Kitabı oku: «The Fate of a Crown», sayfa 10
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.
“He is sure to,” said the chief, a soft gleam lighting his eyes. “It is only we who have failed, my friend.” He paused a moment, and then resumed: “I am sorry I have brought you to this, Robert. For the rest of us it matters little that we die. Is not a free Brazil a glorious prize to be won by the purchase of a few lives?”
It was futile to answer. A free Brazil meant little to me, I reflected; but to die with Lesba was a bit comforting, after all. I must steel myself to meet death as bravely as this girl was sure to do.
Paola, after sitting long silent, addressed Valcour, who, since the captain’s exit, had been staring from the window that faced the forest.
“What did de Souza say to Lesba?” he asked.
The spy turned around with a countenance more composed and cheerful than he had before shown, and answered:
“He offered to save her from death if she would marry him.”
“Ah; and she laughed at the dear captain, as we all heard. But you, senhor, made an effort to induce her to change her mind – did you not?”
“I?” returned Valcour. “By no means, senhor. It is better she should die than marry this brutal Captain de Souza.”
This speech seemed to confirm my suspicion that Valcour himself loved Lesba. But Paola cast one of his quick, searching glances into the spy’s face and seemed pleased by what he discovered there.
“May I speak with my sister?” he asked, a moment later.
“Impossible, senhor. She must remain in solitary confinement until the hour of execution, for the captain’s gallantry will not permit him to bind her.”
Then, approaching de Pintra, Valcour stood a moment looking down at him and said:
“Sir, you have made a noble fight for a cause that has doubtless been very dear to you. And you have lost. In these last hours that you are permitted to live will you not make a confession to your Emperor, and give him the details of that conspiracy in which you were engaged?”
“In Rio,” answered Dom Miguel, quietly, “there is now no Emperor. The Republic is proclaimed. Even at this moment the people of our country are acclaiming the United States of Brazil. Senhor, your power is ended. You may, indeed, by your master’s orders, murder us in this far-away province before assistance can reach us. But our friends will exact a terrible vengeance for the deed, be assured.”
Valcour did not answer at once. He stood for a time with knitted brows, thoughtfully regarding the white-haired chieftain of the Republic, whose brave utterances seemed to us all to be fraught with prophetic insight.
“If your lives were in my hands,” said the spy, with a gesture of weariness, “you would be tried in a court of justice. I am no murderer, senhor, and I sincerely grieve that de Souza should consider his orders positive.”
He turned abruptly to Mazanovitch, and throwing an arm around the little man’s shoulders bent swiftly down and pressed a kiss upon the pallid forehead. Then, with unsteady gait he walked from the room, and at last I saw the eyes of Mazanovitch open wide, a gaze of ineffable tenderness following the retreating form, until Valcour had disappeared. Paola also was staring, and the disgusting simper had left his face, for a time, at least.
Silence now fell upon the room. Bastro, in his corner, had gone to sleep, and Dom Miguel seemed lost in thought. From the chamber in which Lesba was confined came no sound to denote whether the girl grieved over her approaching fate or bore it with the grim stoicism of her doomed comrades.
The guard paced up and down before the closed door, pausing at times to mutter a word to his fellows, who stood watchfully over us. From my station on the chest I could gaze into the yard and note the shadow of the house creeping further and further out into the sunshine, bringing ever nearer the hour when the bright orb would sink into the far-away plateau and our eyes would be closed forever in death.
Yet the time dragged wearily, it seemed to me. When one is condemned to die it is better to suffer quickly, and have done with it. To wait, to count the moments, is horrible. One needs to have nerves of iron to endure that.
Nevertheless, we endured it. The hours passed, somehow, and the shadows grew dim with stretching.
Suddenly I heard a clank of spurs as de Souza approached. He gave a brief order to the Uruguayans who were lounging in the yard, and then stepped through the doorway and faced us.
“Get ready, senhors,” said he. “The hour has come.”
CHAPTER XXIII
AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR
We aroused ourselves, at this, and regarded the captain attentively.
He turned his stern gaze upon one after the other, and gave a growl of satisfaction as he noted no craven amongst us.
“You shall draw cuts, gentlemen, to decide the order in which you must expiate your crime. I will show no partiality. See, here are the slips, a number written upon each. Julio shall place them in his hat and allow you to draw.”
He handed the bits of paper to one of his men and strode to the door of Lesba’s room.
“Open!” he commanded, giving it a rap with his knuckles.
There was no reply.
“Open!” said he, again, and placed his ear to the panel.
Then, with a sudden gesture, he swung the door inward.
A moment the officer stood motionless, gazing into the chamber. Then he turned to us a face convulsed with anger.
“Who permitted the woman to escape?” he demanded.
The guards, startled and amazed, peered over his shoulders into the vacant room; but none dared to answer.
“What now, Captain, has your bird flown?” came Valcour’s soft voice, and the spy entered the room and threw himself carelessly into a chair.
De Souza looked upon his colleague with evident suspicion, and twisted the ends of his moustache in sullen fury. Perhaps he dared not accuse Valcour openly, as the latter was the Emperor’s authorized representative. And it may be the captain was not sincerely sorry that Lesba had escaped, and so saved him from the necessity of executing her, for, after a period of indecision, the wrath of the officer seemed to cool, and he slowly regained his composure. Valcour, who was watching him, appeared to notice this, and said:
“You forgot the window, my Captain. It was not difficult for the senhorita to steal across the roadway unobserved and take refuge in the forest. For my part, I am glad she is gone. Our royal master has little credit in condemning a woman to such a death.”
“Have a care, senhor! Your words are treasonable.”
“The Emperor will be the first to applaud them, when he has time to think. Indeed, de Souza, were I in your place, I should ignore the order to execute these people. His Majesty acted under a severe nervous strain, and he will not thank you, believe me, for carrying out his instructions so literally.”
“A soldier’s duty is to obey,” returned the officer, stiffly. Then, turning to the tall Uruguayan who held the hat, he added:
“Let the prisoners draw, Julio!”
Another soldier now unfastened our bonds, and Paola, who was the first to be approached by Julio, took a slip of paper from the hat and thrust it into his pocket without examination.
Sanchez Bastro drew next, and smiled as he read his number. Then came my turn, and I own that I could not repress a slight trembling of my fingers as I drew forth the fatal slip. It was number four.
“Good!” murmured de Pintra, reading the slip over my shoulder. “I shall not be alive to witness your death, Robert.” And then he took the last paper from the hat and added: “I am number two.”
“I am first,” said Bastro, with cheerfulness. “It is an honor, Dom Miguel,” and he bowed respectfully to the chief.
Paola wore again the old, inane smile that always lent his face an indescribable leer of idiocy. I knew, by this time, that the expression was indeed a mask to cover his real feelings, and idly wondered if he would choose to die with that detestable simper upon his lips.
“Come, gentlemen; we are ready.”
It was the captain who spoke, and we rose obediently and filed through the doorway, closely guarded by the Uruguayans.
In the vacant space that served as a yard for Bastro’s house stood a solitary date-palm with a straight, slender trunk. Before this we halted, and Bastro was led to the tree and a rope passed around his body securing him to the trunk. They offered to blindfold him, but he waved the men aside.
“It will please me best to look into the muzzles of your guns,” said the patriot, in a quiet voice. “I am not afraid, Senhor Captain.”
De Souza glanced at the sun. It was slowly sinking, a ball of vivid red, into the bosom of the far-away plateau.
At a gesture from the officer six of the guardsmen stepped forward and leveled their carbines upon Bastro, who stood upright against the tree, with a proud smile upon his manly face.
I turned away my head, feeling sick and dizzy; and the rattle of carbines set me trembling with nervous horror. Nor did I look toward the tree again, although, after an interval of silence, I heard the tramp of soldiers bearing Bastro’s body to the deserted house.
“Number two!” cried de Souza, harshly.
It was no time to turn craven. My own death was but a question of moments, and I realized that I had little time to bid farewell to my kind friend and strive to cheer him upon his way. Going to his side I seized Dom Miguel’s hand and pressed it to my lips; but he was not content with that, and caught me in a warm and affectionate embrace.
Then he was led to the tree. I turned my back, covering my face with my hands.
“For the Cause!” I heard his gentle voice say. The carbines rang out again, and a convulsive sob burst from my throat in spite of my strong efforts to control my emotion.
Again I listened to the solemn tread of the soldiers, while from far away the sound of a shout was borne to us upon the still evening air.
Somehow, that distant shout thrilled me with a new-born hope, and I gazed eagerly along the line of roadway that skirted the forest.
De Souza was gazing there, too, with a disturbed look upon his face; but the light was growing dim, and we could see nothing.
“Number three!”
It was Paola’s turn, and he walked unassisted to the tree and set his back to it, while the soldiers passed the rope under his arms and then retired. But they left Valcour confronting the prisoner, and I saw the simper fade from Paola’s lips and an eager gleam light his pale features.
For a few moments they stood thus, separated from all the rest, and exchanging earnest whispers, while the captain stamped his foot with savage impatience.
“Come, come, Valcour!” he called, at last. “You are interfering with my duty. Leave the prisoner, I command you!”
The spy turned around, and his face was positively startling in its expression of intense agony.
“If you are in a hurry, my dear Captain, fire upon us both!” said he, bitterly.
With a muttered oath de Souza strode forward, and seizing Valcour by the arm, dragged him back of the firing-line.
But at that instant a startling sound reached our ears – the sound of a cheer – and with it came the rapid patter of horses’ feet.
The soldiers, who had already leveled their guns at Paola, swung suddenly around upon their heels; de Souza uttered an exclamation of dismay, and the rest of us stood as motionless as if turned to stone.
For sweeping around the curve of the forest came a troop of horsemen, led by a girl whose fluttering white skirts trailed behind her like a banner borne on the breeze. God! how they rode – the horses plunging madly forward at every bound, their red eyes and distended nostrils bearing evidence of the wild run that had well-nigh exhausted their strength.
And the riders, as they sighted us, screamed curses and encouragement in the same breath, bearing down upon our silent group with the speed of a whirlwind.
There was little time for the Uruguayans to recover from their surprise, for at close range the horsemen let fly a volley from rifle and revolver that did deadly havoc. A few saddles were emptied in return, but almost instantly the soldiers and patriots were engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict, with no quarter given or expected.
De Souza fell wounded at the first volley, and I saw Valcour, with a glad cry, start forward and run toward Paola, who was still bound to his tree. But the captain, half raising himself from the ground, aimed his revolver at the prisoner, as if determined upon his death in spite of the promised rescue.
“Look out!” I shouted, observing the action.
Paola was, of course, helpless to evade the bullet; but Valcour, who had nearly reached him, turned suddenly at my cry and threw himself in front of Paola just as the shot rang out.
An instant the spy stood motionless. Then, tossing his arms above his head, he fell backward and lay still.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE EMPEROR’S SPY
Although the deadly conflict was raging all about us, I passed it by to regard a still more exciting tragedy. For with a roar like that from a mad bull Mazanovitch dashed aside his captors and sprang to the spot where Valcour lay.
“Oh, my darling, my darling!” he moaned, raising the delicate form that he might pillow the head upon his knee. “How dared they harm you, my precious one! How dared they!”
Paola, struggling madly with his bonds, succeeded in bursting them asunder, and now staggered up to kneel beside Valcour. His eyes were staring and full of a horror that his own near approach to death had never for an instant evoked.
Taking one of the spy’s slender hands in both his own he pressed it to his heart and said in trembling tones:
“Look up, sweetheart! Look up, I beg of you. It is Francisco – do you not know me? Are you dead, Valcour? Are you dead?”
A gentle hand pushed him aside, and Lesba knelt in his place. With deft fingers she bared Valcour’s breast, tearing away the soft linen through which a crimson stain had already spread, and bending over a wound in the left shoulder to examine it closely. Standing beside the little group, I found myself regarding the actors in this remarkable drama with an interest almost equaling their own. The bared breast revealed nothing to me, however; for already I knew that Valcour was a woman.
Presently Lesba looked up into the little man’s drawn face and smiled.
“Fear nothing, Captain Mazanovitch,” said she softly; “the wound is not very dangerous, and – please God! – we will yet save your daughter’s life.”
His daughter! How much of the mystery that had puzzled me this simple word revealed!
Paola, still kneeling and covering his face with his hands, was sobbing like a child; Mazanovitch drew a long breath and allowed his lids to again droop slowly over his eyes; and then Lesba looked up and our eyes met.
“I am just in time, Robert,” she murmured happily, and bent over Valcour to hide the flush that dyed her sweet face.
I started, and looked around me. In the gathering twilight the forms of the slaughtered Uruguayans lay revealed where they had fallen, for not a single member of Dom Pedro’s band of mercenaries had escaped the vengeance of the patriots.
Those of our rescuers who survived were standing in a little group near by, leaning upon their long rifles, awaiting further commands.
Among them I recognized Pedro, and beckoning him to follow me I returned to the house and lifted a door from its hinges. Between us we bore it to the yard and very gently placed Valcour’s slight form upon the improvised stretcher.
She moaned at the movement, slowly unclosing her eyes. It was Paola’s face that bent over her and Paola that pressed her hand; so she smiled and closed her eyes again, like a tired child.
We carried her into the little chamber from whence Lesba had escaped, for in the outer room lay side by side the silent forms of the martyrs of the Republic.
Tenderly placing Valcour upon the couch, Pedro and I withdrew and closed the door behind us.
I had started to pass through the outer room into the yard when an exclamation from the station-master arrested me. Turning back I found that Pedro had knelt beside Dom Miguel and with broken sobs was pressing the master’s hand passionately to his lips. My own heart was heavy with sorrow as I leaned over the outstretched form of our beloved chief for a last look into his still face.
Even as I did so my pulse gave a bound of joy. The heavy eyelids trembled – ever so slightly – the chest expanded in a gentle sigh, and slowly – oh, so slowly! – the eyes of Dom Miguel unclosed and gazed upon us with their accustomed sweetness and intelligence.
“Master! Master!” cried Pedro, bending over with trembling eagerness, “it is done! It is done, my master! The Revolution is accomplished – Fonseca is supreme in Rio – the army is ours! The country is ours! God bless the Republic of Brazil!”
My own heart swelled at the glad tidings, now heard for the first time. But over the face of the martyred chief swept an expression of joy so ecstatic – so like a dream of heaven fulfilled – that we scarcely breathed as we watched the light grow radiant in his eyes and linger there while an ashen pallor succeeded the flush upon his cheeks.
Painfully Dom Miguel reached out his arms to us, and Pedro and I each clasped a hand within our own.
“I am glad,” he whispered, softly. “Glad and content. God bless the Republic of Brazil!”
The head fell back; the light faded from his eyes and left them glazed and staring; a tremor passed through his body, communicating its agony even to us who held his hands, as by an electric current.
Pedro still kneeled and sobbed, but I contented myself with pressing the hand and laying it gently upon Dom Miguel’s breast.
Truly it was done, and well done. In Rio they were cheering the Republic, while here in this isolated cottage, surrounded by the only carnage the Revolution had involved, lay stilled forever that great heart which had given to its native land the birthright of Liberty.
Lesba had dressed Valcour’s wound with surprising skill, and throughout the long, dreary night she bathed the girl’s hot forehead and nursed her as tenderly as a sister might, while Paola sat silently by and watched her every movement.
In the early morning Pedro summoned us to breakfast, which he had himself prepared; and, as Valcour was sleeping, Lesba and Mazanovitch joined me at the table while Paola still kept ward in the wounded girl’s chamber.
The patriots were digging a trench in which to inter the dead Uruguayans, and I stood in the doorway a moment and watched them, drinking in at the same time the cool morning air.
There Lesba joined me, somewhat pale from her night’s watching, and although as yet no word of explanation had passed between us, she knew that I no longer doubted her loyalty, and forbore to blame me for my stupidity in not comprehending that her every action had been for the welfare of the Cause.
At breakfast Pedro told us more of the wonderful news; how the Revolution had succeeded in Rio with practically no bloodshed or resistance; how Fonseca had met the Emperor at the train on his arrival and escorted him, well guarded, to the port, where he was put on board a ship that sailed at once for Lisbon. Indeed, that was to be the last of Dom Pedro’s rule, for the populace immediately proclaimed Fonseca dictator, and the patriots’ dream of a Republic of Brazil had become an established fact.
Presently we passed into the outer room and looked upon the still form of Miguel de Pintra, the man to whose genius the new Republic owed its success – the great leader who had miserably perished on the very eve of his noble achievement.
The conspiracy was a conspiracy no longer; it had attained to the dignity of a masterly Revolution, and the Cause of Freedom had once more prevailed!
Taking Lesba’s hand we passed the bodies of Bastro and Captain de Souza and gained the yard, walking slowly along the road that skirted the forest, while she told me how Valcour had assisted her to escape from the chamber, that she might summon the patriots to effect our rescue. She had wandered long in the forest, she explained, before Pedro met her and assisted her to gather the band that had saved us. Yet the brave girl’s grief was intense that she had not arrived in time to rescue her guardian, Dom Miguel, whom she so dearly loved.
“Yet I think, Robert,” said she, with tearful eyes, “that uncle would have died willingly had he known the Republic was assured.”
“He did know it,” said I. “For a moment, last evening, he recovered consciousness. It was but a moment, but long enough for Pedro to tell him the glorious news of victory. And he died content, Lesba, although I know how happy it would have made him to live to see the triumph of the new Republic. His compatriots would also have taken great pride in honoring Dom Miguel above all men for his faithful service.”
She made no reply to this, and for a time we walked on in gloomy silence.
“Tell me, Lesba, have you long had knowledge of Valcour’s real identity?”
“Francisco told me the truth months ago, and that he loved her,” she replied. “But Valcour was sworn to the Emperor’s service, and would not listen to my brother as long as she suspected him of being in league with the Republicans. So they schemed and struggled against one another for the supremacy, while each admired the other’s talents, and doubtless longed for the warfare to cease.”
“And how came this girl to be the Emperor’s spy, masquerading under the guise of a man?” I inquired.
“She is the daughter of Captain Mazanovitch, who, when her mother died, took delight in instructing his child in all the arts known to the detective police. As she grew up she became of great service to her father, being often employed upon missions of extreme delicacy and even danger. Mazanovitch used to boast that she was a better detective than himself, and the Emperor became attached to the girl and made her his confidential body-guard, sending her at times upon important secret missions connected with the government. When Mazanovitch was won over to the Republican conspiracy his daughter, whose real name is Carlotta, refused to desert the Emperor, and from that time on treated her father as a traitor, and opposed her wit to his own on every occasion. The male attire she wore both for convenience and as a disguise; but I have learned to know Valcour well, and have found her exceedingly sweet and womanly, despite her professional calling.”
It was all simple enough, once one had the clew; yet so extraordinary was the story that it aroused my wonder. In no other country than half-civilized Brazil, I reflected, could such a drama have been enacted.
When we returned to the house we passed the window of Valcour’s room and paused to look through the open sash.
The girl was awake and apparently much better, for she smiled brightly into the face Paola bent over her, and showed no resentment when he stooped to kiss her lips.
