At the very foot of the hill they came on the first of three fires--
two houses blazing furiously, and a whole side-street doomed, if the
wind should hold.  Among the ruins of a house, right in the face of
the fire, squatted a dozen persons, men and women, all dazed by
terror.  The women had opened their parasols--possibly to screen
their faces from the heat--albeit they might have escaped this quite
easily by shifting their positions a few paces.  None of these folk
betrayed the smallest interest in Ruth or in Langton.  Indeed, they
scarcely lifted their eyes.

The suburbs were deserted, for the earthquake had surprised all
Lisbon in a pack, crowded within its churches, or in its central
streets and squares.  Yet the emptiness of what should have been the
thoroughfares astonished them scarcely less than did the piles of
masonry, breast-high in places, over which they picked their way in
the uncanny twilight.  They had scarcely passed beyond the glare of
the burning houses when Langton stumbled over a corpse--the first
they encountered.  He drew Ruth aside from it, entreating her in a
low voice to walk warily.  But she had seen.

"We shall see many before we reach the Cathedral," she said quietly.

They stumbled on, meeting with few living creatures; and these few
asked them no questions, but went by, stumbling, with hands groping,
as though they moved in a dream.  A voice wailed "Jesus! Jesus!" and
the cry, issuing Heaven knew whence, shook Ruth's nerve for a moment.

Once Langton plucked her by the arm and pointed to some men with
torches moving among the ruins.  She supposed that they were seeking
for the dead; but they were, in fact, incendiaries, already at work
and in search of loot.

She passed three or four of these blazing houses, some kindled no
doubt by incendiaries, but others by natural consequences of the
earthquake; for the kitchens, heated for the great feast, had
communicated their fires to the falling timberwork on which the
houses were framed; and by this time the city was on fire in at least
thirty different places.  The scorched smell mingled everywhere with
an odour of sulphur.

There were rents in the streets, too--chasms, half-filled with
rubble, reaching right across the roadway.  After being snatched back
by Langton from the brink of one of these chasms, Ruth steeled her
heart to be thankful when a burning house shed light for her
footsteps.  At the houses themselves, after an upward glance or two,
she dared not look again.  They leaned this way and that, the fronts
of some thrust outward at an angle to forbid any but the foolhardiest
from passing underneath.

But, indeed, they had little time to look aloft as they penetrated to
streets littered, where the procession had passed, with wrecked
chaises, dead mules, human bodies half-buried and half-burnt, charred
limbs protruding awkwardly from heaps of stones.  Here, by ones and
twos, pedestrians tottered past, crying that the world was at an end;
here, on a heap where, belike, his shop had stood, a man knelt
praying aloud; here a couple of enemies met by chance, seeking their
dead, and embraced, beseeching forgiveness for injuries past.
These sights went by Ruth as in a dream; and as in a dream she heard
the topple and crack of masonry to right and left.  Langton guided
her; and haggard, perspiring, they bent their heads to the strange
wind now howling down the street as through a funnel, and foot by
foot battled their way.

The wind swept over their bent heads, carrying flakes of fire to
start new conflagrations.  The stream of these flakes became so
steady that Ruth began to count on it to guide her.  She began to
think that amid all this dissolution to right and left, some charm
must be protecting them both, when, as he stretched a hand to help
her across a mound of rubble she saw him turn, cast a look up and
fall back beneath a rush of masonry.  A flying brick struck her on
the shoulder, cutting the flesh.  For the rest, she stood unscathed;
but her companion lay at her feet, with legs buried deep, body buried
to the ribs.

"Your hand!" she gasped.

He stretched it out feebly, but withdrew it in an agony; for the
stones crushed his bowels.

"You are hurt?"

"Killed."  He contrived a smile.  "Not so wide as a church door," he
quoted, looking up at her strangely through the wan light; "but
'twill serve."

"My friend! and I cannot help you!"  She plucked vainly at the mass
of stones burying his legs.

He gasped on his anguish, and controlled it.

"Let be these silly bricks. . . . They belong to some grocer's
kitchen-chimney, belike--but they have killed me, and may as well
serve for my tomb.  Reach me your hand."

He took it and thrust it gently within the breast of his waistcoat.
There, guided by him, her fingers closed on the handle of a tiny
stiletto.

"The sheath too . . . it is sewn by a few stitches only." He looked
up into her eyes.  "You are too beautiful to be wandering these
streets alone."

"I understand," she said gravely.

"Now go."  He pressed the back of her hand to his lips, and released
it.

"Can I do nothing?" she asked, with a hard sob.

"Yes . . . 'tis unlucky, they say, to accept a knife without paying
for it.  One kiss. . . . You may tell Noll.  Is it too high a price?"

She knelt and kissed him on the brow.

"Ah! . . ."  He drew a long sigh.  "I have held you to-day, and
to-day you have kissed me.  Go now."

She went.  The dog ran with her a little way, then turned and crept
back to its master.



Chapter V.



THE FINDING.

"Hola!" hailed a man, signalling by a brazier with his back to the
wind.  "For what are you seeking?"

Ruth halted, gripping her stiletto.  This man might help her,
perhaps.  At any rate, he seemed a cool-headed fellow who made the
best of things.

For two hours she had searched, and for the time her strength was
nearly spent.  Dust filled her hair and caked her long eyelashes.
Her face, haggard with woe and weariness, was a mask of dust.

"For one," she answered, "who was to have attended High Mass in the
Cathedral."

"Eh?"  The man swept a hand to the ruined shell of that building, at
the end of the Square, and to a horrible pile of masonry covering
many hundreds of bodies.  "If he reached there, your Excellency had
better go home and pray for his soul; that is, if your Excellency
believes it efficacious.  But first, will your Excellency sit here
and rest?--no, not on the lee side, in the fumes of the charcoal, but
to windward here, where the fire is bright, and where I have the
honour to give room. . . . So your Excellency did not attend the
Mass?--not approving of it, maybe?"

"It would seem that you know me?" said Ruth, answering something in
his tone, not his words.

The question set him chuckling.  "Not by that token--though 'faith
'tis an ill wind blows nobody good.  This earthquake, considered
philosophically, is a great opportunity for heretics.  You and I, for
example, may sit here in the very middle of the square and talk
blasphemy to our heart's content; whereas--"  He broke off.
"But I forget my manners.  I ought to have started by saying that no
one, having once set eyes on your Excellency's face could ever forget
it; and, by St. James, that is no more than the truth!"

"Where have you seen me before?"

"By the gateway of the Holy Office, in a carriage with your lord
beside you.  I marked his face, too.  What it is to be young and rich
and beautiful! . . . And yet you might have remembered me, seeing
that I made part of the procession, though--praise be to fate!--
A modest one."

Ruth gazed at him.  "I remember you," she said slowly; "you were one
of the Penitents."

"They were gracious enough to call me so.  Yes, I can understand that
a san-benito makes some difference to a man's personal appearance.
. . . And old Gonsalvez--I saw your Excellency wince and your
Excellency's beauty turn pale when he cast up his hands to the sun.
. . . Hey?  _How is it possible_--how went the words?"

Ruth had them well by heart.  "_How is it possible for people,
beholding that glorious Body, to worship any Being but Him who
created it?_"

Right--word for word!  Well, they made a lens for that glorious Body
and fried old Gonsalvez with it.  Were you looking on?"

"No," said Ruth, and shivered.

"Well, I did--perforce.  'Twas part of my lesson; for you must know
that I, too, had had my little difficulty over that same glorious
Sun, touching his standing still over Gibeon at the command of
ancient Joshua.  'Faith, I've no quarrel with a miracle or so, up and
down; but that one! . . . Well, they convinced me I was a fool to
have any doubt, and a worse fool to let it slip off the tongue.
And yet," said the Penitent, warming his hands and casting a look up
at the sky, where the dust-cloud had given place to a rolling pall of
smoke, "what a treat it is to let the tongue wag at times!"

Ruth, her strength refreshed by the few minutes' rest, thanked him
and arose to continue her search.

"Stay," said the Penitent.  "Your Excellency has not heard all the
story, nor yet arrived near the moral. . . . Between ourselves the
reverend fathers were lenient with me because--well, it may have been
because I hold some influence among the beggars of Lisbon, who are
numerous and not always meek, in spite of the promise that meekness
shall inherit the earth.  I may confess, in short, that my presence
in the procession was to some extent a farce, and the result of a
compromise.  But, all the same, your Excellency does ill to
disbelieve in miracles: as I dare say your Excellency, casting an eye
about Lisbon on this particular day of All the Saints, will not
dispute?"

"Alas, sir! I have seen too many horrors to-day to be in any mood to
argue."

"Then," said the Penitent, skipping up, "you are in the precise mood
to be convinced; as I have seen men, under extremity of torture,
ready to believe anything.  Come!"

She hesitated.  "Where would you lead me?"

"To a miracle," he answered, and, with a fine gesture, flinging his
tattered cloak over his shoulder, he led the way.  He strode rapidly
down a couple of streets.  Once or twice coming to a chasm across the
roadway he paused, drew back, and cleared it with a leap.  But at
these pitfalls he neither turned nor offered Ruth a hand.
She followed him panting, so agile was his pace.

The first street ran south, the second east.  He entered a third
which turned north again as if to lead back into the Square.
After following it for twenty yards he halted and allowed her to
catch up with him.

"You are a devoted wife," said the Penitent admiringly.  "Would it
alter your devotion at all to know that he was with another woman?"

"No," answered Ruth.  "I knew it, in fact."  She wondered that this
beggar man could force her to speak so frankly.

"In an earthquake," said he, "one gets down to naked truth, or near
to it.  If he were unfaithful now--would that alter your desire to
find and save him?"

"Sir, why do you ask these things?"

"Did your Excellency not know that its beggars are the eyes of
Lisbon?  But you have not answered me."

"Nor will.  That I am here--is it not enough?"

The Penitent peered at her in the dim light and nodded.  He led her
forward a pace or two and pointed to something imbedded in a pile of
stones, lime, rubble.  It was the wreck of a chaise.  Two males lay
crushed under it, their heads and a couple of legs protruding.
A splintered door, wrenched from its hinges, lay face-uppermost
crowning the heap.  It bore a coronet and the arms of Montalegre.

"Are they--" she stammered, but caught at her voice and recovered it.
"--Are they _here_, under this?"

"No," he said, and again led the way, crossing the street to a house
of which the upper storey overhung the street, supported by a line of
pillars.  Three or four of these pillars had fallen.  Of the rest,
nine out of ten stood askew, barely holding up the house, through the
floors of which stout beams had thrust themselves and stuck at all
angles from the burst plaster.

"Here is Milord Vyell," said the Penitent, picking up a broken lath
and pointing with it.


He lay on his back, as he had lain for close upon three hours, deep
in the shadow of the overhanging house.  His eyes were wide open.
They stared up at the cobwebs that dangled from the broken plaster.
A pillar, in weight maybe half a ton, rested across his thighs; an
oaken beam across his chest and his broken left arm.  The two pinned
him hopelessly.

Clutched to him in his right lay Donna Maria.  She seemed to sleep,
with her head turned from his breast and laid upon the upper arm.
The weight of the pillar resting on her bowels had squeezed the life
out of her.  She was dead: her flesh by this time almost cold.

"Oliver!--Ah, look at me!--I am here--I have come to help!"

The lids twitched slightly over his wide eyes.  In the dim light she
could almost be sworn that the lips, too, moved as though to speak.
But no words came, and the eyes did not see her.

He was alive.  What else mattered?

She knelt and flung her arms about the pillar.  Frantically, vainly,
she tugged at it: not by an inch or the tenth part of an inch could
she stir it.

"Speak to me, Oliver! . . . Look at least!"

"If your Excellency will but have patience!"  The Penitent stepped
out into the street and she heard him blowing a whistle.  Clearly he
was a man to be obeyed; for in less than ten minutes a dozen figures
crowded about the entrance, shutting out the day.  This darkness of
their making was in truth their best commendation.  For against any
one of them coming singly Ruth had undoubtedly held her dagger ready.
They grumbled, too, and some even cursed the Penitent for having
dragged them away from their loot.  The Penitent called them
cheerfully his little sons of the devil, and adjured them to fall to
work or it would be the worse for them.

For his part, he lifted no hand: but stood overseer as the ruffians
lifted the pillar, Ruth straining her strength with theirs.

But when they came to lift Donna Maria, for a moment something
hitched, and Ruth heard the sound of rending cloth.  The poor wretch
in her death-agony had bitten through Sir Oliver's arm to the bone.
The corpse yet clenched its jaws on the bite.  They had to wrench the
teeth open--delicate pretty teeth made for nibbling sweetmeats.

To his last day Oliver Vyell bore the mark of those pretty teeth, and
took it to the grave with him.


Ruth drew out a purse.  But the Penitent, though they grumbled, would
suffer his scoundrels to take no fee.  Nay, he commanded two, and
from somewhere out of devastated Lisbon they fetched a sedan-chair
for the broken man.  "You may pay these if you will," said he.
"Honestly, they deserve it."

On her way westward, following the chair, she called to them to stop
and search whereabouts Mr. Langton had fallen.  They found him with
the small greyhound standing guard beside the body.  His head was
pillowed on his arm, and he lay as one quietly sleeping.



Chapter VI.


DOCUMENTS.

I.


_From Abraham Castres Esq.: his Majesty's Envoy Extraordinary to the
King of Portugal, to the Secretary of State, Whitehall, London._
LISBON, _November 6th_, 1755.

"SIR,--You will in all likelihood have heard before this of the
inexpressible Calamity befallen the whole Maritime Coast, and in
particular this opulent City, now reduced to a heap of Rubbish and
Ruin, by a most tremendous Earthquake on the first of this Month,
followed by a Conflagration which has done ten times more Mischief
than the Earthquake itself.  I gave a short account of our Misfortune
to _Sir Benjamin Keene_, by a _Spaniard_, who promised (as all
intercourse by Post was at a stand) to carry my Letter as far as
_Badajoz_ and see it safe put into the Post House.  It was merely to
acquaint His Excellency that, God be praised, my House stood out the
Shocks, though greatly damaged; and that, happening to be out of the
reach of the Flames, several of my Friends, burnt out of their
Houses, had taken refuge with me, where I have accommodated them as
well as I could, under Tents in my large Garden; no Body but _Lord
Charles Dowglass_, who is actually on board the Packet, besides my
Chaplain and myself having dared hitherto to sleep in my House since
the Day of our Disaster.  The Consul and his Family have been saved,
and are all well, in a Country House near this City.  Those with me
at present are the _Dutch_ Minister, his Lady, and their three
Children, with seven or eight of their Servants.  The rest of my
Company of the better Sort consists of several Merchants of this
Factory, who, for the most part have lost all they had; though some
indeed, as Messrs. _Parry_ and _Mellish's_ House, and Mr. _Raymond_,
and _Burrell_, have had the good Fortune to save their Cash, either
in whole or in part.  The number of the Dead and Wounded I can give
no certain Account of as yet; in that respect our Poor Factory has
escaped pretty well, considering the number of Houses we have here.
I have lost my Good and Worthy Friend the _Spanish_ Ambassador, who
was crushed under the Door, as he attempted to make his Escape into
the Street.  This with the Anguish I have been in for these five Days
past, occasioned by the dismal Accounts brought to us every instant
of the Accidents befallen to one or other of our Acquaintance among
the Nobility, who for the most part are quite Undone, has greatly
affected me; but in particular the miserable Objects among the lower
sort of His Majesty's Subjects, who fly also to me for Bread, and lie
scattered up and down in my Garden, with their Wives and Children.
I have helped them all hitherto, and shall continue to do so, as long
as Provisions do not fail Us, which I hope will not be the Case, by
the Orders which _M. de Carvalho_ has issued in that respect.
One of our great Misfortunes is, that we have neither an _English_ or
_Dutch_ Man of War in the Harbour.  Some of their Carpenters and
Sailors would have been of great use to me on this occasion, in
helping to prop up my House; for as the Weather, which has hitherto
been remarkably fair, seems to threaten us with heavy Rains, it will
be impossible for the Refugees in my Garden to hold out much longer;
and how to find Rooms in my House for them all I am at a loss to
devise; the Floors of most of them shaking under our Feet; and must
consequently be too weak to bear any fresh number of Inhabitants.
The Roads for the first Days having been impracticable, it was
but yesterday I had the Honour in Company with _M. de la Calmette_,
of waiting on the King of _Portugal_, and all the Royal Family at
_Belem_, whom we found encamped; none of the Royal Palaces being fit
to harbour Them.  Though the loss His Most Faithful Majesty has
sustained on this occasion is immense, and that His Capital-City is
utterly Destroyed; He received us with more Serenity than we
expected, and among other things told us, that He owed Thanks to
Providence for saving His and His Family's Lives: and that He was
extremely glad to see us both safe.  The Queen in her own Name, and
all the young Princesses, sent us word that they were obliged to us
for our attention; but that being under their Tents, and in a Dress
not fit to appear in, They desired that for the present we would
excuse their admitting our Compliments in Person.  Most of the
considerable Families in our Factory have already secured to
themselves a passage to _England_, by three or four of our _London_
Traders, that are preparing for their departure.  As soon as the
fatigue and great trouble of Mind I have endured for these first Days
are a little over, I shall be considering of some proper method for
sheltering the poorer Sort, either by hiring a _Portuguese_ Hulk, or
if that is not to be had, some _English_ Vessel till they can be sent
to _England; _and there are many who desire to remain, in hopes of
finding among the Ruins some of the little Cash they may have lost in
their Habitations.  The best orders have been given for preventing
Rapine, and Murders, frequent instances of which we have had within
these three Days, there being swarms of _Spanish_ Deserters in Town,
who take hold of this opportunity of doing their business.  As I have
large sums deposited in my House, belonging to such of my Countrymen
as have been happy enough to save some of their Cash, and that my
House was surrounded all last Night with _Ruffians_; I have wrote
this Morning to _M. de Carvalho_, to desire a Guard, which I hope
will not be refused.  We are to have in a Day or two a Meeting of our
scattered Factory at my House, to consider of what is best to be done
in our present wretched Circumstances.  I am determined to stay
within call of the Distressed, as long as I can remain on Shore with
the least Appearance of Security: and the same Mr. _Hay_ (the Consul)
seemed resolved to do, the last time I conferred with him about it.
I most humbly beg your Pardon, Sir, for the Disorder of this Letter,
surrounded as I am by many in Distress, who from one instant to the
other are applying to me either for Advice or Shelter.  The Packet
has been detained at the Desire of the Factory, till another appears
from _England_, or some Man of War drops in here from the
_Streights_.  This will go by the first of several of our Merchant
Ships bound to _England_.  I must not forget to acquaint you, that
_Sir Oliver Vyell_ and Lady are safe and well, and have the Honour to
be, &c."


II.


_From the Same to the Same._
'BELEM, _November 7th_, 1755.

"Sir,--. . . The present Scene of Misery and Distress is not to be
described; the Kingdom of _Portugal_ is ruined and undone, and
_Lisbon_, one of the finest Cities that ever was seen, is now no
more.  The Escape of the forementioned _Sir. O. Vyell_ is one of the
most providential Things that ever was heard of; for whilst he was
riding about the middle of the City in his Chaise, on the first
instant, he observed the Driver to look behind him, and immediately
to make the Mules gallop as fast as possible, but both he and they
were very soon killed and buried in the Ruins of a House which fell
on them; whereupon _Sir Oliver_ jumped out of the Chaise, and ran
into a House that instantly fell also to the Ground, and buried him
in the Ruins for a considerable Time; but it pleased God that he was
taken out alive, and not much bruised.  His Lady likewise was
providentially in the Garden when their House fell, and so escaped.
About half an Hour after the first Shock, the City was on fire in
five different Parts, and has been burning ever since, so that the
_English_ Merchants here are entirely ruined.  There have been three
Shocks every Day since the first, but none so violent as the first.
The King has ordered all the Soldiers to assist in burying the Dead,
to prevent a Plague; and indeed upon that Account the Fire was of
Service in consuming the Carcasses both of Men and Beasts.
The _English_ have miraculously escaped, for notwithstanding the
Factory was so numerous, not more than a Dozen are known to have been
killed; amongst whom was poor _Mrs. Hake_, Sister to Governor _Hardy_
of _New York_, who suffered as she was driving her Children before
her; and the _Spanish_ Ambassador was killed also, with his young
Child in his Arms.  Every person, from the King to the Beggar, is at
present obliged to lie in the Fields, and some are apprehensive that
a Famine may ensue."


III.

_An Extract of a Letter from on board a Ship in Lisbon Harbour,
Nov: 19, to the same Purport_.

"Mine will not bring you the first News of the most dreadful Calamity
befallen this City and whole Kingdom.  On _Saturday_ the first
instant, about half an Hour past nine o'clock, I was retired to my
Room after Breakfast, when I perceived the House began to shake, but
did not apprehend the Cause; however, as I saw the Neighbours about
me all running down Stairs, I also made the best of my Way; and by
the time I had cross'd the Street, and got under the Piazzas of some
low House, it was darker than the darkest Night I ever was out in,
and continued so for about a Minute, occasioned by the Clouds of Dust
from the falling of Houses on all sides.  After it cleared up, I ran
into a large Square adjoining; but being soon alarmed with a Cry that
the Sea was coming in, all the People crowded foreward to run to the
Hills, I among the rest, with Mr. _Wood_ and Family.  We went near
two Miles thro' the Streets, climbing over the Ruins of Churches,
Houses, &c., and stepping over hundreds of dead and dying People,
Carriages, Chaises and Mules, lying all crushed to Pieces; and that
Day being a great Festival in their Churches, and happening just at
the time of celebrating the first Mass, thousands were assembled in
the Churches, the major part of whom were killed; for the great
Buildings, particularly those which stood on any Eminence, suffered
the most Damage.  Very few of the Churches or Convents have escaped.
We staid near two Hours in an open Campo; and a dismal scene it was,
the People howling and crying, and the Sacrament going about to dying
persons: so I advised, as the best, to return to the Square near our
own House and there wait the event, which we did immediately; but by
the Time we got there the City was in Flames in several distant
Parts, being set on fire by some Villains, who confessed it before
Execution.  This completed the Destruction of the greatest Part of
the City; for in the Terror all Persons were, no Attempt was made to
stop it; and the Wind was very high, so that it was communicated from
one Street to another by the Flakes of Fire drove by the Winds.
It raged with great Violence for eight Days, and this in the
principal and most thronged Parts of the City; People being fled into
the Fields half naked, the Fire consumed all sorts of Merchandise,
Household Goods, and Wearing Apparel, so that hardly anything is left
to cover People, and they live in Tents in the Fields.  If the Fire
had not happened, People would have recovered their Effects out of
the Ruins; but this has made such a Scene of Desolation and Misery as
Words cannot describe."

"The King's Palace in the City is totally destroyed, with all the
Jewels, Furniture, &c.  The _India_ Warehouses adjoining, full of
rich Goods, are all consumed.  The Custom-house, piled up with Bales
upon Bales, is all destroyed; and the Tobacco and other Warehouses,
with the Cargoes of three _Brazil_ Fleets, shared the same Fate.
In short, there are few Goods left in the whole City."


IV.


_From a Ship's Captain writing home under the same date_.

". . . On Saturday the first instant, I arose at Five, in order to
remove my Ship from the Custom-house, agreeable to my Order; by Nine
we sailed down and anchored off the upper end of the _Terceras_.
Wind at N.E. a small Breeze, and a fine clear morning.  Ten Minutes
before Ten, I felt the Ship have an uncommon Motion, and could not
help thinking she was aground, although sure of the Depth of Water.
As the Motion increased, my Amazement increased also; and as I was
looking round to find out the Meaning of this uncommon Motion, I was
immediately acquainted with the direful Cause; when at that Instant
looking towards the City, I beheld the tall and stately Buildings
tumbling down, with great Cracks and Noise, and particularly that
part of the City from _St. Paul's_ in a direct Line to _Bairroalto_;
as also, at the same Time, that Part from the said Church along the
River-side Eastward as far as the Gallows, and so in a curve Line
Northward again; and the Buildings as far as _St. Joze_ and the
_Rofcio_, were laid in the three following Shocks, which were so
violent as I heard many say they could with great Difficulty stand on
their Legs.  There is scarce one House of this great City left
habitable.  The Earth opened, and rent in several Places, and many
expected to be swallowed up.--As it happened at a Time when the
Kitchens were furnished with Fires, they communicated their Heat to
the Timber with which their Houses were built or adorned, and in
which the Natives are very curious and expensive, both in Furniture
and Ceilings; and by this means the City was in a Blaze in different
Parts at once.  The Conflagration lasted a whole Week.--What chiefly
contributed to the Destruction of the City, was the Narrowness of the
Streets.  It is not to be expressed by Human Tongue, how dreadful and
how awful it was to enter the City after the Fire was abated: when
looking upwards one was struck with Terror at beholding frightful
Pyramids of ruined Fronts, some inclining one Way, some another; then
on the other hand with Horror, in viewing Heaps of Bodies crushed to
death, half-buried and half-burnt; and if one went through the broad
Places or Squares, there was nothing to be met with but People
bewailing their Misfortunes, wringing their Hands, and crying
_The World is at an End_.  In short, it was the most lamentable Scene
that Eyes could behold.  As the Shocks, though Small, are frequent,
the People keep building Wooden Houses in the Fields; but the King
has ordered no Houses to be built to the Eastward of _Alcantara_
Gate.--Just now four _English_ Sailors have been condemned for
stealing Goods, and hiding them in the Ballast, with Intent to make a
Property of them."



Chapter VII.


THE LAST OFFER


His villa being destroyed, they had carried Sir Oliver out to Belem,
to one of the wooden hospitals hastily erected in the royal grounds.
There the King's surgeon dressed his wounds and set the broken left
arm, Ruth attending with splints and bandages.

When all was done and the patient asleep, she crept forth.  She would
fain have stayed to watch by him; but this would have meant crowding
the air for the sufferers, who already had much ado to breathe.
She crept forth, therefore, and slept that night out on the naked
ground, close under the lee of the canvas.

Early next morning she was up and doing.  A dozen hospitals had been
improvised and each was crying out for helpers.  She chose that of
her friend Mr. Castres, the British envoy.  It stood within a
high-walled garden, sheltered from the wind which, for some days
after the earthquake, blew half a gale.  At first the hospital
consisted of two tents; but in the next three days these increased to
a dozen, filling the enclosure.  Then, just as doctors and nurses
despaired of coping with it, the influx of wounded slackened and
ceased, almost of a sudden.  In the city nothing remained now but to
bury the dead, and in haste, lest their corpses should breed
pestilence.  It was horribly practical; but every day, as she awoke,
her first thought was for the set of the wind; her first fear that in
the night it might have shifted, and might be blowing from the east
across Lisbon.  The wind, however, kept northerly, as though it had
been nailed to that quarter.  She heard that gangs were at work
clearing the streets and collecting the dead; at first burying them
laboriously after the third day, burning them in stacks.  As the
Penitent had said, in an earthquake one gets down to nakedness.
During those next ten days Ruth lived hourly face to face with her
kind, men and women, naked, bleeding, suffering.

She contrived too, all this while, to have the small motherless Hake
children near her, inventing a hundred errands to keep them busy.
Thus, to be sure, they saw many things too sad for their young eyes,
yet Ruth perceived that in feeling helpful they escaped the worst
broodings of bereavement, and, on the whole, watching them at times,
as their small hands were busy tearing up bandages or washing out
medicine bottles, she felt satisfied that their mother would have
wished it so.


Sir Oliver's arm healed well, and in general (it seemed) he was
making a rapid recovery.  It was remarkable, though, that he seldom
smiled, and scarcely spoke at all save to answer a question.
He would rest for hours at a time staring straight in front of him,
much as he had lain and stared up at the ceiling of the fatal house.
Something weighed on his mind; or maybe the brain had received a
shock and must have time to recover.  Ruth watched him anxiously,
keeping a cheerful face.

But there came an evening when, as she returned, tired but cheerful,
from the hospital, he called her to him.

"Ruth!"

"My lord." She was beside his couch in a moment.

"I have something to say to you; something I have wanted to say for
days.  But I wanted also to think it all out. . . . I have not yet
asked you to forgive me--"

"Dear, you were forgiven long ago."

"--But I have asked Heaven to forgive me."

Ruth gave a little start and stared at him doubtfully.

"Yes," he went on, "as I lay pinned--those hours through, waiting for
death--something opened to me; a new life, I hope."

"And by a blessing I do not understand--by a blessing of blessings--
you were given back to it, Oliver."

"Back to it?" he repeated.  "You do not understand me.  The blessing
was God's special grace; the new life I speak of was a life
acknowledging that grace."

There was silence for many seconds; for a minute almost, Ruth's hands
had locked themselves together, and she pulled at the intertwisted
fingers.

"I beg your pardon," she said at length.  "You are right--I do not
understand."  Her voice had lost its ring; the sound of it was
leaden, spiritless.  But he failed to note this, being preoccupied