Leaning back in my chair, I smoked my morning cigar and watched Uncle Nelson open his mail. He had an old-fashioned way of doing this: holding the envelope in his left hand, clipping its right edge with his desk shears, and then removing the inclosure and carefully reading it before he returned it to its original envelope. Across one end he would make a memorandum of the contents, after which the letters were placed in a neat pile.
As I watched him methodically working, Uncle Nelson raised a large blue envelope, clipped its end, and read the inclosure with an appearance of unusual interest. Then, instead of adding it to the letters before him, he laid it aside; and a few minutes later reverted to it again, giving the letter a second careful perusal. Deeply musing, for a time he sat motionless in his 10chair. Then, arousing himself from his deep abstraction, he cast a fleeting glance in my direction and composedly resumed his task.
I knew Uncle Nelson’s habits so well that this affair of the blue envelope told me plainly the communication was of unusual importance. Yet the old gentleman calmly continued his work until every letter the mail contained was laid in a pile before him and fully docketed. With the last he suddenly swung around in his chair and faced me.
“Robert,” said he, “how would you like to go to Brazil?”
Lacking a ready answer to this blunt question I simply stared at him.
“De Pintra has written me,” he continued—“do you know of Dom Miguel de Pintra?” I shook my head. “He is one of the oldest customers of the house. His patronage assisted us in getting established. We are under deep obligations to de Pintra.”
“I do not remember seeing his name upon the books,” I said, thoughtfully.
11“No; before you came into the firm he had retired from business—for he is a wealthy man. But I believe this retirement has been bad for him. His energetic nature would not allow him to remain idle, and he has of late substituted politics for business.”
“That is not so bad,” I remarked, lightly. “Some people make a business of politics, and often it proves a fairly successful one.”
My uncle nodded.
“Here in New Orleans, yes,” he acknowledged; “but things are vastly different in Brazil. I am sorry to say that Dom Miguel is a leader of the revolutionists.”
“Ah,” said I, impressed by his grave tone. And I added: “I have supposed that Dom Pedro is secure upon his throne, and personally beloved by his subjects.”
“He is doubtless secure enough,” returned Uncle Nelson, dryly, “but, although much respected by his people, there is, I believe, serious opposition to an imperial form of government. Rebellions have been numerous during his reign. Indeed, these 12people of Brazil seem rapidly becoming republicans in principle, and it is to establish a republican form of government that my friend de Pintra has placed himself at the head of a conspiracy.”
“Good for de Pintra!” I cried, heartily.
“No, no; it is bad,” he rejoined, with a frown. “There is always danger in opposing established monarchies, and in this case the Emperor of Brazil has the countenance of both Europe and America.”
As I ventured no reply to this he paused, and again regarded me earnestly.
“I believe you are the very person, Robert, I should send de Pintra. He wishes me to secure for him a secretary whom he may trust implicitly. At present, he writes me, he is surrounded by the emperor’s spies. Even the members of his own household may be induced to betray him. Indeed, I imagine my old friend in a very hot-bed of intrigue and danger. Yet he believes he could trust an American who has no partiality for monarchies and no inducement to sympathize with any party but his own. Will you go, Robert?”
13The question, abrupt though it was, did not startle me. Those accustomed to meet Nelson Harcliffe’s moods must think quickly. Still, I hesitated.
“Can you spare me, Uncle?”
“Not very well,” he admitted. “You have relieved me of many of the tedious details of business since you came home from college. But, for de Pintra’s sake, I am not only willing you should go, but I ask you, as a personal favor, to hasten to Rio and serve my friend faithfully, protecting him, so far as you may be able, from the dangers he is facing. You will find him a charming fellow—a noble man, indeed—and he needs just such a loyal assistant as I believe you will prove. Will you go, Robert?”
Uncle Nelson’s sudden proposal gave me a thrill of eager interest best explained by that fascinating word “danger.” Five minutes before I would have smiled at the suggestion that I visit a foreign country on so quixotic an errand; but the situation was, after all, as simple as it was sudden in development, and my uncle’s earnest voice 14and eyes emphasized his request in no uncertain manner. Would I go? Would I, a young man on the threshold of life, with pulses readily responding to the suggestion of excitement and adventure, leave my humdrum existence in a mercantile establishment to mingle in the intrigues of a nation striving to cast off the shackles of a monarchy and become free and independent? My answer was assured.
Nevertheless, we Harcliffes are chary of exhibiting emotion. Any eagerness on my part would, I felt, have seriously displeased my reserved and deliberate uncle. Therefore I occupied several minutes in staring thoughtfully through the open window before I finally swung around in my chair and answered:
“Yes, Uncle, I will go.”
“Thank you,” said he, a flush of pleasure spreading over his fine old face. Then he turned again to the letter in the blue envelope. “The Castina sails on Wednesday, I see, and Dom Miguel wishes his new secretary to go on her. Therefore you 15must interview Captain Lertine at once, and arrange for passage.”
“Very well, sir.”
I took my hat, returned my uncle’s grave bow, and left the office.
The Castina was a Brazilian trading-ship frequently employed by the firm of Harcliffe Brothers to transport merchandise from New Orleans to Rio de Janiero. I had formed a slight acquaintance with the master, Pedro Lertine, and was not surprised when he placed his own state-room at my disposal; for although the vessel usually carried passengers, the cabin accommodations were none of the best.
The Captain asked no questions concerning my voyage, contenting himself with the simple statement that he had often carried my father with him in the Castina in former years, and was now pleased to welcome the son aboard. He exhibited rare deference toward my uncle, Nelson Harcliffe, as the head of our firm, when the old gentleman came to the head of the levee to bid me good by; this Uncle Nelson 17did by means of a gentle pressure of my hand. I am told the Harcliffes are always remarkable for their reserve, and certainly the head of our house was an adept at repressing his emotions. Neither he nor my father, who had been his associate in founding the successful mercantile establishment, had ever cared to make any intimate friends; and for this reason the warmth of friendship evinced by Uncle Nelson in sending me on this peculiar mission to Dom Miguel de Pintra had caused me no little astonishment.
After his simple handshake my uncle walked back to his office, and I immediately boarded the Castina to look after the placing of my trunks. Before I had fairly settled myself in my cozy state-room we were under way and steaming down the river toward the open sea.
On deck I met a young gentleman of rather prepossessing personality who seemed quite willing to enter into conversation. He was a dark-eyed, handsome Brazilian, well dressed and of pleasing manners. His card bore the inscription, Manuel Cortes 18de Guarde. He expressed great delight at finding me able to speak his native tongue, and rendered himself so agreeable that we had soon established very cordial relations. He loved to talk, and I love to listen, especially when I am able to gather information by so doing, and de Guarde seemed to know Brazil perfectly, and to delight in describing it. I noticed that he never touched on politics, but from his general conversation I gleaned considerable knowledge of the country I was about to visit.
During dinner he chattered away continually in his soft Portuguese patois, and the other passengers, less than a dozen in number, seemed content to allow him to monopolize the conversation. I noticed that Captain Lertine treated de Guarde with fully as much consideration as he did me, while the other passengers he seemed to regard with haughty indifference. However, I made the acquaintance of several of my fellow-voyagers and found them both agreeable and intelligent.
I had promised myself a pleasant, quiet voyage to the shores of Brazil, but presently 19events began to happen with a rapidity that startled me. Indeed, it was not long before I received a plain intimation that I had embarked upon an adventure that might prove dangerous.
We were two days out, and the night fell close and warm. Finding my berth insufferably oppressive I arose about midnight, partially dressed, and went on deck to get whatever breeze might be stirring. It was certainly cooler than below, and reclining in the shadow beside a poop I had nearly succeeded in falling asleep when aroused by the voices of two men who approached and paused to lean over the taffrail. They proved to be Captain Lertine and de Guarde, and I was about to announce my presence when the mention of my own name caused me to hesitate.
“I cannot understand why you should suspect young Harcliffe,” the Captain said.
“Because, of all your passengers, he would be most fitted to act as de Pintra’s secretary,” was the reply. “And, moreover, he is a Harcliffe.”
“That’s just it, senhor,” declared the 20other; “he is a Harcliffe, and since his father’s death, one of the great firm of Harcliffe Brothers. It is absurd to think one of his position would go to Brazil to serve Miguel de Pintra.”
“Perhaps the adventure entices him,” returned de Guarde’s soft voice, in reflective tones. “He is but lately from college, and his uncle may wish him to know something of Brazil, where the greater part of the Harcliffe fortune has been made.”
“Deus Meo!” exclaimed the Captain; “but you seem to know everything about everybody, my dear Valcour! However, this suspicion of young Harcliffe is nonsense, I assure you. You must look elsewhere for the new secretary—provided, of course, he is on my ship.”
“Oh, he is doubtless on board,” answered de Guarde, with a low, confident laugh. “De Pintra’s letters asked that a man be sent on the first ship bound for Rio, and Nelson Harcliffe is known to act promptly in all business matters. Moreover, I have studied carefully the personality of each of your passengers, and none of them seems 21fitted for the post so perfectly as young Harcliffe himself. I assure you, my dear Lertine, that I am right. He can be going out for no other purpose than to assist de Pintra.”
The Captain whistled softly.
“Therefore?” he murmured.
“Therefore,” continued de Guarde, gravely, “it is my duty to prevent his reaching his destination.”
“You will have him arrested when we reach Rio?”
“Arrested? No, indeed. Those Americans at Washington become peevish if we arrest one of their citizens, however criminal he may be. The situation demands delicate treatment, and my orders are positive. Our new secretary for the revolution must not reach Rio.”
Again the Captain whistled—a vague melody with many false and uncertain notes. And the other remained silent.
Naturally I found the conversation most interesting, and no feeling of delicacy prevented my straining my ears to catch more of it. It was the Captain who broke the long silence.
22“Nevertheless, my dear Valcour—”
“De Guarde, if you please.”
“Nevertheless, de Guarde, our Mr. Harcliffe may be innocent, and merely journeying to Brazil on business.”
“I propose to satisfy myself on that point. Great God, man! do you think I love this kind of work—even for the Emperor’s protection? But my master is just, though forced at times to act with seeming cruelty. I must be sure that Harcliffe is going to Brazil as secretary to the rebel leader, and you must aid me in determining the fact. When our man goes to breakfast in the morning I will examine his room for papers. The pass-key is on the bunch you gave me, I suppose?”
“Yes, it is there.”
“Very well. Join your passengers at breakfast, and should Mr. Harcliffe leave the table on any pretext, see that I am duly warned.”
“Certainly, senhor.”
“And now I am going to bed. Good night, Lertine.”
“Good night, de Guarde.”
23They moved cautiously away, and a few minutes later I followed, regaining my state-room without encountering any one.
Once in my bunk I lay revolving the situation in my mind. Evidently it was far from safe to involve one’s self in Brazilian politics. My friend Valcour, as the Captain had called him, was a spy of the Emperor, masquerading under the title of Senhor Manuel Cortes de Guarde. A clever fellow, indeed, despite his soft, feminine ways and innocent chatter, and one who regarded even murder as permissible in the execution of his duty to Dom Pedro. It was the first time in my life I had been, to my knowledge, in any personal danger, and the sensation was rather agreeable than otherwise.
It astonished me to discover that de Guarde knew so perfectly the contents of Dom Miguel’s letter to my uncle. Doubtless the secret police had read and made a copy of it before the blue envelope had been permitted to leave Brazil. But in that case, I could not understand why they had allowed the missive to reach its destination.
24In his cool analysis of the situation, my friend the spy had unerringly hit upon the right person as the prospective secretary of the revolutionary leader. Yet he had no positive proof, and it was pleasant to reflect that in my possession were no papers of any sort that might implicate me. Uncle Nelson had even omitted the customary letter of introduction.
“De Pintra knew your father, and your face will therefore vouch for your identity,” the old gentleman had declared. Others have remarked upon the strong resemblance I bear my father, and I had no doubt de Pintra would recognize me. But, in addition, I had stored in my memory a secret word that would serve as talisman in case of need.
The chances of my puzzling Dom Pedro’s detective were distinctly in my favor, and I was about to rest content in that knowledge, when an idea took possession of me that promised so much amusement that I could not resist undertaking it. It may be that I was influenced by a mild chagrin at the deception practised upon me by de Guarde, 25or the repulsion that a secret-service man always inspires in the breast of a civilian. Anyway, I resolved to pit my wits against those of Senhor Valcour, and having formulated my plan I fell asleep and rested comfortably until daybreak.
It had been my habit to carry with me a pocket diary, inscribing therein any vivid impressions or important events that occurred to me. There were many blank pages, for my life had been rather barren of incident of late; but I had resolved to keep a record of this trip and for this purpose the little book was now lying upon the low shelf that served as table in my room.
Arising somewhat before my usual hour I made a hurried toilet and sat down to make entries in my diary. I stated that my sudden desire to visit Brazil was due to curiosity, and that my uncle had placed several minor business matters in my hands to attend to. My return to New Orleans would depend entirely upon how well I liked the country where our house had so successfully traded for a half-century. 26Arriving at this point, I added the following paragraphs:
“On the ship with me Uncle Nelson is sending a private secretary to Dom Miguel de Pintra, who, it seems, was an ancient customer of our house, but is now more interested in politics than in commerce. This secretary is a remarkable fellow, yet so placid and unassuming that no one is likely to suspect his mission. He seems to know everything, and has astonished me by his intimate knowledge of all that transpires upon the ship. For example, he tells me that my friend de Guarde, of whom I have already grown fond, is none other than a certain Valcour, well known in the secret service of his majesty the Emperor of Brazil. Valcour is on board because he knows the contents of a letter written by de Pintra to my uncle, asking for a shrewd American to become his private secretary; also Valcour is instructed to dispose of the rebel secretary before we land at Rio—meaning, of course, to murder him secretly. This seemingly horrible plot but amuses our secretary, for Valcour has only poor Captain Lertine to aid him, whereas the wonderful American has a following of desperate men trained to deeds of bloodshed who will obey his slightest nod. From what I learn I am confident the plan is to assassinate my friend Valcour in a secret manner, for here is a rare opportunity to rid themselves of a hated royalist spy. Poor de Guarde! I would like to warn him of his danger, but dare not. Even then, I doubt his ability to escape. The toils are closing about him, even while he innocently imagines 27that he, as the Emperor’s agent, controls the situation. It would all be laughable, were it not so very terrible in its tragic aspect.
“But there! I must not mix with politics, but strive to hold aloof from either side. The secretary, though doubtless a marvel of diplomacy and duplicity, is too unscrupulous to suit me. He has actually corrupted the entire crew, from the engineers down, and at his word I am assured the fellows would mutiny and seize the ship. What chance has my poor friend de Guarde—or Valcour—to escape this demon? Yet, after all, it is not my affair, and I dare not speak.”
This entry I intended to puzzle Senhor Valcour, even if it failed to wholly deceive him. I wrote it with assumed carelessness, to render it uniform with the former paragraphs the book contained. These last were of a trivial nature, dating back for some months. They would interest no one but myself; yet I expected them to be read, for I left the diary lying upon my shelf, having first made a number of pin-marks in the paint, at the edges of the cover, so that I might assure myself, on my return to the room, whether or not the book had been disturbed.
This task completed, I locked the door 28behind me and cheerfully joined the breakfast party in the main cabin.
De Guarde was not present, but no one seemed to miss him, and we lingered long in light conversation over the meal, as it is the custom of passengers aboard a slow-going ship.
Afterward, when I went on deck, I discovered de Guarde leaning over the rail, evidently in deep thought. As I strolled past him, puffing my cigar, he turned around, and the sight of his face, white and stern, positively startled me. The soft dark eyes had lost their confident, merry look, and bore a trace of fear. No need to examine the pin-marks on my shelf. The Emperor’s spy had, without doubt, read the false entry in my diary, and it had impressed him beyond my expectation.
During the remainder of the voyage I had little intercourse with Senhor Manuel Cortes de Guarde. Indeed, I had turned the tables quite cleverly upon the spy, who doubtless imagined many dangers in addition to those indicated in my diary. For my part, I became a bit ashamed of the imposition I had practised, despite the fact that the handsome young Brazilian had exhibited a perfect willingness to assassinate me in the Emperor’s interests. Attracted toward him in spite of my discoveries, I made several attempts to resume our former friendly intercourse; but he recoiled from my overtures and shunned my society.
In order to impress upon de Guarde the truth of the assertions I had made in the diary I selected a young physician, a Dr. Neel, to impersonate the intriguing and 30bloodthirsty American secretary. He was a quiet, unobtrusive fellow, with an intelligent face, and a keen, inquiring look in his eyes. I took occasion to confide to Dr. Neel, in a mysterious manner that must have amused him, that I was afflicted with an incomprehensible disease. He promptly mistook me for a hypochondriac, and humored me in a good-natured fashion, so that we were frequently observed by de Guarde in earnest and confidential conversation. My ruse proved effective. Often I surprised a look of anxiety upon the Brazilian’s face as he watched Dr. Neel from a distance; but de Guarde took pains not to mingle with any group that the physician made part of, and it was evident the detective had no longer any desire to precipitate a conflict during the voyage to Rio.
I do not say that Valcour was cowardly. In his position I am positive I could not have escaped the doubts that so evidently oppressed him. He secluded himself in his state-room, under pretense of illness, as we drew nearer to Brazil, and I was considerably relieved to have him out of the way.
31Captain Lertine, to whom Valcour had evidently confided his discovery of the diary, was also uneasy during those days, and took occasion to ask me many questions about Dr. Neel, which I parried in a way that tended to convince him that the physician was none other than the secret emissary sent by my uncle to Miguel de Pintra. The good Captain was nervous over the safety of the ship, telling me in a confidential way that nearly all his crew were new hands, and that he had no confidence in their loyalty to the Emperor.
His face bore an expression of great relief when we anchored in the bay of Rio de Janiero on a clear June morning at daybreak, and no time was lost in transferring the passengers of the Castina to a small steam launch, which soon landed us and our effects upon the quay.
I had not seen Valcour since we anchored, but after bidding good by to Dr. Neel, who drove directly to his hotel, I caught a glimpse of the detective’s eager face as he followed the doctor in a cab.
The whole affair struck me as being a 32huge joke, and the sensation of danger that I experienced on board the ship was dissolved by the bright sunshine and the sight of the great city calmly awakening and preparing for its usual daily round of business.
I dispatched my trunks to the Continental Railway station, and finding that I had ample time determined to follow them on foot, the long walk being decidedly grateful after the days on shipboard. Much as I longed to see the beauties of Brazil’s famous capital, I dared not at this time delay to do so, as my uncle had impressed upon me the necessity of presenting myself to de Pintra as soon as possible after my arrival.
Another thing that influenced me was the deception that I had practised upon the detective. Valcour, with the Emperor at his back, was now a power to be reckoned with, and as soon as he discovered that I had misled him the police would doubtless be hot upon my trail. So my safest plan was to proceed at once to the province where my new chief had power to protect me.
33I reached the railway station without difficulty and found I had a quarter of an hour to spare.
“Give me a ticket to Cuyaba,” I said to the clerk at the window.
He stared at me as he handed the card through the grating.
“Matto Grosso train, senhor,” he said. “It leaves at eight o’clock.”
“Thank you,” I returned, moving away.
A tall policeman in an odd uniform of black and gold barred my way.
“Your pardon, senhor Americano,” said he, touching his visor in salute; “I beg you to follow me quietly.”
He turned on his heel and marched away, and I, realizing that trouble had already overtaken me, followed him to the street.
A patrol was drawn up at the curb, a quaint-looking vehicle set low between four high wheels and covered with canvas. Startled at the sight I half turned, with a vague idea of escape, and confronted two stout policemen at my rear.
Resistance seemed useless. I entered 34the wagon, my captor seating himself upon the bench beside me. Instantly we whirled away at a rapid pace.
I now discerned two men, also in uniform, upon the front seat. One was driving the horses, and presently the other climbed over the seat and sat opposite my guard.
The tall policeman frowned.
“Why are you here, Marco?” he demanded, in a threatening voice.
“For this!” was the prompt answer; and with the words I caught a quick flash as the man called Marco buried a knife to the hilt in the other’s breast.
My captor scarce uttered a sound as he pitched headforemost upon the floor of the now flying wagon. The driver had but given a glance over his shoulder and lashed his horses to their utmost speed.
Cold with horror at the revolting deed I gazed into the dark eyes of the murderer. He smiled as he answered my look and shrugged his shoulders as if excusing the crime.
“A blow for freedom, senhor!” he announced, in his soft, native patois. 35“Dom Miguel would be grieved were you captured by the police.”
I started.
“Dom Miguel! You know him, then?”
“Assuredly, senhor. You are the new secretary. Otherwise you would not be so foolish as to demand a ticket to Cuyaba—the seat of the revolution.”
“I begin to understand,” I said, after a moment’s thought. “You are of the police?”
“Sergeant Marco, senhor; at your service. And I have ventured to kill our dear lieutenant in order to insure your safety. I am sorry,” he added, gently touching the motionless form that lay between us; “the lieutenant was a good comrade—but a persistent royalist.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“To a suburban crossing, where you may catch the Matto Grosso train.”
“And you?”
“I? I am in no danger, senhor. It is you who have done this cruel deed—and you will escape. The driver—a true patriot—will join me in accusing you.”
36I nodded, my horror of the tragedy growing each moment. Truly this revolutionary party must be formed of desperate and unscrupulous men, who hesitated at no crime to advance their interests. If the royalists were but half so cruel I had indeed ventured into a nest of adders. And it was the thought of Valcour’s confessed purpose to murder me on shipboard that now sealed my lips from a protest against this deed that was to be laid upon my shoulders.
Presently the wagon slowed up, stopping with a jerk that nearly threw me from my seat. The sergeant alighted and assisted me to follow him.
We were at a deserted crossing, and the buildings of the city lay scattered a quarter of a mile away.
“Take this flag, senhor. The engineer will stop to let you aboard. Farewell, and kindly convey my dutiful respects to Dom Miguel.”
As the wagon rolled away the train came gliding from the town, and I stepped between the tracks and waved the flag as 37directed. The engine slowed down, stopped a brief instant, and I scrambled aboard as the train recovered speed and moved swiftly away.
For the present, at least, I was safe.
Quite unobtrusively I seated myself in the rear end of the passenger coach and gazed from the window as we rushed along, vainly endeavoring to still the nervous beating of my heart and to collect and center my thoughts upon the trying situation in which I found myself. Until the last hour I had been charmed with my mission to Brazil, imagining much pleasure in acting as secretary to a great political leader engaged in a struggle for the freedom of his country. The suggestion of danger my post involved had not frightened me, nor did it even now; but I shrank from the knowledge that cold-blooded assassination was apparently of little moment to these conspirators. In less than two hours after landing at Rio I found myself fleeing from the police, with a foul and revolting murder fastened upon me in the name of the revolution! Where would it all end? Did Uncle 38Nelson thoroughly realize the terrible nature of the political plot into which he had so calmly thrust me? Probably not. But already I knew that Brazil was a dangerous country and sheltered a hot-headed and violent people.
It was a long and dreary ride as we mounted the grade leading to the tablelands of the interior. Yet the country was beautifully green and peaceful under the steady glare of the sun, and gradually my distress passed away and left me more composed.
Neither the passengers nor trainmen paid the slightest attention to me, and although at first I looked for arrest at every station where we halted, there was no indication that the police of Rio had discovered my escape and flight.
Night came at last, and I dozed fitfully during the long hours, although still too nervous for sound sleep. We breakfasted at a way-station, and a couple of hours later, as I was gazing thoughtfully out the window, the conductor aroused me by settling into the seat at my side. He was a 39short, pudgy individual, and wheezed asthmatically with every breath.
“I received a telegram at the last station,” he confided to me, choking and coughing between the words. “It instructed me to arrest an American senhor traveling to Cuyaba. Have you seen him?”
I shivered, and stared back into his dull eyes.
“Ah! I thought not,” he continued, with a short laugh. “It is not the first telegram they have sent this trip from Rio, you know; but I cannot find the fellow anywhere aboard. Do you wonder? How can I be expected to distinguish an American from a Brazilian? Bah! I am not of the police.”
I began to breathe again. The conductor nudged my ribs with his elbow.
“These police will perhaps be at the station. Cuyaba is the next stop. But we will slow up, presently, at a curve near the edge of the forest. Were I the American, and aboard this train, I would get out there, and wait among the trees in the forest until Dom Miguel’s red cart comes along. But, 40ai de mim, the American is not here! Eh? Thank God for it! But I must leave, senhor. Good day to you.”
He bustled away, and at once I seized my traveling-bag and slipped out to the back platform. We slowed up at the curve a moment later, and I sprang to the ground and entered the shade of a group of trees that marked the edge of the little forest.
And there I sat upon a fallen tree-trunk for two weary hours, wondering what would happen next, and wishing with all my heart I had never ventured into this intrigue-ridden country. But at the end of that time I heard the rattle of a wagon and the regular beat of a horse’s feet.
Peering from my refuge I discerned a red cart slowly approaching over the road that wound between the railway track and the forest. It was driven by a sleepy Brazilian boy in a loose white blouse and a wide straw hat.
As he arrived opposite me I stepped out and hailed him.
“Are you from Dom Miguel de Pintra?” I asked.
41He nodded.
“I am the American he is expecting,” I continued, and climbed to the seat beside him. He showed no surprise at my action, nor, indeed, any great interest in the meeting; but as soon as I was seated he whipped up the horse, which developed unexpected speed, and we were soon rolling swiftly over the country road.
The province of Matto Grosso is very beautiful, the residences reminding one greatly of English country estates, except that their architecture is on the stiff Portuguese order. At least a half-mile separated the scattered mansions from one another, and the grounds were artistically planned and seemingly well cared for. At this season the rich, luxuriant foliage of Brazil was at its best, and above all brooded a charming air of peace that was extremely comforting after my late exciting experiences. We met few people on the way, and these were peasants, who touched their hats respectfully as we passed.
We had driven some five miles when we came to an estate rather more extensive than its neighbors, for the hedge of blooming cactus that divided the grounds from the roadway ran in an unbroken line as far as the eye could reach.
43However, we came to a gateway at last and turned into the grounds, where magnificent trees shaded a winding drive ascending to the fine old mansion of de Pintra.
A man stood upon the porch shading his eyes with his hand and gazing at us as we approached. When I alighted from the cart he came down the steps to meet me, bowing very courteously, and giving my hand a friendly pressure. No other person was in sight, and the red cart had disappeared around the corner of the house.
“You are welcome, sir,” he said, in a quiet but most agreeable voice. “You come from my friend Nelson Harcliffe? That was my thought.” He paused to give me a keen look, and then smiled—a sweet, winning smile such as I have seldom seen. “Ah! may you not be a Harcliffe yourself? Your features seem quite familiar. But, pardon me, sir; I have not introduced myself. I am Miguel de Pintra.”
I fear I stared at him with somewhat rude intentness, for Dom Miguel was a man to arouse interest in any beholder. Tall, spare, but not ungraceful, his snow-white 44hair and beard made strong contrast with his bronzed features. His eyes, soft and gentle in expression, were black. His smile, which was not frequent, disclosed a line of even, white teeth. His dress was a suit of plain, well-fitting black, supplemented by irreproachable linen. Taken altogether, Dom Miguel appeared a model of the old school of gentility, which may be as quickly recognized in Brazil as in England, France or America. Indeed, it seemed an absurdity to connect this eminently respectable personage with revolutions, murders, and intrigue, and my spirits rose the moment I set eyes upon his pleasant face.
“I am Robert Harcliffe,” said I, answering the question his politeness would not permit him to ask; “the son of Marshall Harcliffe.”
A flash of surprise and delight swept over his dark face. He seized both my hands in his own.
“What!” he cried, “Nelson Harcliffe has sent me his own nephew, the son of my dear old friend? This is, indeed, a rare expression of loyalty!”
45“I thought you knew,” I rejoined, rather embarrassed, for the fathomless eyes were reading me with singular eagerness.
“I only knew that Nelson Harcliffe would respond promptly to my requests. I knew that the Castina would bring my secretary to Brazil. But whom he might be I could not even guess.” He paused a moment, to continue in a graver tone: “I am greatly pleased. I need a friend—a faithful assistant.”
“I hope I may prove to be both, sir,” I returned, earnestly. “But you seem not to lack loyal friends. On my way hither from Rio de Janiero I have been protected more than once, doubtless by your orders.”
“Yes; the cause has many true adherents, and I notified our people to expect an American gentleman on the Castina and to forward him to me in safety. They know, therefore, that you came to assist the Revolution, and it would have been strange, indeed, had the royalists been able to interfere with you.”
“Your party is more powerful than I 46had suspected,” I remarked, thinking of my several narrow escapes from arrest.
“We are only powerful because the enemy is weak,” answered Dom Miguel, with a sigh. “Neither side is ready for combat, or even an open rupture. It is now the time of intrigue, of plot and counterplot, of petty conspiracies and deceits. These would discourage any honest heart were not the great Cause behind it all—were not the struggle for freedom and our native land! But come; you are weary. Let me show you to your room, Robert Harcliffe.”
He dwelt upon the name with seeming tenderness, and I began to understand why my father and my stern Uncle Nelson had both learned to love this kindly natured gentleman of Brazil.
He led me through cool and spacious passages to a cozy room on the ground floor, which, he told me, connected by a door with his study or work-room.
“I fear my trunks have been seized by the government,” said I, and then related to him the details of my arrest and the assassination of the police lieutenant.
47He listened to the story calmly and without interruption; but when it was finished he said:
“All will be reported to me this evening, and then we will see whether your baggage cannot be saved. There were no papers that might incriminate you?”
“None whatever.”
Then I gave him the story of Valcour, or de Guarde, and he smiled when I related the manner in which the fellow had been deceived.
“I knew that Valcour had been dispatched to intercept my secretary,” said he, “and you must know that this personage is not an ordinary spy, but attached to the Emperor himself as a special detective. Hereafter,” he continued, reflectively, “the man will be your bitter enemy; and although you have outwitted him once he is a foe not to be despised. Indeed, Harcliffe, your post is not one of much security. If, when I have taken you fully into our confidence, you decide to link your fortunes to those of the Revolution, it will be with the full knowledge that your life 48may be the forfeit. But there—we will speak no more of business until after dinner.”
He left me, then, with many cordial expressions of friendship.
A servant brought my luncheon on a tray, and after eating it I started for a stroll through the grounds, enjoying the fragrance and brilliance of the flowers, the beauties of the shrubbery, and the stately rows of ancient trees. The quiet of the place suggested nothing of wars and revolutions, and it was with real astonishment that I reflected that this establishment was the central point of that conspiracy whose far-reaching power had been so vividly impressed upon me.
Engaged in this thought I turned the corner of a hedge and came face to face with a young girl, who recoiled in surprise and met my gaze with a sweet embarrassment that caused me to drop my own eyes in confusion.
“Your pardon, senhorita!” I exclaimed, and stood aside for her to pass.
She nodded, still searching my face with her clear eyes, but making no movement to 49proceed. I noted the waves of color sweeping over her fair face and the nervous tension of the little hands that pressed a mass of flowers to her bosom. Evidently she was struggling for courage to address me; so I smiled at her, reassuringly, and again bowed in my best manner, for I was not ill pleased at the encounter.
I have always had a profound reverence for woman—especially those favored ones to whom Nature has vouchsafed beauty in addition to the charm of womanhood. And here before me stood the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, a type of loveliness more sweet and delightful than any I had even dreamed could exist.
It was my fate to recognize this in the moments that I stood watching her lips tremble in the endeavor to form her first words to me.
“You are the American?” she asked, finally.
“Assuredly, donzella. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Robert Harcliffe.”
“My uncle expected you,” she said, shyly.
50“Your uncle?”
“Dom Miguel is not really my uncle,” answered the girl; “but he permits me to call him so, since he is my guardian. Yet it was not from him I learned of your arrival, but from Francisco, who traveled from Rio on the same train.”
My face doubtless showed that I was puzzled, for she added, quickly:
“Francisco is my brother, senhor. We are both devoted heart and soul to the Cause. That is why I felt that I must speak with you, why I must welcome you to our fellowship, why I must implore you to be strong and steadfast in our behalf!”
I smiled at the vehemence that had vanquished her former hesitation, and to my delight her exquisite face lighted with an answering smile.
“Ah, you may laugh at me with impunity, senhor Americano, for I have intuitions, and they tell me you will be faithful to the cause of freedom. Nay, do not protest. It is enough that I have read your face.”
With this she made a pretty courtesy 51and vanished around the hedge before I could summon a word to detain her.
It is astonishing to what an extent this encounter aroused my enthusiasm for “the Cause.” Heretofore I had regarded it rather impersonally, as an affair in which I had engaged at the request of my good uncle. But now that I had met this fellow-conspirator and gazed into the enchanting depths of her eyes, I was tremendously eager to prove my devotion to the cause of freedom.
True, I had seen the girl but a few moments. Even her name was unknown to me. But she was a rebel; Francisco, her brother, was a rebel; and Dom Miguel permitted her to call him “uncle.” Very good; very good, indeed!
When I returned to my room I was surprised to find my trunks there, they having arrived in some mysterious way during my brief absence.
I dressed for dinner and found my way to the drawing-room, where my host—or my employer, rather—was conversing with a lady and a gentleman.
52There was no reason my heart should give that bound to warn me; no one could fail to recognize that slender, graceful figure, although it was now enveloped in dainty folds of soft white mulle. But she had no intention of allowing her chance meeting to stand for a formal introduction, and as Dom Miguel presented me she shot a demure yet merry glance at me from beneath her long lashes that might readily have effected my conquest had I not already surrendered without discretion.
“The Senhorita Lesba Paola,” announced de Pintra, speaking the name with evident tenderness. Then he turned to the man. “Senhor Francisco Paola,” said he.
Francisco Paola puzzled me at that first meeting nearly as much as he did later. His thin form was dressed in a dandified manner that was almost ludicrous, and the fellow’s affectation was something amazing. Somewhat older than his bewitching sister, his features were not without a sort of effeminate beauty, of which he seemed fully aware. At once I conceived him to be a mere popinjay, and had no doubt he 53would prove brainless and well-nigh insufferable. But Dom Miguel introduced Paola with grave courtesy and showed him so much deference that I could not well be ungracious to the young dandy. Moreover, he had a stronger claim to my toleration: he was Lesba’s brother.
Scarcely were these introductions complete when another lady entered the room. She gave a slight start at sight of me, and then advanced gracefully to Dom Miguel’s side.
“My daughter, Mr. Harcliffe; Senhora Izabel de Mar,” said he, and gave me a curious glance that I could not understand.
I looked at Madam Izabel and lowered my eyes before the cold and penetrating stare I encountered. She was handsome enough, this woman; but her features, however regular, were repellant because of their absolute lack of expression—a lack caused by repression more than a want of mobility. Her face seemed carved of old ivory. Even the great eyes were impenetrable, reflecting nothing of the emotions that might dwell within. I found myself shivering, and although I sincerely tried to be agreeable to 54Dom Miguel’s daughter, the result was little more than farcical.
My sudden appearance in the household had evidently caused Madam Izabel surprise; perhaps it annoyed her, as well. But she drew me to a seat beside her and plied me with questions which I was at a loss how to answer, in view of the supposedly private nature of my mission to Brazil. Inwardly I blamed Dom Miguel for not telling me how far his daughter and his guests were in his confidence; but before I blundered more than a few aimless sentences a light voice interrupted us and Francisco Paola leaned over Madam Izabel’s chair with a vapid compliment on the lady’s charms and personal appearance that was fairly impertinent in its flippancy.
The look she gave him would have silenced an ordinary man; but Senhor Francisco smiled at her frown, took the fan from her hand, and wielded it in a mincing manner, pouring into her unwilling ears a flood of nonsense that effectually cut me out of the conversation.
Dom Miguel came to my relief by requesting me to take the younger lady in to 55dinner, and to my surprise Madam Izabel took Paola’s arm without apparent reluctance and followed us to the dining-room.
The repast would have been, I fear, rather stupid, but for Senhor Francisco’s ceaseless chatter. To my great disappointment the donzella Lesba Paola appeared exceedingly shy, and I could scarce recognize in her my eager questioner of the afternoon. De Pintra, indeed, courteously endeavored to draw the ladies into a general conversation; but his daughter was cold and unresponsive, and the host himself appeared to be in a thoughtful mood. For my part, I was glad to have the fop monopolize the conversation, while I devoted my attention to the silent girl beside me; but it was evident that a general feeling of relief prevailed when the ladies returned to the drawing-room and left us to our cigars and wine.
When the servants had been dismissed and we three men were alone, Dom Miguel addressed me with unrestrained frankness.
“I suppose you know little of our revolutionary movement, Mr. Harcliffe,” he began.
56“Very little, indeed,” I responded, briefly.
“It dates back for several years, but has only recently attained to real importance. Gradually our people, of all degrees, have awakened to the knowledge that they must resist the tyranny of the imperial government, with its horde of selfish and unscrupulous retainers. The Emperor is honest enough, but weak, and his advisors leave him no exercise of his own royal will. Spurred by the nation’s distress, the Revolution has at last taken definite form, and at present centers in me. But as our strength grows our danger increases. The existing government, knowing itself threatened, has become keen to ferret out our secrets and to discover the leaders of the Cause, that they may crush all with one blow.” He paused, and flicked the ash from his cigar with a thoughtful gesture. “For this, and many another reason, I need the assistance of a secretary whom I may trust implicitly—who will, if need be, die rather than betray my confidence.”
I glanced hesitatingly at the man opposite me. It seemed strange that Dom 57Miguel should speak of these personal matters before a third party.
Paola was trying to balance a spoon upon the edge of his glass. He met my gaze with the usual vacant smile upon his face, yet in the instant I caught a gleam in his eye so shrewd and comprehensive that it positively startled me. Instantly his face was shrouded in a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and when it cleared away the idiotic leer that appeared upon his countenance indicated anything rather than intelligence.
Dom Miguel looked from one to the other of us and smiled.
“Perhaps I should tell you,” said he, earnestly, “that no man is higher in our counsels or more thoroughly esteemed by all classes of patriots than Francisco Paola. You may speak in his presence with entire freedom.”
At this the popinjay twisted the end of his moustache and bowed with mock dignity. I stared at him with an astonishment tinged with disgust. His eyes were now glassy and his gaze vacuous. The eternal smile expressed merely stupidity and conceit.
58I turned to Dom Miguel, who gravely awaited my reply.
“Sir,” said I, “you are my father’s old friend. My uncle, who was my father’s partner and is now my own associate in business, sent me to you with the injunction to serve you to the best of my ability. This, by way of gratitude for many favors shown our house by you in the days when a friend counted largely for success. Being an American, I love freedom. Your cause shall be my cause while I remain with you. Of my power to serve you there may be question; but my loyalty you need never doubt.”
Dom Miguel reached across the table and grasped my hand warmly. Paola poured himself a glass of wine and drank to me with a nod of his head.
“When first I saw you,” said de Pintra, with emotion, “I knew we had gained a strong ally, and God knows we need trustworthy friends at this juncture. The great Revolution, which is destined some day to sweep Brazil from Para to Rio Grande do Sul, is now in my keeping. In my possession are papers wherein are inscribed the 59names of the patriots who have joined our Cause; to me has been intrusted the treasure accumulated for years to enable us to carry out our plans. Even those plans—carefully formulated and known to but a few of my associates, the trusted leaders—are confided to my care. I cannot risk a betrayal that would imperil the Revolution itself and destroy all those concerned in it, by employing for secretary a Brazilian, who might become a spy of Dom Pedro, or be frightened by threats and imprisonment.”
Leaning forward, he regarded me earnestly. His eyes, so gentle in repose, now searched my own with fierce intensity.
“I cannot even trust my own household,” he whispered; “my own flesh and blood has been suspected of treason to the Cause. There are spies everywhere, of both sexes, among the lowly and the gentle. So I accept your services, Robert Harcliffe, and thank you in the name of the Revolution.”
It was all rather theatric, but I could not question the sincerity of his speech, and it succeeding in impressing me with the gravity of my new position.
60“Come,” said Paola, breaking the tense pause, “let us rejoin the ladies.”
Five minutes later he was at the piano, carolling a comic ditty, and I again wondered what element this seemingly brazen and hollow vessel might contain that could win the respect of a man like Miguel de Pintra. Evidently I must, to some extent, glean a definite knowledge of the Revolution and its advocates through a process of absorption. This would require time, as well as personal contact with Dom Miguel and his confrères, and my only hope of mastering the situation lay in a careful study of each personage I met and a cautious resistance of any temptation to judge them hastily. Nevertheless, this mocking, irrepressive Francisco Paola had from the first moment of his acquaintance become an astounding puzzle to me, and so far I could see no indication of any depths to his character that could explain the esteem in which he was held by the chief.
But now his sister’s sweet, upturned face drew me to her side, and I straightway forgot to dwell upon the problem.
I slept well in my pleasant room, but wakened early, the bright sunshine pouring in at my open window and the songs of many birds sounding a lively chorus.
After a simple toilet I sprang through a low window to the ground and wandered away among the flowers and shrubbery. It was in my thoughts to revisit the scene of my first meeting with Lesba, but I had no hope of finding her abroad at that hour until I caught a glimpse of her white gown through a small arbor. The vision enchanted me, and after pausing a moment to feast my eyes upon her loveliness, I hastily approached to find her cutting roses for the breakfast-table. She greeted me in her shy manner, but in a way that made me feel I was not intruding. After a few conventional remarks she asked, abruptly:
“How do you like Dom Miguel?”
62“Very much,” said I, smiling at her eagerness. “He seems eminently worthy of the confidence reposed in him by his compatriots.”
“He is a born leader of men,” she rejoined, brightly, “and not a rebel of us all would hesitate to die for him. How do you like my brother?”
I was sorry she asked the question, for its abruptness nearly took my breath away, and I did not wish to grieve her. To gain time I laughed, and was answered with a frown that served to warn me.
“Really, donzella,” I made haste to say, “if I must be quite frank, your brother puzzles me. But I think I shall like him when I understand him better.”
She shook her head as if disappointed.
“No one ever understands Francisco but me,” she returned, regretfully.
“Does he understand himself?” I foolishly asked.
The girl looked at me with a gleam of contempt.
“Sir, my brother’s services are recognized throughout all Brazil. Even Fonseca respects 63his talents, and the suspicious Piexoto trusts him implicitly. Francisco’s intimate friends positively adore him! Ah, senhor, it is not necessary for his sister to sing his praises.”
I bowed gravely.
“Let me hope, donzella, that your brother will soon count me among his intimates.” It was the least I could say in answer to the pleading look in her eyes, and to my surprise it seemed to satisfy her, for she blushed with pleasure.
“I am sure he likes you already,” she announced; “for he told me so as he bade me good by this morning.”
“Your brother has gone away?”
“He started upon his return to court an hour ago.”
“To court!” I exclaimed, amazed at his audacity.
She seemed amused.
“Did you not know, senhor? Francisco Paola is Dom Pedro’s Minister of Police.”
I acknowledged that the news surprised me. That the Emperor’s Minister of Police should be a trusted leader of the Revolutionary 64party seemed incomprehensible; but I had already begun to realize that extraordinary conditions prevailed in Brazil. Perhaps the thing that caused me most astonishment was that this apparently conceited and empty-headed fellow had ever been selected for a post so important as Minister of Police. Yet the fact explained clearly how I had received secret protection from the moment of my landing at Rio until I had joined Dom Miguel.
The girl was laughing at me now, and her loveliness made me resolve not to waste more of these precious moments in political discussion. She was nothing loath to drop the subject, and soon we were chattering merrily of the flowers and birds, the dewdrops and the sunshine, and all those inconsequent things that are wont to occupy youthful lips while hearts beat fast and glances shyly mingle. When, at length, we sauntered up the path to breakfast I had forgotten the great conspiracy altogether, and congratulated myself cordially upon the fact that Lesba and I were well on the way to becoming good friends.
65Madam Izabel did not appear at the morning meal, and immediately it was over Dom Miguel carried me to his study, where he began to acquaint me thoroughly with the standing and progress of the proposed revolution, informing me, meantime, of my duties as secretary.
While we were thus occupied the door softly opened and Izabel de Mar entered.
She cast an odd glance in my direction, bowed coldly to her father, and then seated herself at a small table littered with papers.
A cloud appeared upon Dom Miguel’s brow. He hesitated an instant, and then addressed her in a formal tone.
“I shall not need you to-day, Izabel.”
She turned upon him with a fierce gesture.
“The letters to Piexoto are not finished, sir,” she exclaimed.
“I know, Izabel; I know. But Mr. Harcliffe will act as my secretary, hereafter; therefore he will attend to these details.”
She rose to her feet, her eyes flashing, but her face as immobile as ever.
“I am discharged?” she demanded.
“Not that, Izabel,” he hastened to reply. 66“Your services have been of inestimable value to the Cause. But they are wearing out your strength, and some of our friends thought you were too closely confined and needed rest. Moreover, a man, they considered—”
“Enough!” said she, proudly. “To me it is a pleasure to toil in the cause of freedom. But my services, it seems, are not agreeable to your leaders—rather, let us say, to that sly and treacherous spy, Francisco Paola!”
His face grew red, and I imagined he was about to reply angrily; but the woman silenced him with a wave of her hand.
“O, I know your confidence in the Emperor’s Minister, my father; a confidence that will lead you all to the hangman, unless you beware! But why should I speak? I am not trusted, it seems; I, the daughter of de Pintra, who is chief of the Revolution. This foreigner, whose heart is cold in our Cause, is to take my place. Very well. I will return to the court—to my husband.”
“Izabel!”
“Do not fear. I will not betray you. 67If betrayal comes, look to your buffoon, the Minister of Police; look to your cold American!”
She pointed at me with so scornful a gesture that involuntarily I recoiled, for the attack was unexpected. Then my lady stalked from the room like a veritable queen of tragedy.
Dom Miguel drew a sigh of relief as the door closed, and rubbed his forehead vigorously with his handkerchief.
“That ordeal is at last over,” he muttered; “and I have dreaded it like a coward. Listen, senhor! My daughter, whose patriotism is not well understood, has been suspected by some of my associates. She has a history, has Izabel—a sad history, my friend.” For a moment Dom Miguel bowed his face in his hands, and when he raised his head again the look of pained emotion upon his features lent his swarthy skin a grayish tinge.
“Years ago she loved a handsome young fellow, one Leon de Mar—of French descent, who is even now a favorite with the Emperor,” he resumed. “Against my 68wishes she married him, and her life at the court proved a most unhappy one. De Mar is a profligate, a rake, a gamester, and a scoundrel. He made my daughter suffer all the agonies of hell. But she uttered no complaint and I knew nothing of her sorrow. At last, unable to bear longer the scorn and abuse of her husband, Izabel came to me and confessed the truth, asking me to give her the shelter of a home. That was years ago, senhor. I made her my secretary, and found her eager to engage in our patriotic conspiracy. It is my belief that she has neither seen nor heard from de Mar since; but others have suspected her. It is hard indeed, Robert, not to be suspicious in this whirlpool of intrigue wherein we are engulfed. A few weeks ago Paola swore that he found Izabel in our garden at midnight engaged in secret conversation with that very husband from whom she had fled. I have no doubt he was deceived; but he reported it to the Secret Council, which instructed me to confide no further secrets to my daughter, and to secure a new secretary as soon as possible. Hence my application 69to your uncle, and your timely arrival to assist me.”
He paused, while I sat thoughtfully considering his words.
“I beg that you will not wrong my daughter with hasty suspicions,” he continued, pleadingly. “I do not wish you to confide our secrets to her, since I have myself refrained from doing so, out of respect for the wishes of my associates. But do not misjudge Izabel, my friend. When the time comes for action she will be found a true and valuable adherent to the Cause. And now, let us to work!”
I found it by no means difficult to become interested in the details of the plot to overthrow the Emperor Dom Pedro and establish a Brazilian Republic. It was amazing how many great names were enrolled in the Cause and how thoroughly the spirit of freedom had corrupted the royal army, the court, and even the Emperor’s trusted police. And I learned, with all this, to develop both admiration and respect for the man whose calm judgment had so far directed the mighty movement and systematized every 70branch of the gigantic conspiracy. Truly, as my fair Lesba had said, Dom Miguel de Pintra was “a born leader of men.”
Night after night there assembled at his house groups of conspirators who arrived secretly and departed without even the servants having knowledge of their visit. During the counsels every approach to the house was thoroughly guarded to ward against surprise.
Strong men were these republican leaders; alert, bold, vigilant in serving the Cause wherein they risked their lives and fortunes. One by one I came to know and admire them, and they spoke freely in my presence and trusted me. Through my intercourse with these champions of liberty, my horizon began to broaden, thus better fitting me for my duties.
Francisco Paola, the Emperor’s Minister, came frequently to the conferences of the Secret Council. Always he seemed as simpering, frivolous, and absurd as on the day I first met him. To his silly jokes and inconsequent chatter none paid the slightest attention; but when a real problem arose 71and they turned questioningly to Paola, he would answer in a few lightly spoken words that proved at once shrewd and convincing. The others were wont to accept his decisions with gravity and act upon them.
I have said that Paola impressed me as being conceited. This might well be true in regard to his personal appearance, his social accomplishments—playing the piano and guitar, singing, riding, and the like—but I never heard him speak lightly of the Cause or boast of his connection with it. Indeed, he exhibited a queer mingling of folly and astuteness. His friends appeared to consider his flippancy and self-adulation as a mask that effectually concealed his real talents. Doubtless the Emperor had the same idea when he made the fellow his Minister of Police. But I, studying the man with fervid interest, found it difficult to decide whether the folly was a mask, or whether Paola had two natures—the second a sub-conscious intelligence upon which he was able to draw in a crisis.
He certainly took no pains to impress any one favorably, and his closest friends 72were, I discovered, frequently disgusted by his actions.
From the first my judgment of the man had been influenced by his sister’s enthusiastic championship. Lesba seemed fully in her brother’s confidence, and although she was not a recognized member of the conspiracy, I found that she was thoroughly conversant with every detail of our progress. This information must certainly have come from Francisco, and as I relied absolutely upon Lesba’s truth and loyalty, her belief in her brother impressed me to the extent of discrediting Madam Izabel’s charge that he was a traitor.
Nevertheless, Paola had acted villainously in thrusting this same charge upon a woman. What object, I wondered, could he have in accusing Izabel to her own father, in falsely swearing that he had seen her in conversation with Leon de Mar—the man from whose ill treatment she had fled?
Madam Izabel had not returned to the court, as she had threatened in her indignant anger. Perhaps she realized what it would 73mean to place herself again within the power of the husband she had learned to hate and despise. She still remained an inmate of her father’s mansion, cold and impassive as ever. Dom Miguel treated her with rare consideration on every occasion of their meeting, seeking to reassure her as to his perfect faith in her loyalty and his sorrow that his associates had cast a slur upon her character.
To me the chief was invariably kind, and his gentleness and stalwart manhood soon won my esteem. I found myself working for the good of the cause with as much ardor as the most eager patriot of them all, but my reward was enjoyed as much in Lesba’s smiles as in the approbation of Dom Miguel.
That the government was well aware of our plot there was no question. Through secret channels we learned that even the midnight meetings of the Secret Council were known to the Emperor. The identity of the leaders had so far been preserved, since they came masked and cloaked to the rendezvous, but so many of the details of the conspiracy had in some way leaked out that 74I marveled the Emperor’s heavy hand had not descended upon us long ago. Of course de Pintra was a marked man, but they dared not arrest him until they had procured all the information they desired, otherwise they would defeat their own purpose.
One stormy night, as I sat alone with Dom Miguel in his study, I mentioned my surprise that in view of the government’s information of our plot we were not summarily arrested. It was not a council night, and we had been engaged in writing letters.
“I suppose they fear to precipitate trouble between such powerful factions,” he answered, somewhat wearily. “The head of the conspiracy is indeed here, but its branches penetrate to every province of the country, and were an outbreak to occur here the republicans of Brazil would rise as one man. Dom Pedro, poor soul, does not know where to look for loyal support. His ministry is estranged, and he is not even sure of his army.”
“But should they discover who our leaders are, and capture them, there would be no one to lead the uprising,” I suggested.
75“True,” assented the chief. “But it is to guard against such a coup that our Council is divided into three sections. Only one-third of the leaders could be captured at any one time. But I do not fear such an attempt, as every movement at the capital is reported to me at once.”
“Suppose they were to strike you down, sir. What then? Who would carry out your plans? Where would be the guiding hand?”
For a moment he sat thoughtfully regarding me.
“I hope I shall be spared until I have accomplished my task,” he said, at length. “I know my danger is great; yet it is not for myself I fear. Lest the Cause be lost through premature exposure, I have taken care to guard against that, should the emergency arise. Light me that candle yonder, Robert, and I will reveal to you one of our most important secrets.”
He motioned toward the mantel, smiling meantime at my expression of surprise.
I lighted the candle, as directed, and turned toward him expectantly. He drew a 76rug from before the fireplace, and stooping over, touched a button that released a spring in the flooring.
A square aperture appeared, through which a man might descend, and peering over his shoulder I saw a flight of stairs reaching far downward.
De Pintra turned and took the candle from my hand.
“Follow me,” he said.
The stairs led us beneath the foundations of the house and terminated in a domed chamber constructed of stone and about ten feet in diameter.
In the floor of this chamber was a trapdoor, composed of many thicknesses of steel, and so heavy that it could be raised only by a stout iron windlass, the chain of which was welded to a ring in the door’s face.
Dom Miguel handed me the candle and began turning the windlass. Gradually but without noise the heavy door of metal rose, and disclosed a still more massive surface underneath.
This second plate, of highly burnished steel, was covered with many small indentations, of irregular formation. It was about three feet square and the curious indentations, each one of which had evidently 78been formed with great care, were scattered over every inch of the surface.
“Put out the light,” said de Pintra.
I obeyed, leaving us in total darkness.
Next moment, as I listened intently, I heard a slight grating noise, followed by a soft shooting of many bolts. Then a match flickered, and Dom Miguel held it to the wick and relighted the candle.
The second door had swung upward upon hinges, showing three iron steps that led into a vault below.
The chief descended and I followed; not, however, without a shuddering glance at the great door that stood suspended as if ready to crash down upon our heads and entomb us.
Just within the entrance an electric light, doubtless fed by a storage battery, was turned on, plainly illuminating the place.
I found the vault lined with thick plates of steel, riveted firmly together. In the center was a small table and two wooden stools. Shelves were ranged around the walls and upon them were books, papers, 79and vast sums of money, both in bank-notes and gold.
“Here,” said my companion, glancing proudly around him, “are our sinews of war; our records and funds and plans of operation. Should Dom Pedro’s agents gain access to this room they would hold in their hands the lives and fortunes of many of the noblest families in Brazil—and our conspiracy would be nipped in the bud. You may know how greatly I trust you when I say that even my daughter does not guess the existence of this vault. Only a few of the Secret Council have ever gained admittance here, and the secret of opening the inner door is known only to myself and one other—Francisco Paola.”
“Paola!” I exclaimed.
“Yes; it was he who conceived the idea of this vault; it was his genius that planned a door which defies any living man to open without a clear knowledge of its secret. Even he, its inventor, could not pass the door without my assistance; for although he understands the method, the means are in my possession. For this reason I alone 80am responsible for the safe-keeping of our records and treasure.”
“The air is close and musty,” said I, feeling oppressed in breathing.
He looked upward.
“A small pipe leads to the upper air, permitting foul vapors to escape,” said he; “but only through the open door is fresh air admitted. Perhaps there should be better ventilation, yet that is an unimportant matter, for I seldom remain long in this place. It is a store-house—a secret crypt—not a work-room. My custom has been to carry all our records and papers here each morning, after they have been in use, that they may be safe from seizure or prying eyes. But such trips are arduous, and I am not very strong. Therefore I will ask you to accompany me, hereafter.”
“That I shall do willingly,” I replied.
When we had passed through the door on our return the chief again extinguished the light while he manipulated the trap. Afterward the windlass allowed the outer plate of metal to settle firmly into place, and 81we proceeded along the passage and returned to the study.
Many trips did I make to the secret vault thereafter, but never could I understand in what manner the great door of shining steel was secured, as Dom Miguel always opened and closed it while we were in total darkness.
As the weeks rolled by I not only became deeply interested in my work, but conceived a still greater admiration for the one man whose powerful intelligence directed what I knew to be a gigantic conspiracy.
Spies were everywhere about Dom Miguel. One day we discovered his steward—an old and trusted retainer of the family—to be in the Emperor’s pay. But de Pintra merely shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Such a person could do little to imperil the cause, for its important secrets could not be surprised. The grim vault guarded them well.
My duties occupying me only at night, my days were wholly my own, and they passed very pleasantly indeed, for my acquaintance with Lesba Paola had ripened 82into a close friendship between us—a friendship I was eager to resolve into a closer relation.
But Lesba, although frank and ingenuous in all our intercourse, had an effectual way of preventing the declarations of love which were ever on my tongue, and I found it extremely difficult to lead our conversation into channels that would give me an opportunity to open my heart to her.
She was an expert horsewoman, and we took many long rides together, during which she pointed out to me the estates of all the grandees in the neighborhood. Dom Miguel, whose love for the beautiful girl was very evident, seemed to encourage our companionship, and often spoke of her with great tenderness.
He would dwell with especial pride upon the aristocratic breeding of his ward, which, to do him justice, he valued more for its effect upon other noble families than for any especial advantage it lent to Lesba herself; for while Dom Miguel was thoroughly republican in every sense of the word, he realized the advantages to be gained by 83interesting the best families of Brazil in the fortunes of his beloved Cause, and one by one he was cleverly succeeding in winning them. My familiarity with the records taught me that the Revolution was being backed by the flower of Brazilian nobility—the most positive assurance in my eyes of the justice and timeliness of the great movement for liberty. The idea that monarchs derive their authority from divine sources—so prevalent amongst the higher classes—had dissolved before the leader’s powerful arguments and the object lessons Dom Pedro’s corrupt ministry constantly afforded. All thoughtful people had come to a realization that liberty was but a step from darkness into light, a bursting of the shackles that had oppressed them since the day that Portugal had declared the province of Brazil an Empire, and set a scion of her royal family to rule its people with autocratic sway.
And Lesba, sprung from the bluest blood in all the land, had great influence in awakening, in those families she visited, an earnest desire for a republic. Her passionate appeals 84were constantly inspiring her fellows with an enthusiastic devotion to the cause of liberty, and this talent was duly appreciated by Dom Miguel, whose admiration for the girl’s simple but direct methods of making converts was unbounded.
“Lesba is a rebel to her very finger-tips,” said he, “and her longing to see her country a republic is exceeded by that of no man among us. But we are chary of admitting women to our councils, so my little girl must be content to watch for the great day when the cause of freedom shall prevail.”
However, she constantly surprised me by her intimate knowledge of our progress. As we were riding one day she asked:
“Were you not impressed by your visit to the secret vault?”
“The secret vault!” I exclaimed. “Do you know of it?”
“I can explain every inch of its construction,” she returned, with a laugh; “everything, indeed, save the secret by means of which one may gain admission. Was it not Francisco’s idea? And is it not exceedingly clever?”
85“It certainly is,” I admitted.
“It was built by foreign workmen, brought to Brazil secretly, and for that very purpose. Afterward the artisans were sent home again; and not one of them, I believe, could again find his way to my uncle’s house, for every precaution was taken to prevent their discovering its location.”
“That was well done,” said I.
“All that Francisco undertakes is well done,” she answered simply.
This faith in her perplexing brother was so perfect that I never ventured to oppose it. We could not have remained friends had I questioned either his truth or ability.
Madam Izabel I saw but seldom, as she avoided the society of the family and preferred the seclusion of her own apartments. On the rare occasions of our meeting she treated me with frigid courtesy, resenting any attempt upon my part to draw her into conversation.
For a time it grieved me that Dom Miguel’s daughter should regard me with so much obvious dislike and suspicion. Her 86sad story had impressed me greatly, and I could understand how her proud nature had resented the slanders of Francisco Paola, and writhed under them. But one evening an incident occurred that served to content me with Madame Izabel’s aversion, and led me to suspect that the Minister of Police had not been so guilty as I had deemed him.
It was late, and Dom Miguel had preceded me to the domed chamber while I carried the records and papers to be deposited within the vault.
After raising the first trap my employer, as usual, extinguished the candle. I heard the customary low, grating noise, but before the shooting of the bolts reached my ears there was a sharp report, followed by a vivid flash, and turning instantly I beheld Madam Isabel standing beside us, holding in her hand a lighted match and peering eagerly at the surface of the trap.
My eyes followed hers, and while Dom Miguel stood as if petrified with amazement I saw the glitter of a gold ring protruding from one of the many curious indentations upon the plate. The next instant the match 87was dashed from her grasp and she gave a low cry of pain.
“Light the candle!” commanded de Pintra’s voice, fiercely.
I obeyed. He was holding the woman fast by her wrist. The ring had disappeared, and the mystery of the trap seemed as inscrutable as ever.
Dom Miguel, greatly excited and muttering imprecations all the way, dragged his daughter through the passage and up the stairs. I followed them silently to the chief’s study. Then, casting the woman from him, de Pintra confronted her with blazing eyes, and demanded:
“How dare you spy upon me?”
Madam Izabel had become cool as her father grew excited. She actually smiled—a hard, bitter smile—as she defiantly looked into his face and answered:
“Spy! You forget, sir, that I am your daughter. I came to your room to seek you. You were not here; but the door to this stairway was displaced, and a cold air came through it. Fearing that some danger menaced you I passed down the stairs until, 88hearing a noise, I paused to strike a match. You can best explain the contretemps.”
Long and silently Dom Miguel gazed upon his daughter. Then he said, abruptly, “Leave the room!”
She bowed coldly, with a mocking expression in her dark eyes, and withdrew.
As she passed me I noted upon her cheeks an unwonted flush that rendered her strikingly beautiful.
Deep in thought de Pintra paced the floor with nervous strides. Finally he turned toward me.
“What did you see?” he asked, sharply.
“A ring,” I answered. “It lay upon the trap, and the stone was fitted into one of the numerous indentations.”
He passed his hand over his brow with a gesture of despair.
“Then she saw it also,” he murmured, “and my secret is a secret no longer.”
I remained silent, looking upon him curiously, but in deep sympathy.
Suddenly he held out his hand. Upon the little finger was an emerald ring, the stone appearing to be of no exceptional 89value. Indeed, the trinket was calculated to attract so little attention that I had barely noticed it before, although I remembered that my employer always wore it.
“This,” said he, abruptly, “is the key to the vault.”
I nodded. The truth had flashed upon me the moment Madam Izabel had struck the match. And now, looking at it closely, I saw that the stone was oddly cut, although the fact was not likely to impress one who was ignorant of the purpose for which it was made.
The chief resumed his pacing, but presently paused to say:
“If anything happens to me, my friend, be sure to secure this ring above all else. Get it to Paola, or to Fonseca, or Piexoto as soon as possible—you know where they may be found. Should it fall into the hands of the royalists the result would be fatal.”
“But would either of your associates be able to use the ring, even if it passed into their possession?” I asked.
“There are two hundred indentations in the door of the trap,” answered de Pintra, 90“and the stone of the ring is so cut that it fits but one of these. Still, if our friends have time to test each cavity, they are sure to find the right one, and then the stone of my ring acts as a key. My real safety, as you will observe, lay in the hope that no one would discover that my ring unlocked the vault. Now that Izabel has learned the truth I must guard the ring as I would my life—more, the lives of all our patriotic band.”
“Since you suspect her loyalty, why do you not send your daughter away?” I suggested.
“I prefer to keep her under my own eye. And, strange as her actions of to-night seem, I still hesitate to believe that my own child would conspire to ruin me.”
“The secret is not your own, sir,” I ventured to say.
“True,” he acknowledged, flushing deeply, “the secret is not my own. It belongs to the Cause. And its discovery would jeopardize the revolution itself. For this reason I shall keep Izabel with me, where, admitting she has the inclination to betray us, she will not have the power.”
91After this night he did not extinguish the light when we entered the vault, evidently having decided to trust me fully; but he took pains to secure the trap in the study floor so that no one could follow us. After watching him apply the key several times I became confident that I could find the right indentation without trouble should the occasion ever arise for me to unlock the vault unaided.
Days passed by, and Madam Izabel remained as quiet and reserved as if she had indeed abandoned any further curiosity concerning the secret vault. As for my fellow-rebel, the Senhorita Lesba, I rode and chatted with her in the firm conviction that here, at least, was one secret connected with the revolution of which she was ignorant.
One evening, as I entered Dom Miguel’s library, I found myself face to face with a strange visitor. He did not wear a mask, as did so many of the conspirators, even in the chief’s presence; but a long black cloak swept in many folds from his neck to his feet.
My first thought was to marvel at his size, for he was considerably above six feet in height and finely proportioned, so that his presence fairly dominated us and made the furnishings of the room in which he stood seem small and insignificant.
As I entered, he stood with his back to the fireplace confronting Dom Miguel, whose face wore a sad and tired expression. I immediately turned to withdraw, but a gesture from the stranger arrested me.
“Robert,” said Dom Miguel, “I present you to General Manuel Deodoro da Fonseca.”
93I bowed profoundly. General Fonseca was not only a commander of the Emperor’s royal army, but Chief Marshal of the forces of the Revolutionary party. I had never seen the great man before, as his duties required his constant presence at the capital; but no figure loomed larger than his in the affairs of the conspiracy.
Seldom have I met with a keener or more disconcerting glance than that which shot from his full black eyes as I stood before him. It seemed to search out my every thought, and I had the sensation of being before a judge who would show no mercy to one who strove to dissemble in his presence.
But the glance was brief, withal. In a moment he had seized my hand and gripped it painfully. Then he turned to Dom Miguel.
“Let me hear the rest of your story,” said he.
“There is nothing more, General. Izabel has learned my secret, it is true; but she is my daughter. I will vouch for her faith.”
“Then will not I!” returned Fonseca, in his deep, vibrant tones. “Never have I 94believed the tale of her estrangement from that scoundrel, Leon de Mar. Men are seldom traitors, for they dare not face the consequences. Women have no fear of man or devil. They are daughters of Delilah—each and every one.”
He turned suddenly to me.
“Will you also vouch for Senhora Izabel de Mar?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“And quite right, sir,” he returned, with a grim smile. “Never trust a woman in politics. But how about Francisco Paola? Do you vouch for him?”
I hesitated, startled by the question.
“Answer me!” he commanded.
“I cannot see that I am required to vouch for any one, General,” said I, nettled by his manner. “I am here to serve the Cause, not to judge the loyalty of its leaders.”
“Ugh!” said he, contemptuously; and I turned my back upon him, facing Dom Miguel, over whose features a fleeting smile passed.
Fonseca stalked up and down the apartment, his sword clanking beneath his cloak, 95and his spurs clicking like castanets. Then he planted his huge figure before the chief.
“Watch them both,” said he brusquely; “your daughter and your friend. They are aware of our most important secrets.”
De Pintra’s face reddened.
“Francisco is true as steel,” he retorted, firmly. “Not one of us—including yourself, General—has done more to serve the Cause. I have learned to depend upon his discretion as I would upon my own—or yours.”
The general frowned and drew a folded paper from his breast pocket.
“Read that,” said he, tossing it into Dom Miguel’s hand. “It is a copy of the report made by Paola to the Emperor this morning.”
De Pintra glanced at the paper and then gave it to me, at the same time dropping his head in his hands.
I read the report. It stated that the Minister of Police had discovered the existence of a secret vault constructed beneath the mansion of Miguel de Pintra, the rebel chief. This vault, the police thought, contained 96important records of the conspiracy. It was built of double plates of steel, and the entrance was guarded by a cleverly constructed door, which could only be unlocked by means of a stone set in a ring which was constantly worn by Dom Miguel himself. In conclusion the minister stated that every effort was being made to secure possession of the ring, when the rebels would be at the Emperor’s mercy.
“Well, sir, what do you think of Francisco Paola now?” inquired Fonseca, with a significant smile.
“Did he not himself invent the secret vault?” I asked.
“He did, sir.”
“How long ago.”
“A matter of two years. Is it not so, Dom Miguel?”
The chief bowed.
“And until now Paola has kept this secret?” I continued.
“Until now, yes!” said the general. “Until the vault was stored with all our funds and the complete records of the revolution.”
97“Then it seems clear to me that Paola, as Minister of Police, has been driven to make this report in order to serve the Cause.”
Dom Miguel looked up at me quickly, and the huge general snorted and stabbed me with his terrible eyes.
“What do you mean?” demanded Fonseca.
“This report proves, I fear, that our suspicions of Madam Izabel are well founded,” I explained, not daring to look at Dom Miguel while I accused his daughter. “Paola has doubtless discovered that this information regarding the vault and its mysterious key has either been forwarded to the Emperor or is on the way to him. Therefore he has forestalled Madam Izabel’s report, in order that he may prove his department vigilant in serving the government, and so protect his high office. Can you not see that Paola’s claim that he is working to secure the ring is but a ruse to gain time for us? Really, he knows that he could obtain it by arresting Dom Miguel. But this report will prevent the Emperor putting his 98man Valcour upon the case, which he would probably have done had he received his first information from Izabel de Mar.”
For a moment there was silence. Then the general’s brow unbent and he said with cheerfulness:
“This explanation is entirely reasonable. It would not do for Paola to get himself deposed, or even suspected, at this juncture. A new Minister of Police would redouble our danger.”
“How did you obtain this copy of the report?” asked de Pintra.
“From one of our spies.”
“I have no doubt,” said I, “that Paola was instrumental in sending it to you. It is a warning, gentlemen. We must not delay in acting upon it, and removing our treasure and our records to a safer place.”
“And where is that?” asked Fonseca.
I looked at the chief. He sat thoughtfully considering the matter.
“There is no need of immediate haste,” said he presently, “and nothing can be done to-night, in any event. To-morrow we will pack everything in chests and carry them to 99Senhor Bastro, who has a safe hiding-place. Meantime, General, you may leave me your men to serve as escort. How many are there?”
“Three. They are now guarding the usual approaches to this house.”
“Let them ride with you to the station at Cruz, and send them back to me in the morning. I will also summon some of our nearby patriots. By noon to-morrow everything will be ready for the transfer.”
“Very good!” ejaculated the general. “We cannot abandon too soon the vault we constructed with so much care. Where is your daughter?”
“In her apartments.”
“Before you leave to-morrow, lock her up and put a guard at her door. We must not let her suspect the removal of the records.”
“It shall be done,” answered de Pintra, with a sigh. “It may be,” he continued, hesitatingly, “that my confidence in Izabel has been misplaced.”
The general did not reply. He folded his cloak about him, glanced at the clock, 100and strode from the room without a word of farewell.
When he had gone Dom Miguel turned to me.
“Well?” said he.
“I do not like Fonseca,” I answered.
“As a man he is at times rather disagreeable,” admitted the chief. “But as a general he possesses rare ability, and his high station renders him the most valuable leader the Cause can boast. Moreover, Fonseca has risked everything in our enterprise, and may be implicitly trusted. When at last we strike our great blow for freedom, much will depend upon Manuel da Fonseca. And now, Robert, let us retire, for an hour before daybreak we must be at work.”
It was then eleven o’clock. I bade the chief good night and retired to my little room next the study. Dom Miguel slept in a similar apartment opening from the opposite side of the study.
The exciting interview with Fonseca had left me nervous and wakeful, and it was some time before I sank into a restless slumber.
101A hand upon my shoulder aroused me.
It was Dom Miguel.
“Come quick, for God’s sake!” he cried, in trembling tones. “She has stolen my ring!”
Scarcely awake, I sprang from my couch in time to see de Pintra’s form disappear through the doorway. A moment later I was in the study, which was beginning to lighten with the dawn of a new day.
The trap in the floor was open, and the chief threw himself into the aperture and quickly descended. At once I followed, feeling my way down the iron staircase and along the passage. Reaching the domed chamber a strange sight met our view. Both traps had been raised, the second one standing upright upon its hinged edge, and from the interior of the vault shone a dim light.
While we hesitated the light grew stronger, and soon Madam Izabel came slowly from the vault with a small lamp in one hand and a great bundle of papers in the other. As she reached the chamber Dom Miguel 103sprang from out the shadow and wrenched the papers from her grasp.
“So, madam!” he cried, “you have betrayed yourself in seeking to betray us. Shame! Shame that a daughter of mine should be guilty of so vile an act!” As he spoke he struck her so sharply across the face with the bundle of papers that she reeled backward and almost dropped the lamp.
“Look to her, Robert,” he said, and leaped into the vault to restore the papers to their place.
Then, while I stood stupidly by, not thinking of any further danger, Madam Izabel sprang to the trap and with one quick movement dashed down the heavy plate of steel. I saw her place the ring in its cavity and heard the shooting of the bolts; and then, suddenly regaining my senses, I rushed forward and seized her arm.
“The ring!” I gasped, in horror; “give me the ring! He will suffocate in that dungeon in a few minutes.”
I can see yet her cold, serpent-like eyes as they glared venomously into my own. 104The next instant she dashed the lamp into my face. It shivered against the wall, and as I staggered backward the burning oil streamed down my pajamas and turned me into a living pillar of fire.
Screaming with pain, I tore the burning cloth from my body and stamped it into ashes with my bare feet. Then, smarting from the sting of many burns, I looked about me and found myself in darkness and alone.
Instantly the danger that menaced Dom Miguel flashed upon me anew, and I stumbled up the iron stairs until I reached the study, where I set the alarm bell going so fiercely that its deep tones resounded throughout the whole house.
In my chamber I hastily pulled my clothing over my smarting flesh, and as the astonished servants came pouring into the study, I shouted to them:
“Find Senhora de Mar immediately and bring her to me—by force if necessary. She has murdered Dom Miguel!”
Over the heads of the stupidly staring group I saw a white, startled face, and Lesba’s great eyes met my own with a quick 105look of comprehension. Then she disappeared, and I turned again to the wondering servants.
“Make haste!” I cried. “Can you not understand? Every moment is precious.”
But the frightened creatures gazed upon each other silently, and I thrust them aside and ran through the house in frantic search for the murderess. The rooms were all vacant, and when I reached the entrance hall a groom stopped me.
“Senhora de Mar left the house five minutes ago, sir. She was mounted upon our swiftest horse, and knows every inch of the country. It would be useless to pursue her.”
While I glared at the fellow a soft hand touched my elbow.
“Come!” said Lesba. “Your horse is waiting—I have saddled him myself. Make for the station at Cruz, for Izabel will seek to board the train for Rio.”
She had led me through the door across the broad piazza; and as, half-dazed, I mounted the horse, she added, “Tell me, can I do anything in your absence?”
106“Nothing!” I cried, with a sob; “Dom Miguel is locked up in the vault, and I must find the key—the key!”
Away dashed the horse, and over my shoulder I saw her still standing on the steps of the piazza staring after me.
The station at Cruz! I must reach it as soon as possible—before Izabel de Mar should escape. Almost crazed at the thought of my impotency and shuddering at the knowledge that de Pintra was slowly dying in his tomb while I was powerless to assist him, I lashed the good steed until it fairly flew over the uneven road.
“Halt!” cried a stern voice.
The way had led me beneath some overhanging trees, and as I pulled the horse back upon his haunches I caught the gleam of a revolver held by a mounted man whose form was enveloped in a long cloak.
Then came a peal of light laughter.
“Why, ‘tis our Americano!” said the horseman, gayly; “whither away, my gallant cavalier?”
To my delight I recognized Paola’s voice.
107“Dom Miguel is imprisoned in the vault!” I almost screamed in my agitation; “and Madam Izabel has stolen the key.”
“Indeed!” he answered. “And where is Senhora Izabel?”
“She has fled to Rio.”
“And left her dear father to die? How unfilial!” he retorted, laughing again. “Do you know, Senhor Harcliffe, it somehow reminds me of a story my nurse used to read me from the ‘Arabian Nights,’ how a fond daughter planned to—”
“For God’s sake, sir, the man is dying!” I cried, maddened at his indifference.
He drew out a leathern case and calmly selected a cigarette.
“And Madam Izabel has the key,” he repeated, striking a match. “By the way, senhor, where are you bound?”
“To overtake the murderess before she can board the train at Cruz.”
“Very good. How long has Dom Miguel been imprisoned in the vault?”
“Twenty minutes, a half-hour, perhaps.”
“Ah! He may live in that foul and confined atmosphere for two hours; possibly 108three. But no longer. I know, for I planned the vault myself. And the station at Cruz is a good two hours’ ride from this spot. I know, for I have just traveled it.”
I dropped my head, overwhelmed by despair as the truth was thus brutally thrust upon me. For Dom Miguel there was no hope.
“But the records, sir! We must save them, even if our chief is lost. Should Madam Izabel deliver the key to her husband or to the Emperor every leader of the Cause may perish upon the gallows.”
“Well thought of, on my word,” commented the strange man, again laughing softly. “I wonder how it feels to have a rope around one’s neck and to kick the empty air?” He blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth and watched it float away. “But you are quite right, Senhor Harcliffe. The lady must be found and made to give up the ring.”
He uttered a low whistle, and two men rode out from the shadow of the trees and joined us.
109“Ride with Senhor Harcliffe to the station at Cruz. Take there the train for Rio. Present the American to Mazanovitch, who is to obey his instructions.”
The men bowed silently.
“But you, senhor,” I said, eagerly, “can you not yourself assist us in this search?”
“I never work,” was the reply, drawled in his mincing manner. “But the men I have given you will do all that can be done to assist you. For myself, I think I shall ride on to de Pintra’s and kiss my sister good morning. Perhaps she will give me a bite of breakfast, who knows?”
Such heartlessness amazed me. Indeed, the man was past my comprehension.
“And General Fonseca?” said I, hesitating whether or no to put myself under Paola’s command, now that the chief was gone.
“Let Fonseca go to the devil. He would cry ‘I told you so!’ and refuse to aid you, even though his own neck is in jeopardy.” He looked at his watch. “If you delay longer you will miss the train at Cruz. 110Good morning, senhor. How sad that you cannot breakfast with us!”
Touching his hat with a gesture of mock courtesy he rode slowly on, and the next moment, all irresolution vanishing, I put spurs to my horse and bounded away, the two men following at my heels.
Presently I became tortured with thoughts of Dom Miguel, stifling in his tomb of steel. And under my breath I cursed the heartless sang froid of Francisco Paola, who refused to be serious even when his friend was dying.
“The cold-blooded scoundrel!” I muttered, as I galloped on; “the cad! the trifling coxcomb! Can nothing rouse him from his self-complaisant idiocy?”
“I imagine you are apostrophizing my master, senhor,” said one of the men riding beside me.
Something in his voice caused me to turn and scrutinize his face.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “you are Sergeant Marco.”
“The same, senhor. And I shall not arrest you for the death of our dear lieutenant.” 111A low chuckling laugh accompanied the grim pleasantry. “But if you were applying those sweet names to Senhor Paola, I assure you that you wrong him. For three years I have been his servant, and this I have learned: in an emergency no man can think more clearly or act more swiftly than his Majesty’s Minister of Police.”
“I have been with him four years,” announced the other man, in a hoarse voice, “and I agree with you that he is cold and heartless. Yet I never question the wisdom of his acts.”
“Why did he not come with us himself?” I demanded, angrily. “Why should he linger to eat a breakfast and kiss his sister good morning, when his friend and chief is dying, and his Cause is in imminent danger?”
Marco laughed, and the other shrugged his shoulders, disdaining a reply.
For a time we rode on in unbroken silence, but coming to a rough bit of road that obliged us to walk the horses, the sergeant said:
112“Perhaps it would be well for you to explain to us what has happened. My friend Figgot, here, is a bit of a detective, and if we are to assist you we must know in what way our services are required.”
“We are both patriots, senhor,” said the other, briefly.
So I told them the story of Madam Izabel’s treachery and her theft of the ring, after locking her father within the vault. At their request I explained minutely the construction of the steel doors and described the cutting of the emerald that alone could release the powerful bolts. They heard all without comment, and how much of my story was new to them I had no knowledge. But of one thing I felt certain: these fellows were loyal to the Cause and clever enough to be chosen by Paola as his especial companions; therefore they were just the assistants I needed in this emergency.
It was a weary ride, and the roads became worse as we progressed toward Cruz. The sun had risen and now spread a marvelous radiance over the tropical landscape. I noted the beauty of the 113morning even while smarting from the burns upon my breast and arms, and heart-sick at the awful fate of my beloved leader—even now perishing amid the records of the great conspiracy he had guided so successfully. Was all over yet, I wondered? Paola had said that he might live in his prison for two or three hours. And the limit of time had nearly passed. Poor Dom Miguel!
My horse stepped into a hole, stumbled, and threw me headlong to the ground.
For a few minutes I was unconscious; then I found myself sitting up and supported by Sergeant Marco, while the other man dashed water in my face.
“It is a dangerous delay,” grumbled Marco, seeing me recovering.
Slowly I rose to my feet. No bones were broken, but I was sadly bruised.
“I can ride, now,” I said.
They lifted me upon one of their horses and together mounted the other. My own steed had broken his leg. A bullet ended his suffering.
Another half-hour and we sighted the 114little station at Cruz. Perhaps I should have explained before that from Cuyaba to Cruz the railway made a long sweep around the base of the hills. The station nearest to de Pintra’s estate was Cuyaba; but by riding straight to Cruz one saved nearly an hour’s railway journey, and the train for Rio could often be made in this way when it was impossible to reach Cuyaba in time to intercept it. And as the station at Cruz was more isolated than that at Cuyaba, this route was greatly preferred by the revolutionists visiting de Pintra.
My object in riding to Cruz upon this occasion was twofold. Had Madam Izabel in her flight made for Cuyaba to catch the train, I should be able to board the same train at Cruz, and force her to give up the ring. And if she rode to Cruz she must await there the coming of the train we also hoped to meet. In either event I planned, as soon as the ring was in my possession, to hasten back to the mansion, open the vault and remove the body of our chief; after which it would be my duty to convey the 115records and treasure to the safe-keeping of Senhor Bastro.
I had no expectation of finding Dom Miguel still alive. With everything in our favor the trip would require five hours, and long before that time the prisoner’s fate would have overtaken him. But the chief’s dying wish would be to save the records, and that I intended to do if it were possible.
However, the delays caused by meeting with Paola and my subsequent unlucky fall had been fatal to my plans. We dashed up to the Cruz station in time to see the train for Rio disappearing in the distance, and to complete my disappointment we found standing beside the platform a horse yet panting and covered with foam.
Quickly dismounting, I approached the horse to examine it. The station master came from his little house and bowed with native politeness.
“The horse? Ah, yes; it was from the stables of Dom Miguel. Senhora de Mar had arrived upon the animal just in time 116to take the express for Rio. The gentleman also wanted the train? How sad to have missed it! But there would be another at eleven o’clock, although not so fast a train.”
For a time I stood in a sort of stupor, my mind refusing to grasp the full horror of the situation. Until then, perhaps, a lingering hope of saving Dom Miguel had possessed me. But with the ring on its way to Rio and the Emperor, and I condemned to inaction at a deserted way-station, it is no wonder that despair overwhelmed me.
When I slowly recovered my faculties I found that my men and the station master had disappeared. I found them in the little house writing telegrams, which the official was busily ticking over the wires.
Glancing at one or two of the messages I found them unintelligible.
“It is the secret cypher,” whispered Figgot. “We shall put Madam Izabel in the care of Mazanovitch himself. Ah, how he will cling to the dear lady! She is clever—ah, yes! exceedingly clever is 117Senhora de Mar. But has Mazanovitch his match in all Brazil?”
“I do not know the gentleman,” I returned.
“No? Perhaps not. But you know the Minister of Police, and Mazanovitch is the soul of Francisco Paola.”
“But what are we to do?” I asked, impatiently.
“Why, now that our friends in Rio are informed of the situation, we have transferred to them, for a time, all our worries. It only remains for us to await the eleven o’clock train.”
I nodded, staring at him through a sort of haze. I was dimly conscious that my burns were paining me terribly and that my right side seemed pierced by a thousand red-hot needles. Then the daylight faded away, the room grew black, and I sank upon the floor unconscious.
When I recovered I was lying upon a cot in the station-master’s private room. Sergeant Marco had ridden to a neighboring farmhouse and procured bandages and some olive oil and Figgot, who proudly informed me he had once been a surgeon, had neatly dressed and bandaged my burns.
These now bothered me less than the lameness resulting from my fall; but I drank a glass of wine and then lay quietly upon the cot until the arrival of the train, when my companions aroused me and assisted me aboard.
I made the journey comfortably enough, and felt greatly refreshed after partaking of a substantial luncheon brought from an eating-house by the thoughtful Figgot.
On our arrival at Rio we were met by a little, thin-faced man who thrust us all three into a cab and himself joined us as we 119began to rattle along the labyrinth of streets. He was plainly dressed in black, quiet and unobtrusive in manner, and had iron-gray hair and beard, both closely cropped. I saw at once he was not a Brazilian, and made up my mind he was the man called Mazanovitch by Paola and my companions. If so, he was the person now in charge of our quest for the ring, and with this idea I examined his face with interest.
This was not difficult, for the man sat opposite me with lowered eyelids and a look of perfect repose upon his thin features. He might have been fifty or sixty years of age; but there was no guide in determining this except his gray hairs, for his face bore no lines of any sort, and his complexion, although of pallid hue, was not unhealthy in appearance.
It surprised me that neither he nor my companions asked any questions. Perhaps the telegrams had explained all that was necessary. Anyway, an absolute silence reigned in the carriage during our brief drive.
When we came to a stop the little man 120opened the door. We all alighted and followed him into a gloomy stone building. Through several passages we walked, and then our conductor led us into a small chamber, bare except for a half-dozen iron cots that stood in a row against the wall. A guard was at the doorway, but admitted us with a low bow after one glance at the man in black.
Leading us to the nearest cot, Mazanovitch threw back a sheet and then stood aside while we crowded around it. To my horror I saw the form of Madam Izabel lying dead before us. Her white dress was discolored at the breast with clots of dark blood.
“Stabbed to the heart,” said the guard, calmly. “It was thus they brought her from the train that arrived this afternoon from Matto Grosso. The assassin is unknown.”
Mazanovitch thrust me aside, leaned over the cot, and drew the woman’s left hand from beneath the sheet.
The little finger had been completely severed.
121Very gently he replaced the hand, drew the sheet over the beautiful face, and turned away.
Filled with amazement at the Nemesis that had so soon overtaken this fierce and terrible woman, I was about to follow our guide when I found myself confronting a personage who stood barring my way with folded arms and a smile of grim satisfaction upon his delicate features.
It was Valcour—the man who had called himself de Guarde on board the Castina—the Emperor’s spy.
“Ah, my dear Senhor Harcliffe! Do we indeed meet again?” he cried, tauntingly. “And are you still keeping a faithful record in that sweet diary of yours? It is fine reading, that diary—perhaps you have it with you now?”
“Let me pass,” said I, impatiently.
“Not yet, my dear friend,” he answered, laughing. “You are going to be my guest, you know. Will it not please you to enjoy my society once more? To be sure. And I—I shall not wish to part with you again soon.”
122“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“Only that I arrest you, Robert Harcliffe, in the name of the Emperor!”
“On what charge?” I asked.
“Murder, for one,” returned the smiling Valcour. “Afterward you may answer for conspiracy.”
“Pardon me, Senhor Valcour,” said the little man, in a soft voice. “The gentleman is already under arrest—in the Emperor’s name.”
Valcour turned upon him fiercely, but his eyes fell as he encountered the other’s passive, unemotional countenance.
“Is it so, Captain Mazanovitch? Then I will take the prisoner off your hands.”
The little man spread out his palms with an apologetic, deprecating gesture. His eyes seemed closed—or nearly so. He seemed to see nothing; he looked at neither Valcour nor myself. But there was something about the still, white face, with its frame of iron-gray, that compelled a certain respect, and even deference.
“It is greatly to be regretted,” he said, gently; “and it grieves me to be obliged to 123disappoint you, Senhor Valcour. But since this man is a prisoner of the police—a state prisoner of some importance, I believe—it is impossible to deliver him into your hands.”
Without answer Valcour stood motionless before us, only his mobile face and his white lips showing the conflict of emotions that oppressed him. And then I saw a curious thing happen. The eyelids of Mazanovitch for an instant unclosed, and in that instant so tender a glance escaped them that Valcour trembled slightly, and touched with a gentle, loving gesture the elder man’s arm.
It all happened in a flash, and the next moment I could not have sworn that my eyes had not deceived me, for Valcour turned away with a sullen frown upon his brow, and the Captain seized my arm and marched me to the door, Figgot and Marco following close behind.
Presently we regained our carriage and were driven rapidly from the morgue.
This drive was longer than the first, but during it no word was spoken by any of my 124companions. I could not help staring at the closed eyes of Mazanovitch, but the others, I noticed, avoided looking at him. Did he see, I wondered?—could he see from out the tiny slit that showed beneath his lashes?
We came at last to a quiet street lined with small frame houses, and before one of these the carriage stopped. Mazanovitch opened the front door with a latchkey, and ushered us into a dimly lighted room that seemed fitted up as study and office combined.
Not until we were seated and supplied with cigars did the little man speak. Then he reclined in a cushioned chair, puffed at his cheroot, and turned his face in my direction.
“Tell me all you know concerning the vault and the ring which unlocks it,” he said, in his soft tones.
I obeyed. Afterward Figgot told of my meeting with the Minister of Police, and of Paola’s orders to him and Marco to escort me to Rio and to place the entire matter in the hands of Mazanovitch.
125The little man listened without comment and afterward sat for many minutes silently smoking his cheroot.
“It seems to me,” said I, at last, “that the death of Senhora de Mar, and especially the fact that her ring finger has been severed from her hand, points conclusively to one reassuring fact; that the ring has been recovered by one of our band, and so the Cause is no longer endangered. Therefore my mission to Rio is ended, and all that remains for me is to return to Cuyaba and attend to the obsequies of my poor friend de Pintra.”
Marco and Figgot heard me respectfully, but instead of replying both gazed questioningly at the calm face of Mazanovitch.
“The facts are these;” said the latter, deliberately; “Senhora de Mar fled with the ring; she has been murdered, and the ring taken from her. By whom? If a patriot has it we shall know the truth within fifteen minutes.” I glanced at a great clock ticking against the wall. “Before your arrival,” he resumed, “I had taken steps to communicate with every patriot in 126Rio. Yet there were few able to recognize the ring as the key to the secret vault, and the murder was committed fifteen minutes after the train left Cruz.”
I started, at that.
“Who could have known?” I asked.
The little man took the cigar from his mouth for a moment.
“On the train,” said he, “were General Fonseca, the patriot, and Senhor Valcour, the Emperor’s spy.”
I remembered Fonseca’s visit of the night before, and considered it natural he should take the morning train to the capital.
“But Valcour would not need to murder Madam Izabel,” said I. “They were doubtless in the plot together, and she would have no hesitation in giving him the ring had he demanded it. On the contrary, our general was already incensed against the daughter of the chief, and suspected her of plotting mischief. I am satisfied he has the ring.”
“The general will be with us presently,” answered Mazanovitch, quietly. “But, gentlemen, you all stand in need of refreshment, and Senhor Harcliffe should have his burns properly dressed. Kindly follow me.”
He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs that made two abrupt turns—for no 128apparent reason—before they reached the upper landing. Following our guide we came to a back room where a table was set for six. A tall, studious-looking Brazilian greeted us with a bow and immediately turned his spectacled eyes upon me. On a small side table were bandages, ointments, and a case of instruments lying open.
Within ten minutes the surgeon had dressed all my wounds—none of which, however, was serious, merely uncomfortable—and I felt greatly benefited by the application of the soothing ointments.
Scarcely was the operation completed when the door opened to admit Fonseca. He gave me a nod, glanced questioningly at the others, and then approached the table and poured out a glass of wine, which he drank eagerly. I noticed he was in full uniform.
“General,” said I, unable to repress my anxiety, “have you the ring?”
He shook his head and sat down with a gloomy expression upon his face.
“I slept during the journey from Cuyaba,” he said presently, “and only on my 129arrival at Rio did I discover that Senhora de Mar had traveled by the same train. She was dead when they carried her into the station.”
“And Valcour?” It was Mazanovitch who asked the question.
“Valcour was beside the body, wild with excitement, and swearing vengeance against the murderer.”
“Be seated, gentlemen,” requested our host, approaching the table. “We have time for a slight repast before our friends arrive.”
“May I join you?” asked a high, querulous voice. A slender figure, draped in black and slightly stooping, stood in the doorway.
“Come in,” said Fonseca, and the new arrival threw aside his cloak and sat with us at the table.
“The last supper, eh?” he said, in a voice that quavered somewhat. “For to-morrow we die. Eh, brothers?—to-morrow we die!”
“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die to-morrow, if you like; die to-night, 130for all I care. The rest of us intend to live long enough to shout huzzas for the United States of Brazil!”
“In truth, Senhor Piexoto,” said Marco, who was busily eating, “we are in no unusual danger to-night.”
Startled by the mention of the man’s name, I regarded him with sudden interest.
The reputation of Floriano Piexoto, the astute statesman who had plotted so well for the revolutionary party, was not unknown to me, by any means. Next to Fonseca no patriot was more revered by the people of Brazil; yet not even the general was regarded with the same unquestioning affection. For Piexoto was undoubtedly a friend of the people, and despite his personal peculiarities had the full confidence of that rank and file of the revolutionary party upon which, more than upon the grandees who led it, depended the fate of the rising republic.
His smooth-shaven face, sunken cheeks, and somewhat deprecating gaze gave him the expression of a student rather than a statesman, and his entire personality was in 131sharp contrast to the bravado of Fonseca. To see the two leaders together one would never suspect that history would prove the statesman greater than the general.
“Danger!” piped Piexoto, shrilly, in answer to Sergeant Marco’s remark, “you say there is no danger? Is not de Pintra dead? Is not the ring gone? Is not the secret vault at the Emperor’s mercy?”
“Who knows?” answered Fonseca, with a shrug.
“And who is this?” continued Piexoto, turning upon me a penetrating gaze. “Ah, the American secretary, I suppose. Well, sir, what excuse have you to make for allowing all this to happen under your very nose? Are you also a traitor?”
“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, senhor,” said I, stiffly; “nor, in view of your childish conduct, do I greatly desire it.”
Fonseca laughed, and the Pole turned his impassive face, with its half-closed eyelids, in my direction. But Piexoto seemed rather pleased with my retort, and said:
“Never mind; your head sits as insecurely 132upon its neck as any present. ‘Tis really a time for action rather than recrimination. What do you propose, Mazanovitch?”
“I am waiting to hear if you have discovered the present possessor of the ring,” answered the captain.
“No; our people were ignorant of its very existence, save in a few cases, and none of them has seen it. Therefore the Emperor has it, without doubt.”
“Why without doubt?” asked Mazanovitch.
“Who else could desire it? Who else could know its value? Who else would have murdered Madam Izabel to secure it?”
“Why the devil should the Emperor cause his own spy to be murdered?” inquired Fonseca, in his harsh voice. “You are a fool, Piexoto.”
“What of Leon de Mar?” asked the other, calmly. “He hated his wife. Why should he not have killed her himself, in order to be rid of her and at the same time secure the honor of presenting his Emperor with the key to the secret vault?”
133“Leon de Mar,” said Mazanovitch, “is in Rio Grande do Sul. He has been stationed there for three weeks.”
For a time there was silence.
“Where is Paola?” suddenly asked Piexoto. “I want to know what Paola is doing in this crisis.”
“He was last seen near de Pintra’s residence,” said Figgot. “But we know nothing of his present whereabouts.”
“You may be sure of one thing,” declared Marco stoutly; “that Francisco Paola is serving the Cause, wherever he may be.”
The general snorted derisively, and Piexoto looked at him with the nearest approach to a smile his anxious face had shown.
“How we admire one another!” he murmured.
“Personally I detest both you and Paola,” responded the general, frankly. “But the Cause is above personalities, and as for your loyalty, I dare not doubt it. But we wander from the subject in hand. Has the Emperor the ring or is he seeking it as eagerly as we are?”
134“The Emperor has not the ring,” said Mazanovitch, slowly; “you may be assured of that. Otherwise—”
Piexoto gave a start.
“To be sure,” said he, “otherwise we would not be sitting here.”