47] _Samba Gi_] Sambhaji.

[48] _succades_] Sweetmeats.

[49] See Appendix on private trading by the Company’s servants.

[50] _caphalay_] Kafila.

[51] _punctilio_] Etiquette; sometimes used to mean personal dignity.

[52] _Loll Duss_] In modern spelling, Lal Das.

[53] _Agoada_] Aqueduct.

[54] _garden-houses_] Country-houses.

[55] _hidolgoos_] Hidalgos.

[56] _causey_] Causeway.

[57] See note on Goa in Appendix.

[58] _worth some thousand pagodoes_] One thousand pagodas = about
£400.

[59] _sacristan_] Probably _sacristy_ is meant.

[60] _Franciscus Xeverius_] Better known as Francis Xavier.

[61] _Paulistins_] Not to be confounded with the Regular Clerks of St
Paul, or Barnabites, who are a distinct Order.

[62] _governor_] Tutor.

[63] _state_] Cloth of estate, canopy.

[64] _ducket_] Ducat.

[65] _jacolatt_] Chocolate.

[66] _peunes_] Properly spelt _peons_.

[67] _Coffrees_] From the Arabic _kafir_, meaning infidel.

[68] _Inquisidors_] The Spanish spelling used at the time.

[69] _crotchet_] Crosslet, little cross.

[70] _Portingale_] Portugal.

[71] _chirurgion_] Surgeon.

[72] _fetiscero_] From the Portuguese _feitiço_ = magic; hence our
word _fetich_.

[73] _antics_] Fools,--as we should say, clowns.

[74] _Aucto de Fie_] Generally spelt _Auto da Fé_.

[75] _cavalieros_] This word probably owes its origin to a confusion
between the Italian _cavaliere_ and the Spanish _caballero_.

[76] _Vexilla Regis prodeunt_] Known to our hymn-books as “The royal
banners forward go.”

[77] _White or Austin Friars_] Augustinians. This is an error on Mr
Carlyon’s part. The White Friars are the Carmelites.

[78] _slops_] Very wide breeches, sometimes called petticoats.

[79] _Hoor! Hoor! Mohawdio!_] The famous Mahratta war-cry, “_Hur! Hur!
Mahadeo!_”

[80] _Stewart_] The contemporary spelling.

[81] _walk and conversation_] Conduct.

[82] _St Thomas_] Really called San Thomé.

[83] _ancient_] Ensign or standard.

[84] _state_] Cloth of estate, canopy.

[85] _nightgown_] Dressing-gown.

[86] See Appendix for the French at San Thomé.

[87] _Gulconda_] The Mohammedan kingdom of Golconda.

[88] _Mechlapatan_] Masulipatam.

[89] _pharmaund_] Firman.

[90] _Indosthans_] Hindus.

[91] _Maderas_] Madras.

[92] _constitution_] Character or temperament.

[93] _a sealed letter_] _Lettre de cachet._

[94] _theorba_] Or theorbo, a kind of large lute.

[95] _offices_] Services.

[96] _the old cardinal_] Richelieu.

[97] _lace-bands_] Apparently cravats.

[98] _sorbet_] Sherbet.

[99] _painted calicut_] Printed calico.

[100] _Amidavat_] Ahmedabad.

[101] _Phoolcherry_] Now Pondichery.

[102] _servant_] Suitor.

[103] _Geminy_] Jumna.

[104] _well enough seen_] Skilled.

[105] _Brodra_] Baroda.

[106] _Rashpoots_] Rajputs.

[107] _Oudyepour_] Udaipur.

[108] _caravan-serawes_] Caravanserais.

[109] _Brachmine_] Brahmin.

[110] _druggerman_] Dragoman.

[111] _metchids or mosqueys_] Masjids or mosques.

[112] _wonder of the world and delight of all beholders_] The Taj
Mahal.

[113] _Shaw Jehaun_] Shah Jehan.

[114] _cistery_] Query, cutchery?

[115] _shash_] Sash.

[116] _ombrahs_] Nobles.

[117] _Swisse_] Switzerland.

[118] _hucca_] Hookah or huqa.

[119] _Ferringhee_] The evolution of this word is curious: Frank,
Frangi, Farangi, Ferringhee. The last form is the incorrect spelling
of that preceding it.

[120] _stop-watch_] Repeater.

[121] _resentiments_] Not _resentments_, but _sentiments_. Compare the
French _ressentiments_.

[122] _Gualleyor and Zauncy_] Gwalior and Jhansi.

[123] _Eusoff_] Yusuf.

[124] _picked_] Peaked.

[125] _mosch_] Mosque.

[126] _consented_] Agreed.

[127] _Row_] Rao.

[128] _Cogia Bux_] In modern spelling, Khoja Baksh.

[129] _Madda Gi_] Madhoji.

[130] _Seta Bye_] Sita Bai.

[131] _hollowed_] The spelling _hollow_ for _halloo_ is still
preserved in the colloquial pronunciation.

[132] _commerce_] Communication.

[133] _Gascoign_] Gascony.

[134] _toys_] This word was then equivalent to _curiosities_.

[135] _portraits in little_] Miniatures.

[136] _fellow_] Companion.

[137] _megrims_] Headache.

[138] _right of propriety_] Proprietorship.

[139] _Lady Barbary_] Barbara.

[140] _felon for the faith’s sake_] _Forçat pour la foi._

[141] _Roan_] Rouen.




 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Indian Historical Series.” The full
series being: _In Furthest Ind_, _Like Another Helen_, and _The Great
Proconsul_.

A letter in Chapter XII contains two words (_Condicons_ and
_Consolacon_) which have a tilde on the second _c_. As this character
isn’t available in the current UTF-8 specification, _c_ is substituted.

Alterations to the text:

Convert footnotes to endnotes.

Fix a few quotation mark pairings.

[Chapter II]

Change “Now _tha_ his majesty was happily returned” to _that_.

[Chapter VI]

“how should it _signifiy_ to us on whose side we fought?” to
_signify_.

[Chapter XX]

“so great was the contrast _beween_ his reverend aspect” to _between_.

[End of text]






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74298 ***