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 chiefs 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.
“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 Senhora 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.
CHAPTER IX
THE MISSING FINGER
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 began 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 eye-lids 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 opened 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.
Very 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.”
“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 disappoint 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 companions. 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.
The 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 Rio. 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.”
CHAPTER X
“FOR TO-MORROW WE DIE!”
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 Harciffe 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 apparent 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 arrival 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 tomorrow we die. Eh, brothers? — to-morrow we die!”
“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die tomorrow, if you like; die to-night, for 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 u
pon 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 sharp 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 eye-lids, in my direction. But Piexoto seemed rather pleased with my retort, and said:
“Never mind; your head sits as insecurely upon 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?”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 735