Many and violent were his emotions when he parted from his beloved master at the door of their cheerless lodging; the poor fellow felt death at his heart, and scarcely knew how to hope for sufficient strength to carry him to Mequinez, where, however, the arrival of friar Mansonada was now happily ascertained. He fastened his eyes on the countenance of Sebastian with the most sorrowful expression; the benign smile that sat there, revived him for an instant, but fearful of betraying any unusual agitation, he retired without speaking. The next day Hafiz did not return, and at night Sebastian was surprized by the non-appearance of Gaspar; concluding that he was cruelly kept out at distant labour, he began to grow impatient for the sight of Hafiz: still the governor returned not, and the next night and the one following that Gaspar, too was absent. Disturbed and alarmed, Sebastian approached a French Christian with whom he had once seen Gaspar enter from work, and asked the man, in his own language, what had become of him: the answer overwhelmed him with grief. Gaspar had attempted to escape two days before, while the wood-slaves were dispersed, and their guards carousing; he had got half way to Mequinez when he was overtaken by two of the Moors, who having heard him question another about the Friars Redemptione, guessed which way he was going. After a short struggle, a wound in the leg brought Gaspar to the ground, and rendered resistance impossible; he was now in the prison of the Cassavee, where Ben Tarab threatened him with the extremity of the bastinado that very night. Sebastian too quickly comprehended the motive of his friend’s rash action; penetrated with gratitude and sorrow, he flew to the dark building called the prison, intreating to be admitted, and offering extravagant rewards to the Moors who guarded it:--Sebastian could not always remember that he was no longer able to reward any one!--But these vain promises were no sooner past his lips, than he disclaimed them, with a stifled groan, and turned once more to intreaties. The brutal Ben Tarab advanced cautiously, “You see I am armed;” was his salutation, (pointing to a pair of huge pistols in his belt, and drawing out a Moorish knife,) “in that case you dare not touch me: what is all this tumult about?--is it because the dog is a Portuguese like yourself?--or because you are colleagues? By the holy prophet! I believe you deserve as sound a bastinadoing as he does. If he dies under the thong, this night he shall receive a thousand lashes. Get you to your sleeping hole, and pretend not to thwart a Mussulman in his duty.” Without replying, Sebastian shot an eagle glance round, as if in search of something, the next instant he darted forwards, and snatching up a hatchet which lay accidentally among some rubbish, flashed it in the eyes of Ben Tarab.