THE DEATH SENTENCE
I glanced around the room to note the effect of this startling
announcement upon my fellow-prisoners. Bastro’s scowling face was turned
full upon the officer, but showed no sign of fear. De Pintra smiled
rather scornfully and whispered a word to Mazanovitch, whose countenance
remained impassive as ever. Paola, with the perpetual simper distorting
his naturally handsome features, leaned back in his chair and regarded
his trussed ankles with whimsical indifference. Indeed, if the captain
thought to startle or terrify his captives he must have been grievously
disappointed, for one and all received the announcement of the death
sentence with admirable composure.
It was Valcour who broke the silence. Confronting the captain with
blazing eyes, while his slight form quivered with excitement, he cried:
“This is nonsense, de Souza! The Emperor must have been mad to write
such an order. You will convey your prisoners to Rio for trial.”
“I shall obey the Emperor’s commands,” answered the captain, gloomily.
“But it is murder!”
“It is the Emperor’s will.”
“Hear me, Captain de Souza,” said Valcour, drawing himself up proudly;
“you were instructed to obey my commands. I order you to convey the
prisoners to Rio, that they may be tried in a court of justice.”
The other shook his head.
“The order is to me personally, and I must obey. A soldier never
questions the commands of his superiors.”
“But I am your superior!”
“Not in this affair, Senhor Valcour. And the Emperor’s order is
doubtless to be obeyed above that of his spy.”
Valcour winced, and turned away to pace the floor nervously.
“But the lady—surely you will not execute the Donzella Paola in this
brutal fashion!” he protested, after an interval of silence.
The captain flushed, and then grew pale.
“I will speak with the lady,” he said, and motioning aside the guard he
entered the room where Lesba was confined, and closed the door after
him.
We could hear his voice through the thin partition, speaking in low and
earnest tones. Then a burst of merry laughter from Lesba fell upon our
ears with something of a shock, for the matter seemed serious enough to
insure gravity. Evidently the captain protested, but the girl’s
high-pitched tones and peals of merriment indicated that she was amusing
herself at his expense, and suddenly the door burst open and de Souza
stumbled out with a red and angry face.
“The woman is a fiend!” he snarled. “Let her die with the others.”
Valcour, who had continued to pace the floor during this interview, had
by now managed to get his nerves under control, for he smiled at the
captain, and said:
“Let us see if I have any argument that will avail.”
While the officer stood irresolute, Valcour bowed mockingly, opened the
door, and passed into Lesba’s room.
It was de Souza’s turn now to pace the floor, which he did with slow and
measured strides; but although we strained our ears, not a sound of the
interview that was progressing reached us through the partition.
After a considerable time it seemed that the captain regretted having
allowed Valcour this privilege, for he advanced to the door and placed
his hand on the knob. Instantly the spy appeared, closing the door
swiftly behind him and turning the key in the lock.
“I withdraw my opposition, Captain,” said he. “You may execute the lady
with the others, for all I care. When is the massacre to take place?”
The officer stroked his moustache and frowned.
“The order commands the execution on the same day the conspirators are
arrested,” he announced. “I do not like the job, Valcour, believe me;
but the Emperor must be obeyed. Let them die at sunset.”
He turned abruptly and left the house, but sent a detachment of the
Uruguayans to remain in the room with us and guard against any attempt
on our part to escape.
We indulged in little conversation. Each had sufficient to occupy his
thoughts, and sunset was not very far away, after all. To me this ending
of the bold conspiracy was not surprising, for I had often thought that
when Dom Pedro chose to strike he would strike in a way that would deter
all plotting against the government for some time to come. And life is
of little value in these South American countries.
“Where are the records?” I whispered to Dom Miguel, who sat near me.
“Safe with Fonseca in Rio,” he answered.
“Do you imagine that Fonseca will succeed?” I continued.
“He is sure to,” said the chief, a soft gleam lighting his eyes. “It is
only we who have failed, my friend.” He paused a moment, and then
resumed: “I am sorry I have brought you to this, Robert. For the rest of
us it matters little that we die. Is not a free Brazil a glorious prize
to be won by the purchase of a few lives?”
It was futile to answer. A free Brazil meant little to me, I reflected;
but to die with Lesba was a bit comforting, after all. I must steel
myself to meet death as bravely as this girl was sure to do.
Paola, after sitting long silent, addressed Valcour, who, since the
captain’s exit, had been staring from the window that faced the forest.
“What did de Souza say to Lesba?” he asked.
The spy turned around with a countenance more composed and cheerful than
he had before shown, and answered:
“He offered to save her from death if she would marry him.”
“Ah; and she laughed at the dear captain, as we all heard. But you,
senhor, made an effort to induce her to change her mind—did you not?”
“I?” returned Valcour. “By no means, senhor. It is better she should die
than marry this brutal Captain de Souza.”
This speech seemed to confirm my suspicion that Valcour himself loved
Lesba. But Paola cast one of his quick, searching glances into the spy’s
face and seemed pleased by what he discovered there.
“May I speak with my sister?” he asked, a moment later.
“Impossible, senhor. She must remain in solitary confinement until the
hour of execution, for the captain’s gallantry will not permit him to
bind her.”
Then, approaching de Pintra, Valcour stood a moment looking down at him
and said:
“Sir, you have made a noble fight for a cause that has doubtless been
very dear to you. And you have lost. In these last hours that you are
permitted to live will you not make a confession to your Emperor, and
give him the details of that conspiracy in which you were engaged?”
“In Rio,” answered Dom Miguel, quietly, “there is now no Emperor. The
Republic is proclaimed. Even at this moment the people of our country
are acclaiming the United States of Brazil. Senhor, your power is ended.
You may, indeed, by your master’s orders, murder us in this far-away
province before assistance can reach us. But our friends will exact a
terrible vengeance for the deed, be assured.”
Valcour did not answer at once. He stood for a time with knitted brows,
thoughtfully regarding the white-haired chieftain of the Republic, whose
brave utterances seemed to us all to be fraught with prophetic insight.
“If your lives were in my hands,” said the spy, with a gesture of
weariness, “you would be tried in a court of justice. I am no murderer,
senhor, and I sincerely grieve that de Souza should consider his orders
positive.”
He turned abruptly to Mazanovitch, and throwing an arm around the little
man’s shoulders bent swiftly down and pressed a kiss upon the pallid
forehead. Then, with unsteady gait he walked from the room, and at last
I saw the eyes of Mazanovitch open wide, a gaze of ineffable tenderness
following the retreating form, until Valcour had disappeared. Paola also
was staring, and the disgusting simper had left his face, for a time, at
least.
Silence now fell upon the room. Bastro, in his corner, had gone to
sleep, and Dom Miguel seemed lost in thought. From the chamber in which
Lesba was confined came no sound to denote whether the girl grieved over
her approaching fate or bore it with the grim stoicism of her doomed
comrades.
The guard paced up and down before the closed door, pausing at times to
mutter a word to his fellows, who stood watchfully over us. From my
station on the chest I could gaze into the yard and note the shadow of
the house creeping further and further out into the sunshine, bringing
ever nearer the hour when the bright orb would sink into the far-away
plateau and our eyes would be closed forever in death.
Yet the time dragged wearily, it seemed to me. When one is condemned to
die it is better to suffer quickly, and have done with it. To wait, to
count the moments, is horrible. One needs to have nerves of iron to
endure that.
Nevertheless, we endured it. The hours passed, somehow, and the shadows
grew dim with stretching.
Suddenly I heard a clank of spurs as de Souza approached. He gave a
brief order to the Uruguayans who were lounging in the yard, and then
stepped through the doorway and faced us.
“Get ready, senhors,” said he. “The hour has come.”