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 Harcliffe 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 128apparent 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 129arrival 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 to-morrow we die. Eh, brothers?—to-morrow we die!”

“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die to-morrow, if you like; die to-night, 130for 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 upon which, more than upon the grandees who led it, depended t............