As he told Virginia, Minister Throgmorton had been to the arsenal early
that morning to talk with the Camera Chap, but the interview was brief.
Finding the prisoner evasive and uncommunicative, the United States
representative had left in a rage, mistaking Hawley’s attitude for
brazen indifference to his fate.
With the exception of this visitor and Lopez, the prisoner was
permitted to receive no callers. Lieutenant Ridder, who had visited
the arsenal shortly after his friend’s arrest and demanded to see him,
was politely but firmly informed that, according to the rules and
regulations, Señor Hawley, by the nature of the charge against him, was
strictly denied visitors, and although the naval officer resorted to
both pleading and threats, he was unable to change this decision.
Although Hawley was by no means an unsociable man, he was glad that
this rule was in force, for ever since his arrest he had feared that
Virginia Throgmorton might be indiscreet enough to come to see him.
Even as it was, knowing the girl’s loyal and impulsive nature, he was
afraid that she might manage, by the use of her father’s influence, to
obtain the necessary permission to visit him. Such an interview, he
felt sure, would be disastrous, for he had no doubt that every word
that passed between them would be eagerly listened to by Portiforo’s
spies.
Consequently, when late that afternoon he heard footsteps in the
cement-walled courtyard upon which the door of his dungeon opened,
and, peering through the bars, caught sight of the figure of a woman
approaching his cell, his heart skipped a couple of beats. The woman,
who was flanked on either side by a uniformed official, wore a heavy
veil, but as she drew near she threw aside this covering, and an
involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped from the Camera Chap’s lips
as he caught sight of her features.
The visitor was not Virginia. Recognizing that pathetic, haggard face
at first glance, the prisoner would have been relieved at that moment
to have seen the daughter of the United States minister standing there
in her place; for if Virginia’s visit to the jail would have been an
unwise step, the presence of this woman was a hundred times more so. He
marveled at the madness which had caused Señora Felix to come to see
him--for he supposed at first that it was on his account that she was
there.
Greatly to his surprise and relief, however, the señora and her
companions passed his cell without even a glance at him. As she went
by he observed that tears were streaming down her cheeks and that her
frail form was trembling with emotion.
They halted at a cell on the same tier, a few yards away, and the two
officials withdrew a short distance, leaving the woman to talk with
its occupant through the bars. The Camera Chap could not see her now,
but he heard her burst suddenly into a fit of violent sobbing. Then
he heard a man say soothingly: “Courage, señora! I entreat you to be
calm, my dear friend. Surely you who have faced all your tribulations
with such sublime bravery are not going to break down now.”
At the sound of that patient, softly modulated voice, Hawley gave a
start of surprise. He felt positive that he recognized it as the voice
of Doctor Gaspard Bonsal. Until that moment he had been unaware of
the identity of any of his fellow captives, and the possibility that
the venerable physician might be confined in the arsenal jail had not
occurred to him, for he had heard that he had been sent to El Torro.
Although, under other circumstances, he would have been averse to
playing the rôle of eavesdropper, he could not help now straining his
ears in an effort to catch the conversation which passed between the
señora and her devoted old friend, for he had an uneasy suspicion of
what her visit and her great grief portended. They spoke mostly in such
low tones that what they said did not reach him, but once Doctor Bonsal
unconsciously raised his voice, and the Camera Chap heard him say.
“I am old, my child, and what happens to me does not matter. We must
accept the situation with philosophy.”
“If only I could do something,” the woman sobbed. “I have been to
Portiforo and pleaded with him, but it was no use. He would not listen.
That tyrant----”
She stopped short at a remonstrance from the physician, spoken in a
voice so low that Hawley could not catch the words. Almost immediately
after that the two officials stepped up to the señora and gruffly
informed her that it was time for her to withdraw. The Camera Chap
heard her plead with them to be allowed to have a few more words with
the prisoner, but the request was refused, and, sobbing violently, she
was literally dragged from in front of the barred door.
The next morning Hawley’s fears for the old physician were confirmed
in a startling manner. At sunrise the tramp of many feet resounded on
the stone floor of the courtyard, and he heard a hoarse voice exclaim:
“_Adelante!_” Knowing that this order was the Spanish equivalent for
“Forward, march!” he was not surprised, upon jumping from his bed and
gazing through the bars, to see a file of soldiers in the courtyard.
There were about twenty of them. At the command of the officer they
ranged themselves at one end of the yard and stood at attention, as
unconcerned as though they had come there to perform their usual
morning drill. Presently Hawley heard voices to the right of his cell.
“Are you ready?” somebody asked. Then, in a voice which thrilled the
listener, Doctor Bonsal answered unfalteringly: “I am ready.”
A gate creaked on its hinges, and the venerable prisoner, his head held
high, his shoulders squared, walked past the Camera Chap’s door, an
army officer in dress uniform on each side of him.
Like a man in a dream, the snapshot adventurer gazed upon the scene
that followed. He saw the officers place their victim with his back
to the cement wall of the courtyard, and tie a handkerchief over his
eyes. He saw them step back, and heard one of them give an order which
caused the long line of gleaming rifle barrels at the other end of the
yard to rise with a precision that seemed almost automatic. In another
minute the tragedy was over, and in ten minutes the courtyard was
clear, and the routine of the prison was resumed.
Hawley was horrified at what he had witnessed, but his predominant
emotion was one of violent rage. “If ever I get out of here,” he
murmured, “I’ll make Portiforo pay for this.” Then he smiled grimly
as the thought came to him that instead of getting out, the chances
were that before long he himself would be in the same position as the
ill-fated Doctor Bonsal.
Presently two men came to his cell and threw open the door. “Señor,”
one of them said politely, “we must request you to be good enough to
accompany us.”