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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
we hear and remember. Then a man they call Valcour he rush up
and cry, ‘Her finger is gone! The ring—where is the ring?’ Aha! we
know now we are right.
“So we go away and find out about Miguel de Pintra—the head of
great rebellion with millions of gold and notes to pay the soldiers
when they fight. Good! We know now of the vault. We know we
have key. We know we are now rich! Careno and I we go to Cuyaba
—we find this house—we hide in the bushes till night. Then Careno
get mad for the money—he want it all, not half—and he try to
murder me. Ah, well! my pistol is quicker than his knife, that is all.
He is wearing ring, and it stick like it stick on lady’s hand. Bah! I cut
off Careno’s hand and carve away the ring. It is simple, is it not?
“But now the soldiers gallop up. The house is fill with people. So I
must wait. I hide in secret place, but soon they drag me out and
make me prisoner. What! must I lose all now—millions—millions of
gold—and no Careno to share it? No! I am still clever. I keep ring in
mouth until I meet you, and I give it to you to keep. When they
search me, there is no ring.”
He sprang up, chuckling and rubbing his hands together in great
delight. He danced a step or two and then drew the steel fork from
his breast and struck it fiercely into the table-top, standing silently to
watch it while the prongs quivered and came to rest.
“Am I not clever?” he again asked, drawing out the fork from the
wood and returning it to his breast. “But I am generous, too. You
shall divide with me. But not half! I won all from Careno, but you
shall have some—enough to be rich, Señor Americano. And now,
give me the ring!”
By this time his eyes were glittering with insanity, and at his abrupt
demand I shifted uneasily in my seat, not knowing how to reply.
“Give me the ring!” he repeated, a tone of menace creeping into his
high-pitched voice.
I arose and walked toward the window, getting the table between
us. Then I turned and faced him.
“They have taken the ring from me,” I said.
He stood as if turned to stone, his fierce eyes fixed upon my own.
“They have opened the vault with it,” I continued, “and found it bare
and empty.”
He gave a shrill scream at this, and began trembling in every limb.
“You lie!” he shouted, wildly. “You try to cheat me—to get all! And
the vault has millions—millions in gold and notes. Give me the ring!”
I made no reply. To reiterate my assertion would do no good, and
the man was incompetent to consider the matter calmly. Indeed, he
once more drew that ugly fork from his breast and, grasping it as
one would a dagger, began creeping toward me with a stealthy, cat-
like tread.
I approached the edge of the round center-table, alert to keep its
breadth between me and my companion. The Mexican paused
opposite me, and whispered between his clinched teeth:
“Give it me! Give me the ring!”
“The guard will be here presently,” said I, fervently hoping I spoke
the truth, “and he will tell you of the ring. I am quite sure Senhor
Valcour has it.”
“Ah, I am betrayed! You wish to take all—you and this Valcour! But
see, my Americano—I will kill you. I will kill you now, and then you
have nothing for your treachery!”
Slowly he edged his way around the table, menacing me with his
strange weapon, and with my eyes fixed upon his I moved in the
opposite direction, retaining the table as my shield.
First in one direction and then in the other he moved, swiftly at
times, then with deliberate caution, striving ever to take me
unawares and reach me with his improvised dagger.
This situation could not stand the tension for long; I realized that
sooner or later the game must have an abrupt ending.
So, as I dodged my persistent enemy, I set my wits working to
devise a means of escape. The window seemed my only hope, and I
had lost all fear of the sentry in the more terrible danger that
confronted me.
Suddenly I exerted my strength and thrust the table against the
Mexican so forcibly that he staggered backward. Then I caught up a
chair and after a swing around my head hurled it toward him like a
catapult. It crushed him to the floor, and e’er he could rise again I
had thrown up the sash of the window and leaped out.
Fortune often favors the desperate. I alighted full upon the form of
the unsuspecting sentry, bearing him to the ground by my weight,
where we both rolled in the grass.
Quickly I regained my feet and darted away into the flower-garden,
seeking to reach the hedges before my guard could recover himself.
Over my shoulder I saw him kneeling and deliberately pointing at me
his carbine. Before he could fire the flying form of the Mexican
descended upon him from the window. There was a flash and a
report, but the ball went wide its mark, and instantly the two men
were struggling in a death-grapple upon the lawn.
Away I ran through the maze of hedge and shrubbery, threading the
well-known paths unerringly. I heard excited shouts as the
guardsmen, aroused by their comrade’s shot, poured from the
mansion and plunged into the gardens to follow me. But it was dusk
by this time, and I had little fear of being overtaken.
The estate was bounded upon this side by an impenetrable thick-set
hedge, but it was broken in one place by a gardeners’ tool-house,
which had a door at each side, and thus admitted one into a lane
that wound through a grove and joined the main highway a mile
beyond.
Reaching this tool-house I dashed within, closed and barred the door
behind me, and then emerged upon the lane.
To my surprise I saw a covered carriage standing in the gloom, and
made out that the door stood open and a man upon the box was
holding the reins and leaning toward me eagerly as if striving to
solve my identity.
Without hesitation I sprang into the carriage and closed the door,
crying to the man:
“Quick! for your life—drive on!”
Without a word he lashed his horses and we started with a jerk that
threw me into the back seat.
I heard an exclamation in a woman’s startled voice and felt a
muffled form shrinking into the corner of the carriage. Then two
shots rang out; I heard a scream and the sound of a fall as the
driver pitched upon the ground, and now like the wind the
maddened horses rushed on without guidance, swaying the carriage
from side to side with a dangerous motion.
These Brazilian carriages have a trap in the top to permit the
occupants to speak to the driver. I found this trap, threw it upward,
and drew myself up until I was able to scramble into the vacant
seat. The reins had fallen between the horses, evidently, but we
were now dashing through the grove, and the shadows were so
deep that I could distinguish nothing distinctly.
Cautiously I let myself down until my feet touched the pole, and
then, resting my hands upon the loins of the madly galloping
animals, I succeeded in grasping the reins and returned safely to the
box seat.
Then I braced myself to conquer the runaways, and when we
emerged from the grove and came upon the highway there was
sufficient light for me to keep the horses in the straight road until
they had tired themselves sufficiently to be brought under control.
During this time I had turned to speak a reassuring word, now and
then, to the unknown woman in the carriage.
Doubtless she had been both amazed and indignant at my abrupt
seizure of her equipage; but there was not yet time to explain to her
my necessity.
We were headed straight for the station at Cuyaba, and I decided at
once to send a telegram warning Mazanovitch of danger. For Paola
had turned traitor, the vault had been opened, and the Emperor was
even now on his way to Rio to arrest all who had previously escaped
the net of the Minister of Police.
So we presently dashed up to the station, which was nearly deserted
at this hour, and after calling a porter to hold the horses I went into
the station to write my telegram.
Mazanovitch had asked me to use but one word, and although I had
much of interest to communicate, a moment’s thought assured me
that a warning of danger was sufficient.
So, after a brief hesitation, I wrote the word “Lesba,” and handed
the message to the operator.
“That is my name, senhor,” said a soft voice behind me, and I turned
to confront Lesba Paola.
 CHAPTER XIX
THE WAYSIDE INN

Astonishment rendered me speechless, and at first I could do no

more than bow with an embarrassed air to the cloaked figure before
me. Lesba’s fair face, peering from beneath her mantilla, was grave
but set, and her brilliant eyes bore a questioning and half-
contemptuous look that was hard to meet.
“That is my name, senhor,” she repeated, “and you will oblige me by
explaining why you are sending it to Captain Mazanovitch.”
“Was it your carriage in which I escaped?” I inquired.
“Yes; and my man now lies wounded by the roadside. Why did you
take me by surprise, Senhor Harcliffe? And why—why are you
telegraphing my name to Mazanovitch?”
Although my thoughts were somewhat confused I remembered that
Lesba had accompanied her brother to Rio; that her brother had
turned traitor, and she herself had ridden in the Emperor’s carriage,
with the spy Valcour. And I wondered how it was that her carriage
should have been standing this very evening at a retired spot,
evidently awaiting some one, when I chanced upon it in my
extremity.
It is well to take time to consider, when events are of a confusing
nature. In that way thoughts are sometimes untangled. Now, in a
flash, the truth came to me. Valcour was still at the mansion—
Valcour, her accomplice; perhaps her lover.
To realize this evident fact of her intrigue with my brilliant foe sent a
shiver through me—a shiver of despair and utter weariness. Still
keeping my gaze upon the floor, and noting, half-consciously, the
click-click of the telegraph instrument, I said:
“Pardon me, donzella, for using your carriage to effect my escape.
You see, I have not made an alliance with the royalists, as yet, and
my condition is somewhat dangerous. As for the use of your name in
my telegram, I have no objection to telling you—now that the
message has been sent—that it was a cypher word warning my
republican friends of treachery.”
“Do you suspect me of treachery, Senhor Harcliffe?” she asked in
cold, scornful tones.
I looked up, but dropped my eyes again as I confronted the blaze of
indignation that flashed from her own.
“I make no accusations, donzella. What is it to me if you Brazilians
fight among yourselves for freedom or the Emperor, as it may suit
your fancy? I came here to oblige a friend of my father’s—the one
true man I have found in all your intrigue-ridden country. But he,
alas! is dead, and I am powerless to assist farther the cause he
loved. So my mission here is ended, and I will go back to America.”
Again I looked up; but this time her eyes were lowered and her
expression was set and impenetrable.
“Do not let us part in anger,” I resumed, a tremor creeping into my
voice in spite of me—for this girl had been very dear to my heart.
“Let us say we have both acted according to the dictates of
conscience, and cherish only memories of the happy days we have
passed together, to comfort us in future years.”
She started, with upraised hand and eager face half turned toward
the door. Far away in the distance I heard the tramp of many hoofs.
“They are coming, senhor!” called the man who stood beside the
horses—one of our patriots. “It’s the troop of Uruguayans, I am
sure.”
Pedro, the station-master, ran from his little office and extinguished
the one dim lamp that swung from the ceiling of the room in which
we stood.
In the darkness that enveloped us Lesba grasped my arm and
whispered “Come!” dragging me toward the door. A moment later
we were beside the carriage.
“Mount!” she cried, in a commanding voice. “I will ride inside. Take
the road to San Tarem. Quick, senhor, as you value both our lives!”
I gathered up the reins as Pedro slammed tight the carriage door. A
crack of the whip, a shout of encouragement from the two patriots,
and we had dashed away upon the dim road leading to the wild,
unsettled plains of the North Plateau.
They were good horses. It surprised me to note their mettle and
speed, and I guessed they had been carefully chosen for the night’s
work—an adventure of which this dénouement was scarcely
expected. I could see the road but dimly, but I gave the horses slack
rein and they sped along at no uncertain pace.
I could no longer hear the hoof-beats of the guards, and judged that
either we had outdistanced them or the shrewd Pedro had sent them
on a false scent.
Presently the sky brightened, and as the moon shone clear above us
I found that we were passing through a rough country that was but
sparsely settled. I remembered to have ridden once in this direction
with Lesba, but not so far; and the surroundings were therefore
strange to me.
For an hour I drove steadily on, and then the girl spoke to me
through the open trap in the roof of the carriage.
“A mile or so further will bring us to a fork in the road. Keep to the
right,” said she.
I returned no answer, although I was burning to question her of
many things. But time enough for that, I thought, when we were
safely at our journey’s end. Indeed, Lesba’s mysterious actions—her
quick return from Rio in the wake of the Emperor and Valcour, her
secret rendezvous in the lane, which I had so suddenly surprised
and interrupted, and her evident desire to save me from arrest—all
this was not only contradictory to the frank nature of the girl, but to
the suspicions I had formed of her betrayal of the conspiracy in co-
operation with her treacherous brother.
The key to the mystery was not mine, and I could only wait until
Lesba chose to speak and explain her actions.
I came to the fork in the road and turned to the right. The trail—for
it had become little more than that—now skirted a heavy growth of
underbrush that merged into groves of scattered, stunted trees; and
these in time gradually became more compact and stalwart until a
great Brazilian forest threw its black shadow over us. Noiselessly the
carriage rolled over the beds of moss, which were so thick now that
I could scarcely hear a sound of the horses’ hoofs, and then I
discerned a short distance ahead the outlines of an old,
weatherbeaten house.
Lesba had her head through the trap and spoke close to my ear.
“Stop at this place,” said she; “for here our journey ends.”
I pulled up the horses opposite the dwelling and regarded it
somewhat doubtfully. It had been built a hundred yards or so from
the edge of the dense forest and seemed utterly deserted. It was a
large house, with walls of baked clay and a thatched roof, and its
neglected appearance and dreary surroundings gave it a fearsome
look as it stood lifeless and weather-stained under the rays of the
moon.
“Is the place inhabited?” I asked.
“It must be,” she replied. “Go to the door, and knock upon it loudly.”
“But the horses—who will mind them, donzella?”
Instantly she scrambled through the trap to the seat beside me and
took the reins in her small hands.
“I will look after the horses,” said she.
So I climbed down and approached the door. It was sheltered by a
rude porch, and flanked upon either side by well-worn benches such
as are frequent at wayside inns.
I pounded upon the door and then paused to listen. The sounds
drew a hollow reverberation from within, but aroused no other reply.
“Knock again!” called Lesba.
I obeyed, but with no better success. The place seemed uncanny,
and I returned abruptly to the carriage, standing beside the wheel
and gazing up through the moonlight into the beautiful face the girl
bent over me.
“Lesba,” said I, pleadingly, “what does all this mean? Why have you
brought me to this strange place?”
“To save your life,” she answered in a grave voice.
“But how came you to be waiting in the lane? And who were you
waiting for?” I persisted.
“By what right do you question me, Senhor Harcliffe?” she asked,
drawing back so that I could no longer look into her eyes.
“By no right at all, Lesba. Neither do I care especially whether you
are attached to the Empire or the Republic, or how much you
indulge in political intrigue, since that appears to be the chief
amusement of your countrymen. But I love you. You know it well,
although you have never permitted me tell you so. And loving you as
I do, with all my heart, I am anxious to untangle this bewildering
maze and understand something of your actions since that terrible
morning when I parted with you at Dom Miguel’s mansion.”
She laughed, and the laugh was one of those quaint flashes of
merriment peculiar to the girl, leaving one in doubt whether to
attribute it to amusement or nervous agitation. Indeed, where
another woman might weep Lesba would laugh; so that it frequently
puzzled me to comprehend her. Now, however, she surprised me by
leaning over me and saying gently:
“I will answer your question, Robert. My brother is at the mansion,
and in danger of his life. I was waiting with the carriage to assist
him to escape.”
“But how do you know he is in danger?”
“He sent me word by a carrier-pigeon.”
“To be sure. Yet there is one more thing that troubles me: why were
you in Rio, riding in the Emperor’s carriage with the spy Valcour?”
“It is simple, senhor. I went to Rio to assist in persuading Dom Pedro
to visit the vault.”
“Knowing it was empty?”
“Knowing it was empty, and believing that the Emperor’s absence
would enable Fonseca to strike a blow for freedom.”
“Then Fonseca is still faithful to the Cause?”
“I know of no traitor in our ranks, Robert, although it seems you
have suspected nearly all of us, at times. But it grows late and my
brother is still in peril. Will you again rap upon the door?”
“It is useless, Lesba.”
“Try the back door; they may hear you from there,” she suggested.
So I made my way, stumbling over tangled vines and protruding
roots, to the rear of the house, where the shadows lay even thicker
than in front. I found the door, and hammered upon it with all my
strength. The noise might have raised the dead, but as I listened
intently there came not the least footfall to reward me. For a time I
hesitated what to do. From the grim forest behind me I heard a half-
audible snarl and the bark of a wolf; in the house an impressive
silence reigned supreme.
I drew back, convinced that the place was uninhabited, and returned
around the corner of the house.
“There is no one here, donzella,” I began, but stopped short in
amazement.
The carriage was gone.
 CHAPTER XX
“ARISE AND STRIKE!”

I sprang to the road and peered eagerly in every direction. Far away
in the distance could be discerned the dim outlines of the carriage,
flying along the way from whence we had come.
Lesba had brought me to this place only to desert me, and it was
not difficult to realize that she had sent me to the rear of the house
to get me out of the way while she wheeled the carriage around and
dashed away unheard over the soft moss.
Well, I had ceased to speculate upon the girl’s erratic actions. Only
one thing seemed clear to me; that she had returned to rescue her
brother from the danger which threatened him. Why she had
assisted me to escape the soldiery only to leave me in this
wilderness could be accounted for but by the suggestion that her
heart softened toward one whom she knew had learned to love her
during those bright days we had passed in each other’s society. But
that she loved me in return I dared not even hope. Her answer to
my declaration had been a laugh, and to me this girl’s heart was as a
sealed book. Moreover, it occurred to me that Valcour also loved her,
and into his eyes I had seen her gaze as she never had gazed into
mine during our most friendly intercourse.
The carriage had vanished long since, and the night air was chill. I
returned to the porch of the deserted house, and curling myself up
on one of the benches soon sank into a profound slumber, for the
events of the day had well-nigh exhausted me.
When I awoke a rough-looking, bearded man was bending over me.
He wore a peasant’s dress and carried a gun on his left arm.
“Who are you, senhor,” he demanded, as my eyes unclosed, “and
how came you here?”
I arose and stretched myself, considering who he might be.
“Why do you ask?” said I.
“There is war in the land, senhor,” he responded, quietly, “and every
man must be a friend or a foe to the Republic.” He doffed his hat
with rude devotion at the word, and added, “Declare yourself, my
friend.”
I stared at him thoughtfully. War in the land, said he! Then the
“torch of rebellion” had really been fired. But by whom? Could it
have been Paola, as Valcour had claimed? And why? Since the
conspiracy had been unmasked and its leaders, with the exception of
Fonseca, either scattered or imprisoned? Did the Minister of Police
aim to destroy every one connected with the Cause by precipitating
an impotent revolt? Or was there a master-hand directing these
seemingly incomprehensible events?
The man was growing suspicious of my silence.
“Come!” said he, abruptly; “you shall go to Senhor Bastro.”
“And where is that?” I asked, with interest, for Paola had reported
that Bastro had fled the country.
My captor did not deign to reply. With the muzzle of his gun
unpleasantly close to my back he marched me toward the edge of
the forest, which we skirted for a time in silence. Then the path
turned suddenly into a dense thicket, winding between close-set
trees until, deep within the wood, we came upon a natural clearing
of considerable extent.
In the center of this space was a large, low building constructed of
logs and roofed with branches of trees, and surrounding the entire
structure were grouped native Brazilians, armed with rifles,
revolvers, and knives.
These men were not uniformed, and their appearance was anything
but military; nevertheless there was a look upon their stern faces
that warned me they were in deadly earnest and not to be trifled
with.
As my intercourse with the republicans had been confined entirely to
a few of their leaders, I found no familiar face among these people;
so I remained impassive while my captor pushed me past the guards
to a small doorway placed near a protecting angle of the building.
“Enter!” said he.
I obeyed, and the next moment stood before a group of men who
were evidently the officers or leaders of the little band of armed
patriots I had seen without.
“Ah!” said one, in a deep bass voice, “it is Senhor Harcliffe, the
secretary to Dom Miguel.”
I have before mentioned the fact that whenever the conspirators
had visited de Pintra they remained securely masked, so that their
features were, with a few exceptions, unknown to me. But the
voices were familiar enough, and the man who had brought me here
had mentioned Sanchez Bastro’s name; so I had little difficulty in
guessing the identity of the personage who now addressed me.
“Why are you here, senhor?” he inquired, with evident anxiety; “and
do you bring us news of the uprising?”
“I know nothing of the uprising except that your man here,” and I
turned to my guide, “tells me there is war in the land, and that the
Revolution is proclaimed.”
“Yes,” returned Bastro, with a grave nod.
“Then,” I continued, “I advise you to lay down your arms at once
and return to your homes before you encounter arrest and
imprisonment.”
The leaders cast upon one another uneasy looks, and Bastro drew a
small paper from his breast and handed it to me. I recognized it as
one of the leaves from his note-book which Paola had attached to
the carrier-pigeon, and upon it were scrawled these words, “Arise
and strike!”
It was the signal long since agreed upon to start the Revolution.
With a laugh I handed back the paper.
“It is from Francisco Paola, the traitor,” I said.
“Traitor!” they echoed, in an astonished chorus.
“Listen, gentlemen; it is evident you are ignorant of the events of
the last two days.” And in as few words as possible I related the
occurrences at de Pintra’s mansion, laying stress upon the arrest of
Piexoto, the perfidy of the Minister of Police, and the death of
Treverot.
They were not so deeply impressed as I had expected. The
discovery of the empty vault had aroused no interest whatever, and
they listened quietly and without comment to my story of Paola’s
betrayal of his fellow-conspirators to the Emperor.
But when I mentioned Treverot’s death Bastro chose to smile, and
indicating a tall gentleman standing at his left, he said:
“Permit me to introduce to you Senhor Treverot. He will tell you that
he still lives.”
“Then Paola lied?” I exclaimed, somewhat chagrined.
Bastro shrugged his shoulders.
“We have confidence in the Minister of Police,” said he, calmly.
“There is no doubt but General Fonseca, at Rio, has before now
gained control of the capital, and that the Revolution is successfully
established. We shall know everything very soon, for my men have
gone to the nearest telegraph station for news. Meantime, to guard
against any emergency, our patriots are being armed in readiness for
combat, and, in Matto Grosso at least, the royalists are powerless to
oppose us.”
“But the funds—the records! What will happen if the Emperor seizes
them?” I asked.
“The Emperor will not seize them,” returned Bastro, unmoved. “The
contents of the vault are in safe-keeping.”
Before I could question him further a man sprang through the
doorway.
“The wires from Rio are cut in every direction,” said he, in an
agitated voice. “A band of the Uruguayan guards, under de Souza
and Valcour, is galloping over the country to arrest every patriot they
can find, and our people are hiding themselves in terror.”
Consternation spread over the features of the little band which a
moment before had deemed itself so secure and powerful. Bastro
turned to pace the earthen floor with anxious strides, while the
others watched him silently.
“What of Francisco Paola?” suddenly asked the leader.
“Why, senhor, he seems to have disappeared,” replied the scout,
with hesitation.
“Disappeared! And why?”
“Perhaps I can answer that question, Senhor Bastro,” said a voice
behind us, and turning my head I saw my friend Pedro, the station-
master at Cuyaba, standing within the doorway.
“Enter, Pedro,” commanded the leader. “What news do you bring,
and why have you abandoned your post?”
“The wires are down,” said the station-master, “and no train is
allowed to leave Rio since the Emperor reached there at midnight.”
“Then you know nothing of what has transpired at the capital?”
asked Bastro.
“Nothing, senhor. It was yesterday morning when the Emperor’s
party met the train at Cuyaba, and I handed him a telegram from de
Lima, the Minister of State. It read in this way: ‘General Fonseca and
his army have revolted and seized the palace, the citadel, and all
public buildings. I have called upon every loyal Brazilian to rally to
the support of the Empire. Return at once. Arrest the traitors
Francisco Paola and his sister. Situation critical.”
“Ah!” cried Bastro, drawing a deep breath, “and what said the
Emperor to that message?”
“He spoke with his counselors, and wired this brief reply to de Lima,
‘I am coming.’ Also he sent a soldier back to de Pintra’s mansion with
orders to arrest Francisco and Lesba Paola. Then he boarded the
train and instructed the conductor to proceed to Rio with all possible
haste. And that is all I know, senhor, save that I called up Rio last
evening and learned that Fonseca was still in control of the city. At
midnight the wires were cut and nothing further can be learned.
Therefore I came to join you, and if there is a chance to fight for the
Cause I beg that you will accept my services.”
Bastro paused in his walk to press the honest fellow’s hand; then he
resumed his thoughtful pacing.
The others whispered among themselves, and one said:
“Why need we despair, Sanchez Bastro? Will not Fonseca, once in
control, succeed in holding the city?”
“Surely!” exclaimed the leader. “It is not for him that I fear, but for
ourselves. If the Uruguayans are on our trail we must disperse our
men and scatter over the country, for the spy Valcour knows, I am
sure, of this rendezvous.”
“But they are not hunting you, senhor,” protested Pedro, “but rather
Paola and his sister, who have managed to escape from de Pintra’s
house.”
“Nevertheless, the Uruguayans are liable to be here at any moment,”
returned Bastro, “and there is nothing to be gained by facing that
devil, de Souza.”
He then called his men together in the clearing, explained to them
the situation, and ordered them to scatter and to secrete themselves
in the edges of the forests and pick off the Uruguayans with their
rifles whenever occasion offered.
“If anything of importance transpires,” he added, “report to me at
once at my house.”
Without a word of protest his commands were obeyed. The leaders
mounted their horses and rode away through the numerous forest
paths that led into the clearing.
The men also saluted and disappeared among the trees, and
presently only Bastro, Pedro, and myself stood in the open space.
“Come with me, Senhor Harcliffe,” said the leader; “I shall be glad to
have you join me at breakfast. You may follow us, Pedro.”
Then he strode to the edge of the clearing, pressed aside some
bushes, and stepped into a secret path that led through the densest
portion of the tangled forest. I followed, and Pedro brought up the
rear.
For some twenty minutes Bastro guided us along the path, which
might well have been impassable to a novice, until finally we
emerged from the forest to find the open country before us, and a
small, cozy-looking dwelling facing us from the opposite side of a
well-defined roadway.
Bastro led us to a side door, which he threw open, and then stepped
back with a courteous gesture.
“Enter, gentlemen,” said he; “you are welcome to my humble home.”
I crossed the threshold and came to an abrupt stop. Something
seemed to clutch my heart with a grip of iron; my limbs trembled
involuntarily, and my eyes grew set and staring.
For, standing before me, with composed look and a smile upon his
dark face, was the living form of my lamented friend Miguel de
Pintra!
 CHAPTER XXI
ONE MYSTERY SOLVED

“Compose yourself, my dear Robert,” said Dom Miguel, pressing my

hands in both his own. “It is no ghost you see, for—thanks be to
God!—I am still alive.”
I had no words to answer him. In all my speculations as to the result
of Madam Izabel’s terrible deed, the fate of the records and the
mysterious opening of the vault without its key, I never had
conceived the idea that Dom Miguel might have escaped his doom.
And to find him here, not only alive, but apparently in good health
and still busy with the affairs of the Revolution, conveyed so vivid a
shock to my nerves that I could but dumbly stare into my old friend’s
kind eyes and try to imagine that I beheld a reality and not the
vision of a disordered brain.
Bastro assisted me by laughing loudly and giving me a hearty slap
across the shoulders.
“Wake up, Senhor Harcliffe!” said he; “and hereafter have more faith
in Providence and the luck that follows in the wake of true
patriotism. We could ill afford to lose our chief at this juncture.”
“But how did it happen?” I gasped, still filled with wonder. “What
earthly power could have opened that awful vault when its key was
miles and miles away?”
“The earthly power was wielded by a very ordinary little woman,”
said Dom Miguel, with his old gentle smile. “When you rode away
from the house on that terrible morning Lesba came and unlocked
my prison, setting me free.”
“But how?” I demanded, still blindly groping for the truth.
“By means of a duplicate key that she had constantly carried in her
bosom.”
I drew a long breath.
“Did you know of this key, sir?” I asked, after a pause, which my
companions courteously forbore to interrupt.
“I did not even suspect its existence,” replied Dom Miguel. “But it
seems that Francisco Paola, with his usual thoughtfulness, took an
impression in wax of my ring, without my knowledge, and had an
exact duplicate prepared. I think he foresaw that an emergency
might arise when another key might be required; but it would not do
to let any one know of his action, for the mere knowledge that such
a duplicate existed would render us all suspicious and uneasy. So he
kept the matter secret even from me, and gave the ring into the
keeping of his sister, who was his only confidante, and whom he had
requested me to accept as an inmate of my household, under the
plea that I am her legal guardian. This was done in order to have
her always at hand in case the interests of the conspiracy demanded
immediate use of the duplicate key. That Francisco trusted her more
fully than he has any other living person is obvious; and that she
was worthy of such trust the girl has fully proved.”
“Then you were released at once?” I asked; “and you suffered little
from your confinement?”
“My anguish was more mental than of a bodily nature,” Dom Miguel
answered, sadly; “but I was free to meet Paola when he arrived at
my house, and to assist him and Lesba in removing the contents of
the vault to a safer place.”
“But why, knowing that his sister held a duplicate key, did the
Minister send me in chase of the ring Madam Izabel had stolen?” I
demanded.
“Because it was necessary to keep the matter from the Emperor until
the records had been removed,” explained de Pintra. “Indeed,
Francisco was on his way to us that morning to insist upon our
abandoning the vault, after having given us warning, as you will
remember, the night before, that the clever hiding-place of our
treasure and papers was no longer a secret.”
“I remember that he himself revealed the secret to the Emperor,” I
remarked, dryly.
“And acted wisely in doing so, I have no doubt,” retorted Bastro,
who still stood beside us. “But come, gentlemen, breakfast must be
ready, and I have a vigorous appetite. Be good enough to join me.”
He led the way to an inner room, and de Pintra and I followed, his
arm in mine.
It seemed to me, now that I regarded him more attentively, that my
old friend was less erect than formerly, that there were new and
deep furrows upon his gentle face, and that his eyes had grown dim
and sunken. But that the old, dauntless spirit remained I never
doubted.
As we entered the breakfast-room I saw a form standing at the
window—the form of a little man clothed neatly in black. He turned
to greet us with pale, expressionless features and drooping eyelids.
It was Captain Mazanovitch.
“Good morning, Senhor Harcliffe,” he said, in his soft voice; and I
wondered how he had recognized me without seeming to open his
eyes. “And what news does our noble Captain Bastro bring of the
Revolution?” he continued, with a slight note of interest in his voice
that betrayed his eagerness.
While we breakfasted Bastro related the events of the morning, and
told how the news he had received of the activity of the Uruguayan
guards, in connection with the impossibility of learning from Rio
what Fonseca had accomplished, had induced him to disband his
men.
“But can you again assemble them, if you should wish to?” inquired
Dom Miguel.
“Easily,” answered our host; but he did not explain how.
While he and Dom Miguel discussed the fortunes of the Revolution I
made bold to ask Captain Mazanovitch how he came to be in this
isolated spot.
“I was warned by the Minister of Police to leave Rio,” answered the
detective; “for it appears my—my friend Valcour would have been
suspicious had not Paola promised to arrest me with the others. I
have been here since yesterday.”
“Your friend Valcour is a most persistent foe to the Cause,” said I,
thoughtfully. “It would have pleased you to watch him struggle with
Paola for the mastery, while the Emperor was by. Ah, how Paola and
Valcour hate each other!”
Mazanovitch turned his passionless face toward me, and it seemed
as though a faint smile flickered for an instant around his mouth. But
he made no answer.
After breakfast Pedro was sent back to Cuyaba for news, being
instructed to await there the repairing of the telegraph wires, and to
communicate with us as soon as he had word from Rio.
The man had no sooner disappeared in the forest than, as we stood
in the roadway looking after him, a far-off patter of horses’ feet was
distinctly heard approaching from the north.
Silently we stood, gazing toward the curve in the road while the
hoof-beats grew louder and louder, till suddenly two horses swept
around the edge of the forest and bore down upon us.
Then to the surprise of all we recognized the riders to be Francisco
Paola and his sister Lesba, and they rode the same horses which the
evening before had been attached to the carriage that had brought
me from de Pintra’s.
As they dashed up both brother and sister sprang from the panting
animals, and the former said, hurriedly:
“Quick, comrades! Into the house and barricade the doors. The
Uruguayans are upon us!”
True enough; now that their own horses had come to a halt we
plainly heard the galloping of the troop of pursuers. With a single
impulse we ran to the house and entered, when my first task was to
assist Bastro in placing the shutters over the windows and securing
them with stout bars.
The doors were likewise fastened and barred, and then Mazanovitch
brought us an armful of rifles and an ample supply of ammunition.
“Do you think it wise to resist?” asked de Pintra, filling with
cartridges the magazine of a rifle.
A blow upon the door prevented an answer.
“Open, in the name of the Emperor!” cried an imperious voice.
“That is my gallant friend Captain de Souza,” said Lesba, with a little
laugh.
I looked at the strange girl curiously. She had seated herself upon a
large chest, and with her hands clasped about one knee was
watching us load our weapons with as much calmness as if no crisis
of our fate was impending.
“Be kind to him, Lesba,” remarked Paola, tucking a revolver
underneath his arm while he rolled and lighted a cigarette. “Think of
his grief at being separated from you.”
She laughed again, with real enjoyment, and shook the tangled locks
of hair from her eyes.
“Perhaps if I accept his attentions he will marry me, and I shall
escape,” she rejoined, lightly.
“Open, I command you!” came the voice from without.
“Really,” said Lesba, looking upon us brightly, “it was too funny for
anything. Twice this morning the brave captain nearly succeeded in
capturing me. He might have shot me with ease, but called out that
he could not bear to injure the woman he loved!”
“Does he indeed love you, Lesba?” asked de Pintra, gently.
“So he says, Uncle. But it must have been a sudden inspiration, for I
never saw him until yesterday.”
“Nevertheless, I am glad to learn of this,” resumed Dom Miguel; “for
there is no disguising the fact that they outnumber us and are better
armed, and it is good to know that whatever happens to us, you will
be protected.”
“Whatever happens to you will happen to me,” declared the girl,
springing to her feet. “Give me a gun, Uncle!”
Now came another summons from de Souza.
“Listen!” he called; “the house is surrounded and you cannot escape
us. Therefore it will be well for you to surrender and rely upon the
Emperor’s mercy.”
“I fear we may not rely on that with any security,” drawled Paola,
who had approached the door. “Pray tell us, my good de Souza,
what are your orders respecting us?”
“To arrest you at all hazards,” returned the captain, sternly.
“And then?” persisted the Minister, leaning against the door and
leisurely puffing his cigarette.
But another voice was now heard—Valcour’s—crying:
“Open at once, or we will batter down the door.”
Before any could reply Mazanovitch pushed Paola aside and placed
his lips to the keyhole.
“Hear me, Valcour,” he said, in a soft yet penetrating tone, “we are
able to defend ourselves until assistance arrives. But rather than that
blood should be shed without necessity, we will surrender ourselves
if we have your assurance of safe convoy to Rio.”
For a moment there was silence. Then, “How came you here?”
demanded the spy, in accents that betrayed his agitation.
“That matters little,” returned Mazanovitch. “Have we your assurance
of safety?”
We heard the voices of Valcour and de Souza in angry dispute; then
the captain shouted: “Stand aside!” and there came a furious blow
upon the door that shattered the panels.
Bastro raised his rifle and fired. A cry answered the shot, but
instantly a second crash followed. The bars were torn from their
sockets, the splintered door fell inward, and before we could recover
from the surprise we were looking into the muzzles of a score of
carbines leveled upon us.
“Very well,” said Paola, tossing the end of his cigarette through the
open doorway. “We are prisoners of war. Peste! my dear Captain;
how energetic your soldiers are!”
A moment later we were disarmed, and then, to our surprise, de
Souza ordered our feet and our hands to be securely bound. Only
Lesba escaped this indignity, for the captain confined her in a small
room adjoining our own and placed a guard at the door.
During this time Valcour stood by, sullen and scowling, his hands
clinched nervously and his lips curling with scorn.
“You might gag us, my cautious one,” said Paola, addressing the
officer, who had planted himself, stern and silent, in the center of
the room while his orders were being executed.
“So I will, Senhor Paola; but in another fashion,” was the grim reply.
He drew a paper from his breast and continued, “I will read to you
my orders from his Majesty, the Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil,
dispatched from the station at Cuyaba as he was departing for his
capital to quell the insurrection.”
He paused and slowly unfolded the paper, while every eye—save
that, perhaps, of Mazanovitch—was fixed upon him with intent gaze.
“‘You are instructed to promptly arrest the traitor Francisco Paola,
together with his sister, Lesba Paola, and whatever revolutionists you
may be able to take, and to execute them one and all without formal
trial on the same day that they are captured, as enemies of the
Empire and treasonable conspirators plotting the downfall of the
Government.’”
The captain paused a moment, impressively, and refolded the
document.
“It is signed by his Majesty’s own hand, and sealed with the royal
seal,” he said.
 CHAPTER XXII
THE DEATH SENTENCE

I glanced around the room to note the effect of this startling

announcement upon my fellow-prisoners. Bastro’s scowling face was
turned full upon the officer, but showed no sign of fear. De Pintra
smiled rather scornfully and whispered a word to Mazanovitch,
whose countenance remained impassive as ever. Paola, with the
perpetual simper distorting his naturally handsome features, leaned
back in his chair and regarded his trussed ankles with whimsical
indifference. Indeed, if the captain thought to startle or terrify his
captives he must have been grievously disappointed, for one and all
received the announcement of the death sentence with admirable
composure.
It was Valcour who broke the silence. Confronting the captain with
blazing eyes, while his slight form quivered with excitement, he
cried:
“This is nonsense, de Souza! The Emperor must have been mad to
write such an order. You will convey your prisoners to Rio for trial.”
“I shall obey the Emperor’s commands,” answered the captain,
gloomily.
“But it is murder!”
“It is the Emperor’s will.”
“Hear me, Captain de Souza,” said Valcour, drawing himself up
proudly; “you were instructed to obey my commands. I order you to
convey the prisoners to Rio, that they may be tried in a court of
justice.”
The other shook his head.
“The order is to me personally, and I must obey. A soldier never
questions the commands of his superiors.”
“But I am your superior!”
“Not in this affair, Senhor Valcour. And the Emperor’s order is
doubtless to be obeyed above that of his spy.”
Valcour winced, and turned away to pace the floor nervously.
“But the lady—surely you will not execute the Donzella Paola in this
brutal fashion!” he protested, after an interval of silence.
The captain flushed, and then grew pale.
“I will speak with the lady,” he said, and motioning aside the guard
he entered the room where Lesba was confined, and closed the door
after him.
We could hear his voice through the thin partition, speaking in low
and earnest tones. Then a burst of merry laughter from Lesba fell
upon our ears with something of a shock, for the matter seemed
serious enough to insure gravity. Evidently the captain protested, but
the girl’s high-pitched tones and peals of merriment indicated that
she was amusing herself at his expense, and suddenly the door
burst open and de Souza stumbled out with a red and angry face.
“The woman is a fiend!” he snarled. “Let her die with the others.”
Valcour, who had continued to pace the floor during this interview,
had by now managed to get his nerves under control, for he smiled
at the captain, and said:
“Let us see if I have any argument that will avail.”
While the officer stood irresolute, Valcour bowed mockingly, opened
the door, and passed into Lesba’s room.
It was de Souza’s turn now to pace the floor, which he did with slow
and measured strides; but although we strained our ears, not a
sound of the interview that was progressing reached us through the
partition.
After a considerable time it seemed that the captain regretted having
allowed Valcour this privilege, for he advanced to the door and
placed his hand on the knob. Instantly the spy appeared, closing the
door swiftly behind him and turning the key in the lock.
“I withdraw my opposition, Captain,” said he. “You may execute the
lady with the others, for all I care. When is the massacre to take
place?”
The officer stroked his moustache and frowned.
“The order commands the execution on the same day the
conspirators are arrested,” he announced. “I do not like the job,
Valcour, believe me; but the Emperor must be obeyed. Let them die
at sunset.”
He turned abruptly and left the house, but sent a detachment of the
Uruguayans to remain in the room with us and guard against any
attempt on our part to escape.
We indulged in little conversation. Each had sufficient to occupy his
thoughts, and sunset was not very far away, after all. To me this
ending of the bold conspiracy was not surprising, for I had often
thought that when Dom Pedro chose to strike he would strike in a
way that would deter all plotting against the government for some
time to come. And life is of little value in these South American
countries.
“Where are the records?” I whispered to Dom Miguel, who sat near
me.
“Safe with Fonseca in Rio,” he answered.
“Do you imagine that Fonseca will succeed?” I continued.
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