“Well! and why were all these persons unbelievers too, if the tale appeared so true?” “Why?--because every one of them are either pretenders to the succession, or friends to the pretenders. Some were partizans of Philip of Spain, others of the Braganzas, the Prince of Parma, &c. nobles who knew well that the restoration of their former sovereign would not afford them such a chance for power, as a scramble amongst numbers. Our old Cardinal draws to an end, in a few months perhaps the Spaniard will sit on his throne, (for in my opinion he stands the best chance), and we all got a hint of the way to please Philip, by hearing how rigorously he treated every officer who returned from Africa, and ventured to speak doubtfully of Sebastian’s death. If Don Sebastian could get here by miracle, he would not find a man in Portugal unbiassed by some faction; he might return to his chains.” That Sebastian of whom he spoke, was now kindling into fury; he gnawed his nether lip, and grasped his cloak with a convulsive action.--The last speaker resumed. “Every body concludes that our present monarch relished the first report of his nephew’s being alive as little as Philip; for I can tell you that Don Emanuel de Castro would not have got the viceroyalty of Brazil had it not been deemed politic to send him out of a country which he was continually agitating by assertions of Sebastian’s existence: nay, the silence of his ministers on the subject of this last report, and the disappearance of the poor devil himself, speaks pretty plain; the rope or the cup has most likely silenced him for ever.” At this horrible conjecture, the joy of hearing that De Castro lived, and was in a land of freedom, gave way to anguish, a second groan burst from the unhappy King, the speakers stopt, and fixed their eyes on him. “Who is this fellow?” asked one of them: “a sick traveller, I fancy,” replied the landlord, drawing near and speaking softly, “or rather I should think a poor youth crossed in love: for he has a noble countenance, full of grievous wildness, and was roving about under all that storm without feeling it.” The good man now approached with a cup of wine, to which Sebastian put his lips, that he might avoid importunity, acknowledging that he was sick: the travellers resumed their discourse. “For my part,” said one, “I would never draw a sword to rescue Don Sebastian, his court was too moral for me: neither Venus nor Bacchus was worshipped there, and where they are not worshipped, I beg leave to make my congé. Besides, he put a public affront upon my cousin, the young Marquis Cellamare: he happened to carry off the daughter of a merchant; the old man got her back after one night’s absence only, yet he complained to the King, and he insisted on Cellamare’s offering her honourable reparation in presence of her family and his own: the girl (tutored by Don Sebastian, no doubt), affected to despise such reparation, preferred taking the veil, and refused him.”