Tall, spare, but not ungraceful, his snow-white hair and beard made strong contrast with his bronzed features. His eyes, soft and gentle in expression, were black. His smile, which was not frequent, disclosed a line of even, white teeth. His dress was a suit of plain, well-fitting black, supplemented by irreproachable linen. Taken altogether, Dom Miguel appeared a model of the old school of gentility, which may be as quickly recognized in Brazil as in England, France or America. Indeed, it seemed an absurdity to connect this eminently respectable personage with revolutions, murders, and intrigue, and my spirits rose the moment I set eyes upon his pleasant face.
“I am Robert Harcliffe,” said I, answering the question his politeness would not permit him to ask; “the son of Marshall Harcliffe.”
A flash of surprise and delight swept over his dark face. He seized both my hands in his own.
“What!” he cried, “Nelson Harcliffe has sent me his own nephew, the son of my dear old friend? This is, indeed, a rare expression of loyalty!”
“I thought you knew,” I rejoined, rather embarrassed, for the fathomless eyes were reading me with singular eagerness.
“I only knew that Nelson Harcliffe would respond promptly to my requests. I knew that the Castina would bring my secretary to Brazil. But whom he might be I could not even guess.” He paused a moment, to continue in a graver tone: “I am greatly pleased. I need a friend—a faithful assistant.”
“I hope I may prove to be both, sir,” I returned, earnestly. “But you seem not to lack loyal friends. On my way hither from Rio de Janiero I have been protected more than once, doubtless by your orders.”
“Yes; the cause has many true adherents, and I notified our people to expect an American gentleman on the Castina and to forward him to me in safety. They know, therefore, that you came to assist the Revolution, and it would have been strange, indeed, had the royalists been able to interfere with you.”
“Your party is more powerful than I had suspected,” I remarked, thinking of my several narrow escapes from arrest.
“We are only powerful because the enemy is weak,” answered Dom Miguel, with a sigh. “Neither side is ready for combat, or even an open rupture. It is now the time of intrigue, of plot and counterplot, of petty conspiracies and deceits. These would discourage any honest heart were not the great Cause behind it all—were not the struggle for freedom and our native land! But come; you are weary. Let me show you to your room, Robert Harcliffe.”
He dwelt upon the name with seeming tenderness, and I began to understand why my father and my stern Uncle Nelson had both learned to love this kindly natured gentleman of Brazil.
He led me through cool and spacious passages to a cozy room on the ground floor, which, he told me, connected by a door with his study or work-room.
“I fear my trunks have been seized by the government,” said I, and then related to him the details of my arrest and the assassination of the police lieutenant.
He listened to the story calmly and without interruption; but when it was finished he said:
“All will be reported to me this evening, and then we will see whether your baggage cannot be saved. There were no papers that might incriminate you?”
“None whatever.”
Then I gave him the story of Valcour, or de Guarde, and he smiled when I related the manner in which the fellow had been deceived.
“I knew that Valcour had been dispatched to intercept my secretary,” said he, “and you must know that this personage is not an ordinary spy, but attached to the Emperor himself as a special detective. Hereafter,” he continued, reflectively, “the man will be your bitter enemy; and although you have outwitted him once he is a foe not to be despised. Indeed, Harcliffe, your post is not one of much security. If, when I have taken you fully into our confidence, you decide to link your fortunes to those of the Revolution, it will be with the full knowledge that your life may be the forfeit. But there—we will speak no more of business until after dinner.”
He left me, then, with many cordial expressions of friendship.
A servant brought my luncheon on a tray, and after eating it I started for a stroll through the grounds, enjoying the fragrance and brilliance of the flowers, the beauties of the shrubbery, and the stately rows of ancient trees. The quiet of the place suggested nothing of wars and revolutions, and it was with real astonishment that I reflected that this establishment was the central point of that conspiracy whose far-reaching power had been so vividly impressed upon me.
Engaged in this thought I turned the corner of a hedge and came face to face with a young girl, who recoiled in surprise and met my gaze with a sweet embarrassment that caused me to drop my own eyes in confusion.
“Your pardon, senhorita!” I exclaimed, and stood aside for her to pass.
She nodded, still searching my face with her clear eyes, but making no movement to proceed. I noted the waves of color sweeping over her fair face and the nervous tension of the little hands that pressed a mass of flowers to her bosom. Evidently she was struggling for courage to address me; so I smiled at her, reassuringly, and again bowed in my best manner, for I was not ill pleased at the encounter.
I have always had a profound reverence for woman—especially those favored ones to whom Nature has vouchsafed beauty in addition to the charm of womanhood. And here before me stood the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, a type of loveliness more sweet and delightful than any I had even dreamed could exist.
It was my fate to recognize this in the moments that I stood watching her lips tremble in the endeavor to form her first words to me.
“You are the American?” she asked, finally.
“Assuredly, donzella. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Robert Harcliffe.”
“My uncle expected you,” she said, shyly.
“Your uncle?”
“Dom Miguel is not really my uncle,” answered the girl; “but he permits me to call him so, since he is my guardian. Yet it was not from him I learned of your arrival, but from Francisco, who traveled from Rio on the same train.”
My face doubtless showed that I was puzzled, for she added, quickly:
“Francisco is my brother, senhor. We are both devoted heart and soul to the Cause. That is why I felt that I must speak with you, why I must welcome you to our fellowship, why I must implore you to be strong and steadfast in our behalf!”
I smiled at the vehemence that had vanquished her former hesitation, and to my delight her exquisite face lighted with an answering smile.
“Ah, you may laugh at me with impunity, senhor Americano, for I have intuitions, and they tell me you will be faithful to the cause of freedom. Nay, do not protest. It is enough that I have read your face.”
With this she made a pretty courtesy and vanished around the hedge before I could summon a word to detain her.
It is astonishing to what an extent this encounter aroused my enthusiasm for “the Cause.” Heretofore I had regarded it rather impersonally, as an affair in which I had engaged at the request of my good uncle. But now that I had met this fellow-conspirator and gazed into the enchanting depths of her eyes, I was tremendously eager to prove my devotion to the cause of freedom.
