Test Bank For Managerial Accounting 13th Edition by Warren Reeve and Duchac 1285868806 9781285868806

CHAPTER 15(14): FINANCIAL STATEMENT ANALYSIS
Test Bank for Managerial Accounting 13th Edition by Warren Reeve and Duchac
1285868806 9781285868806
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1. Comparable financial statements are designed to compare the financial statements of two or more corporations.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
Bloom’s: Remembering
LEARNING OBJECTIVES: ACCT.WARD.16.17-01 - 17-01
ACCREDITING STANDARDS: ACCT.ACBSP.APC.23 - Financial Statement Analysis
ACCT.AICPA.FN.03 - Measurement
BUSPROG: Analytic
2. In horizontal analysis, the current year is the base year.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
3. On a common-sized income statement, all items are stated as a percent of total assets or equities at year-end.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
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Chapter 15(14): Financial Statement Analysis
4. The analysis of increases and decreases in the amount and percentage of comparative financial statement items is
referred to as horizontal analysis.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
5. A 15% change in sales will result in a 15% change in net income.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
6. A financial statement showing each item on the statement as a percentage of one key item on the statement is
called a common-sized financial statement.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
7. The relationship of each asset item as a percent of total assets is an example of vertical analysis.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
8. Vertical analysis refers to comparing the financial statements of a single company over several years.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
9. In a common-sized income statement, each item is expressed as a percentage of net income.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
10. In the vertical analysis of a balance sheet, the base for current liabilities is total liabilities.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
11. Using vertical analysis of the income statement, a company's net income as a percentage of sales is
15%; therefore, the cost of goods sold as a percentage of sales must be 85%.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
12. In the vertical analysis of an income statement, each item is generally stated as a percentage of total assets.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: False
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
13. Factors that reflect the ability of a business to pay its debts and earn a reasonable amount of income are referred to
as solvency and profitability.
a. True
b. False
ANSWER: True
DIFFICULTY: Easy
BUSPROG: Analytic
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“If we begin to think of defeat, or of providing for our own security,”
he said sternly, to De Castro, “we are lost!—we have nothing to oppose
to this ocean of Moors that you talk of, but the belief that we are
invincible.—Give us only the enthusiasm of our ancestors, and the
glorious field of Ourique will no longer stand unrivalled in the
imperishable page of history.”
De Castro granted the justice of this reliance upon the omnipotence of
opinion; yet a lurking suspicion of the Moorish Prince Hamet, made him
foresee ultimate disappointment: he pointed out several traits in the
infidel’s conduct, which indicated jealousy of the Christians, and
Sebastian admitting their force, promised to observe him narrowly.
The army now began its march towards Larache, and halted between
Arzile and Alcazar-quiver.—To proceed without a decisive engagement,
was become impossible; for the Xeriff’s force, consisting of sixty
thousand horse and forty thousand foot, had advanced by forced marches
from Morocco into Fez, secured the passage of the Lucos, and suddenly
shewn themselves, encamped in the plains of Alcazar.—Don Sebastian
was for immediately advancing to give them battle; but against this step
Muley Hamet opposed many plausible arguments: he proposed that the
Portuguese should draw nearer to the coast, where, in case of extremity,
they might be received into their ships; by throwing up entrenchments,
they could there bid defiance to any assault, and would be secured from
every species of want, by supplies of ammunition and provisions from
the fleet.
“And for what is this delay proposed, now?”—cried the astonished
Sebastian, “are we to abandon our enterprize even on the threshold? are
we to shrink from the very difficulties we have courted, and fly before an
enemy with whom we have not exchanged a single blow? do you think
we came only to look at your countrymen?—In the name of God, prince,
what coward’s counsel is this?”
Dissembling his rage at the indiscreet anger of the young King,
Hamet coolly replied, that Muley Moloch was now master of all the
fords and passages of the Lucos, from the ocean to the mountains of
Benzeroel, that consequently an attempt to force these would be the
attempt of madmen, since their troops were already fainting with a long
sultry march, and nearly destitute of provisions: by avoiding an
engagement for at least some days, they would give time for the arrival
of King Philip’s promised succours, and might be further re-inforced by
deserters from the usurper Moloch.
Perceiving his aim at last, and transported out of all patience, the
unreflecting Sebastian forgot every thing but indignation: he started from
his seat with a look of fierce defiance, crying out, “away with such
dissembling! Moor, I can read your heart:—you would do without the
aid of the Christians. In a few days, perhaps hours, you expect death to
rid you of your uncle, and give you these kingdoms by some political
trick—then would our treaty, aye and our safety, be left to your honour!
—but thank heaven, my brave Portuguese are not to be thus trifled with!
—we shall march forward; if without you, for ourselves,—for the release
of christian captives—for the sake of the blessed cross; if with you, for
your advantage as well as for our own,—and with a conscientious
resolution to preserve our share in the compact inviolate.
“Prince! we are in sight of the enemy—behold me draw this sword,
which I swear by the virgin mother of Jesus, never to sheathe till it has
cut my way through yonder host!”
A sublime sterness sat on the brow of the young warrior while he
spoke: in one moment the clashing of swords and the murmur of vows
were heard throughout the assembly; as if electrified with the same fire,
all the knights followed his chivalric example.
Hamet was silent: at length he bowed before the royal seat, saying in
a subdued voice, “light of thy people, thou hast not interpreted my
zealous caution with the usual charity of a Christian: let my actions
speak for me!—I will follow thee unto death.”
“Prove that I have wronged thee, Hamet!” returned Sebastian, with a
relenting smile, “and thou shalt find me more prompt to repair, than I
have been to commit, this injury.”
Muley Hamet bowed submissively again; the clouds of passion and
suspicion then fled from the face of the King, and demanding his
officer’s attention, he proceeded to hear their separate opinions upon the
subject under discussion.
Experienced and inexperienced, now decided on Sebastian’s side;
even De Castro voted for giving battle to the Xeriff. Conduct that would
have been prudent at Arzile, became cowardice at Alcazar: to begin
retreating towards the coast, seemed at this period more hazardous than
to risk an engagement; for in the former case, an enormous army hanging
upon their rear, might harrass their retreat, and at last make an easy prey
of the famished and fatigued soldiers: by the former plan the Portuguese
would preserve a chance of victory, or at least secure to themselves
honourable graves.
Gratified with his council, and pleasingly surprised to find Don
Emanuel urgent for action, Sebastian graciously acknowledged that
pleasure, and paying a just tribute to his rival’s warlike talents, resolved
thenceforth only to remember his services.—He now gave him his hand
with a look so effulgently expressive, that De Castro’s tranquil
countenance became agitated with unexpected pleasure; he bent his knee
to the ground, and ventured to put his lips respectfully to the hand that
had been given him;—Sebastian suffered it to remain awhile in his grasp
—then calling his knights to their posts, hastened out to reconnoitre and
to marshal his troops.
All was now animation in the Portuguese camp; dauntless hearts, hot
with religious zeal, made them eager for engagement: the King went at
night from tent to tent, encouraging his men, and rousing their emulation
by proclaiming his intention of instituting a new order upon that day,
should Heaven bless his arms: to the highest distinction in this novel
institution, even the humblest soldier might aspire, and be enrolled in the
same proud list with his commander. From the private’s quarters he
returned to his own tent, where assembling his officers, he imparted the
magnificent prize destined for their reward:—the crown of Fez!
How does the outward lustre of a crown dazzle all eyes, and blind
them to its thorny lining! ambition, more potent even than love, sees no
defect in its object, but grasps at it with the avidity of a soul certain of
seizing beautitude!—The nobles round King Sebastian looked at each
other for awhile without speaking; then actuated by the same spirit, cast
themselves at his feet in a transport of gratitude; their tumultuous and
lavish protestations infused confidence into their sovereign, whose breast
beat with the certainty of success: dismissing them soon after, he threw
himself upon his palliass, for a few hours repose.
To sleep was impossible: Sebastian counted the night watches with
impatience, and just as morning broke, had the mortification to hear rain
falling heavily upon the roof of his tent: he leaped up, and hurried into
the air.—The dawn was now beginning to glimmer over the extensive
camp of the enemy, but the sky was moist and dark: to commence an
attack under such circumstances would be fruitless; the showers blew
directly in the face of his army, and would render their cannon and
harquebusses, almost useless;—he was therefore forced to command a
suspension of his orders.
After two hours of incessant rain, the clouds dispersed, and the sun
shone out with intense heat:—the King then hastily roused his page
(Diego of Braganza,) whose childish hands trembled while they clasped
the rivets of his master’s vantbrace.
“What! you tremble my little cousin?”—said he, stroaking his fair
hair, and smiling more tenderly than sportively.
“With impatience, Sire, not fear.”—replied the blushing boy.—
Sebastian gave him a hasty embrace; “thou hast the soul of a soldier!” he
cried, “if I fall to-day, may thy race sit on the throne of Portugal.”
“I would rather see a son of your majesty’s seated there:” answered
the intrepid child—“it is not my ambition to be a King; but I wish to
make myself greater than an ordinary King:——I would willingly live
worthily, and die nobly!”
“Thou wilt do both, then, my brave cousin!” exclaimed Sebastian,
“brief or lengthened, thy career will be glorious, for that sentiment
contains a life of magnanimity.”
They were now issuing from the tent: Don Diego ventured to remark
his King’s imprudence in wearing armour of a colour, which being held
almost sacred by the Mahometans, would sharpen their resentment, and
enable them to take a surer note of his person. “I chose it for that very
purpose;” replied the monarch, “not to insult them, indeed, but to be
easier distinguished by friend and foe.—besides, Diego, green is the
colour of hope.”
Sebastian now left his tent, and put his troops in motion. If the genius
of Portugal could be supposed to have beheld them from the heights of
Benzeroel, tears such as immortals shed, might have flowed from her
eyes: the flower of her nobles and of her peasantry, were now gaily
marching to certain death.
For the first time since the foundation of their monarchy, the private
soldiers were stimulated by the prospect of chivalric honour, and their
leaders by the chance of a crown:—following their royal general both as
their King and their benefactor, the glow of virtuous emulation was on
every cheek, and in every heart.
The army, drawn up in three lines, now halted on the plain of Alcazar:
De Castro and Stukeley had the glory of leading the vanguard, which
consisted wholly of volunteers; the Portuguese infantry were in the
center, and the rear under Don Diego De Souza; on the right wing were
the Moorish horse of Muley Hamet, and the squadrons of count Vimiosa;
on the left were the royal standard, the banner of the cross, and the
flower of the Portuguese cavalry; round these, were seen the young
dukes of Barcelos, Contiuho, and D’Aveyro, the counts Villa-real,
Ridondo, and Norogno, the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, and lastly, the
prior of Crato.
Attended by his favorite page, the King was seen with his beaver up,
mounted on a white Arabian, riding along the lines, and animating his
men to the charge. His emerald-green armour, (on which the sun now
sparkled) and the white plume of his helmet, (now lifted by rising winds)
rendered him fatally conspicuous.
Meanwhile the Moors were steadily advancing, with all the pomp of
gaudy banners and magnificent attire: in the midst of a chosen band was
seen the litter of their sick, but intrepid Xeriff.
A hundred thousand armed men, approaching in the form of a
crescent, gradually extending their wings to outstretch and inclose a
handful of Christians, made a formidable appearance: momentarily
checking his horse, Sebastian looked at them with some portion of that
awe which a vast and powerful object excites, but without one throb of
apprehension, he believed himself under the immediate protection of an
approving Providence!
Suddenly the Moorish music began to play, and their troops advanced
with a quicker step: the king of Portugal rode to the left of his little band,
and placing himself before the royal-standard, bade his lords remember
that they fought for a crown. “I, for a heavenly one, and for Gonsalva!”
he whispered to himself, hastily darting his eye athwart the mingled
banners of the cross, and of Portugal.
The two armies were now so near each other, that the Portuguese
could distinctly see the Xeriff assisted from his litter to a horse; age and
sickness had enfeebled his body, but his energetic soul was yet
unimpaired. In the act of haranguing his men, he appeared slowly riding
through the lines, with flowing robes, and a long white beard, which
gave him a majestic air: Sebastian pitied his infirmities, and beheld his
grey locks with reverence; he commanded his followers to spare, and to
respect Muley Moloch, should he fall into their hands, and then he gave
the signal for battle.
A general discharge of artillery began the action: the Portuguese horse
charged with impetuosity, their young King, like a destroying angel,
leading them on: his terrible looks, and still more terrible arm, scattered
the infidels on every side. Stukeley and De Castro’s track resembled the
path of lightning; for by the blue gloom of their steely armour they were
distinguished afar off, flaming through the dark ranks of the enemy.
The Moors assaulted with all the fury of religious hate, and all the fire
of chivalry, gave way in every direction; their nobles fell in heaps under
the arrows, the swords, and the artillery, of the christians: frantic with
despair, Muley Moloch exerted the remaining spark of life in an attempt
to rally them; he spurred his horse, and brandishing a massy scymitar,
aimed a blow at Don Antonio of Crato: that effort was his last; he fell
dead upon the field.
His body-guard with difficulty rescued their master’s corpse from the
Portuguese, and conveyed it to the litter, where his death was concealed
from the army; but the hoisting of a particular pendent over the litter, by
one of his ministers, who had secretly corresponded with the Xeriff
Hamet, gave the signal so long waited for by that perfidious wretch. He
had hitherto hung back in the action; now, he ordered his troops to turn
their arms upon their allies.
At this command, the left wing of the Moorish horse wheeled round,
and took the Christians in flank; a dreadful carnage ensued: the brave
Portuguese amazed, bewildered, not knowing who were or were not their
enemies, fought in darkness; even their German and Castillian auxiliaries
shared the fate of the treacherous infidels, for they now dealt the strokes
of death without discrimination: the presence of their king all hacked and
bleeding, only increased their consternation.
At this critical juncture, Stukeley appeared; waving his fiery sword as
a call for them to rally, and aim at conquest still, he broke through the
squadrons of Muley Hamet, like some tremendous comet that traverses
the wilds of æther, scattering terror and dismay over nations. He rushed
towards the traitor: Hamet read destruction in the deadly eyes of the
Englishman, and took to flight; Stukeley followed; his indignant threats
sounded through the field: gaining upon the Xeriff, he was aiming a
mortal blow at him, when the affrighted wretch threw himself into a
rivulet which crossed their path, and borne down by the weight of his
robes and armour, perished ingloriously. Stukeley looked at him for a
moment with scornful disappointment, then turned towards the fight.
But he was now surrounded by a host of assailants: their merciless
weapons fell on his head, his shoulders, his limbs; he turned from side to
side, alternately parrying and receiving wounds. Fighting his way to a
ruined watch tower, he placed his back against it, and defended himself
with determined intrepidity; till at length, bleeding at every pore, and
exhausted with exertion, his resistance became fainter and fainter. He
staggered and sunk down. The dying hero cast his eyes around as if in
search of his friend, the next moment they closed for ever. Thus fell the
gallant Sir Thomas Stukeley, in the bloom of manhood, in a foreign land!
Meanwhile, Don Sebastian was attempting to regain the advantage of
the day: a short contest convinced him that it was no longer for victory,
but for safety, they must fight; of all his troops, there remained only a
remnant, but he bravely resolved rather to die than to desert them.
Antonio, and the dukes of Barcelos and Aveyro, were taken prisoners;
De Castro was sinking under many wounds: the King himself was
disabled in one shoulder by a musquet shot, and was besides smarting
with sword-cuts: two horses had already been killed under him, and after
fighting some time on foot, one of his officers had now mounted him
upon a third.
Again, he charged the enemy with a few gallant troops; again his
powerful arm scattered the Moors like dust before a mighty wind.
Streaming with blood, De Castro followed his glorious path. That
faithful Noble (who had appeared throughout the whole of the battle, to
think only of his sovereign’s honour, his sovereign’s safety) now
interposed his body between him and destruction: the battle-axe of an
infidel was raised to fall on the unarmed head of Sebastian, when Don
Emanuel rushed forward, and sprung on the Moor; dashing down his
lifted weapon, he grasped his body and grappled with him till they both
fell: Sebastian threw himself off his horse, and valiantly defended him;
but the Moors pouring in at every side, like so many torrents, forcibly
swept the brave friends asunder, and De Castro was taken.
The fight now turned into a slaughter: the Germans and Castillians
were all cut in pieces, the knights and nobles lay in heaps over the plain,
and among the vast army of Moors, but a solitary Portuguese was here
and there to be seen vainly combatting for life.
Retreating towards the river, (allured by a distant figure like Sir
Thomas Stukeley’s) Sebastian met his standard-bearer with the colours
wrapped round his body; animated with the remembrance of Donna
Gonsalva, the King exclaimed, “Brave Brito! let us die upon these.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when a body of infidels rushed tumultuously
towards them; Sebastian fought with the desperation of love; De Brito
and the colours were taken and re-taken repeatedly; but alas! the strength
of the former, was exhausted, and his single arm could no longer encircle
a faithful servant with protection. De Brito more solicitous to save his
king than to obey him, contested at last but faintly, and suffered himself
to be surrounded.
The Moors, clamourous in disputing the honour of having gained the
royal-standard, hurried off their prisoner, regardless of a solitary
individual covered with dust and blood, evidently on the point of sinking
amongst the slain.
Fortunately for Sebastian, these accidental circumstances, together
with the loss of his coronetted helmet and his horse, concealed him from
suspicion: he remained standing where they had left him, supporting
himself with difficulty upon the fragment of his sword. His strength now
ebbed apace: the blood pouring from a large cut on his head, and oozing
through the scarf with which his arm was bound, sickened and enfeebled
him; his very thoughts partook of the mortal languor creeping over all his
senses: a confusion of images, of Gonsalva, of Stukeley, of his page
Diego, swam through his brain; he staggered a few paces, fell, and
breathed no more!
CHAP. IV.
A the battle of Alcazar, there remained but fifty of the Portuguese
troops alive in Africa: most of these were prisoners to the Moors, and the
remainder gaining with difficulty the christian fortresses, at length
escaped homewards. The Moors in return lost above one-fifth of their
gigantic army, but the pillage of the christian camp, (filled with all the
riches of the East and West,) amply atoned, in their opinion, for such a
loss.
This memorable battle lasted from morning till long after mid-day,
and the sacking of the field of fight, continued till the next morning’s
dawn.
While the infidels were thus employed, a benevolent dervise, whose
piety was his authority and his protection, came to seek for such
christians as might yet remain capable of receiving assistance: on the
bank of the Lucos, among a heap of tall Lentiscos, he caught a gleam of
light as if the moon-beams fell upon arms: the dervise stooped, and
pushing away the shrubs, applied his lanthorn to the object. It was the
figure of a young man, in armour, which bore marks of heavy and
repeated blows; over his forehead curled a profusion of hair steeped in
blood; the white and polished brow was trenched with a gaping wound,
and the countenance lovely in death, was yet embellished by a look of
youthful sweetness, which melted the good Mahometan’s heart; he knelt
by the body, and gently raising it, dropped balsam upon the wounds; he
then poured a cordial into the lips.
Presently he thought the brows were contracted with returning
sensation: animated by this, he cautiously unfastened the knight’s
cuirass, and opened the silk shirt beneath it; under this he saw the picture
of a woman, which carefully putting aside, he exclaimed, “alas! poor
youth, here is one, doubtless, that will sorely lament thee!” As he spoke
he gently rubbed an aromatic liquid upon the Christian’s chest; the
experiment succeeded; by degrees the motion of the heart was apparent
—it increased—the body began to glow—and at last the stranger visibly
breathed.
Many minutes elapsed ere the benevolent mussulman saw the object
of his anxiety unclose his eyes; when he did so, he knew not that in
succouring a desolate stranger, he was bringing back to life the king of
Portugal, that foe to Mahomet.
Sebastian felt as if in a dream, but the last feeling to which he had
been conscious when he fell, was now the first he was sensible of: he
thought himself still pressing towards the river in search of Stukeley, and
impressed with that idea, uttered his name, and made an effort to rise.
Too feeble for exertion of any kind, he fell back upon the breast of the
dervise, who in bad Portuguese assured him that he was in safety.
The unfortunate monarch bowed his head with a mournful smile of
bitter recollection, without speaking. Meanwhile a servant attending the
dervise, formed a litter of oak-branches, covering it with some of these
soft, high grasses, which grow abundantly throughout Barbary, and
placing Sebastian upon it, assisted his master in bearing him to their
dwelling.
This was a retired cave formed by nature’s hand in a rock almost
wholly overgrown with flowering shrubs; the entrance was shaded by
lofty sycamores, and above it was heard the cooling sound of waters
issuing from numerous springs.
Tranquillity, the tranquillity of perfect solitude, surrounded this
habitation; Sebastian found himself conveyed through one rocky
apartment, into an interior cell where he was laid upon a mattrass, and
having some weak cordial given to him, left to repose: his enfeebled
powers overcome with this simple nourishment, soon sunk into the
blessed oblivion of sleep.
The dervise now and then came to watch his slumbers, but staid not to
disturb them: whenever his patient awaked, he administered to him small
portions of Tourkia bread melted in wine, (which was easily swallowed
thus dissolved) and gently replacing his head upon the cushion of the
mattrass, watched to see him sink again into his medicinal slumber.
The sun was at its meridian height the next day, when the king of
Portugal fully awoke: the good mussulman sat by his bed-side. “How
dost thou feel, my son?” he asked with an air of compassion.
Sebastian drew a sigh from the very depths of his heart. “As one,” he
said, after a long pause; “as one deprived of all that makes life precious.
Tell me, father, what have become of the Christians? I have yet one
Portuguese in Africa?”
“Alas, my son!” replied the dervise, “they are all slain or taken
captives; but the great Muley Moloch is fallen—the Xeriffs who fought
against him, are also dead; and now his brother reigns in Morocco.”
Sebastian answered by a heavy groan, and threw himself back upon
his mattrass: the slaughter of his people, pierced him with unutterable
grief; though the consciousness of pious motives, and the certainty that
treachery alone had produced defeat, served to reconcile him to himself.
Oppressed with apprehensions for the fate of Stukeley, and overcome
with the remembrance of many of his followers whom he had loved, and
had seen fall, the unhappy King uttered such deep and doleful groans,
that the dervise believing him concerned at the prospect of slavery, bade
him be of good cheer, and rest assured that he was still free.
“You are not fallen into the hands of a master, but of a friend,” said
the aged man, “I will but detain you, Sir Knight, till I have healed your
wounds, and then, with the blessing of our holy prophet, we will journey
together to the castle of Tangier: it will not be the first time that
Abensallah has conducted an unhappy christian to his countrymen.”
“And art thou a Mahometan?” exclaimed Sebastian, half raising
himself with surprise, “how is it that thou breathest the very spirit of our
benevolent faith?”
“The same God which spake through the lips of thy Sidie Messika,”
replied the dervise, “inspires the hearts of all good men: besides, we
venerate thy prophet’s moral laws, though Mahomet, a greater prophet
than he, arose to outshine his brightness, as he had before outshone that
of Moses. We are not so unlike in our faith, young soldier, but we might
live in brotherhood on the earth. Would to God! that thy king, Sebastian,
had studied his prophet’s laws more, and his spiritual superior’s less!”
“Hold, Moor!” cried the King, “I must not hear you impeach the
authority of the representative of St. Peter.”
“Ah, my son!” returned the old man, shaking his grey locks, “dost
thou not remember, that when this Peter struck off the ear of Malchus,
though in defence of his Lord’s sacred person, thy prophet rebuked his
zeal, bidding him put up the sword! How, then, dare the pontiff of Rome
turn his sheep-hook into a weapon of offence?”
Struck with the force of this remark, which he was not prepared to
answer, and disdaining to parry it, by retorting the bloody intolerance of
Mahometanism, Sebastian was silent.
The dervise continued: “But let us not talk of our different creeds at
this period; thou art sick and weak, and I should think of thy suffering
body.”
The good man then dressed his companion’s wounds afresh, and
spread before him palm leaves filled with fruit, together with a cordial
drink and some Pharouk bread: by moderately partaking of these, the
King was so refreshed, that he found himself able to rise, and walk up
and down the cell. As he walked, he conversed courteously with
Abensallah, though his discourse was mingled with many sighs, and he
frequently lost himself in other thoughts.
The dervise noted his dejected looks with benevolent curiosity. “Thou
hast lost, I fear, some dear kinsman in this fatal battle—some brother, or
father, perhaps; and thy young heart not yet enured to sorrow.”—
“O, dervise!” exclaimed Sebastian, bursting into an agony of grief,
“every living soul in the Christian army were to me like fathers and
brothers. My countrymen, my brave countrymen! when you marched on
so gallantly, could I have foreseen that I was leading you to——,” he
stopped, then suddenly actuated by one of his rash impulses, abruptly
added—“Abensallah, you see before you, Sebastian of Portugal.”
The dervise prostrated himself at his feet, “Young monarch, I bow to
the lord’s anointed! thy misfortunes are thy security. Let the conduct of
Abensallah teach thee hereafter to believe that there may be charity
among mussulmen.”
Inexpressibly affected, the King motioned for him to rise,
“Abensallah,” he said, squeezing his hand between both his, “Africa has
already taught me a lesson I shall never forget: but I did not wage war
against your prince from a false notion that he ruled over miscreants. I
was actuated by zeal for that religion which, by limiting the prerogative
of kings and the obedience of subjects, bestows equal blessings upon
both. I would have conquered Africa to have freed her people from
tyrannical rulers and tyrannical errors, to have afforded them
opportunities of understanding our holy faith; not to have established a
new despotism, and swayed with the iron mace of persecution—these
ardent hopes are over; you see me here a fugitive, but with God’s leave, a
King still.”
As Sebastian spoke the last words, a noble imperiousness sat on his
youthful brow, his heart swelled with it, but quickly sunk again at
recollection of his companions in arms.
Anxious to learn the fate of Stukeley, he besought the dervise to assist
him in ascertaining whether he were dead, or captive; by searching the
field of battle he hoped to arrive at some certainty. Abensallah in vain
remonstrated against this hazardous enterprize, but no arguments availed
with the still imprudent Sebastian; he was therefore reluctantly induced
to propose their going on the night of the ensuing day, when all the
Moors would be engaged in the celebration of one of their feasts, and the
Portuguese monarch might perhaps pass unnoticed in the dress of a
servant.
During the remainder of the day, Sebastian carefully attended to all
the prescriptions of the dervise, he went soon to rest, and at break of day
rose to breathe the air in safety at the mouth of the cave.
But two short days before, how differently had the king of Portugal
beheld morning dawn!—then at the head of a gallant army, surrounded
by zealous friends, strong in youth, health, and hope: now, a solitary
fugitive, like some desolate wretch escaped from ship-wreck or an earth-
quake, sunk in despondency, and reduced to infantine feebleness.
As the light spread over the distant plain of Alcazar, and the grey
mists rose, from the stream of the Lucos, he could not refrain from
shedding some tears, they were sacred to the sorrows of all who had lost
friends on that luckless field: his softened heart then turned fondly to the
image of Gonsalva, a treasure which yet remained to comfort him under
affliction. Its heavenly beauty, the dewy smile which sat upon the lips,
the tearful tenderness of the eyes to which a skilful painter had given all
the effect of sadness, renovated his fainting spirit; he kissed it repeatedly,
exclaiming, “At sight of thee, will not all this be forgotten?”
The appearance of the dervise, checked this lover-like weakness, he
concealed his picture, and advanced to meet him.
They proceeded together along a narrow valley, formed by the rocks
near the cavern, where frequently resting awhile, they breathed the
refreshing air of the trees, and gently returned homeward.
Whenever Abensallah and his servant went to their devotions in the
mosque of a neighbouring village, he fastened the entrance of his
dwelling, to prevent the intrusion of ill-intentioned persons: he now left
his Christian guest, with many intreaties that he would recruit his
strength with frequent nourishment, and continue to inhale the fumes of
Tauz Argent, a fragrant weed which in those days was esteemed, when
burned, sovereign for inward weakness.
Left a whole day alone, the King had leisure to revolve over the
extraordinary revolution of his fate: the uprightness of his intentions (for
it must be remembered that he measured his conduct by the rules of the
church of Rome) seemed to warrant him in believing, that had not the
treachery of Hamet interposed, his arms must have been successful, and
half Africa rescued from its tyrants: he did not therefore account himself
suffering under the wrath of Heaven, confident of whose favor he was
again ready to risk his crown and his life if required. The kindness of the
dervise appeared little less than a miracle worked for his preservation,
and he fondly trusted therefore, that his present misfortunes were but
passing trials.
Of the possibility of being betrayed by Abensallah he never once
thought, convinced that the man who has performed one act of solid
benevolence is incapable of being tempted by any reward to an act of
baseness.
As returning strength and calmer reflection continued to banish the
gloomy impressions under which he had first entered Abensallah’s cave,
his spirit rose with his hopes; he felt as if he could hazard unheard-of
perils for the sake of regaining Portugal, and ransoming his captive
soldiers. Fain would the sanguine monarch have persuaded himself that
most of his troops had escaped to the sea-coast; but amongst these he
could not hope to find Stukeley.—Stukeley, who had sworn to follow
him either into slavery or death!—
“And my poor little cousin!” he exclaimed aloud, “What is become of
him?—Ah noble boy, thou hast gained thy wish-perhaps!—yet surely
these barbarians would not kill a child!”—he sighed profoundly as he
spoke, for his heavy heart denied the confidence of his words.
Racked with fearful impatience, to him the day seemed insufferably
long: his devotions were merely short ejaculations breathed over a plain
cross of the order of Christus, which he had worn under his cuirass, yet
never at the foot of the golden crucifix in the church of his ancestors, and
surrounded by all the religious in Portugal, had he prayed with such
warmth or sincerity.
Abensallah did not appear to interrupt his meditations, till night was
begun: cautiously entering, he crossed the first chamber, and advancing
to the interior cell, saw with satisfaction that his guest was safe. “Alla be
praised!” he exclaimed, “I had fears for thee my son; for the robbers of
the mountains sometimes plunder even the dwellings of poor solitaries.
—We may now venture forth; every one is enjoying the last hours of
their feast, and we are, sure to pass unseen.”
Sebastian gratefully thanked him, and taking off the coarse vest and
cloak with which the dervise had replaced his uneasy coat of mail,
exchanged them for the still meaner attire of Ismael the servant. At the
mouth of the valley he saw a mule tied to a tree, which Abensallah had
provided for him to ride; this humane attention touched the King; he
was, indeed, ill able to walk far, but it cost him an effort to accept such
accommodation, when the venerable man had no other support than his
staff.
It may truly be said, that at the period which brought him to the
knowledge of Abensallah, Sebastian first tasted the sweet bitterness of
obligation.—Gratitude is a sentiment unknown to Kings; for having all
things in their power, they learn to believe that they have a right to
command all things. Sebastian, now stripped of that power, began to feel
the original equality of man, and found his heart warmed by a perception
of pure benevolence, hitherto unknown: from this perception flowed
nobler notions of human nature in general, which made him welcome his
new emotion of gratitude, not only as honorable but delightful.
The moon shone cloudless above the rocks and rivulets which lay
between the cave and Alcazar; brightening the tops of the high palms,
while the ground beneath their branches was thrown into deep shadow.
Some fortresses, (visible from afar,) gave an air of warlike severity to the
scene. Sebastian proceeded in silence, for his thoughts were now busied
with mournful anticipations: Abensallah spoke not, and nothing
disturbed the universal stillness but remote bursts of rejoicing from the
Moorish villages.
As they moved among steep and thickly-wooded hills, a new and
horrid sound made the King pause, and look enquiringly at the dervise:
“That comes from amidst the unburied slain;” Abensallah faulteringly
observed—“It is the howling of hyenas and tygers.” While speaking, he
took a small harquebuss from under his garment, and prepared to load it.
For the first time in his life Sebastian’s cheek was completely
blanched and his nerves shaken; the ghastly image those words had
raised, momentarily unmanned him, but recovering, by a violent effort,
he quickened the pace of his mule, and came direct upon the plain of
Alcazar.
The moon shining above the arms and armour of the dead, covered
them with a sheet of light: Sebastian hastily put his hand to his eyes, and
remained a few moments without courage to look again; but at the
explosion of Abensallah’s harquebuss, he raised his head and beheld the
beasts of prey which that sound had alarmed, hurrying away, with
backward glare from their horrid banquet.
The dervise’s harquebuss was re-loaded and again fired, till every
savage animal had disappeared; he then assisted his shuddering
companion to dismount, and having fastened the mule to a tree,
supported him across the plain.
Their steps were soon impeded by scattered groups of horses and
riders, that had evidently perished in flight: these groups become more
frequent, till at length the ground was no where visible.
As Sebastian knelt down among these perishing bodies, his senses
were nearly overcome with their noisome exhalations and ghastly
appearance: some of them were half devoured by the wolves, and every
trace of the divine image fearfully effaced: except by their shields and
the caparisons of their horses, he could not have known his most intimate
associates.
Grief and horror become now too strong for outward expression;
Sebastian neither spoke nor sighed, but moved from heap to heap with
fixed eyes and a wan cheek: sometimes he forgot his errand, and
remained gazing on a confusion of bodies, banners, and arms, till the
voice of the dervise recalled him. “This is a lesson for Kings!”—said
Abensallah;—Sebastian shuddered, and at that moment felt as if his
single hand had murdered every victim before him: his countenance
expressed this sentiment so strongly, that the dervise sought to change
the current of his feelings by suggesting, that his friend might have
escaped, since they had not yet found his corpse.—Revived by this
suggestion, the unfortunate monarch rallied his scattered spirits and
proceeded in his painful task.
Advancing a little onward, he stumbled against the venerable bodies
of the bishops of Coimbra and Porto, lying together, embracing the staff
of a standard, which had belonged to the holy banner: a few paces
beyond these, among a heap of swarthy moors,
“Like some white poppy sunk upon the plain,
Whose heavy head was overcharged with rain,”
lay his page, Diego. The noble boy had been killed at the moment his
master’s Arabian was shot, and now lay stretched out beneath it.
At this piteous sight Sebastian’s heart was wrung with an excess of
regret; he burst vehemently into tears, and bending to the fair body as he
raised it, repeatedly kissed the half-closed eyes: their conversation on the
morning of the battle was present to him again.—Vain prophesy! here
was its fulfilment!—
Overcome with this recollection, and with the thought of Diego’s
parents, Sebastian staggered as he arose, and was forced to catch at the
dervise for support; another shock awaited him; his eye fell on the
mangled body of Count Vimiosa: his limbs now shook violently, and the
idea of Donna Gonsalva’s grief, displaced every other image. Shocked
by his looks, the dervise caught his arm and hurried him away.
Insensible to any outward sensation, the King suffered himself to be
led along, till suddenly starting from his stupor, he found that they were
many paces from the slain. Abensallah would not hear of returning, “We
must pass three nights there instead of one,” said he, “before we can
examine half that woeful field.—Let us return then, my son, trusting that
the same merciful providence which succoured thee, has preserved thy
friend. Sorrow and fatigue overcome thee—lean on my shoulder—if we
can but reach yonder tower, its walls will shelter us.”
Without answering, Sebastian turned his head back and fixed an
earnest look upon the wide scene of slaughter behind them: fire kindled
on his cheek, and in his eyes:—it suddenly blazed out.—“Accursed
beyond hope of mercy,” he cried, “is the soul of him whose treachery
caused all these to perish! from this plain their blood will cry aloud for
vengeance, even at the last dreadful day!”
Exhausted with this momentary transport, the enfeebled monarch
suffered his head to fall against the shoulder of Abensallah, who seized
the opportunity of drawing him towards a resting place. The watch-tower
in ruins, and shaded by high cypress trees, stood dark and noiseless; as
they approached it, the sound of their steps alarmed some goats that had
lain down there, and they bounded away: in their flight they rolled along
a broken helmet, which Sebastian immediately recognized; breaking
from Abensallah, he flew to an object under the tower, and beheld the
corpse of Stukeley.—Throwing himself on the body and clasping it in his
arms, he exclaimed, “O gallant Stukeley, and art thou too, fallen!”
The accidental circumstance of having perished alone, removed from
the contagion of other bodies, and sheltered from hot winds by the tower
and the trees, had preserved the chivalric Englishman from any change:
his features were indeed paler than when in life, but the same character
of wild sublimity was impressed on them. It seemed as if the soul, in
quitting its mortal habitation had left there the eternal impress of its own
greatness.
The armour of Stukeley was completely rusted with blood, by his side
lay a lance shivered to pieces, and his hand still grasped a broken battle-
axe.
Abensallah lifted up the helmet his companion had dropped, and saw
that it was beat in upon the top, as if with repeated blows of a mace: he
gently replaced it on the ground.
Meanwhile Sebastian hung over the remains of his friend in an agony
of blasted hopes, bitter retrospections, and unavailing regrets: it was long
ere he could command this tide of grief; but recovering by degrees, he
rose with a calmer air, and besought the dervise to lend his aid in
committing the honored clay to earth.
Without hesitation the charitable Mahometan consented to carry the
slaughtered warrior to his own dwelling, and there see him peacefully
buried.
“Moor!” exclaimed the young King, with passionate gratitude,
“Should I live to regain my kingdom, and with it my African
possessions, your countrymen will owe to you blessings and privileges
hitherto unknown.”
Abensallah called on Allah to witness this promise, then hastened
away to bring the mule.
When Sebastian was left alone, he threw himself along the ground by
Stukeley’s body, and remained stedfastly looking on it: the well-known
face, the still ruin, the melancholy midnight, and the destructive plain
before him, together with the mournful sound of a neighbouring rivulet,
deepened the desolate sadness of that moment: he fastened his lips on the
chilling hand of his unconscious friend, while the hollow echo of his
own sighs rung through the neighbouring chambers.
Abensallah found him in the same mournful attitude. Having assisted
each other in placing Stukeley’s corse on the mule, they proceeded
slowly, by a longer though less toilsome way than they had come, to the
rocks.
When they reached the cave, Sebastian was so sick from the fretting
of his wounds, that he could with difficulty gain its entrance: Ismael met
them, and lifted their lamented burthen into the second chamber. There
the king watched it for the remaining hours, while Ismael and the dervise
were digging the last bed of the hero.
Two hours after day light the grave was finished, Stukeley was buried
with his sword and spurs, as the peculiar badges of knighthood, which
was supposed swift to succour and strong to avenge; his body was
wrapped in a coarse shroud of Moorish cloth, but his head was
uncovered; the thick glossy hair gave beauty still to the now marble
features:—Sebastian thought of the time when he had hoped to have
decorated that majestic head with a crown.
When the grave was closed, he placed upon it a rude cross of wood
which he had shaped during the night, and kneeling down by it
pronounced a prayer for the gallant soul. Abensallah and Ismael moved
away.
Rising from his knees, the young King attentively surveyed the place,
that he might remember it at a future day; it was particularized by a few
marks not easily forgotten: the place itself was a narrow recess turning
out of the valley; it was half encircled by perpendicular heights of
stupendous steepness, the sides of which were only clothed with mosses,
and at their feet flowed an inconsiderable rivulet; towards the lower end
grew a cluster of locust trees, between which and the mountain rose
Stukeley’s grave.—So concealed, it was not likely that any human eye
would ever discover or disturb the sacred cross.
Somewhat soothed by this thought, and the consciousness of having
performed the last duties to a faithful friend, Sebastian rejoined the
dervise with less emotion. “We must now dismiss painful recollections,”
said the worthy Abensallah, “let us think of nothing, my son, but your
perfect recovery and your safe conveyance from Africa.”
“Ah father,” exclaimed Sebastian, “you speak like a man without
hopes and without regrets!—Your holy life, exempt from particular
affections or selfish wishes, places you beyond the reach of that grief
which renders it impossible for me to dismiss painful recollections.”
“I am not, therefore, free from sorrow,” replied the dervise, “heedless
youth! I do mourn—but it is for human nature in general: alas, I mourn
more for its frailties than for its miseries.”
“True—true—” repeated Sebastian, smiting his breast—“you say
right, Abensallah; had we no errors we should have but few sufferings.”
Our dervise, more solicitous to impress humane sentiments than eager
to propagate peculiar tenets, seized this opportunity of discoursing with
much wisdom upon the duties of a sovereign: his companion listened
with attention and replied with frankness.
He detailed with simplicity some of his own plans for diffusing
comfort in more equal proportions through all ranks of his subjects, and
noted the salutary reforms already made by him in the Portuguese
government; he described the liberal mode in which he had intended to
conduct his African conquests, mixing these details with so many just
and noble observations, that Abensallah could not help lamenting the
battle of Alcazar.
To have lived under the rule of a King (though Christian,) who would
have ameliorated the Moor’s condition by parental care, and sought to
win them into schools and churches, without prohibiting their mosques,
appeared an object of desire, when compared with the grinding tyranny
of their native Xeriffs, and the brutish ignorance to which their laws
condemned them.
Abensallah continued to hear his royal guest with that complacent
pleasure with which virtuous old age perceives generous principles in
youth; but he had lived long enough in the world to know that youth does
not always act in conformity with its principles, nay, that its most
amiable qualities may be wrought by interested persons into a foundation
for the opposite vices. So blindly devoted to the infallibility of papal
authority, and so abhorrent of any religion which disputed it, Abensallah
rightly doubted whether Sebastian, in the event of complete success,
would have persevered in his system of moderation: intolerant
persecution might have been easily brought to bear the aspect of
religious duty, and that commanded or recommended by a spiritual
superior, would soon have swept away every barrier opposed by a
character naturally candid.
Such reflections as these, by teaching the dervise to consider his
companions’ misfortunes as a necessary discipline, silenced any further
regret; yet Sebastian’s sweet and animated manner had so won upon his
affections, that he could not help exclaiming, “I shall be loth to part with
thee, my son; but we shall meet again in paradise.”
Touched by such kindness, the king pressed Abensallah to accompany
him into Portugal, adding to many arguments the entreaties and promises
of a grateful spirit, conscious of possessing in his own dominions the
means of fulfilling them all.
“Did I live only for myself, answered the dervise, I should perhaps
gladly leave a land where I see nothing but misery, but the more
miserable it is, the more I am called upon to remain. My holy profession,
and the peaceful life I lead, gives me frequent opportunities of assisting
captives to escape, or of conveying intelligence from them to the
Christian fortresses; if the old man of the rocks were gone, what would
become of these poor strangers?—Added to this, I am frequently able to
terminate the bloody feuds of my countrymen—to restore harmony
amongst brethren, and bring back rebellious children to their parents;
these are my treasures, King! which would be poorly exchanged for all
your benefits. I shall however, bless you daily; and I will preserve from
injury the grave of your departed friend.”
At this mention of Stukeley, clouds gathered over the face of
Sebastian; making an effort to dispel them, he hastily uttered some
grateful expressions, and then discoursed upon the means of discovering
such of his subjects as might have survived the battle.
Abensallah promised to make diligent search for such captives, and to
use all his influence for their release.
Sebastian squeezed his hand, exclaiming with generous warmth,
“Slacken not your exertions Abensallah for the meanest of my people; I
stand indebted to every man whom I brought from Portugal for his
liberty. If I part with the whole of my revenue, pawn the jewels of my
crown, make myself a debtor to half the monarchs in Christendom, and
after all, become a beggar throughout my own dominions for
contributions and gifts, I will do it to ransom these gallant sufferers.—
Should I reach Lisbon, my first step will be to raise money and send it
over to the governor of Tangier; from his hands you will then receive
whatever sums may be needful.”
“And should I in my inquiry, find Christians of other nations, perhaps
aged men bowed down with sorrow and toil, languishing to die in their
native land—”
“Ransom them—ransom them!” interrupted Sebastian, tears glistering
in his eyes, “first restore liberty to my Portuguese, for remember,
freedom is a debt I owe them—then take all the superflux, and purchase
with it happiness for others. There are two noble Portuguese, Abensallah,
whom I pray you to search for with a father’s anxiety: one is my dearly-
loved cousin, the prior of Crato, the other Don Emanuel de Castro; he
saved my life at Alcazar. When you find these, shew them this ring, and
say that he who gave it you, is alive, and then I hope, in Portugal.”
“How shall I know these gallant gentlemen?” asked the dervise, “you
may know Don Emanuel de Castro,” replied Sebastian, “from all the
world: though you should behold him in the vilest habit and
employment, yet will such an air of nobleness shine through them, that
you cannot help discovering in him an extraordinary man. He is of larger
proportions than I, his visage oval and full of thought, his complexion
dark olive, his eyes dark grey, somewhat melancholy but very sweet; on
his left hand he has a deep scar, got in the wars of India.
“The prior of Crato is of a different mould: though some years older
than De Castro, he has preserved almost the roundness and floridness of
boyhood; his fair curling hair, light blue eyes, and jovial manner, will
soon point him out: he will rejoice to see this ring!—and so will De
Castro,” added the King, after a pause, “as it is a token of my safety, he
will rejoice, though it was a gift of Gonsalva’s.”
“ ’Tis a fanciful ring for a warrior,” observed the dervise, curiously
eying the bauble, which after the gaudy fashion of those times was
formed by various precious stones into a miniature garland of flowers.
“Oh father!” exclaimed Sebastian, passionately fixing his eyes on it
also, “that ring was given me by the loveliest and most beloved of
women.—I have no other token to send to my friends, or I would not part
with that—it must serve too, as a pledge for the governor of Tangier: she
who gave it knows I would have defended it with my life, and therefore
would not resign it but for the sake of fulfilling a duty.”
Hurried away in thought to the beautiful creature whom this incident
recalled, Sebastian forgot every thing else and sunk into silence: he dwelt
with tender delight upon the unequivocal proof she had given him of her
attachment, which bestowed and avowed ere she could suspect his royal
station, carried with them the charm of disinterestedness. He then
reproached himself for those fantastic jealousies to which he had
sometimes given way, when he saw her dancing with another, and
confessed now, that her apparent insensibility at times, had arisen only
from a little female coquetry, delighting in power, and willing to prove
its extent.
Thus satisfied with her affection, he felt no apprehension of being
coldly received, because he returned not a conqueror; the Moors
themselves attested his gallant conduct in the field, and the brilliant
success of their onset had shewn, that but for the perfidy of Hamet, the
day would have been won by the Christians.—What then had he to fear?
perhaps given up as lost, he would return to revive his Gonsalva’s
widowed heart; she would love him the more for his dangers and
distresses, and that delicate pride which had stifled the expressions of
tenderness to a powerful, splendid monarch, would impel her to the same
monarch, become poor and unfortunate.
Observing his guest absorbed in reflections, which from the
expression of his countenance did not appear unpleasant, the worthy
Abensallah gently removed into his outer chamber, for the purpose of
giving audience to some distressed people who came to implore his
counsel.—Meanwhile Sebastian remained leaning on his rude couch, his
ideas wandering from late sorrow, over the enchanted ground of the more
distant past, till gently wearied, thought glided into dreams, and dreams
at last ended in long and profound sleep.
The wounds of Sebastian and his consequent feebleness now daily
disappeared, and Abensallah was therefore enabled to make longer
excursions from the cave, for the sake of gaining information for his
guest: his habitation, always considered sacred, was not likely to excite
suspicion as a Christian’s hiding place; and even if it did so, the inner
apartment was a secure retreat, being so contrived as to deceive the most
prying observer.—Ismael’s fidelity had been too often tried in similar
circumstances to be doubted now, so that Abensallah left him without
apprehension, to attend Sebastian; whom, however, he knew only as a
Portuguese knight.
On the good dervise’s return from Alcazar-quiver, he brought strange
intelligence.—After the fatal battle, Hamet Abdulcrim, the new emperor,
had strictly enquired for the King of Portugal; he was told that he had
fallen: this assertion having been made by Don Nugno De Mascarenhas,
the King’s chief equerry, he was sent to the field in order that he might
produce a proof of his veracity by finding the King’s body.
In the place he described, was indeed found a corpse in green armour,
much maimed and disfigured: the Portuguese who saw it, confessed it to
be that of their sovereign, and therefore assured Hamet Abdulcrim that
any farther search for Sebastian alive, was useless.—Information of his
nephew’s death was now forwarded to Philip of Spain, (the late Xeriff
having been in alliance with him,) and when Abensallah heard the tale, a
messenger from Madrid was hourly expected to beg the body, and to
procure the release of some Castillian prisoners.
On first hearing this account, Sebastian’s inflammable blood took fire,
for he believed himself wilfully abandoned by his people; but the next
instant made him cool again. It was impossible not to perceive that
Marcarenhas, who had always loved his master, could be only actuated
by the desire of facilitating his concealment in Barbary, should he be
living, and seeking the means of escape; this well-meant deceit had
evidently given a hint to the other persons examined by the Xeriff, and to
it, probably Sebastian might finally owe his preservation.
Neither the King nor the dervise could approve of absolute falsehood;
though they were tempted to think it excusable, under such peculiar
circumstances as the present, flowing as it did from loyal zeal and
patriotic considerations.
Alarmed at the diffusion of such an error throughout Europe,
Sebastian’s anxiety to revisit Portugal became extreme; but as they must
travel on foot, Abensallah assured him that it would be culpable rashness
to commence a long journey before he was completely restored to health;
Arzile, the nearest Christian fortress, lay at some leagues distance, and to
avoid notice, they must take a circuitous route thither, hiding themselves
in the day, and proceeding through the changeable air of night.
Sebastian’s impatient nature was ill-suited to any delay, but necessity
is an imperious mistress; he was therefore obliged to turn his attention
towards acquiring health; and by obliging Abensallah on that point,
facilitate the hour of their departure.
Each night and morning he now tried his strength among the
mountains, in excursions of increasing length, gradually habituating
himself to heat, fatigue, and evening damps: his wounds were at last
thoroughly healed, and even the dervise could no longer refuse assent to
the fresh glow that began to mantle on his cheek.
Sebastian’s eagerness had nobler sources than selfish satisfaction; he
lamented every hour thus wasted at a distance from the kingdom where
all his duties were centred, he wished to ease the hearts of such as
mourned him dead, and above all to commence the promised work of
liberation for his followers: it must be confessed that the prospect of
again beholding Donna Gonsalva, and of restoring her to happiness, gave
additional ardour to those honourable anxieties.
When his importunity finally prevailed on Abensallah to fix the day
for their departure, pleasure sparkled in his eyes; it was the first time
pleasure had appeared there since he had seen the dervise.
“Ah my son!” exclaimed the holy man, “thou must suffer many more
sorrows I fear, ere the spirit that breaks forth in that bright light is finally
quenched.”
“And why should it be quenched?” asked the young monarch.
“Because, replied Abensallah, it is full of an extravagant hope of such
unfading raptures as are only to be found in paradise. ’Tis the very spirit
of youth which falsely believes all it loves, immutable: Time that shews
thee the mutability of every thing, even of human character (for alas!
how insecure sometimes is virtue herself,) will extinguish, or give a new
direction to this erring fire.—Hast thou my son never felt, even in the
midst of what is called felicity, a sort of feebleness in thy power of
enjoyment, which seemed to make happiness mock thy very grasp?
commune with a beloved friend, behold this glorious scene of earth and
heaven, and thou wilt acknowledge, even at the moment of liveliest
emotion, that in all sublunary things we feel the want of some faculty by
which we might enjoy or possess them more intimately: this faculty,
whatever it may be, is doubtless reserved for another state of being. Turn
and plant thy thoughts then on sublimer objects: with views thus
changed, thou wilt no longer hurry impatiently through life, in search of
that blessedness for which our souls are expressly formed, but will
journey calmly on towards the eternal abiding place, where our Creator
treasures up for the faithful, raptures ineffable.”
“I am not unmindful of that glorious eternity, be assured, good
father,” returned the King, “yet I frankly acknowledge, that unless I were
to believe in the permanence of human excellence, long known and long
tried, life would not merely lose its charm, but become hateful to me. In
yon humble grave lies one, who, had he lived, I could have anchored my
soul on. Yes, gallant Stukeley! our knot of love was soon broken, but the
memory of thy noble and endearing qualities can never leave me!”
At this short apostrophe to his friend, Sebastian’s animation
disappeared, and a train of reflections succeeded, well calculated to
amend and to enlarge his heart.
The ensuing night having been fixed on for their journey, Abensallah
and Ismael went in the evening of the present day, to a neighbouring
village, for the purchase of such portable provisions as would be
requisite to take with him: left free to range over the valley, Sebastian’s
steps naturally turned to the resting place of his friend, as he was so soon
to quit it never to return; but it was among his mental promises to have
the honoured dust transferred to Portugal when he should return thither.
The shadows of evening were now deepening, the gloom of the rocks
as he passed along; though the sun had been long set, the air burnt like a
furnace; the ground too was scorching; and the colour of the verdure
being lost in the grey of twilight, contributed with this unrelenting heat,
to give an air of savage sterility to the scene.
Dried up by powerful suns, the mountain stream was known only by
its stony channel; Sebastian hastily crossed it, and pushing through the
matted boughs of the locust trees, a solitary bird shot from amongst
them, and startled him with her piercing cry; long after she was flown, he
stood listening to her fearful echo.
What a spot for the last bed of a hero! yet Stukeley slept in it
undisturbed!
Never before, had death been so impressed on the senses of the young
monarch. The desolation of the place, its now awful stillness, the
deepening twilight, the devouring element by which he was surrounded,
(for he knew not how to deem it air) and the strong contrast to them in
his own animated hopes and busy thoughts, agitated him strangely; he
stood as if transfixed, gazing on the mound of earth, without venturing to
pollute what seemed to him so sacred, even by an embrace.
He was roused from this trance by the sound of voices; one resembled
that of the dervise, and it was calling on Alla for succour: regardless of
personal risque (though unarmed,) Sebastian rushed into the valley, and
soon reached the spot whence these cries proceeded; an aged Moor was
struggling with a band of robbers; though not Abensallah, he could not
refrain from bursting upon the plunderers, and attacking them with the
limb of a tree, which, blown off by some storm, had lain luckily in his
path.
The blows of this unwieldy club, falling with inconceivable rapidity
on every side, soon obliged the robbers to quit their prey, and turn on
their new antagonist; they surrounded him, attacked him fiercely with
their horrid knives, and one of them, succeeding in stabbing him behind,
he dropped from loss of blood.
Enraged at the escape of their first victim, (a rich merchant, who had
been coming to ask the prayers of Abensallah,) the Alarbes, or mountain
dwellers, as they are called, were on the point of wholly sacrificing the
royal Portuguese to their vengeance, when a faint flash of lightning cast
a gleam over his breast, and discovered through the folds of his coarse
galebia, the costly setting of Donna Gonsalva’s picture; the head of the
band immediately seized this precious prize, and soon lost in admiration
of the diamonds all ideas of slaughter; he now ordered the Christian dog
(as he scornfully termed his captive,) to be lifted on a mule, directing one
of the men to bandage his wound, and ride on the same beast.
Totally unconscious of what was doing, having fainted from effusion
of blood, the ill-starred monarch was lifted up, and placed before one of
the Alarbes; the fellow spurred his beast, and followed by the whole
troop, set off on full gallop out of the valley.
CHAP. V.
W Sebastian was again capable of observation, he found himself in
the heart of almost impenetrable mountains, surrounded by savage tribes,
living in tents made of the bark and leaves of the palm-tree. These
wretches seemed to have just as much civilization amongst them as
rendered their vices more hideous, by taking from them the plea of
ignorance: their business was plunder and murder; their pleasures,
drunkenness and debauchery.
The habits of such a people were a constant source of horror and
indignation to Sebastian; of their barbarous jargon indeed he knew
nothing, but the force of these robbers’ passions imparted a detestable
expressiveness to every action of their bodies and features, which made
him but too well comprehend their ferocity and their profligacy.
Hitherto a surly old woman had dressed his wound, and supplied him
with food, and from her he vainly attempted to obtain by signs Donna
Gonsalva’s picture: she either did not or would not understand him.
Maddened by this loss, and desperate of release, ignorant of the place
where he was, and hopeless therefore of escaping, he began to disregard
life: neither the threats nor the violence of the Alarbes prevailed to alter
his resolution of never submitting to the base occupations they assigned
him; he was a monarch still, though deprived of his people and of liberty;
and whether he lived or died, he was resolved to live or die undebased by
submission to miscreants.
The firmness with which he endured all their torments, at first
astonished, and at length exasperated, his brutal captors; they suffered
him to behold the beautiful image of Gonsalva (now robbed of its
setting) polluted by their brutish admiration, but steadily withheld it, in
defiance of his frantic entreaties, his rash attempts to regain it, or his
offer of treasures in exchange.
One day when Sarhamet the chief had exasperated him beyond
controul, by deridingly kissing the picture, his fury burst forth so
fearfully, that the Alarbe sprung out of his reach, and hastily dashed the
contested object into one of the neighbouring torrents: nothing short of
regaining his treasure could have given the captive King such joy; his
wrath suddenly ceased, he dropt the arm just raised to elance a mortal
blow, and approaching the torrent, beheld with satisfaction the divine
colours of the portrait effaced by its foaming waters; he then turned
quietly away, and returned to his former station.
Tranquillized by the certainty that his Gonsalva’s representative was
thus rescued from profanation, he was able to controul his indignation at
other circumstances, and to strive at obtaining his own freedom; but
though he endeavoured to explain to these banditti, that if they would
convey him to a Christian fortress they should be liberally paid, and
loaded with gifts, they either did not comprehend, or much mistrusted his
veracity: at length, wearied, out by his stedfast character, and tempted by
the great price given for handsome Europeans by the Moorish grandees,
Sarhamet meditated selling him.
This information, which was meant to vex, rather gratified their
prisoner; to be again brought into the plains, was to be once more placed
within prospect of liberty, and chance of meeting the reverend
Abensallah: Sebastian’s health returned with hope; for though his last
wound had been deep, it had been skilfully managed; and the purity of a
good constitution, adding force to an invincible spirit, enabled him to
bear without injury the piercing mountain air, and the frequent fasts to
which the Alarbes had wantonly doomed him.
His improving looks quickened the eagerness of Sarhamet for selling
him: solicitous to secure the moment of procuring a high price for his
captive, the robber selected a dozen followers, and mounting them and
Sebastian upon stout Barbs, set off with them one morning by day break,
for the country house of a Moorish grandee.
Sarhamet and his brother rode on each side of the King; they were
armed with guns and Moorish knives, and made signs to him, that if he
attempted to escape, he must inevitably fall by the hands of the troops
escorting them, whose naked weapons were placed in their girdles ready
for that purpose:—Sebastian smiled, and motioned acquiescence; but it
was a grievous smile, “as if he disdained himself” for so submitting to
fortune.
Their journey was long and wearisome: the Alarbes, enured to every
change of climate, travelled indifferently through nightly dews and noon-
day heats; sometimes they halted after a burning day, upon the very
summit of a snow-topt mountain, where they supped, and slept, with no
other covering than the clouds; at other times they would journey
through the night, and lay themselves to rest in valleys, among scorching
rocks, that reflected thrice the heat of the sun.
Sebastian contemplated this iron strength, with something like envy:
by rendering a man’s body independent, it gives additional stability to
the freedom of his mind; he felt conscious that, had he been thus
disciplined into invulnerable strength, he might have attempted, and
perhaps effected his escape: but the intense heats had re-opened his last
wound, and had in consequence so reduced his natural vigour, that he
could not hope to succeed, though he should master two Alarbes who
constantly watched him while the others slept. Completely unarmed, and
cautiously removed from the spot where the horses were fastened, he
was aware, that a contest with one Moor must awaken the others, and
that he should perish under their daggers long before he could meet any
shelter: by acquiescing at present, he might obtain his object hereafter; in
the neighbourhood of a populous city, less hazardous means might be
found, and Providence might again throw Abensallah in his way, or some
christian friend, with whom he might share in an attempt at mutual
deliverance.
These thoughts often occupied him, as he rested or rode among his
ferocious companions; and still hope filled his sanguine breast, pointing
to his country and to Gonsalva.
From the length of their journey, Sebastian conjectured that his late
residence had been at the extremity of the Benzeroel mountains; he had
therefore been in the same tract of country with the benevolent dervise,
and was now far distant from him: at thought of never seeing him again,
his feelings saddened, gliding naturally from Abensallah to the gallant
Stukeley, and thence to the slaughter of Alcazar.
On the fourteenth day, Sarhamet exchanged his prisoner’s worn-out
galebia for a coarse, but more becoming habit, telling him that they were
on the point of finishing their career: Sebastian for the first time enquired
the name and rank of the person to whom they were now going; he learnt
in reply, that he was the Almoçadem of a cavila, (that is, governor of a
province) high in favour of the reigning Xeriff, (having ably assisted in
securing him the throne) and highly respected throughout Barbary. His
dwelling was in the Valley of Palms, a delightful place, nearly three
leagues beyond Mequinez.
After bathing, and re-dressing themselves, the whole party mounted
their horses, and proceeded down a winding declivity into a most
luxuriant vale: the country-house of El Hader lay before them. Having
been a royal gift, the building was a moorish Cassavee of much
magnificence, covering with its interior gardens, squares, piazzas, and

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CHAPTER 15(14): FINANCIAL STATEMENT ANALYSIS

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