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.

Bastro shrugged his shoulders.

“We have confidence in the Minister of Police,” said he, calmly. “There is no doubt but General Fonseca, at Rio, has before now gained control of the capital, and that the Revolution is successfully established. We shall know everything very soon, for my men have gone to the nearest telegraph station for news. Meantime, to guard against any emergency, our patriots are being armed in readiness for combat, and, in Matto Grosso at least, the royalists are powerless to oppose us.”

“But the funds—the records! What will happen if the Emperor seizes them?” I asked.

“The Emperor will not seize them,” returned Bastro, unmoved. “The contents of the vault are in safe-keeping.”

Before I could question him further a man sprang through the doorway.

“The wires from Rio are cut in every direction,” said he, in an agitated voice. “A band of the Uruguayan guards, under de Souza and Valcour, is galloping over the country to arrest every patriot they can find, and our people are hiding themselves in terror.”

Consternation spread over the features of the little band which a moment before had deemed itself so secure and powerful. Bastro turned to pace the earthen floor with anxious strides, while the others watched him silently.

“What of Francisco Paola?” suddenly asked the leader.

“Why, senhor, he seems to have disappeared,” replied the scout, with hesitation.

“Disappeared! And why?”

“Perhaps I can answer that question, Senhor Bastro,” said a voice behind us, and turning my head I saw my friend Pedro, the station-master at Cuyaba, standing within the doorway.

“Enter, Pedro,” commanded the leader. “What news do you bring, and why have you abandoned your post?”

“The wires are down,” said the station-master, “and no train is allowed to leave Rio since the Emperor reached there at midnight.”

“Then you know nothing of what has transpired at the capital?” asked Bastro.

“Nothing, senhor. It was yesterday morning when the Emperor’s party met the train at Cuyaba, and I handed him a telegram from de Lima, the Minister of State. It read in this way: ‘General Fonseca and his army have revolted and seized the palace, the citadel, and all public buildings. I have called upon every loyal Brazilian to rally to the support of the Empire. Return at once. Arrest the traitors Francisco Paola and his sister. Situation critical.”

“Ah!” cried Bastro, drawing a deep breath, “and what said the Emperor to that message?”

“He spoke with his counselors, and wired this brief reply to de Lima, ‘I am coming.’ Also he sent a soldier back to de Pintra’s mansion with orders to arrest Francisco and Lesba Paola. Then he boarded the train and instructed the conductor to proceed to Rio with all possible haste. And that is all I know, senhor, save that I called up Rio last evening and learned that Fonseca was still in control of the city. At midnight the wires were cut and nothing further can be learned. Therefore I came to join you, and if there is a chance to fight for the Cause I beg that you will accept my services.”

Bastro paused in his walk to press the honest fellow’s hand; then he resumed his thoughtful pacing.

The others whispered among themselves, and one said:

“Why need we despair, Sanchez Bastro? Will not Fonseca, once in control, succeed in holding the city?”

“Surely!” exclaimed the leader. “It is not for him that I fear, but for ourselves. If the Uruguayans are on our trail we must disperse our men and scatter over the country, for the spy Valcour knows, I am sure, of this rendezvous.”

“But they are not hunting you, senhor,” protested Pedro, “but rather Paola and his sister, who have managed to escape from de Pintra’s house.”

“Nevertheless, the Uruguayans are liable to be here at any moment,” returned Bastro, “and there is nothing to be gained by facing that devil, de Souza.”

He then called his men together in the clearing, explained to them the situation, and ordered them to scatter and to secrete themselves in the edges of the forests and pick off the Uruguayans with their rifles whenever occasion offered.

“If anything of importance transpires,” he added, “report to me at once at my house.”

Without a word of protest his commands were obeyed. The leaders mounted their horses and rode away through the numerous forest paths that led into the clearing.

The men also saluted and disappeared among the trees, and presently only Bastro, Pedro, and myself stood in the open space. “Come with me, Senhor Harcliffe,” said the leader; “I shall be glad to have you join me at breakfast. You may follow us, Pedro.”

Then he strode to the edge of the clearing, pressed aside some bushes, and stepped into a secret path that led through the densest portion of the tangled forest. I followed, and Pedro brought up the rear.

For some twenty minutes Bastro guided us along the path, which might well have been impassable to a novice, until finally we emerged from the forest to find the open country before us, and a small, cozy-looking dwelling facing us from the opposite side of a well-defined roadway.

Bastro led us to a side door, which he threw open, and then stepped back with a courteous gesture.

“Enter, gentlemen,” said he; “you are welcome to my humble home.”

I crossed the threshold and came to an abrupt stop. Something seemed to clutch my heart with a grip of iron; my limbs trembled involuntarily, and my eyes grew set and staring.

For, standing before me, with composed look and a smile upon his dark face, was the living form of my lamented friend Miguel de Pintra!