The Fate of a Crown

“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 three. 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.

“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. Good 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.” A 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:

“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 morning 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 little 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 records 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 to 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.