A complete change took place in public opinion on the subject of Joam

Dacosta. To anger succeeded pity. The population no longer thronged to

the prison of Manaos to roar out cries of death to the prisoner. On

the contrary, the most forward of them in accusing him of being the

principal author of the crime of Tijuco now averred that he was not

guilty, and demanded his immediate restoration to liberty. Thus it

always is with the mob--from one extreme they run to the other. But the

change was intelligible.

The events which had happened during the last few days--the struggle

between Benito and Torres; the search for the corpse, which had

reappeared under such extraordinary circumstances; the finding of the

“indecipherable” document, if we can so call it; the information it

concealed, the assurance that it contained, or rather the wish that it

contained, the material proof of the guiltlessness of Joam Dacosta; and

the hope that it was written by the real culprit--all these things had

contributed to work the change in public opinion. What the people had

desired and impatiently demanded forty-eight hours before, they now

feared, and that was the arrival of the instructions due from Rio de

Janeiro.

These, however, were not likely to be delayed.

Joam Dacosta had been arrested on the 24th of August, and examined next

day. The judge’s report was sent off on the 26th. It was now the 28th.

In three or four days more the minister would have come to a decision

regarding the convict, and it was only too certain that justice would

take its course.

There was no doubt that such would be the case. On the other hand, that

the assurance of Dacosta’s innocence would appear from the document,

was not doubted by anybody, neither by his family nor by the fickle

population of Manaos, who excitedly followed the phases of this dramatic

affair.

But, on the other hand, in the eyes of disinterested or indifferent

persons who were not affected by the event, what value could be assigned

to this document? and how could they even declare that it referred to

the crime in the diamond arrayal? It existed, that was undeniable; it

had been found on the corpse of Torres, nothing could be more certain.

It could even be seen, by comparing it with the letter in which Torres

gave the information about Joam Dacosta, that the document was not in

the handwriting of the adventurer. But, as had been suggested by Judge

Jarriquez, why should not the scoundrel have invented it for the sake of

his bargain? And this was less unlikely to be the case, considering

that Torres had declined to part with it until after his marriage with

Dacosta’s daughter--that is to say, when it would have been impossible

to undo an accomplished fact.

All these views were held by some people in some form, and we can quite

understand what interest the affair created. In any case, the situation

of Joam Dacosta was most hazardous. If the document were not deciphered,

it would be just the same as if it did not exist; and if the secret of

the cryptogram were not miraculously divined or revealed before the end

of the three days, the supreme sentence would inevitably be suffered by

the doomed man of Tijuco. And this miracle a man attempted to perform!

The man was Jarriquez, and he now really set to work more in the

interest of Joam Dacosta than for the satisfaction of his analytical

faculties. A complete change had also taken place in his opinion. Was

not this man, who had voluntarily abandoned his retreat at Iquitos, who

had come at the risk of his life to demand his rehabilitation at the

hands of Brazilian justice, a moral enigma worth all the others put

together? And so the judge had resolved never to leave the document

until he had discovered the cipher. He set to work at it in a fury.

He ate no more; he slept no more! All his time was passed in inventing

combinations of numbers, in forging a key to force this lock!

This idea had taken possession of Judge Jarriquez’s brain at the end

of the first day. Suppressed frenzy consumed him, and kept him in a

perpetual heat. His whole house trembled; his servants, black or white,

dared not come near him. Fortunately he was a bachelor; had there been

a Madame Jarriquez she would have had a very uncomfortable time of

it. Never had a problem so taken possession of this oddity, and he had

thoroughly made up his mind to get at the solution, even if his head

exploded like an overheated boiler under the tension of its vapor.

It was perfectly clear to the mind of the worthy magistrate that the key

to the document was a number, composed of two or more ciphers, but what

this number was all investigation seemed powerless to discover.

This was the enterprise on which Jarriquez, in quite a fury, was

engaged, and during this 28th of August he brought all his faculties to

bear on it, and worked away almost superhumanly.

To arrive at the number by chance, he said, was to lose himself in

millions of combinations, which would absorb the life of a first-rate

calculator. But if he could in no respect reckon on chance, was it

impossible to proceed by reasoning? Decidedly not! And so it was “to

reason till he became unreasoning” that Judge Jarriquez gave himself up

after vainly seeking repose in a few hours of sleep. He who ventured

in upon him at this moment, after braving the formal defenses which

protected his solitude, would have found him, as on the day before,

in his study, before his desk, with the document under his eyes, the

thousands of letters of which seemed all jumbled together and flying

about his head.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “why did not the scoundrel who wrote this separate

the words in this paragraph? We might--we will try--but no! However, if

there is anything here about the murder and the robbery, two or three

words there must be in it--‘arrayal,’ ‘diamond,’ ‘Tijuco,’ ‘Dacosta,’

and others; and in putting down their cryptological equivalents

the number could be arrived at. But there is nothing--not a single

break!--not one word by itself! One word of two hundred and seventy-six

letters! I hope the wretch may be blessed two hundred and seventy-six

times for complicating his system in this way! He ought to be hanged two

hundred and seventy-six times!”

And a violent thump with his fist on the document emphasized this

charitable wish.

“But,” continued the magistrate, “if I cannot find one of the words in

the body of the document, I might at least try my hand at the beginning

and end of each paragraph. There may be a chance there that I ought not

to miss.”

And impressed with this idea Judge Jarriquez successively tried if the

letters which commenced or finished the different paragraphs could be

made to correspond with those which formed the most important word,

which was sure to be found somewhre, that of _Dacosta_.

He could do nothing of the kind.

In fact, to take only the last paragraph with which he began, the

formula was:

P  =  D                         h  =  a

y  =  c                         f  =  o

s  =  s                         l  =  t

y  =  a

Now, at the very first letter Jarriquez was stopped in his calculations,

for the difference in alphabetical position between the _d_ and the

_p_ gave him not one cipher, but two, namely, 12, and in this kind of

cryptograph only one letter can take the place of another.

It was the same for the seven last letters of the paragraph, _p s u v

j h d,_ of which the series also commences with a _p,_ and which in no

case could stand for the _d_ in _Dacosta,_ because these letters were in

like manner twelve spaces apart.

So it was not his name that figured here.

The same observation applies to the words _arrayal_ and _Tijuco,_ which

were successively tried, but whose construction did not correspond with

the cryptographic series.

After he had got so far, Judge Jarriquez, with his head nearly

splitting, arose and paced his office, went for fresh air to the

window, and gave utterance to a growl, at the noise of which a flock

of hummingbirds, murmuring among the foliage of a mimosa tree, betook

themselves to flight. Then he returned to the document.

He picked it up and turned it over and over.

“The humbug! the rascal!” he hissed; “it will end by driving me mad! But

steady! Be calm! Don’t let our spirits go down! This is not the time!”

And then, having refreshed himself by giving his head a thorough

sluicing with cold water:

“Let us try another way,” he said, “and as I cannot hit upon the number

from the arrangement of the letters, let us see what number the author

of the document would have chosen in confessing that he was the author

of the crime at Tijuco.”

This was another method for the magistrate to enter upon, and maybe he

was right, for there was a certain amount of logic about it.

“And first let us try a date! Why should not the culprit have taken the

date of the year in which Dacosta, the innocent man he allowed to be

sentenced in his own place, was born? Was he likely to forget a number

which was so important to him? Then Joam Dacosta was born in 1804. Let

us see what 1804 will give us as a cryptographical number.”

And Judge Jarriquez wrote the first letters of the paragraph, and

putting over them the number 1804 repeated thrice, he obtained

1804    1804    1804

_phyj    slyd    dqfd_

Then in counting up the spaces in alphabetical order, he obtained

_s.yf    rdy.    cif._

And this was meaningless! And he wanted three letters which he had to

replace by points, because the ciphers, 8, 4, and 4, which command the

three letters, _h, d,_ and _d,_ do not give corresponding letters in

ascending the series.

“That is not it again!” exclaimed Jarriquez. “Let us try another

number.”

And he asked himself, if instead of this first date the author of the

document had not rather selected the date of the year in which the crime

was committed.

This was in 1826.

And so proceeding as above, he obtained.

1826    1826    1826

_phyj    slyd    dqfd_

and that gave

_o.vd    rdv.    cid._

the same meaningless series, the same absence of sense, as many letters

wanting as in the former instance, and for the same reason.

“Bother the number!” exclaimed the magistrate. “We must give it up

again. Let us have another one! Perhaps the rascal chose the number of

contos representing the amount of the booty!”

Now the value of the stolen diamonds was estimated at eight hundred and

thirty-four contos, or about 2,500,000 francs, and so the formula became

834    834    834    834

_phy    jsl    ydd    qfd_

and this gave a result as little gratifying as the others----

_het    bph    pa.    ic._

“Confound the document and him who imagined it!” shouted Jarriquez,

throwing down the paper, which was wafted to the other side of the room.

“It would try the patience of a saint!”

But the short burst of anger passed away, and the magistrate, who had

no idea of being beaten, picked up the paper. What he had done with the

first letters of the different paragraphs he did with the last--and

to no purpose. Then he tried everything his excited imagination could

suggest.

He tried in succession the numbers which represented Dacosta’s age,

which would have been known to the author of the crime, the date of his

arrest, the date of the sentence at the Villa Rica assizes, the date

fixed for the execution, etc., etc., even the number of victims at the

affray at Tijuco!

Nothing! All the time nothing!

Judge Jarriquez had worked himself into such a state of exasperation

that there really was some fear that his mental faculties would lose

their balance. He jumped about, and twisted about, and wrestled about as

if he really had got hold of his enemy’s body. Then suddenly he cried,

“Now for chance! Heaven help me now, logic is powerless!”

His hand seized a bell-pull hanging near his table. The bell rang

furiously, and the magistrate strode up to the door, which he opened.

“Bobo!” he shouted.

A moment or two elapsed.

Bobo was a freed negro, who was the privileged servant of Jarriquez.

He did not appear; it was evident that Bobo was afraid to come into his

master’s room.

Another ring at the bell; another call to Bobo, who, for his own safety,

pretended to be deaf on this occasion. And now a third ring at the bell,

which unhitched the crank and broke the cord.

This time Bobo came up. “What is it, sir?” asked Bobo, prudently waiting

on the threshold.

“Advance, without uttering a single word!” replied the judge, whose

flaming eyes made the negro quake again.

Bobo advanced.

“Bobo,” said Jarriquez, “attend to what I say, and answer immediately;

do not even take time to think, or I----”

Bobo, with fixed eyes and open mouth, brought his feet together like a

soldier and stood at attention.

“Are you ready?” asked his master.

“I am.”

“Now, then, tell me, without a moment’s thought--you understand--the

first number than comes into your head.”

“76223,” answered Bobo, all in a breath. Bobo thought he would please

his master by giving him a pretty large one!

Judge Jarriquez had run to the table, and, pencil in hand, had made out

a formula with the number given by Bobo, and which Bobo had in this way

only given him at a venture.

It is obvious that it was most unlikely that a number such as 76223 was

the key of the document, and it produced no other result than to

bring to the lips of Jarriquez such a vigorous ejaculation that Bobo

disappeared like a shot!

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST EFFORTS

The magistrate, however, was not the only one who passed his time

unprofitably. Benito, Manoel, and Minha tried all they could together

to extract the secret from the document on which depended their father’s

life and honor. On his part, Fragoso, aided by Lina, could not remain

quiet, but all their ingenuity had failed, and the number still escaped

them.

“Why don’t you find it, Fragoso?” asked the young mulatto.

“I will find it,” answered Fragoso.

And he did not find it!

Here we should say that Fragoso had an idea of a project of which he

had not even spoken to Lina, but which had taken full possession of his

mind. This was to go in search of the gang to which the ex-captain of

the woods had belonged, and to find out who was the probable author of

this cipher document, which was supposed to be the confession of the

culprit of Tijuco. The part of the Amazon where these people were

employed, the very place where Fragoso had met Torres a few years

before, was not very far from Manaos. He would only have to descend the

river for about fifty miles, to the mouth of the Madeira, a tributary

coming in on the right, and there he was almost sure to meet the head

of these _“capitaes do mato,”_ to which Torres belonged. In two days, or

three days at the outside, Fragoso could get into communication with the

old comrades of the adventurer.

“Yes! I could do that,” he repeated to himself; “but what would be the

good of it, supposing I succeeded? If we are sure that one of Torres’

companions has recently died, would that prove him to be the author of

this crime? Would that show that he gave Torres a document in which he

announced himself the author of this crime, and exonerated Joam Dacosta?

Would that give us the key of the document? No! Two men only knew the

cipher--the culprit and Torres! And these two men are no more!”

So reasoned Fragoso. It was evident that his enterprise would do no

good. But the thought of it was too much for him. An irresistible

influence impelled him to set out, although he was not even sure of

finding the band on the Madeira. In fact, it might be engaged in some

other part of the province, and to come up with it might require more

time than Fragoso had at his disposal! And what would be the result?

It is none the less true, however, that on the 29th of August, before

sunrise, Fragoso, without saying anything to anybody, secretly left the

jangada, arrived at Manaos, and embarked in one of the egariteas which

daily descend the Amazon.

And great was the astonishment when he was not seen on board, and did

not appear during the day. No one, not even Lina, could explain the

absence of so devoted a servant at such a crisis.

Some of them even asked, and not without reason, if the poor fellow,

rendered desperate at having, when he met him on the frontier,

personally contributed to bringing Torres on board the raft, had not

made away with himself.

But if Fragoso could so reproach himself, how about Benito? In the first

place at Iquitos he had invited Torres to visit the fazenda; in the

second place he had brought him on board the jangada, to become

a passenger on it; and in the third place, in killing him, he had

annihilated the only witness whose evidence could save the condemned

man.

And so Benito considered himself responsible for everything--the

arrest of his father, and the terrible events of which it had been the

consequence.

In fact, had Torres been alive, Benito could not tell but that, in

some way or another, from pity or for reward, he would have finished

by handing over the document. Would not Torres, whom nothing could

compromise, have been persuaded to speak, had money been brought to bear

upon him? Would not the long-sought-for proof have been furnished to the

judge? Yes, undoubtedly! And the only man who could have furnished this

evidence had been killed through Benito!

Such was what the wretched man continually repeated to his mother, to

Manoel, and to himself. Such were the cruel responsibilities which his

conscience laid to his charge.

Between her husband, with whom she passed all the time that was allowed

her, and her son, a prey to despair which made her tremble for his

reason, the brave Yaquita lost none of her moral energy. In her they

found the valiant daughter of Magalhaës, the worthy wife of the fazender

of Iquitos.

The attitude of Joam Dacosta was well adapted to sustain her in this

ordeal. That gallant man, that rigid Puritan, that austere worker, whose

whole life had been a battle, had not yet shown a moment of weakness.

The most terrible blow which had struck him without prostrating him had

been the death of Judge Ribeiro, in whose mind his innocence did not

admit of a doubt. Was it not with the help of his old defender that he

had hoped to strive for his rehabilitation? The intervention of Torres

he had regarded throughout as being quite secondary for him. And of this

document he had no knowledge when he left Iquitos to hand himself over

to the justice of his country. He only took with him moral proofs. When

a material proof was unexpectedly produced in the course of the affair,

before or after his arrest, he was certainly not the man to despise it.

But if, on account of regrettable circumstances, the proof disappeared,

he would find himself once more in the same position as when he passed

the Brazilian frontier--the position of a man who came to say, “Here is

my past life; here is my present; here is an entirely honest existence

of work and devotion which I bring you. You passed on me at first an

erroneous judgment. After twenty-three years of exile I have come to

give myself up! Here I am; judge me again!”

The death of Torres, the impossibility of reading the document found on

him, had thus not produced on Joam Dacosta the impression which it had

on his children, his friends, his household, and all who were interested

in him.

“I have faith in my innocence,” he repeated to Yaquita, “as I have

faith in God. If my life is still useful to my people, and a miracle is

necessary to save me, that miracle will be performed; if not, I shall

die! God alone is my judge!”

The excitement increased in Manaos as the time ran on; the affair was

discussed with unexampled acerbity. In the midst of this enthralment of

public opinion, which evoked so much of the mysterious, the document was

the principal object of conversation.

At the end of this fourth day not a single person doubted but that it

contained the vindication of the doomed man. Every one had been given

an opportunity of deciphering its incomprehensible contents, for the

“Diario d’o Grand Para” had reproduced it in facsimile. Autograph copies

were spread about in great numbers at the suggestion of Manoel, who

neglect nothing that might lead to the penetration of the mystery--not

even chance, that “nickname of Providence,” as some one has called it.

In addition, a reward of one hundred contos (or three hundred thousand

francs) was promised to any one who could discover the cipher so

fruitlessly sought after--and read the document. This was quite a

fortune, and so people of all classes forgot to eat, drink, or sleep to

attack this unintelligible cryptogram.

Up to the present, however, all had been useless, and probably the most

ingenious analysts in the world would have spent their time in vain. It

had been advertised that any solution should be sent, without delay, to

Judge Jarriquez, to his house in God-the-Son Street; but the evening

of the 29th of August came and none had arrived, nor was any likely to

arrive.

Of all those who took up the study of the puzzle, Judge Jarriquez was

one of the most to be pitied. By a natural association of ideas, he also

joined in the general opinion that the document referred to the affair

at Tijuco, and that it had been written by the hand of the guilty man,

and exonerated Joam Dacosta. And so he put even more ardor into his

search for the key. It was not only the art for art’s sake which guided

him, it was a sentiment of justice, of pity toward a man suffering under

an unjust condemnation. If it is the fact that a certain quantity of

phosphorus is expended in the work of the brain, it would be difficult

to say how many milligrammes the judge had parted with to excite

the network of his “sensorium,” and after all, to find out nothing,

absolutely nothing.

But Jarriquez had no idea of abandoning the inquiry. If he could only

now trust to chance, he would work on for that chance. He tried to evoke

it by all means possible and impossible. He had given himself over to

fury and anger, and, what was worse, to impotent anger!

During the latter part of this day he had been trying different

numbers--numbers selected arbitrarily--and how many of them can scarcely

be imagined. Had he had the time, he would not have shrunk from plunging

into the millions of combinations of which the ten symbols of numeration

are capable. He would have given his whole life to it at the risk of

going mad before the year was out. Mad! was he not that already? He had

had the idea that the document might be read through the paper, and so

he turned it round and exposed it to the light, and tried it in that

way.

Nothing! The numbers already thought of, and which he tried in this new

way, gave no result. Perhaps the document read backward, and the last

letter was really the first, for the author would have done this had he

wished to make the reading more difficult.

Nothing! The new combination only furnished a series of letters just as

enigmatic.

At eight o’clock in the evening Jarriquez, with his face in his hands,

knocked up, worn out mentally and physically, had neither strength to

move, to speak, to think, or to associate one idea with another.

Suddenly a noise was heard outside. Almost immediately, notwithstanding

his formal orders, the door of his study was thrown open. Benito and

Manoel were before him, Benito looking dreadfully pale, and Manoel

supporting him, for the unfortunate young man had hardly strength to

support himself.

The magistrate quickly arose.

“What is it, gentlemen? What do you want?” he asked.

“The cipher! the cipher!” exclaimed Benito, mad with grief--“the cipher

of the document.”

“Do you know it, then?” shouted the judge.

“No, sir,” said Manoel. “But you?”

“Nothing! nothing!”

“Nothing?” gasped Benito, and in a paroxysm of despair he took a knife

from his belt and would have plunged it into his breast had not the

judge and Manoel jumped forward and managed to disarm him.

“Benito,” said Jarriquez, in a voice which he tried to keep calm, “if

you father cannot escape the expiation of a crime which is not his, you

could do something better than kill yourself.”

“What?” said Benito.

“Try and save his life!”

“How?”

“That is for you to discover,” answered the magistrate, “and not for me

to say.”

CHAPTER XVI.

PREPARATIONS

On the following day, the 30th of August, Benito and Manoel talked

matters over together. They had understood the thought to which the

judge had not dared to give utterance in their presence, and were

engaged in devising some means by which the condemned man could escape

the penalty of the law.

Nothing else was left for them to do. It was only too certain that for

the authorities at Rio Janeiro the undeciphered document would have no

value whatever, that it would be a dead letter, that the first verdict

which declared Joam Dacosta the perpetrator of the crime at Tijuco

would not be set aside, and that, as in such cases no commutation of the

sentence was possible, the order for his execution would inevitably be

received.

Once more, then, Joam Dacosta would have to escape by flight from an

unjust imprisonment.

It was at the outset agreed between the two young men that the secret

should be carefully kept, and that neither Yaquita nor Minha should be

informed of preparations, which would probably only give rise to

hopes destined never to be realized. Who could tell if, owing to

some unforeseen circumstance, the attempt at escape would not prove a

miserable failure?

The presence of Fragoso on such an occasion would have been most

valuable. Discreet and devoted, his services would have been most

welcome to the two young fellows; but Fragoso had not reappeared. Lina,

when asked, could only say that she knew not what had become of him, nor

why he had left the raft without telling her anything about it.

And assuredly, had Fragoso foreseen that things would have turned out

as they were doing, he would never have left the Dacosta family on an

expedition which appeared to promise no serious result. Far better

for him to have assisted in the escape of the doomed man than to have

hurried off in search of the former comrades of Torres!

But Fragoso was away, and his assistance had to be dispensed with.

At daybreak Benito and Manoel left the raft and proceeded to Manaos.

They soon reached the town, and passed through its narrow streets, which

at that early hour were quite deserted. In a few minutes they arrived in

front of the prison. The waste ground, amid which the old convent which

served for a house of detention was built, was traversed by them in all

directions, for they had come to study it with the utmost care.

Fifty-five feet from the ground, in an angle of the building, they

recognized the window of the cell in which Joam Dacosta was confined.

The window was secured with iron bars in a miserable state of repair,

which it would be easy to tear down or cut through if they could only

get near enough. The badly jointed stones in the wall, which were

crumbled away every here and there, offered many a ledge for the feet to

rest on, if only a rope could be fixed to climb up by. One of the bars

had slipped out of its socket, and formed a hook over which it might

be possible to throw a rope. That done, one or two of the bars could be

removed, so as to permit a man to get through. Benito and Manoel would

then have to make their way into the prisoner’s room, and without much

difficulty the escape could be managed by means of the rope fastened to

the projecting iron. During the night, if the sky were very cloudy, none

of these operations would be noticed before the day dawned. Joam Dacosta

could get safely away.

Manoel and Benito spent an hour about the spot, taking care not to

attract attention, but examining the locality with great exactness,

particularly as regarded the position of the window, the arrangement of

the iron bars, and the place from which it would be best to throw the

line.

“That is agreed,” said Manoel at length. “And now, ought Joam Dacosta to

be told about this?”

“No, Manoel. Neither to him, any more than to my mother, ought we

to impart the secret of an attempt in which there is such a risk of

failure.”

“We shall succeed, Benito!” continued Manoel. “However, we must prepare

for everything; and in case the chief of the prison should discover us

at the moment of escape----”

“We shall have money enough to purchase his silence,” answered Benito.

“Good!” replied Manoel. “But once your father is out of prison he

cannot remain hidden in the town or on the jangada. Where is he to find

refuge?”

This was the second question to solve: and a very difficult one it was.

A hundred paces away from the prison, however, the waste land was

crossed by one of those canals which flow through the town into the Rio

Negro. This canal afforded an easy way of gaining the river if a pirogue

were in waiting for the fugitive. From the foot of the wall to the canal

side was hardly a hundred yards.

Benito and Manoel decided that about eight o’clock in the evening one

of the pirogues, with two strong rowers, under the command of the pilot

Araujo, should start from the jangada. They could ascend the Rio

Negro, enter the canal, and, crossing the waste land, remain concealed

throughout the night under the tall vegetation on the banks.

But once on board, where was Joam Dacosta to seek refuge? To return to

Iquitos was to follow a road full of difficulties and peril, and a long

one in any case, should the fugitive either travel across the country or

by the river. Neither by horse not pirogue could he be got out of danger

quickly enough, and the fazenda was no longer a safe retreat. He would

not return to it as the fazender, Joam Garral, but as the convict, Joam

Dacosta, continually in fear of his extradition. He could never dream of

resuming his former life.

To get away by the Rio Negro into the north of the province, or even

beyond the Brazilian territory, would require more time than he could

spare, and his first care must be to escape from immediate pursuit.

To start again down the Amazon? But stations, village, and towns

abounded on both sides of the river. The description of the fugitive

would be sent to all the police, and he would run the risk of being

arrested long before he reached the Atlantic. And supposing he reached

the coast, where and how was he to hide and wait for a passage to put

the sea between himself and his pursuers?

On consideration of these various plans, Benito and Manoel agreed that

neither of them was practicable. One, however, did offer some chance of

safety, and that was to embark in the pirogue, follow the canal into the

Rio Negro, descend this tributary under the guidance of the pilot, reach

the confluence of the rivers, and run down the Amazon along its

right bank for some sixty miles during the nights, resting during the

daylight, and so gaining the _embouchure_ of the Madeira.

This tributary, which, fed by a hundred affluents, descends from the

watershed of the Cordilleras, is a regular waterway opening into the

very heart of Bolivia. A pirogue could pass up it and leave no trace of

its passage, and a refuge could be found in some town or village beyond

the Brazilian frontier. There Joam Dacosta would be comparatively

safe, and there for several months he could wait for an opportunity of

reaching the Pacific coast and taking passage in some vessel leaving one

of its ports; and if the ship were bound for one of the States of North

America he would be free. Once there, he could sell the fazenda, leave

his country forever, and seek beyond the sea, in the Old World, a final

retreat in which to end an existence so cruelly and unjustly disturbed.

Anywhere he might go, his family--not excepting Manoel, who was bound

to him by so many ties--would assuredly follow without the slightest

hesitation.

“Let us go,” said Benito; “we must have all ready before night, and we

have no time to lose.”

The young men returned on board by way of the canal bank, which led

along the Rio Negro. They satisfied themselves that the passage of the

pirogue would be quite possible, and that no obstacles such as locks or

boats under repair were there to stop it. They then descended the left

bank of the tributary, avoiding the slowly-filling streets of the town,

and reached the jangada.

Benito’s first care was to see his mother. He felt sufficiently master

of himself to dissemble the anxiety which consumed him. He wished to

assure her that all hope was not lost, that the mystery of the document

would be cleared up, that in any case public opinion was in favor of

Joam, and that, in face of the agitation which was being made in his

favor, justice would grant all the necessary time for the production

of the material proof his innocence. “Yes, mother,” he added, “before

to-morrow we shall be free from anxiety.”

“May heaven grant it so!” replied Yaquita, and she looked at him so

keenly that Benito could hardly meet her glance.

On his part, and as if by pre-arrangement, Manoel had tried to reassure

Minha by telling her that Judge Jarriquez was convinced of the innocence

of Joam, and would try to save him by every means in his power.

“I only wish he would, Manoel,” answered she, endeavoring in vain to

restrain her tears.

And Manoel left her, for the tears were also welling up in his eyes

and witnessing against the words of hope to which he had just given

utterance.

And now the time had arrived for them to make their daily visit to the

prisoner, and Yaquita and her daughter set off to Manaos.

For an hour the young men were in consultation with Araujo. They

acquainted him with their plan in all its details, and they discussed

not only the projected escape, but the measures which were necessary for

the safety of the fugitive.

Araujo approved of everything; he undertook during the approaching night

to take the pirogue up the canal without attracting any notice, and he

knew its course thoroughly as far as the spot where he was to await the

arrival of Joam Dacosta. To get back to the mouth of the Rio Negro was

easy enough, and the pirogue would be able to pass unnoticed among the

numerous craft continually descending the river.

Araujo had no objection to offer to the idea of following the Amazon

down to its confluence with the Madeira. The course of the Madeira was

familiar to him for quite two hundred miles up, and in the midst of

these thinly-peopled provinces, even if pursuit took place in their

direction, all attempts at capture could be easily frustrated; they

could reach the interior of Bolivia, and if Joam decided to leave his

country he could procure a passage with less danger on the coast of the

Pacific than on that of the Atlantic.

Araujo’s approval was most welcome to the young fellows; they had great

faith in the practical good sense of the pilot, and not without reason.

His zeal was undoubted, and he would assuredly have risked both life and

liberty to save the fazender of Iquitos.

With the utmost secrecy Araujo at once set about his preparations. A

considerable sum in gold was handed over to him by Benito to meet all

eventualities during the voyage on the Madeira. In getting the pirogue

ready, he announced his intention of going in search of Fragoso, whose

fate excited a good deal of anxiety among his companions. He stowed away

in the boat provisions for many days, and did not forget the ropes and

tools which would be required by the young men when they reached the

canal at the appointed time and place.

These preparations evoked no curiosity on the part of the crew of the

jangada, and even the two stalwart negroes were not let into the secret.

They, however, could be absolutely depended on. Whenever they learned

what the work of safety was in which they were engaged--when Joam

Dacosta, once more free, was confided to their charge--Araujo knew well

that they would dare anything, even to the risk of their own lives, to

save the life of their master.

By the afternoon all was ready, and they had only the night to wait for.

But before making a start Manoel wished to call on Judge Jarriquez for

the last time. The magistrate might perhaps have found out something new

about the document. Benito preferred to remain on the raft and wait for

the return of his mother and sister.

Manoel then presented himself at the abode of Judge Jarriquez, and was

immediately admitted.

The magistrate, in the study which he never quitted, was still the

victim of the same excitement. The document crumpled by his impatient

fingers, was still there before his eyes on the table.

“Sir,” said Manoel, whose voice trembled as he asked the question, “have

you received anything from Rio de Janeiro.”

“No,” answered the judge; “the order has not yet come to hand, but it

may at any moment.”

“And the document?”

“Nothing yet!” exclaimed he. “Everything my imagination can suggest I

have tried, and no result.”

“None?”

“Nevertheless, I distinctly see one word in the document--only one!”

“What is that--what is the word?”

“‘Fly’!”

Manoel said nothing, but he pressed the hand which Jarriquez held out to

him, and returned to the jangada to wait for the moment of action.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE LAST NIGHT

The visit of Yaquita and her daughter had been like all such visits

during the few hours which each day the husband and wife spent together.

In the presence of the two beings whom Joam so dearly loved his

heart nearly failed him. But the husband--the father--retained his

self-command. It was he who comforted the two poor women and inspired

them with a little of the hope of which so little now remained to him.

They had come with the intention of cheering the prisoner. Alas! far

more than he they themselves were in want of cheering! But when they

found him still bearing himself unflinchingly in the midst of his

terrible trial, they recovered a little of their hope.

Once more had Joam spoken encouraging words to them. His indomitable

energy was due not only to the feeling of his innocence, but to his

faith in that God, a portion of whose justice yet dwells in the hearts

of men. No! Joam Dacosta would never lose his life for the crime of

Tijuco!

Hardly ever did he mention the document. Whether it were apocryphal or

no, whether it were in the handwriting of Torres or in that of the real

perpetrator of the crime, whether it contained or did not contain the

longed-for vindication, it was on no such doubtful hypothesis that Joam

Dacosta presumed to trust. No; he reckoned on a better argument in his

favor, and it was to his long life of toil and honor that he relegated

the task of pleading for him.

This evening, then, his wife and daughter, strengthened by the manly

words, which thrilled them to the core of their hearts, had left him

more confident than they had ever been since his arrest. For the last

time the prisoner had embraced them, and with redoubled tenderness. It

seemed as though the _dénouement_ was nigh.

Joam Dacosta, after they had left, remained for some time perfectly

motionless. His arms rested on a small table and supported his head. Of

what was he thinking? Had he at last been convinced that human justice,

after failing the first time, would at length pronounce his acquittal?

Yes, he still hoped. With the report of Judge Jarriquez establishing

his identity, he knew that his memoir, which he had penned with so much

sincerity, would have been sent to Rio de Janeiro, and was now in the

hands of the chief justice. This memoir, as we know, was the history of

his life from his entry into the offices of the diamond arrayal until

the very moment when the jangada stopped before Manaos. Joam Dacosta was

pondering over his whole career. He again lived his past life from the

moment when, as an orphan, he had set foot in Tijuco. There his zeal had

raised him high in the offices of the governor-general, into which he

had been admitted when still very young. The future smiled on him; he

would have filled some important position. Then this sudden catastrophe;

the robbery of the diamond convoy, the massacre of the escort, the

suspicion directed against him as the only official who could have

divulged the secret of the expedition, his arrest, his appearance before

the jury, his conviction in spite of all the efforts of his advocate,

the last hours spent in the condemned cell at Villa Rica, his escape

under conditions which betokened almost superhuman courage, his flight

through the northern provinces, his arrival on the Peruvian frontier,

and the reception which the starving fugitive had met with from the

hospitable fazender Magalhaës.

The prisoner once more passed in review these events, which had

so cruelly marred his life. And then, lost in his thoughts and

recollections, he sat, regardless of a peculiar noise on the outer wall

of the convent, of the jerkings of a rope hitched on to a bar of his

window, and of grating steel as it cut through iron, which ought at once

to have attracted the attention of a less absorbed man.

Joam Dacosta continued to live the years of his youth after his arrival

in Peru. He again saw the fazender, the clerk, the partner of the old

Portuguese, toiling hard for the prosperity of the establishment at

Iquitos. Ah! why at the outset had he not told all to his benefactor? He

would never have doubted him. It was the only error with which he could

reproach himself. Why had he not confessed to him whence he had come,

and who he was--above all, at the moment when Magalhaës had place in his

hand the hand of the daughter who would never have believed that he was

the author of so frightful a crime.

And now the noise outside became loud enough to attract the prisoner’s

attention. For an instant Joam raised his head; his eyes sought the

window, but with a vacant look, as though he were unconscious, and the

next instant his head again sank into his hands. Again he was in thought

back at Iquitos.

There the old fazender was dying; before his end he longed for the

future of his daughter to be assured, for his partner to be the sole

master of the settlement which had grown so prosperous under his

management. Should Dacosta have spoken then? Perhaps; but he dared not

do it. He again lived the happy days he had spent with Yaquita, and

again thought of the birth of his children, again felt the happiness

which had its only trouble in the remembrances of Tijuco and the remorse

that he had not confessed his terrible secret.

The chain of events was reproduced in Joam’s mind with a clearness and

completeness quite remarkable.

And now he was thinking of the day when his daughter’s marriage with

Manoel had been decided. Could he allow that union to take place under a

false name without acquainting the lad with the mystery of his life? No!

And so at the advice of Judge Ribeiro he resolved to come and claim the

revision of his sentence, to demand the rehabilitation which was his

due! He was starting with his people, and then came the intervention of

Torres, the detestable bargain proposed by the scoundrel, the indignant

refusal of the father to hand over his daughter to save his honor and

his life, and then the denunciation and the arrest!

Suddenly the window flew open with a violent push from without.

Joam started up; the _souvenirs_ of the past vanished like a shadow.

Benito leaped into the room; he was in the presence of his father, and

the next moment Manoel, tearing down the remaining bars, appeared before

him.

Joam Dacosta would have uttered a cry of surprise. Benito left him no

time to do so.

“Father,” he said, “the window grating is down. A rope leads to the

ground. A pirogue is waiting for you on the canal not a hundred yards

off. Araujo is there ready to take you far away from Manaos, on the

other bank of the Amazon where your track will never be discovered.

Father, you must escape this very moment! It was the judge’s own

suggestion!”

“It must be done!” added Manoel.

“Fly! I!--Fly a second time! Escape again?”

And with crossed arms, and head erect, Joam Dacosta stepped forward.

“Never!” he said, in a voice so firm that Benito and Manoel stood

bewildered.

The young men had never thought of a difficulty like this. They had

never reckoned on the hindrances to escape coming from the prisoner

himself.

Benito advanced to his father, and looking him straight in the face, and

taking both his hands in his, not to force him, but to try and convince

him, said:

“Never, did you say, father?”

“Never!”

“Father,” said Manoel--“for I also have the right to call you

father--listen to us! If we tell you that you ought to fly without

losing an instant, it is because if you remain you will be guilty toward

others, toward yourself!”

“To remain,” continued Benito, “is to remain to die! The order for

execution may come at any moment! If you imagine that the justice of

men will nullify a wrong decision, if you think it will rehabilitate you

whom it condemned twenty years since, you are mistaken! There is hope no

longer! You must escape! Come!”

By an irresistible impulse Benito seized his father and drew him toward

the window.

Joam Dacosta struggled from his son’s grasp and recoiled a second time.

“To fly,” he answered, in the tone of a man whose resolution was

unalterable, “is to dishonor myself, and you with me! It would be a

confession of my guilt! Of my own free will I surrendered myself to

my country’s judges, and I will await their decision, whatever that

decision may be!”

“But the presumptions on which you trusted are insufficient,” replied

Manoel, “and the material proof of your innocence is still wanting! If

we tell you that you ought to fly, it is because Judge Jarriquez himself

told us so. You have now only this one chance left to escape from

death!”

“I will die, then,” said Joam, in a calm voice. “I will die protesting

against the decision which condemned me! The first time, a few hours

before the execution--I fled! Yes! I was then young. I had all my life

before me in which to struggle against man’s injustice! But to save

myself now, to begin again the miserable existence of a felon hiding

under a false name, whose every effort is required to avoid the pursuit

of the police, again to live the life of anxiety which I have led for

twenty-three years, and oblige you to share it with me; to wait each

day for a denunciation which sooner or later must come, to wait for the

claim for extradition which would follow me to a foreign country! Am I

to live for that? No! Never!”

“Father,” interrupted Benito, whose mind threatened to give way before

such obstinacy, “you shall fly! I will have it so!” And he caught hold

of Joam Dacosta, and tried by force to drag him toward the window.

“No! no!”

“You wish to drive me mad?”

“My son,” exclaimed Joam Dacosta, “listen to me! Once already I

escaped from the prison at Villa Rica, and people believed I fled from

well-merited punishment. Yes, they had reason to think so. Well, for the

honor of the name which you bear I shall not do so again.”

Benito had fallen on his knees before his father. He held up his hands

to him; he begged him:

“But this order, father,” he repeated, “this order which is due

to-day--even now--it will contain your sentence of death.”

“The order may come, but my determination will not change. No, my son!

Joam Dacosta, guilty, might fly! Joam Dacosta, innocent, will not fly!”

The scene which followed these words was heart-rending. Benito struggled

with his father. Manoel, distracted, kept near the window ready to carry

off the prisoner--when the door of the room opened.

On the threshold appeared the chief of the police, accompanied by the

head warder of the prison and a few soldiers. The chief of the police

understood at a glance that an attempt at escape was being made; but he

also understood from the prisoner’s attitude that he it was who had

no wish to go! He said nothing. The sincerest pity was depicted on his

face. Doubtless he also, like Judge Jarriquez, would have liked Dacosta

to have escaped.

It was too late!

The chief of the police, who held a paper in his hand, advanced toward

the prisoner.

“Before all of you,” said Joam Dacosta, “let me tell you, sir, that it

only rested with me to get away, and that I would not do so.”

The chief of the police bowed his head, and then, in a voice which he

vainly tried to control:

“Joam Dacosta,” he said, “the order has this moment arrived from the

chief justice at Rio Janeiro.”

“Father!” exclaimed Manoel and Benito.

“This order,” asked Joam Dacosta, who had crossed his arms, “this order

requires the execution of my sentence?”

“Yes!”

“And that will take place?”

“To-morrow.”

Benito threw himself on his father. Again would he have dragged him

from his cell, but the soldiers came and drew away the prisoner from his

grasp.

At a sign from the chief of the police Benito and Manoel were taken

away. An end had to be put to this painful scene, which had already

lasted too long.

“Sir,” said the doomed man, “before to-morrow, before the hour of my

execution, may I pass a few moments with Padre Passanha, whom I ask you

to tell?”

“It will be forbidden.”

“May I see my family, and embrace for a last time my wife and children?”

“You shall see them.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Joam; “and now keep guard over that window;

it will not do for them to take me out of here against my will.”

And then the chief of the police, after a respectful bow, retired with

the warder and the soldiers.

The doomed man, who had now but a few hours to live, was left alone.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FRAGOSO

And so the order had come, and, as Judge Jarriquez had foreseen, it was

an order requiring the immediate execution of the sentence pronounced on

Joam Dacosta. No proof had been produced; justice must take its course.

It was the very day--the 31st of August, at nine o’clock in the morning

of which the condemned man was to perish on the gallows.

The death penalty in Brazil is generally commuted except in the case of

negroes, but this time it was to be suffered by a white man.

Such are the penal arrangements relative to crimes in the diamond

arrayal, for which, in the public interest, the law allows no appear to

mercy.

Nothing could now save Joam Dacosta. It was not only life, but honor

that he was about to lose.

But on the 31st of August a man was approaching Manaos with all the

speed his horse was capable of, and such had been the pace at which

he had come that half a mile from the town the gallant creature fell,

incapable of carrying him any further.

The rider did not even stop to raise his steed. Evidently he had asked

and obtained from it all that was possible, and, despite the state of

exhaustion in which he found himself, he rushed off in the direction of

the city.

The man came from the eastern provinces, and had followed the left bank

of the river. All his means had gone in the purchase of this horse,

which, swifter far than any pirogue on the Amazon, had brought him to

Manaos.

It was Fragoso!

Had, then, the brave fellow succeeded in the enterprise of which he had

spoken to nobody? Had he found the party to which Torres belonged? Had

he discovered some secret which would yet save Joam Dacosta?

He hardly knew. But in any case he was in great haste to acquaint Judge

Jarriquez with what he had ascertained during his short excursion.

And this is what had happened.

Fragoso had made no mistake when he recognized Torres as one of the

captains of the party which was employed in the river provinces of the

Madeira.

He set out, and on reaching the mouth of that tributary he learned that

the chief of these _capitaes da mato_ was then in the neighborhood.

Without losing a minute, Fragoso started on the search, and, not without

difficulty, succeeded in meeting him.

To Fragoso’s questions the chief of the party had no hesitation in

replying; he had no interest in keeping silence with regard to the few

simple matters on which he was interrogated. In fact, three questions

only of importance were asked him by Fragoso, and these were:

“Did not a captain of the woods named Torres belong to your party a few

months ago?”

“Yes.”

“At that time had he not one intimate friend among his companions who

has recently died?”

“Just so!”

“And the name of that friend was?”

“Ortega.”

This was all that Fragoso had learned. Was this information of a kind to

modify Dacosta’s position? It was hardly likely.

Fragoso saw this, and pressed the chief of the band to tell him what

he knew of this Ortega, of the place where he came from, and of his

antecedents generally. Such information would have been of great

importance if Ortega, as Torres had declared, was the true author of

the crime of Tijuco. But unfortunately the chief could give him no

information whatever in the matter.

What was certain was that Ortega had been a member of the band for many

years, that an intimate friendship existed between him and Torres,

that they were always seen together, and that Torres had watched at his

bedside when he died.

This was all the chief of the band knew, and he could tell no more.

Fragoso, then, had to be contented with these insignificant details, and

departed immediately.

But if the devoted fellow had not brought back the proof that Ortega was

the author of the crime of Tijuco, he had gained one thing, and that was

the knowledge that Torres had told the truth when he affirmed that

one of his comrades in the band had died, and that he had been present

during his last moments.

The hypothesis that Ortega had given him the document in question had

now become admissible. Nothing was more probable than that this document

had reference to the crime of which Ortega was really the author,

and that it contained the confession of the culprit, accompanied by

circumstances which permitted of no doubt as to its truth.

And so, if the document could be read, if the key had been found, if the

cipher on which the system hung were known, no doubt of its truth could

be entertained.

But this cipher Fragoso did not know. A few more presumptions, a

half-certainty that the adventurer had invented nothing, certain

circumstances tending to prove that the secret of the matter was

contained in the document--and that was all that the gallant fellow

brought back from his visit to the chief of the gang of which Torres had

been a member.

Nevertheless, little as it was, he was in all haste to relate it to

Judge Jarriquez. He knew that he had not an hour to lose, and that was

why on this very morning, at about eight o’clock, he arrived, exhausted

with fatigue, within half a mile of Manaos. The distance between there

and the town he traversed in a few minutes. A kind of irresistible

presentiment urged him on, and he had almost come to believe that Joam

Dacosta’s safety rested in his hands.

Suddenly Fragoso stopped as if his feet had become rooted in the ground.

He had reached the entrance to a small square, on which opened one of

the town gates.

There, in the midst of a dense crowd, arose the gallows, towering up

some twenty feet, and from it there hung the rope!

Fragoso felt his consciousness abandon him. He fell; his eyes

involuntarily closed. He did not wish to look, and these words escaped

his lips: “Too late! too late!” But by a superhuman effort he raised

himself up. No; it was _not_ too late, the corpse of Joam Dacosta was

_not_ hanging at the end of the rope!

“Judge Jarriquez! Judge Jarriquez!” shouted Fragoso, and panting and

bewildered he rushed toward the city gate, dashed up the principal

street of Manaos, and fell half-dead on the threshold of the judge’s

house. The door was shut. Fragoso had still strength enough left to

knock at it.

One of the magistrate’s servants came to open it; his master would see

no one.

In spite of this denial, Fragoso pushed back the man who guarded the

entrance, and with a bound threw himself into the judge’s study.

“I come from the province where Torres pursued his calling as captain of

the woods!” he gasped. “Mr. Judge, Torres told the truth. Stop--stop the

execution?”

“You found the gang?”

“Yes.”

“And you have brought me the cipher of the document?”

Fragoso did not reply.

“Come, leave me alone! leave me alone!” shouted Jarriquez, and, a prey

to an outburst of rage, he grasped the document to tear it to atoms.

Fragoso seized his hands and stopped him. “The truth is there!” he said.

“I know,” answered Jarriquez; “but it is a truth which will never see

the light!”

“It will appear--it must! it must!”

“Once more, have you the cipher?”

“No,” replied Fragoso; “but, I repeat, Torres has not lied. One of his

companions, with whom he was very intimate, died a few months ago, and

there can be no doubt but that this man gave him the document he came to

sell to Joam Dacosta.”

“No,” answered Jarriquez--“no, there is no doubt about it--as far as

we are concerned; but that is not enough for those who dispose of the

doomed man’s life. Leave me!”

Fragoso, repulsed, would not quit the spot. Again he threw himself at

the judge’s feet. “Joam Dacosta is innocent!” he cried; “you will not

leave him to die? It was not he who committed the crime of Tijuco; it

was the comrade of Torres, the author of that document! It was Ortega!”

As he uttered the name the judge bounded backward. A kind of calm

swiftly succeeded to the tempest which raged within him. He dropped the

document from his clenched hand, smoothed it out on the table, sat down,

and, passing his hand over his eyes--“That name?” he said--“Ortega? Let

us see,” and then he proceeded with the new name brought back by Fragoso

as he had done with the other names so vainly tried by himself.

After placing it above the first six letters of the paragraph he

obtained the following formula:

O r t e g a

_P h y j s l_

“Nothing!” he said. “That gives us--nothing!”

And in fact the _h_ placed under the _r_ could not be expressed by a

cipher, for, in alphabetical order, this letter occupies an earlier

position to that of the _r._

The _p,_ the _y,_ the _j,_ arranged beneath the letters _o, t, e,_

disclosed the cipher 1, 4, 5, but as for the _s_ and the _l_ at the end

of the word, the interval which separated them from the _g_ and the _a_

was a dozen letters, and hence impossible to express by a single cipher,

so that they corresponded to neither _g_ nor _a_.

And here appalling shouts arose in the streets; they were the cries of

despair.

Fragoso jumped to one of the windows, and opened it before the judge

could hinder him.

The people filled the road. The hour had come at which the doomed man

was to start from the prison, and the crowd was flowing back to the spot

where the gallows had been erected.

Judge Jarriquez, quite frightful to look upon, devoured the lines of the

document with a fixed stare.

“The last letters!” he muttered. “Let us try once more the last

letters!”

It was the last hope.

And then, with a hand whose agitation nearly prevented him from writing

at all, he placed the name of Ortega over the six last letters of the

paragraph, as he had done over the first.

An exclamation immediately escaped him. He saw, at first glance, that

the six last letters were inferior in alphabetical order to those which

composed Ortega’s name, and that consequently they might yield the

number.

And when he reduced the formula, reckoning each later letter from the

earlier letter of the word, he obtained.

O r t e g a

4 3 2 5 1 3

_S u v j h d_

The number thus disclosed was 432513.

But was this number that which had been used in the document? Was it not

as erroneous as those he had previously tried?

At this moment the shouts below redoubled--shouts of pity which betrayed

the sympathy of the excited crowd. A few minutes more were all that the

doomed man had to live!

Fragoso, maddened with grief, darted from the room! He wished to see,

for the last time, his benefactor who was on the road to death! He

longed to throw himself before the mournful procession and stop it,

shouting, “Do not kill this just man! do not kill him!”

But already Judge Jarriquez had placed the given number above the first

letters of the paragraph, repeating them as often as was necessary, as

follows:

4 3 2 5 1 3 4 3 2 5 1 3 4 3 2 5 1 3 4 3 2 5 1 3

_P h y j s l y d d q f d z x g a s g z z q q e h_

And then, reckoning the true letters according to their alphabetical

order, he read:

“_Le véritable auteur du vol de_----”

A yell of delight escaped him! This number, 432513, was the number

sought for so long! The name of Ortega had enabled him to discover it!

At length he held the key of the document, which would incontestably

prove the innocence of Joam Dacosta, and without reading any more he

flew from his study into the street, shouting:

“Halt! Halt!”

To cleave the crowd, which opened as he ran, to dash to the prison,

whence the convict was coming at the last moment, with his wife and

children clinging to him with the violence of despair, was but the work

of a minute for Judge Jarriquez.

Stopping before Joam Dacosta, he could not speak for a second, and then

these words escaped his lips:

“Innocent! Innocent!”

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CRIME OF TIJUCO

On the arrival of the judge the mournful procession halted. A roaring

echo had repeated after him and again repeated the cry which escaped

from every mouth:

“Innocent! Innocent!”

Then complete silence fell on all. The people did not want to lose one

syllable of what was about to be proclaimed.

Judge Jarriquez sat down on a stone seat, and then, while Minha, Benito,

Manoel, and Fragoso stood round him, while Joam Dacosta clasped Yaquita

to his heart, he first unraveled the last paragraph of the document by

means of the number, and as the words appeared by the institution of the

true letters for the cryptological ones, he divided and punctuated them,

and then read it out in a loud voice. And this is what he read in the

midst of profound silence:

_Le véritable auteur du vol des diamants et de_ 43 251343251 343251 34

325 134 32513432 51 34 _Ph yjslyddf dzxgas gz zqq ehx gkfndrxu ju gi

l’assassinat des soldats qui escortaient le convoi,_ 32513432513

432 5134325 134 32513432513 43 251343 _ocytdxvksbx bhu ypohdvy rym

huhpuydkjox ph etozsl

commis dans la nuit du vingt-deux janvier mil_ 251343 2513 43 2513 43

251343251 3432513 432 _etnpmv ffov pd pajx hy ynojyggay meqynfu q1n

huit-cent vingt-six, n’est donc pas Joam Dacosta,_ 5134 3251 3425 134

3251 3432 513 4325 1343251 _mvly fgsu zmqiz tlb qgyu gsqe uvb nrcc

edgruzb

injustement condamné à mort, c’est moi, les misérable_ 34325134325

13432513 4 3251 3432 513 43 251343251 _l4msyuhqpz drrgcroh e pqxu fivv

rpl ph onthvddqf

employé de l’administration du district diamantin,_ 3432513 43

251343251343251 34 32513432 513432513 _hqsntzh hh nfepmqkyuuexkto gz

gkyuumfv ijdqdpzjq

out, moi seul, qui signe de mon vrai nom, Ortega._ 432 513 4325 134

32513 43 251 3432 513 432513 _syk rpl xhxq rym vkloh hh oto zvdk spp

suvjhd._

“The real author of the robbery of the diamonds and of the murder of

the soldiers who escorted the convoy, committed during the night of the

twenty-second of January, one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six,

was thus not Joam Dacosta, unjustly condemned to death; it was I, the

wretched servant of the Administration of the diamond district; yes, I

alone, who sign this with my true name, Ortega.”

The reading of this had hardly finished when the air was rent with

prolonged hurrahs.

What could be more conclusive than this last paragraph, which summarized

the whole of the document, and proclaimed so absolutely the innocence of

the fazender of Iquitos, and which snatched from the gallows this victim

of a frightful judicial mistake!

Joam Dacosta, surrounded by his wife, his children, and his friends,

was unable to shake the hands which were held out to him. Such was the

strength of his character that a reaction occurred, tears of joy escaped

from his eyes, and at the same instant his heart was lifted up to that

Providence which had come to save him so miraculously at the moment he

was about to offer the last expiation to that God who would not permit

the accomplishment of that greatest of crimes, the death of an innocent

man!

Yes! There could be no doubt as to the vindication of Joam Dacosta. The

true author of the crime of Tijuco confessed of his own free will, and

described the circumstances under which it had been perpetrated!

By means of the number Judge Jarriquez interpreted the whole of the

cryptogram.

And this was what Ortega confessed.

He had been the colleague of Joam Dacosta, employed, like him, at

Tijuco, in the offices of the governor of the diamond arrayal. He had

been the official appointed to accompany the convoy to Rio de Janeiro,

and, far from recoiling at the horrible idea of enriching himself by

means of murder and robbery, he had informed the smugglers of the very

day the convoy was to leave Tijuco.

During the attack of the scoundrels, who awaited the convoy just beyond

Villa Rica, he pretended to defend himself with the soldiers of the

escort, and then, falling among the dead, he was carried away by his

accomplices. Hence it was that the solitary soldier who survived the

massacre had reported that Ortega had perished in the struggle.

But the robbery did not profit the guilty man in the long run, for,

a little time afterward, he was robbed by those whom he had helped to

commit the crime.

Penniless, and unable to enter Tijuco again, Ortega fled away to the

provinces in the north of Brazil, to those districts of the Upper Amazon

where the _capitaes da mato_ are to be found. He had to live somehow,

and so he joined this not very honorable company; they neither asked

him who he was nor whence he came, and so Ortega became a captain of the

woods, and for many years he followed the trade of a chaser of men.

During this time Torres, the adventurer, himself in absolute want,

became his companion. Ortega and he became most intimate. But, as he had

told Torres, remorse began gradually to trouble the scoundrel’s life.

The remembrance of his crime became horrible to him. He knew that

another had been condemned in his place! He knew subsequently that the

innocent man had escaped from the last penalty, but that he would never

be free from the shadow of the capital sentence! And then, during an

expedition of his party for several months beyond the Peruvian frontier,

chance caused Ortega to visit the neighborhood of Iquitos, and there in

Joam Garral, who did not recognize him, he recognized Joam Dacosta.

Henceforth he resolved to make all the reparation he could for the

injustice of which his old comrade had been the victim. He committed to

the document all the facts relative to the crime of Tijuco, writing it

first in French, which had been his mother’s native tongue, and then

putting it into the mysterious form we know, his intention being to

transmit it to the fazender of Iquitos, with the cipher by which it

could be read.

Death prevented his completing his work of reparation. Mortally wounded

in a scuffle with some negroes on the Madeira, Ortega felt he was

doomed. His comrade Torres was then with him. He thought he could

intrust to his friend the secret which had so grievously darkened his

life. He gave him the document, and made him swear to convey it to Joam

Dacosta, whose name and address he gave him, and with his last breath

he whispered the number 432513, without which the document would remain

undecipherable.

Ortega dead, we know how the unworthy Torres acquitted himself of his

mission, how he resolved to turn to his own profit the secret of which

he was the possessor, and how he tried to make it the subject of an

odious bargain.

Torres died without accomplishing his work, and carried his secret with

him. But the name of Ortega, brought back by Fragoso, and which was

the signature of the document, had afforded the means of unraveling the

cryptogram, thanks to the sagacity of Judge Jarriquez. Yes, the material

proof sought after for so long was the incontestable witness of the

innocence of Joam Dacosta, returned to life, restored to honor.

The cheers redoubled when the worthy magistrate, in a loud voice,

and for the edification of all, read from the document this terrible

history.

And from that moment Judge Jarriquez, who possessed this indubitable

proof, arranged with the chief of the police, and declined to allow Joam

Dacosta, while waiting new instructions from Rio Janeiro, to stay in any

prison but his own house.

There could be no difficulty about this, and in the center of the crowd

of the entire population of Manaos, Joam Dacosta, accompanied by all his

family, beheld himself conducted like a conquerer to the magistrate’s

residence.

And in that minute the honest fazender of Iquitos was well repaid for

all that he had suffered during the long years of exile, and if he was

happy for his family’s sake more than for his own, he was none the less

proud for his country’s sake that this supreme injustice had not been

consummated!

And in all this what had become of Fragoso?

Well, the good-hearted fellow was covered with caresses! Benito, Manoel,

and Minha had overwhelmed him, and Lina had by no means spared him. He

did not know what to do, he defended himself as best he could. He did

not deserve anything like it. Chance alone had done it. Were any thanks

due to him for having recognized Torres as a captain of the woods? No,

certainly not. As to his idea of hurrying off in search of the band to

which Torres had belonged, he did not think it had been worth much, and

as to the name of Ortega, he did not even know its value.

Gallant Fragoso! Whether he wished it or no, he had none the less saved

Joam Dacosta!

And herein what a strange succession of different events all tending to

the same end. The deliverance of Fragoso at the time when he was dying

of exhaustion in the forest of Iquitos; the hospitable reception he

had met with at the fazenda, the meeting with Torres on the Brazilian

frontier, his embarkation on the jangada; and lastly, the fact that

Fragoso had seen him somewhere before.

“Well, yes!” Fragoso ended by exclaiming; “but it is not to me that all

this happiness is due, it is due to Lina!”

“To me?” replied the young mulatto.

“No doubt of it. Without the liana, without the idea of the liana, could

I ever have been the cause of so much happiness?”

So that Fragoso and Lina were praised and petted by all the family, and

by all the new friends whom so many trials had procured them at Manaos,

need hardly be insisted on.

But had not Judge Jarriquez also had his share in this rehabilitation

of an innocent man? If, in spite of all the shrewdness of his analytical

talents, he had not been able to read the document, which was absolutely

undecipherable to any one who had not got the key, had he not at any

rate discovered the system on which the cryptogram was composed?

Without him what could have been done with only the name of Ortega to

reconstitute the number which the author of the crime and Torres, both

of whom were dead, alone knew?

And so he also received abundant thanks.

Needless to say that the same day there was sent to Rio de Janeiro a

detailed report of the whole affair, and with it the original document

and the cipher to enable it to be read. New instructions from the

minister of justice had to be waited for, though there could be no doubt

that they would order the immediate discharge of the prisoner. A few

days would thus have to be passed at Manaos, and then Joam Dacosta

and his people, free from all constraint, and released from all

apprehension, would take leave of their host to go on board once more

and continue their descent of the Amazon to Para, where the voyage was

intended to terminate with the double marriage of Minha and Manoel and

Lina and Fragoso.

Four days afterward, on the fourth of September, the order of discharge

arrived. The document had been recognized as authentic. The handwriting

was really that of Ortega, who had been formerly employed in the diamond

district, and there could be no doubt that the confession of his crime,

with the minutest details that were given, had been entirely written

with his own hand.

The innocence of the convict of Villa Rica was at length admitted. The

rehabilitation of Joam Dacosta was at last officially proclaimed.

That very day Judge Jarriquez dined with the family on board the giant

raft, and when evening came he shook hands with them all. Touching were

the adieus, but an engagement was made for them to see him again on

their return at Manaos, and later on the fazenda of Iquitos.

On the morning of the morrow, the fifth of September, the signal for

departure was given. Joam Dacosta and Yaquita, with their daughter

and sons, were on the deck of the enormous raft. The jangada had its

moorings slackened off and began to move with the current, and when it

disappeared round the bend of the Rio Negro, the hurrahs of the whole

population of Manaos, who were assembled on the bank, again and again

re-echoed across the stream.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LOWER AMAZON

Little remains to tell of the second part of the voyage down the mighty

river. It was but a series of days of joy. Joam Dacosta returned to a

new life, which shed its happiness on all who belonged to him.

The giant raft glided along with greater rapidity on the waters now

swollen by the floods. On the left they passed the small village of Don

Jose de Maturi, and on the right the mouth of that Madeira which owes

its name to the floating masses of vegetable remains and trunks denuded

of their foliage which it bears from the depths of Bolivia. They passed

the archipelago of Caniny, whose islets are veritable boxes of palms,

and before the village of Serpa, which, successively transported from

one back to the other, has definitely settled on the left of the river,

with its little houses, whose thresholds stand on the yellow carpet of

the beach.

The village of Silves, built on the left of the Amazon, and the town

of Villa Bella, which is the principal guarana market in the whole

province, were soon left behind by the giant raft. And so was the

village of Faro and its celebrated river of the Nhamundas, on which,

in 1539, Orellana asserted he was attacked by female warriors, who have

never been seen again since, and thus gave us the legend which justifies

the immortal name of the river of the Amazons.

Here it is that the province of Rio Negro terminates. The jurisdiction

of Para then commences; and on the 22d of September the family,

marveling much at a valley which has no equal in the world, entered that

portion of the Brazilian empire which has no boundary to the east except

the Atlantic.

“How magnificent!” remarked Minha, over and over again.

“How long!” murmured Manoel.

“How beautiful!” repeated Lina.

“When shall we get there?” murmured Fragoso.

And this was what might have been expected of these folks from the

different points of view, though time passed pleasantly enough with

them all the same. Benito, who was neither patient nor impatient, had

recovered all his former good humor.

Soon the jangada glided between interminable plantations of cocoa-trees

with their somber green flanked by the yellow thatch or ruddy tiles of

the roofs of the huts of the settlers on both banks from Obidos up to

the town of Monto Alegre.

Then there opened out the mouth of the Rio Trombetas, bathing with its

black waters the houses of Obidos, situated at about one hundred and

eighty miles from Belem, quite a small town, and even a _“citade”_ with

large streets bordered with handsome habitations, and a great center for

cocoa produce. Then they saw another tributary, the Tapajos, with its

greenish-gray waters descending from the south-west; and then Santarem,

a wealthy town of not less than five thousand inhabitants, Indians for

the most part, whose nearest houses were built on the vast beach of

white sand.

After its departure from Manaos the jangada did not stop anywhere as it

passed down the much less encumbered course of the Amazon. Day and night

it moved along under the vigilant care of its trusty pilot; no more

stoppages either for the gratification of the passengers or for business

purposes. Unceasingly it progressed, and the end rapidly grew nearer.

On leaving Alemquer, situated on the left bank, a new horizon appeared

in view. In place of the curtain of forests which had shut them in up to

then, our friends beheld a foreground of hills, whose undulations could

be easily descried, and beyond them the faint summits of veritable

mountains vandyked across the distant depth of sky. Neither Yaquita,

nor her daughter, nor Lina, nor old Cybele, had ever seen anything like

this.

But in this jurisdiction of Para, Manoel was at home, and he could tell

them the names of the double chain which gradually narrowed the valley

of the huge river.

“To the right,” said he, “that is the Sierra de Paracuarta, which

curves in a half-circle to the south! To the left, that is the Sierra de

Curuva, of which we have already passed the first outposts.”

“Then they close in?” asked Fragoso.

“They close in!” replied Manoel.

And the two young men seemed to understand each other, for the same

slight but significant nodding of the head accompanied the question and

reply.

At last, notwithstanding the tide, which since leaving Obidos had begun

to be felt, and which somewhat checked the progress of the raft, the

town of Monto Alegre was passed, then that of Pravnha de Onteiro, then

the mouth of the Xingu, frequented by Yurumas Indians, whose principal

industry consists in preparing their enemies’ heads for natural history

cabinets.

To what a superb size the Amazon had now developed as already this

monarch of rivers gave signs of opening out like a sea! Plants from

eight to ten feet high clustered along the beach, and bordered it with

a forest of reeds. Porto de Mos, Boa Vista, and Gurupa, whose prosperity

is on the decline, were soon among the places left in the rear.

Then the river divided into two important branches, which flowed off

toward the Atlantic, one going away northeastward, the other eastward,

and between them appeared the beginning of the large island of Marajo.

This island is quite a province in itself. It measures no less than

a hundred and eighty leagues in circumference. Cut up by marshes and

rivers, all savannah to the east, all forest to the west, it offers most

excellent advantages for the raising of cattle, which can here be seen

in their thousands. This immense barricade of Marajo is the natural

obstacle which has compelled the Amazon to divide before precipitating

its torrents of water into the sea. Following the upper branch, the

jangada, after passing the islands of Caviana and Mexiana, would have

found an _embouchure_ of some fifty leagues across, but it would also

have met with the bar of the prororoca, that terrible eddy which, for

the three days preceding the new or full moon, takes but two minutes

instead of six hours to raise the river from twelve to fifteen feet

above ordinary high-water mark.

This is by far the most formidable of tide-races. Most fortunately the

lower branch, known as the Canal of Breves, which is the natural area of

the Para, is not subject to the visitations of this terrible phenomenon,

and its tides are of a more regular description. Araujo, the pilot,

was quite aware of this. He steered, therefore, into the midst of

magnificent forests, here and there gliding past island covered with

muritis palms; and the weather was so favorable that they did not

experience any of the storms which so frequently rage along this Breves

Canal.

A few days afterward the jangada passed the village of the same name,

which, although built on the ground flooded for many months in the

year, has become, since 1845, an important town of a hundred houses.

Throughout these districts, which are frequented by Tapuyas, the Indians

of the Lower Amazon become more and more commingled with the white

population, and promise to be completely absorbed by them.

And still the jangada continued its journey down the river. Here, at

the risk of entanglement, it grazed the branches of the mangliers,

whose roots stretched down into the waters like the claws of gigantic

crustaceans; then the smooth trunks of the paletuviers, with their

pale-green foliage, served as the resting-places for the long poles of

the crew as they kept the raft in the strength of the current.

Then came the Tocantins, whose waters, due to the different rivers

of the province of Goyaz, mingle with those of the Amazon by an

_embouchure_ of great size, then the Moju, then the town of Santa Ana.

Majestically the panorama of both banks moved along without a pause,

as though some ingenious mechanism necessitated its unrolling in the

opposite direction to that of the stream.

Already numerous vessels descending the river, ubas, egariteas,

vigilandas, pirogues of all builds, and small coasters from the lower

districts of the Amazon and the Atlantic seaboard, formed a procession

with the giant raft, and seemed like sloops beside some might

man-of-war.

At length there appeared on the left Santa Maria de Belem do Para--the

“town” as they call it in that country--with its picturesque lines of

white houses at many different levels, its convents nestled among

the palm-trees, the steeples of its cathedral and of Nostra Senora de

Merced, and the flotilla of its brigantines, brigs, and barks, which

form its commercial communications with the old world.

The hearts of the passengers of the giant raft beat high. At length they

were coming to the end of the voyage which they had thought they would

never reach. While the arrest of Joam detained them at Manaos, halfway

on their journey, could they ever have hoped to see the capital of the

province of Para?

It was in the course of this day, the 15th of October--four months and a

half after leaving the fazenda of Iquitos--that, as they rounded a sharp

bend in the river, Belem came into sight.

The arrival of the jangada had been signaled for some days. The whole

town knew the story of Joam Dacosta. They came forth to welcome him, and

to him and his people accorded a most sympathetic reception.

Hundreds of craft of all sorts conveyed them to the fazender, and soon

the jangada was invaded by all those who wished to welcome the return of

their compatriot after his long exile. Thousands of sight-seers--or

more correctly speaking, thousands of friends crowded on to the floating

village as soon as it came to its moorings, and it was vast and solid

enough to support the entire population. Among those who hurried on

board one of the first pirogues had brought Madame Valdez. Manoel’s

mother was at last able to clasp to her arms the daughter whom her son

had chosen. If the good lady had not been able to come to Iquitos, was

it not as though a portion of the fazenda, with her new family, had come

down the Amazon to her?

Before evening the pilot Araujo had securely moored the raft at

the entrance of a creek behind the arsenal. That was to be its last

resting-place, its last halt, after its voyage of eight hundred leagues

on the great Brazilian artery. There the huts of the Indians, the

cottage of the negroes, the store-rooms which held the valuable cargo,

would be gradually demolished; there the principal dwelling, nestled

beneath its verdant tapestry of flowers and foliage, and the little

chapel whose humble bell was then replying to the sounding clangor from

the steeples of Belem, would each in its turn disappear.

But, ere this was done, a ceremony had to take place on the jangada--the

marriage of Manoel and Minha, the marriage of Lina and Fragoso. To

Father Passanha fell the duty of celebrating the double union which

promised so happily. In that little chapel the two couples were to

receive the nuptial benediction from his hands.

If it happened to be so small as to be only capable of holding the

members of Dacosta’s family, was not the giant raft large enough to

receive all those who wished to assist at the ceremony? and if not, and

the crowd became so great, did not the ledges of the river banks afford

sufficient room for as many others of the sympathizing crowd as were

desirous of welcoming him whom so signal a reparation had made the hero

of the day?

It was on the morrow, the 16th of October, that with great pomp the

marriages were celebrated.

It was a magnificent day, and from about ten o’clock in the morning the

raft began to receive its crowd of guests. On the bank could be seen

almost the entire population of Belem in holiday costume. On the river,

vessels of all sorts crammed with visitors gathered round the enormous

mass of timber, and the waters of the Amazon literally disappeared even

up to the left bank beneath the vast flotilla.

When the chapel bell rang out its opening note it seemed like a signal

of joy to ear and eye. In an instant the churches of Belem replied to

the bell of the jangada. The vessels in the port decked themselves with

flags up to their mastheads, and the Brazilian colors were saluted by

the many other national flags. Discharges of musketry reverberated on

all sides, and it was only with difficulty that their joyous detonations

could cope with the loud hurrahs from the assembled thousands.

The Dacosta family came forth from their house and moved through the

crowd toward the little chapel. Joam was received with absolutely

frantic applause. He gave his arm to Madame Valdez; Yaquita was escorted

by the governor of Belem, who, accompanied by the friends of the young

army surgeon, had expressed a wish to honor the ceremony with

his presence. Manoel walked by the side of Minha, who looked most

fascinating in her bride’s costume, and then came Fragoso, holding the

hand of Lina, who seemed quite radiant with joy. Then followed Benito,

then old Cybele and the servants of the worthy family between the double

ranks of the crew of the jangada.

Padre Passanha awaited the two couples at the entrance of the chapel.

The ceremony was very simple, and the same bands which had formerly

blessed Joam and Yaquita were again stretched forth to give the nuptial

benediction to their child.

So much happiness was not likely to be interrupted by the sorrow of

long separation. In fact, Manoel Valdez almost immediately sent in his

resignation, so as to join the family at Iquitos, where he is still

following the profession of a country doctor.

Naturally the Fragosos did not hesitate to go back with those who were

to them friends rather than masters.

Madame Valdez had no desire to separate so happy a group, but she

insisted on one thing, and that was that they should often come and see

her at Belem. Nothing could be easier. Was not the mighty river a bond

of communication between Belem and Iquitos? In a few days the first mail

steamer was to begin a regular and rapid service, and it would then only

take a week to ascend the Amazon, on which it had taken the giant raft

so many months to drift. The important commercial negotiations, ably

managed by Benito, were carried through under the best of conditions,

and soon of what had formed this jangada--that is to say, the huge raft

of timber constructed from an entire forest at Iquitos--there remained

not a trace.

A month afterward the fazender, his wife, his son, Manoel and Minha

Valdez, Lina and Fragoso, departed by one of the Amazon steamers for

the immense establishment at Iquitos of which Benito was to take the

management.

Joam Dacosta re-entered his home with his head erect, and it was indeed

a family of happy hearts which he brought back with him from beyond the

Brazilian frontier. As for Fragoso, twenty times a day was he heard to

repeat, “What! without the liana?” and he wound up by bestowing the name

on the young mulatto who, by her affection for the gallant fellow, fully

justified its appropriateness. “If it were not for the one letter,” he

said, “would not Lina and Liana be the same?”