“Compose yourself, my dear Robert,” said Dom Miguel, pressing my hands in both his own. “It is no ghost you see, for—thanks be to God!—I am still alive.”

I had no words to answer him. In all my speculations as to the result of Madam Izabel’s terrible deed, the fate of the records and the mysterious opening of the vault without its key, I never had conceived the idea that Dom Miguel might have escaped his doom. And to find him here, not only alive, but apparently in good health and still busy with the affairs of the Revolution, conveyed so vivid a shock to my nerves that I could but dumbly stare into my old friend’s kind eyes and try to imagine that I beheld a reality and not the vision of a disordered brain.

Bastro assisted me by laughing loudly and giving me a hearty slap across the shoulders.

“Wake up, Senhor Harcliffe!” said he; “and hereafter have more faith in Providence and the luck that follows in the wake of true patriotism. We could ill afford to lose our chief at this juncture.”

“But how did it happen?” I gasped, still filled with wonder. “What earthly power could have opened that awful vault when its key was miles and miles away?”

“The earthly power was wielded by a very ordinary little woman,” said Dom Miguel, with his old gentle smile. “When you rode away from the house on that terrible morning Lesba came and unlocked my prison, setting me free.”

“But how?” I demanded, still blindly groping for the truth.

“By means of a duplicate key that she had constantly carried in her bosom.”

I drew a long breath.

“Did you know of this key, sir?” I asked, after a pause, which my companions courteously forbore to interrupt.

“I did not even suspect its existence,” replied Dom Miguel. “But it seems that Francisco Paola, with his usual thoughtfulness, took an impression in wax of my ring, without my knowledge, and had an exact duplicate prepared. I think he foresaw that an emergency might arise when another key might be required; but it would not do to let any one know of his action, for the mere knowledge that such a duplicate existed would render us all suspicious and uneasy. So he kept the matter secret even from me, and gave the ring into the keeping of his sister, who was his only confidante, and whom he had requested me to accept as an inmate of my household, under the plea that I am her legal guardian. This was done in order to have her always at hand in case the interests of the conspiracy demanded immediate use of the duplicate key. That Francisco trusted her more fully than he has any other living person is obvious; and that she was worthy of such trust the girl has fully proved.”

“Then you were released at once?” I asked; “and you suffered little from your confinement?”

“My anguish was more mental than of a bodily nature,” Dom Miguel answered, sadly; “but I was free to meet Paola when he arrived at my house, and to assist him and Lesba in removing the contents of the vault to a safer place.”

“But why, knowing that his sister held a duplicate key, did the Minister send me in chase of the ring Madam Izabel had stolen?” I demanded.

“Because it was necessary to keep the matter from the Emperor until the records had been removed,” explained de Pintra. “Indeed, Francisco was on his way to us that morning to insist upon our abandoning the vault, after having given us warning, as you will remember, the night before, that the clever hiding-place of our treasure and papers was no longer a secret.”

“I remember that he himself revealed the secret to the Emperor,” I remarked, dryly.

“And acted wisely in doing so, I have no doubt,” retorted Bastro, who still stood beside us. “But come, gentlemen, breakfast must be ready, and I have a vigorous appetite. Be good enough to join me.”

He led the way to an inner room, and de Pintra and I followed, his arm in mine.

It seemed to me, now that I regarded him more attentively, that my old friend was less erect than formerly, that there were new and deep furrows upon his gentle face, and that his eyes had grown dim and sunken. But that the old, dauntless spirit remained I never doubted.

As we entered the breakfast-room I saw a form standing at the window—the form of a little man clothed neatly in black. He turned to greet us with pale, expressionless features and drooping eyelids.

It was Captain Mazanovitch.

“Good morning, Senhor Harcliffe,” he said, in his soft voice; and I wondered how he had recognized me without seeming to open his eyes. “And what news does our noble Captain Bastro bring of the Revolution?” he continued, with a slight note of interest in his voice that betrayed his eagerness.

While we breakfasted Bastro related the events of the morning, and told how the news he had received of the activity of the Uruguayan guards, in connection with the impossibility of learning from Rio what Fonseca had accomplished, had induced him to disband his men.

“But can you again assemble them, if you should wish to?” inquired Dom Miguel.

“Easily,” answered our host; but he did not explain how.

While he and Dom Miguel discussed the fortunes of the Revolution I made bold to ask Captain Mazanovitch how he came to be in this isolated spot.

“I was warned by the Minister of Police to leave Rio,” answered the detective; “for it appears my—my friend Valcour would have been suspicious had not Paola promised to arrest me with the others. I have been here since yesterday.”

“Your friend Valcour is a most persistent foe to the Cause,” said I, thoughtfully. “It would have pleased you to watch him struggle with Paola for the mastery, while the Emperor was by. Ah, how Paola and Valcour hate each other!”

Mazanovitch turned his passionless face toward me, and it seemed as though a faint smile flickered for an instant around his mouth. But he made no answer.

After breakfast Pedro was sent back to Cuyaba for news, being instructed to await there the repairing of the telegraph wires, and to communicate with us as soon as he had word from Rio.

The man had no sooner disappeared in the forest than, as we stood in the roadway looking after him, a far-off patter of horses’ feet was distinctly heard approaching from the north.

Silently we stood, gazing toward the curve in the road while the hoof-beats grew louder and louder, till suddenly two horses swept around the edge of the forest and bore down upon us.

Then to the surprise of all we recognized the riders to be Francisco Paola and his sister Lesba, and they rode the same horses which the evening before had been attached to the carriage that had brought me from de Pintra’s.

As they dashed up both brother and sister sprang from the panting animals, and the former said, hurriedly:

“Quick, comrades! Into the house and barricade the doors. The Uruguayans are upon us!”

True enough; now that their own horses had come to a halt we plainly heard the galloping of the troop of pursuers. With a single impulse we ran to the house and entered, when my first task was to assist Bastro in placing the shutters over the windows and securing them with stout bars.

The doors were likewise fastened and barred, and then Mazanovitch brought us an armful of rifles and an ample supply of ammunition.

“Do you think it wise to resist?” asked de Pintra, filling with cartridges the magazine of a rifle.

A blow upon the door prevented an answer.

“Open, in the name of the Emperor!” cried an imperious voice.

“That is my gallant friend Captain de Souza,” said Lesba, with a little laugh.

I looked at the strange girl curiously. She had seated herself upon a large chest, and with her hands clasped about one knee was watching us load our weapons with as much calmness as if no crisis of our fate was impending.

“Be kind to him, Lesba,” remarked Paola, tucking a revolver underneath his arm while he rolled and lighted a cigarette. “Think of his grief at being separated from you.”

She laughed again, with real enjoyment, and shook the tangled locks of hair from her eyes.

“Perhaps if I accept his attentions he will marry me, and I shall escape,” she rejoined, lightly.

“Open, I command you!” came the voice from without.

“Really,” said Lesba, looking upon us brightly, “it was too funny for anything. Twice this morning the brave captain nearly succeeded in capturing me. He might have shot me with ease, but called out that he could not bear to injure the woman he loved!”

“Does he indeed love you, Lesba?” asked de Pintra, gently.

“So he says, Uncle. But it must have been a sudden inspiration, for I never saw him until yesterday.”

“Nevertheless, I am glad to learn of this,” resumed Dom Miguel; “for there is no disguising the fact that they outnumber us and are better armed, and it is good to know that whatever happens to us, you will be protected.”

“Whatever happens to you will happen to me,” declared the girl, springing to her feet. “Give me a gun, Uncle!”

Now came another summons from de Souza.

“Listen!” he called; “the house is surrounded and you cannot escape us. Therefore it will be well for you to surrender and rely upon the Emperor’s mercy.”

“I fear we may not rely on that with any security,” drawled Paola, who had approached the door. “Pray tell us, my good de Souza, what are your orders respecting us?”

“To arrest you at all hazards,” returned the captain, sternly.

“And then?” persisted the Minister, leaning against the door and leisurely puffing his cigarette.

But another voice was now heard—Valcour’s—crying:

“Open at once, or we will batter down the door.”

Before any could reply Mazanovitch pushed Paola aside and placed his lips to the keyhole.

“Hear me, Valcour,” he said, in a soft yet penetrating tone, “we are able to defend ourselves until assistance arrives. But rather than that blood should be shed without necessity, we will surrender ourselves if we have your assurance of safe convoy to Rio.”

For a moment there was silence. Then, “How came you here?” demanded the spy, in accents that betrayed his agitation.

“That matters little,” returned Mazanovitch. “Have we your assurance of safety?”

We heard the voices of Valcour and de Souza in angry dispute; then the captain shouted: “Stand aside!” and there came a furious blow upon the door that shattered the panels.

Bastro raised his rifle and fired. A cry answered the shot, but instantly a second crash followed. The bars were torn from their sockets, the splintered door fell inward, and before we could recover from the surprise we were looking into the muzzles of a score of carbines leveled upon us.

“Very well,” said Paola, tossing the end of his cigarette through the open doorway. “We are prisoners of war. Peste! my dear Captain; how energetic your soldiers are!”

A moment later we were disarmed, and then, to our surprise, de Souza ordered our feet and our hands to be securely bound. Only Lesba escaped this indignity, for the captain confined her in a small room adjoining our own and placed a guard at the door.

During this time Valcour stood by, sullen and scowling, his hands clinched nervously and his lips curling with scorn.

“You might gag us, my cautious one,” said Paola, addressing the officer, who had planted himself, stern and silent, in the center of the room while his orders were being executed.

“So I will, Senhor Paola; but in another fashion,” was the grim reply.

He drew a paper from his breast and continued, “I will read to you my orders from his Majesty, the Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil, dispatched from the station at Cuyaba as he was departing for his capital to quell the insurrection.”

He paused and slowly unfolded the paper, while every eye—save that, perhaps, of Mazanovitch—was fixed upon him with intent gaze.

“‘You are instructed to promptly arrest the traitor Francisco Paola, together with his sister, Lesba Paola, and whatever revolutionists you may be able to take, and to execute them one and all without formal trial on the same day that they are captured, as enemies of the Empire and treasonable conspirators plotting the downfall of the Government.’”

The captain paused a moment, impressively, and refolded the document.

“It is signed by his Majesty’s own hand, and sealed with the royal seal,” he said.