The Fate of a Crown

“Ah, conspirator. I see; I see!” He nodded his head several times, and then growled sentences that I could not understand.

While I stared at him he turned away again, and with a soft and stealthy tread made the entire circuit of the room, feeling of each piece of furniture it contained, and often pausing for many moments in one spot as if occupied in deep thought.

At last he approached the bed again, dragging after him a chair in which he slowly seated himself opposite me.

“Retain your couch, señor,” he muttered. “I shall not disturb you, and it will soon be morning. You may sleep.”

But I was now fully awake, and had no intention of sleeping while this strange individual occupied his seat beside me.

“Who are you?” I demanded. “A patriot?”

“Not as you use the term,” he answered, at once. “I am Mexican.”

“Mexican!” I echoed, surprised. “Do you speak English?”

“Truly, señor,” he answered, but his English was as bad as his Portuguese.

“Why are you here and a prisoner?” I asked.

“I had business with Señor de Pintra. I came from afar to see him, but found the soldiers inhabiting his house. I am timid, señor, and suspecting trouble I hid in an out-building, where the soldiers discovered me. Why I should be arrested I do not know. I am not conspirator; I am not even Brazilian. I do not care for your politics whatever. They tell me Miguel de Pintra is dead. Is it true?”

His tone did not seem sincere. But I replied it was true that Dom Miguel was dead.

“Then I should be allowed to depart. But not so. They tell me the great Emperor is here, their Dom Pedro, and he will speak to me in the morning. Is it true?”

This time I detected an anxiety in his voice that told me he had not suspected the Emperor’s presence until his arrest.

But I answered that Dom Pedro was then occupying de Pintra’s mansion, together with many of his important ministers.

For a time he remained silent, probably considering the matter with care. But he was ill at ease, and shifted continually in his chair.

“You are Americano?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” said I.

“I knew, when you ask me for my English. But why does the Emperor arrest an American?”

I smiled; but there was no object in trying to deceive him.

“I was private secretary to Dom Miguel,” said I, “and they suspect my late master to have plotted against the Emperor.”

He laughed, unpleasantly.

“It is well your master is dead when they make that suspicion,” said he; then paused a moment and asked, abruptly, “Did he tell you of the vault?”

I stared at him. A Mexican, not a conspirator, yet aware of the secret vault! It occurred to me that it would be well to keep my own counsel, for a time, at least.

“A vault?” I asked, carelessly, and shook my head.

Again the fellow laughed disagreeably. But my answer seemed to have pleased him.

“He was sly! Ah, he was sly, the dear Señor Miguel!” he chuckled, rocking his thin form back and forth upon the chair. “But never mind. It is nothing. I never pry into secrets, señor. It is not my nature.”

I said nothing and another silent fit seized him. Perhaps five minutes had passed before he arose and made a second stealthy circuit of the room, this time examining the barred window with great care. Then he sighed heavily and came back to his seat.

“What will be your fate, señor?” he asked.

“I shall appeal to our consul at Rio. They must release me,” I answered.

“Good. Very good! They must release you. You are no conspirator – a mere secretary, and an American.”

I nodded, wishing I might share his confidence. Presently he asked for my name and residence, and I answered him truly.

“I myself am Manuel Pesta, of the City of Mexico. You must not forget the name, señor. Manuel Pesta, the clockmaker.”

“I shall not forget,” said I, wondering what he could mean. And a moment later he startled me by bending forward and asking in an eager tone:

“Have they searched you?”

“Yes.”

“It is my turn soon. This morning.”

He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fell silent again.

For my part I lay back upon the pillow, yet taking care to face him, and so we remained until daylight came and gradually drove the shadows from the little room.

Even then my strange companion did not move. He was indeed a queer mixture of eager activity and absolute self-repression. Another hour passed, and then we heard footsteps approaching down the passageway.

With a start Pesta aroused himself and fixed a searching glance upon my face. Trembling with nervousness he suddenly raised his manacled hands and removed from his mouth a small object that glittered in the morning light.

My heart gave a sudden bound. It was the ring that opened the secret vault!

His own agitation prevented his noting my amazement. Thrusting the ring toward me he whispered, hurriedly:

“Conceal it, quickly, for the love of God! Keep it until I come for it – I, Manuel Pesta – until I demand it of Robert Harcliffe of New Orleans. It may be to-day – it may be many days. But I will come, señor, I – ”

The bolts of the door shot back and a squad of soldiers entered. Their sudden appearance barely gave me time to drop the ring into an outside pocket of my coat. As two of the soldiers seized him I noticed that the Mexican was trembling violently; but he arose meekly and submitted to be led from the room. Two others motioned me to follow, and in a few moments we were ushered into the room where I had had my interview with the Emperor.

Valcour was standing by the fireplace when we entered, and eyeing the Mexican with indifference he said to the captain:

“This is the man you found secreted in the out-building?”

“It is, senhor,” answered the captain.

“Have you searched him?”

“Only partially. We took from him this revolver, a knife, and this purse. There were no papers.”