“So then, you _are_ a nobleman?” replied Ben Tarab, attentively eyeing him, “I thought so the moment I saw you: but hark ye my friend, the great El Hader prides himself upon despising ransoms; if the King of Portugal himself were living, and a slave within these walls, he must offer a thousand of such crowns as that he was crowned with, before he could move a true Mussulman: Slaves here, are slaves for life; and I hate you all too cordially ever to betray my trust and risk my neck for such scoundrels.” As Ben Tarab ended, he disappeared with a malicious grin, and in a short time re-entered with an older Moor, who looked awhile at Sebastian, and then conducted him out of the court: the latter followed his steps in silence, strongly wrestling with his own outraged feelings, which were almost chafed into fury, by the mingled malice and cowardice of Ben Tarab. After traversing several open quadrangles and stone galleries, they came at length to the gardens: they were admitted through magnificent gates, curiously wrought in open work of cast iron, and covered with gilding; as he entered, Sebastian felt an emotion long unknown to him, an emotion of delight. The gardens were spacious and verdant, beautified with marble fountains and canals; their terraces were shaded by tall trees of the freshest green, and the air that fanned them was impregnated with the perfume of orange flowers. Sebastian could not respire air thus perfumed, without instantly thinking of the gardens of Count Vimiosa; the first day he had seen Donna Gonsalva came back to his recollection with all the force of a present scene: he stopt, cast his eyes round, scarcely breathed, almost expecting to see her celestial beauty advance from some of the groves:--But he saw no one, till his conductor led on still further, and brought him to a spot where a few slaves were employed in cutting a subterraneous passage, from a bower of Arabian jessamine, to one of the baths.--Stopping at this place, the Moor shewed the King his new occupation. After toiling in silence till long past sunset, the slaves were dismissed to their distant lodgings, where a miserable supper awaited them. On re-entering the court where he had first laboured, Sebastian did not see Ben Tarab, he passed slowly along, noting every fresh group of new faces, without finding any that he knew: at length he perceived a cluster of Christians gathered round one who was sitting with a rude guitar in his hand, playing the symphony of a song; the King approached, and recognized the soldier, Gaspar. The young man, without observing him, began to sing with little voice, and less skill, but infinite feeling, these stanzas. “O Time! thy waves that might have rolled Thro’ channels gay with bordering roses, Now slow and sad and sunless flow Where not one flower its bloom discloses: