The Fate of a Crown

“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.