Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 36

Volume Three – Chapter Eleven

“O who would wish to be a King?” said the gallant King James of Scotland, when the fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain herd were shouting the name of Douglas; and we ask, Who would wish to be a Prime Minister? No one, surely, who has any regard for his own tranquillity or happiness; no one who cannot scorn the base revilings of the thankless crowd, in whose service he is exerting all the energies of a noble intellect, and wasting his health; no one who is not prepared to encounter the treachery of friends, and the hatred of enemies; who has not a heart of adamant and nerves of steel; unless he be a true patriot, and then the consciousness of rectitude and nobility of purpose will support him through all.

A fair girl was leaning over a balcony in the residence of the Prime Minister of Portugal, inhaling the sweet odours which rose from the garden beneath. Her light hair, not yet brought under the slavish subjection of fashion, fell in long ringlets over her fair neck, while her laughing blue eye, and lips formed to smile, betokened her German extraction, for she was the daughter of Sebastiaö Jozé de Carvalho and the Countess Daun; though neither in her gentle disposition, or her small and beautifully rounded figure, did she partake of her father’s qualities. She started, for a sigh was breathed near her, and she beheld a handsome youth by her side, gazing at her with a look of enraptured devotion. A blush mantled on her cheeks as she asked, “What brings you here, Senhor Alfonzo? I thought you were with my father at the palace.”

“I am about to go thither, Donna Agnes,” answered the youth, “but I sought first to see you.”

“Pardon me, senhor, I must not delay you,” said the young lady.

“Lady, in mercy save me from destruction!” exclaimed the youth, in a tone which thrilled to her heart.

“What mean you, Senhor Alfonzo? In what way can I aid you?” said the Minister’s daughter.

“In your hands is my fate, either to leave me a wretch unworthy of existence, or to raise me from despair, and grant me bliss incomparable.”

“I dare not, I must not, understand the meaning of your strange expressions,” said Donna Agnes, her hand, which rested on the balustrade, slightly trembling. “Let me entreat you, senhor, to leave me. I would not be the unhappy cause of your ruin.”

“You, you alone, can be the cause of my salvation,” exclaimed the youth, with enthusiastic passion. “Donna Agnes, I love you.”

“In mercy to yourself – to me, do not say so,” faltered the young lady.

“My spirit would not rest, when I am in the grave, had I not declared the love I bear you,” exclaimed the Secretary.

“Oh no, no; it must not be thus! Say you will not utter those words again, and I will endeavour to forget what you have said. You cannot know my father, if you think that he would let me listen to such declarations,” answered Donna Agnes.

“I know him well – he has ever been my benefactor, and I would show my gratitude,” responded the youth.

“Then, as you value his favour, do not renew this conversation. It has caused me much pain already,” said Donna Agnes.

“I cannot longer conceal the consuming love I feel for you,” exclaimed the Secretary. “Can you, in return, hate me for it?”

“Oh no, no,” responded Donna Agnes.

“Will you, can you love me, then?” exclaimed the youth. “Will you grant me but one hope to endure existence?”

The colour forsook the fair cheek of the Minister’s daughter; her bosom heaved, and her eyes sunk to the ground.

“Oh leave me, leave me, Senhor Alfonzo!” she cried. “These words are cruelty to me and to yourself. It cannot be. My father esteems you, and confides in you; but, did he suspect what you have told me, his anger would be aroused to a pitch you little dream of, and of my hand he has already determined the disposal; but I shall ever regard you as a friend.”

“Then were you free, you might, you would love me?” exclaimed the infatuated youth. “Donna Agnes, you do love me? – utter but the word, and no power shall tear you from me.”

“This conduct is ungenerous, unworthy of you,” responded Donna Agnes. “I would not speak harshly to you; but you drive me to it. From henceforth, I must fly your presence. Again I ask you to leave me. I never can be yours.”

“Then you have sealed my doom and your father’s, – his death be upon your head, cruel girl!” ejaculated the Secretary, as he rushed from the spot where they stood, and hastened to the royal palace.

“Oh stay, stay!” cried the young lady, alarmed at his agitated look, and extraordinary violence; “what mean you?” but he was gone; and, placing her fair young face in her hands, she wept bitterly.

Poor girl, she had never before been told by any one that she was beloved; and for two years past daily had she seen the young and handsome Secretary, who, grave and reserved as he was towards others, could teach his tongue to utter the softest eloquence to her; and when his eye met hers, his whole countenance would beam with animation, – yet she had performed her duty to her father, and promised to marry whoever he might select. He had made his choice, and she must abide by it.

The Secretary hastened to the cabinet in the palace, where the Minister always employed him; but the latter had not arrived. He first opened some papers on which he was employed, and then examined every corner of the room with the utmost care. His naturally pallid cheek was more bloodless than usual; his hands trembled; his eyes cast furtive glances around, even though he had convinced himself no one was present. Every instant he started, – his knees knocked together; but still he went about the work he had vowed to perform: his determination was strong, though his frame was weak. A small ewer of water, with a tumbler, stood on a table, on one side of the closet. He eyed it for some time, with his hand grasping the back of a chair, to give himself support – his breath came and went quickly. At length he approached it – for an instant he bent over it – he drew from his bosom a small packet – he tore it open, and poured a powder it contained into the ewer, then, securing the empty paper beneath his dress, he waited another minute without moving. So pale was his cheek, so rigid did he stand, that he looked more like some statue of bronze or marble, than a living man. Again he started, and seizing the ewer, he poured some of its contents into the tumbler: the liquid was pure and sparkling as crystal. He heaved a deep, long-drawn sigh, and turned away; but there was a fascination in that fatal goblet! Again and again were his eyes attracted by it, till the orbs almost started from his head – his lips were parched – there was fire in his brain, yet his heart was as ice. The first fatal step was made! the rest was easy. He endeavoured to collect his thoughts – to grow calm, and reason with himself. What had he done? He had committed no crime, – no one had suffered by his hand, – he was not a murderer! Oh no. Then why this abject fear? He attempted to smile at his first sensations, – he recalled all the rules with which he had been taught to reason at college; all the later lessons he had received from the Father Jacinto, and he was successful. He sought to reason against conviction. The struggle was severe, – intellect (he called it) against conscience; and intellect was the victor! Yes, the victor! But how long would it remain so? He knew not what an active, harassing enemy was conscience, – how it seizes on its victim in the dead of night, – how it rushes on him, when laid prostrate by disease and sickness! Then which is the victor? Then does it take ample vengeance on intellect for its former defeat.

The apt pupil of the Father Jacinto da Costa now seated himself calmly, to finish the copy of a despatch on which he had been employed. He then arose, and taking a key, which hung suspended from his neck, beneath his clothes, he approached the Minister’s private cabinet. He opened it, and searched carefully among the papers, endeavouring to replace each as he found them. At last he came to one, which he seized eagerly; and running his eye over it, he carried it to his desk, rapidly making extracts from it, and placed the paper which he had written in his bosom. With the one he had taken he returned to the cabinet, kneeling to restore it to the spot it had occupied, and to search for another. Deeply absorbed, his eye running over paper after paper, he heard not the door open. A hand was laid heavily on his shoulder; he started, as if it had been a hand of fire, and, gazing upward, he beheld the stern features of the Minister! The paper he held dropped from his grasp, – despair was marked on every lineament of his countenance, and, trembling and pale, he would have sunk on the ground, but that an arm of iron upheld him.

“Fool!” said the Minister. “Is it thus you return my confidence? Have you before betrayed the secrets of this cabinet? Speak! You answer not, – your silence is a confession of your guilt. Behold yon bright sun – ’tis the last time its beams will glad your sight; for know, he who possesses the secrets of Carvalho must be surrounded by stronger walls than his own bosom affords; the deepest dungeon in the Jungueira will henceforward be your abode.” The Minister withdrew his hand.

“Stir not,” he added, as he walked towards the door, to summon some attendants who were without. At first they did not hear his voice, and he was obliged to go to the end of the passage again to call them. They rushed up hastily, and followed Carvalho to the apartment. On entering, the young Secretary was discovered stretched on the ground in a swoon, it seemed, close to the open cabinet. They raised him up, and endeavoured to restore animation, while the Minister went to his desk, and wrote a few lines.

“When he revives, bear him hence,” he said, “and deliver this paper to Senhor Fonseca;” and, without appearing to pay further attention to what was going forward, he continued writing.

The endeavours of the attendants were soon successful, for the unhappy youth opened his eyes, gazing wildly at those surrounding him. “Water! water!” he murmured.

One of the men, observing the ewer on the table, pouring out a tumbler-full, brought it to him, and placed it to his lips – he eagerly drank off the cooling draught. They threw some on his head, to cool his brow, and again gave him to drink. The water completely restored him, and, as they led him away, he ventured not to turn his eye towards the man he had deceived; but, as he passed the door, his glance fell on the fatal ewer. A thought like the vivid lightning, scorching all in its path, crossed his mind. Had he been given to drink of the poisoned water? Impossible! He felt no ill effects from it; but he dared not ask the question.

That night the young Alfonzo, the highly endowed in mind and person, lay on a wretched pallet, chained, like a malefactor, to the humid stone-wall of a low dark dungeon beneath the castle of the Jungueira. Not a gleam of light, not a breath of pure air, entered his abode; then it was that conscience triumphed over intellect. He thought of his days of childhood and innocence, before he had learned the rules of sophistry. His mother’s face appeared to him, smiling with love, but full of sadness. Suddenly it vanished, and one of dreadful scowling aspect took its place. He thought of the dark lessons he had received from his instructors, and he called on God to curse those who had blasted his heart with scorching words. The Father Jacinto, too, came before him, with a calm and benignant countenance, and voice of mellifluous softness. Suddenly he changed, and, in his stead, arose a vast serpent of glittering scaly sides, moist with slime, which coiled and twisted its enormous folds around him, hissing as it breathed forth a fiery breath upon his face. It seemed to bear him down, when the earth beneath him opened. “Oh, Heaven!” he cried, “I sink, I sink, I sink!”

The next morning the gaoler entered the cell. The prisoner stirred not, nor answered to his call. He took his hand, – it struck a chill to his heart, – he held the lamp over him, – he was dead!

One person only ever knew the cause of his death, and that very day he heard of it. “It were better so, as he had failed in his purpose,” he muttered. “He knew too many secrets of our order to be trusted. Had he been tortured, as he most assuredly would have been, he might have betrayed them. Requiescat in pace!”

The master never again thought of the pupil till he lay on his own death-bed, with his flesh lacerated and his limbs broken by the wheel; but he felt not those pains; there was another far more acute within; conscience had re-asserted its sway, he remembered him he had betrayed, and how he had died.⁵

Volume Three – Chapter Twelve

It was the middle of winter, but, notwithstanding the season of the year, the sun shone brightly forth, shedding a genial warmth upon the beggars and dogs who were basking beneath it in the streets of Lisbon. The former were stationed at the posts they had each appropriated, exhibiting every species of loathsome deformity, and imploring the charity of the passers-by in the name of Heaven, warning them of the opportunity afforded of bestowing alms for the benefit of their souls. The dogs were enjoying their time of rest, every now and then uttering a growl of defiance if any stranger encroached on their districts. The Galician water-carriers were filling their barrels at the fountains, laughing and joking among themselves, strangers as they were in the land, happy by nature, and independent of all the plots and conspiracies which agitated the natives. Some women were washing at the tanks, and striking the linen to rags against the stones, while they gaily sang in chorus; while others, sitting at the corners of the streets, were employed in roasting chestnuts in little earthen stoves, and calling on the passers to buy. Fishermen were selling the produce of their nets, or wild-fowl; country-women their poultry. Now a citizen might be seen closely muffled up in his large cloak, more to hide the dress beneath than to keep out the cold; then a gentleman would hasten along in his bag-wig, and sword by his side, long flowered waistcoat, and deep waisted coat, politely returning the salutations of all who bowed; indeed, all the world was abroad, a few in carriages or on horseback, but mostly on foot: it was not yet dinner time.

Among the pedestrians was our old friend Antonio, the cobbler, who had long since given up his former occupation, and by many was supposed to live completely on his wits – not a bad compliment to them, however. His keen eye, as he walked along, observed all that was taking place around him. He saw a beggar walk merrily to his post, kicking a dog out of his way, and then ask alms in the character of a confirmed cripple. He laughed – he was fond of laughing, somewhat bitterly oftentimes.

“There are a good many knaves in the world,” he muttered, “of all classes, from the lordly traitor, who would barter his country’s honour and safety for gold to supply his extravagance, to this loathsome wretch in rags and tatters.”

He next observed a boy stealing a coin from a blind man’s hat placed before him, when the seeming blind man, dealing a heavy blow, struck the youthful vagabond to the ground.

“Ay, we can see sharply enough when our own interests are attacked, and fight hard to defend them,” said the Cobbler, as he walked on. “That young rogue has learned a useful lesson, he will make sure that a man is blind before he tries to pilfer his property.”

Antonio passed through several streets, till he came to an open place. There a crowd was collected round a man perched on a high stool, who was selling nostrums, and making the people laugh by his wit and jokes: a real object of pity lay at a doorway, half dead with starvation and disease. A rich man passed by, looking coldly on the wretched beggar, turning aside, and refused his earnest appeal for a copper to relieve his hunger; but when he came within hearing of the quack, he stopped to listen; when the latter, uttering one of his best jokes, and paying him a well-timed compliment, he threw the knave a crown, and, laughing, passed on.

“Such is the way of the world,” thought the Cobbler. “The impudent charlatan succeeds and grows rich, while the honest and humble poor man is left to starve. The foolish rogues are soon hung; ’tis the cunning ones who live and thrive. Bah! it makes me sick to think of it. What fools men are! they will often confide in a plausible knave, when blunt honesty is kicked out of doors.”

The Cobbler saw much more in his walk, on which he made his observations. He did not seem to have a very good opinion of the world he lived in. Whether he thought worse of people than they deserved we cannot pretend to say.

He now left the city behind, and, passing through the suburbs of Belem, directed his course to the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He came under a garden-wall, in which was a window, and out of the window a pair of sparkling black eyes were gazing. He kissed his own hand, for he could not reach that of the lady, and she kissed hers in return; so he went and stood as near her as he could get.

“Oh! my pretty Margarida, how I love you!” he began. At which words, the eyes sparkled even more brightly than before. “I have many wishes, and the first is, that I was on the other side of the wall.”

“Hush! senhor, you must not say that; at least, not so loudly,” softly murmured Margarida; “some one will hear you, for people are passing constantly this way; but the window is not so very high from the ground.”

“Ah, dear one! I could leap up in a moment, if you do not run away,” said the gallant Cobbler.

“Oh! no, no, senhor! some one would see you to a certainty, while it is light,” answered the coy Senhora Margarida.

“I have many things to say to you, pretty one. When will you like to hear them?” asked Antonio.

“Cannot you say them now, senhor?”

“Some one will hear me, you know. Wait till the evening, and then nobody will see me jump in at the window. Remember to leave it open.”

“I will forget to shut it,” innocently answered Margarida. “But tell me, senhor, are you really a fidalgo?”

“I will tell you all about it, with my other secrets, when I come at night. Remember to forget to shut the window; and do not forget to come yourself, Adeos for the present, my pretty charmer! I see some one coming.” And Antonio walked away, humming a tune, while the pair of black eyes disappeared from the garden window.

If the Portuguese are fonder of one employment than of another, it is looking out of window; they all do it, from the highest to the lowest. There is so little mental or bodily exertion required for it; and there is always something moving in the streets, either men, dogs, or rats. Even watching a pig will afford amusement; and anything is preferable to reading, working, or thinking; therefore they always have looked out of windows, and always will, till their taste improves. Antonio proceeded on till he came to the side of the river, where he sat himself down on the bank, to wait till the evening, and to meditate. He thought a great deal, light-hearted and merry as he seemed, often very gravely, sometimes fiercely, as he remembered the foul wrongs and insults the race to which he belonged had for centuries endured, and for which treatment their cruel tyrants had sought every excuse which cunning hypocrisy, or the fiercest bigotry, could invent, claiming ever the authority of God for their cursed deeds. “Miscreants!” he muttered, “where in the Christian’s gospel can they find permission for the rapine, murders, and cruelties, with which their souls have been stained since the triumph of their faith? Fools! who practise not what they preach, and yet expect to be believed.” He would then think on for some time, and, giving a deep-drawn sigh, would conclude with the oft-repeated apophthegm, “What cannot be cured must be endured;” he then, growing calmer, would turn to other subjects. “Yet,” he continued, soliloquising, “it is a hard office to bide this life of concealment, of deceit, and treachery; but it must be endured till my object is accomplished. The time draws near, happily, when my toils may be at an end; and then, if faith can be placed in the word of man, I shall reap the rich reward of all. Can I confide in him? Yes, ’tis his interest to fulfil his promise. There is one thing troubles me more than all the rest; how some men would laugh to hear me, if I confessed it! My pretty Margarida! Now that girl is fully persuaded I love her to desperation; and, assuredly, I have done my utmost to make her believe so, to learn, through her, the secrets of the Tavora family. They little think how closely the meshes of the net are drawn around them, to enclose them ere long, and drag them to shore, as yonder fishermen are now doing with their prey.” As he thought this, he was watching a party of fishermen hauling in their seine. “I must try and make amends to Margarida, poor girl! I feel an interest in her. I did not think she would so soon learn to love me. I was not born to be that cursed wretch who would win a maiden’s affections for the base, cowardly satisfaction of tampering with them, and then deserting her. I leave such work to the wealthy and high-born. May they reap their reward!”

The sun was now setting over the mouth of the Tagus, casting a broad, glowing line of fire upon the smooth bosom of the stream, and tinging the tower of Belem, the gothic spires of the church, and the hills beyond, with its ruddy hue. Antonio rose, for he calculated that it would be dark by the time he reached the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He met but few people on the way, nor were any near when, without much difficulty, he clambered in at the window in the garden-wall, which Margarida had, according to her promise, left unbolted.

It was now as dark as it was likely to be in a star-light night. Antonio carefully shut to the window, and looked around, but Margarida was nowhere to be seen. He softly called her name, but she did not answer. He then observed a building, which appeared to be a summer-house, at the end of a walk. “Ah! she will probably go there to look for me; and if any one by chance comes into the garden, I shall not be exposed to view as I am here.” He accordingly advanced towards it, but when he arrived there, he found the door closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He just then heard a step at a distance. He listened attentively; it was too heavy for the elastic little feet of his mistress. It approached nearer, and in the direction of the spot where he stood. “I must find some place to hide in, or I shall be caught,” he muttered.

At the back of the summer-house there were some shrubs growing closely together, a window overlooking them, which spot Antonio, as he looked about, selected to conceal himself till the person who was coming near had retired. He shrunk down on the ground, under the walls of the building; and he had scarcely done so, when a person, applying the key to the door, entered. Striking a light, the man lit a lamp on the table, in the centre of the apartment, which, from the noise he made, he appeared to be placing in order. After having performed this office, he again opened the door, when, at that instant, Antonio heard a light step coming along the path, and which he fancied he could recognise as Margarida’s. Of this he was soon convinced, by hearing a voice, which he knew to be hers, exclaim —

“Oh! Senhor Ferreira, is that you? You quite frighten me! What are you doing?”

“Let me rather ask you what you are doing here at this hour of the evening, Senhora Margarida,” was the answer.

“I came out to pick some flowers for my mistress, which I forgot to do in the day-time, so, if you are gallant, you will come and assist me,” said Senhora Margarida.

“An odd time, to pick flowers in the dark,” answered the man-servant; “but I cannot assist you now; I must return to the house.”

“Many thanks for your gallantry, Senhor Ferreira,” she responded, as he turned away; “I dare say I shall find enough myself;” and she stooped over the flower-beds, as if in search of flowers.

Antonio guardedly peeped out of his concealment, and seeing his mistress alone, “Hist, Margarida, hist!” he whispered. “Come beneath the shade of the summer-house; that prying servant will be less likely to observe us.”

“Oh, Senhor Antonio, I am so glad to have found you, for when I passed by I found the window closed, and I was afraid you might not have got in,” said Margarida.

They sat themselves down on a stone bench placed against the side of the building. Antonio, while declaring his affection for the young lady, some of which he had really begun to feel, at the same time managed to draw from her various pieces of information he was anxious to gain. A few minutes had thus passed rapidly away, when the sound of approaching footsteps was again heard.

“For the love of Heaven, conceal yourself,” exclaimed Margarida, jumping up and seizing a bunch of flowers, with which she had wisely provided herself previously to coming into the garden. “They will see you, if you attempt to reach the window. Down behind the summer-house. ’Tis the young Marquis and some visitors. I must away.” And she tripped along the walk towards the house. “Who goes there?” exclaimed a stern voice, as she passed the party by a different though parallel pathway.

“I have been gathering flowers, Senhor Duque – see, here they are,” answered Margarida, quickly.

“Gathering flowers at this time of night, indeed! Say rather, looking for a lover, senhora,” exclaimed the voice; “think you we can distinguish them in this light? Go, Manoel, and watch her safely into the house – we must have no prying eyes and listening ears to what we are about.”

Manoel being despatched to follow Margarida until he saw her out of their way, the party advanced and entered the summer-house, where, fresh lamps being lit, they took their seats round the table which the servant had arranged.

Antonio, in the mean time, unable to escape, was obliged to resume his position among the bushes, expecting every instant that the party would search round the building, and feeling confident from what he had learnt from Margarida of their proceedings, that he should fall an instant sacrifice to their fears. He was somewhat relieved when he heard their feet on the floor of the summer-house, and their voices speaking in tones which showed that they had no suspicion of the presence of a spy upon their actions.

After waiting some time, the persons within the summer-house having become highly excited in their discussion, whatever it was, Antonio thought he might venture to move his position, so as to gain a view of what was going forward. The shutters of the window, which looked over the shrubbery in which he was concealed, were left partially open, so that by carefully lifting his head among the branches of the evergreens, he was able to see clearly into the room without incurring any risk of being himself observed.

At one end of the table, sat, or rather now stood, the Duke of Aveiro, who was, with vehement gestures, addressing the party: on each side were various members and connexions of the Tavora family, among them being the young Marquis and his brother, the Conde d’Atouquia, the old Marchioness, and the Jesuit Malagrida.

“Ah! ah! thou old hypocrite,” muttered Antonio, as he observed the last-mentioned personage. “Wherever thou art there is sure to be mischief brewing; but I have thee now, if I mistake not;” and, like an Indian warrior approaching his foes, he crept close to the window, placing himself behind the shutter, so that, although he could hear more clearly, he was less able to distinguish what was taking place, till he discovered a broad chink, and, by putting his eye to it, he had complete command of the greater part of the room.

“The very persons who met at the Jesuit’s vault down the river,” he thought to himself, “when they all fancied themselves so secure and unobserved; as did yon mad priest deem himself hidden from the searching eye of the Minister: yet, forsooth, he made a capital bait to catch others. Ah! I am glad to find my young friend the Conde d’Almeida is not among them, and he has certainly not fled the country, for I saw him this very morning.”

We do not intend to give the whole particulars of the conversation which Antonio overheard; suffice it to say, that he heard enough to prove that a dangerous and powerful conspiracy existed to overthrow the power of the Minister; and more, that one had existed to destroy the sovereign, fomented and encouraged by some of those now present, if indeed the actual would-have-been assassins were not among them. Antonio noted well every word they uttered, every gesture they made, words sufficient to bring the speakers, as they themselves well knew, to the scaffold, had they deemed that an ear was listening to them; but, infatuated as they were, they triumphed in fancied security, calling on Heaven to aid them in their wickedness. Now some were seen to draw their swords, and to kiss the blades, as they ratified some dreadful oath; others grasped their fire-arms, and vowed to use them to better effect than before; when Malagrida stood up and blessed the assembled conspirators and their cause.

Some movement now taking place among them, Antonio, fearful lest his face might be perceived through the casement, stole back to his leafy shelter; and fortunate was it for him that he did so, for some one, perceiving that the shutter was unclosed, sent Manoel round to fasten it. Antonio held his breath, hiding his face beneath his cloak, for the man’s feet almost touched his as he passed; and had not the eyes of the latter been dazzled by the light within, he could not have avoided perceiving him; as it was, the man performed his orders, and quickly returned to hear what his superiors were saying. Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and Antonio heard the party hurrying from the building towards the house. He waited some further time, with eager anxiety to bear the important information, for which he had so long toiled, to his employer, till the sound of voices and footsteps had died away. He listened attentively – not a sound was heard. He started from his lair towards the garden window, which afforded the easiest means of escape; for, if found in the grounds after what had occurred, he well knew he must expect nothing short of death from the conspirators. As he gained the front of the summer-house, what was his horror to perceive two men standing beneath the porch before it, so earnestly engaged in a whispered conversation, that they did not perceive him! He stepped back cautiously a couple of paces, so as to be out of their sight, but was afraid to retreat further, lest he might attract their notice. The movement was not, however, entirely unremarked.