He was as excited as a schoolboy, almost jubilant. Poor Iris! Though she was now a veteran in scenes of death and disaster, she realized that fate had erred in choosing her as a heroine.

Coke and Watts drew near.

"Dom Wot's-'is-name wasn't long in gettin' busy," chuckled Coke. "Gev' her a dose of the Andromeda's physic, eh? I'm sorry the blighters managed to 'ook it."

Though he had just uttered an opinion directly contrary to his captain's, Hozier deemed it wise to be non-committal.

"The guns must have been laid badly," he said.

"Mebbe, an' wot's more, d—n 'em, they knew there was something in front that could shoot back."

So Coke was at least impartial. He cared not a jot how the Brazilians slaughtered each other so long as De Sylva established the new regime speedily.

"I never was a fightin' man meself," murmured Watts weakly. "That sort of thing gives me a sinkin' sensation in me innards."

"Wot you want is a drink, me boy," said Coke.

Watts brightened. He drew a deep breath.

"I reelly believe that's wot's wrong with me," he said.

"Then I'll just ax the cook to 'urry up with the corfee," guffawed the unfeeling skipper. "We'll all be the better for a snack an' somethink 'ot."

Iris managed to choke down an hysterical laugh. Coke was incorrigible, yet she was conscious of a growing appreciation of his crude chivalry. He boasted truly that he feared neither man nor devil. His chief defect lay in being born several centuries too late. Had he flourished during the Middle Ages, Coke would have carved out a kingdom.

Even while the men were thus callously discussing the tragedy that had been enacted before their eyes, the miracle of the dawn was transforming night into day. In the tropics there is no hesitancy about sunrise. The splendid imagery of Genesis is literally exact. "Let there be light; and there was light . . . and God divided the light from the darkness." Long before the Andorinha had crept round the southern headland of the Macayo estuary she became visible again.

About six o'clock a grand review was held in the Plaza, or chief square. Dom Corria, a resplendent personage on horseback, made a fine speech. He was vociferously applauded, by both troops and populace. General Russo, also mounted, assured him that Brazil was pining for him. In effect, when he was firmly established in the Presidency, the people would be allowed to vote for him.

"We have borne two years of misrule," vociferated the commander-in-chief, "but it has vanished before the fiery breath of our guns. We hail your Excellency as our liberator. Long live Dom Corria! Down with——"

The fierce "Vivas" of the mob, combined with the general's weight, proved too much for his charger, which plunged violently. Russo was held on accidentally by his spurs. There was a lively interlude until an orderly seized the bridle, and the general was able to disengage the rowels from the animal's ribs. When tranquillity was restored, the soldiers marched off to their quarters, and Colonel San Benavides boarded the Unser Fritz. He invited Iris, Schmidt, Coke, and Hozier to breakfast with the President at the principal hotel.

Watts was not included in the list of guests. Being indignant, he expressed himself freely.

"Nice thing!" he said to Norrie. "We're not good enough to be axed. It was a bit of all right w'en we 'elped 'im out of quod, but now 'e's a bloomin' toff we're low-down sailormen—that's wot we are."

"Man, ye're fair daft," growled the Scot. "It's as plain as the neb on yer face that he canna dae wi' a', so he just picked the twa skippers and the lassie; he kent weel she wadna stir an inch withoot Hozier."

Norrie was right, as it happened, but Watts added another grudge to his score against De Sylva.

Now, though dynasties totter and empires crash, the first thing a woman thinks of when bidden to a public gathering is her attire. Iris declared most emphatically that to expect her to go ashore and meet certain military and civic dignitaries while she was wearing a costume originally purchased for mountaineering, which had endured the rough usage of the past two days, was "for to laugh." She was speaking French, and that was the literal phrase she used. The courteous San Benavides smiled away her protest. His Excellency had foreseen the difficulty. Those who knew Dom Corria best would not credit that he should forget anything. The Senhora Pondillo awaited Iris at the hotel with a supply of new clothing. Captain Schmidt, of course, could depend on his own wardrobe, but Captain Coke and the Senhor Hozier would find a tradesman in their rooms who had guaranteed to equip them suitably. Moreover, the same outfitter would visit the ship during the morning and make good the lost raiment and boots of the other officers and men of the Andromeda. San Benavides spoke like the ambassador of a prince, and, in the sequel, there was no stint of deeds to give effect to his promises.

On the way to the hotel Iris saw a large building labeled "Casa do Correio e Telegraphia." It was not surprising that she had not thought earlier of the necessity of cabling to Liverpool. She blushed, and looked involuntarily at Hozier.

"I must send a message to my uncle," she said.

Were Philip a professed spiritualist, the spectral shapes of David Verity and Dickey Bulmer could not have been more effectually "projected" into his astral plane at Maceio than they were at that instant. He had not set eyes on either of the men, but the girl's words conjured them into being, and the vision was vastly disagreeable.

San Benavides, of course, was anxious to oblige Iris in this as in every other respect. He procured the requisite form, told her the cost, which led to a condensed version of the original draft, smoothed away the slight hindrance of foreign money tendered in payment, and arranged the due delivery of a reply. Perhaps he smiled when he read what she had written. The words were comprehensible even to one who did not understand English:

"Andromeda lost. Arrived here safely. Address, Yorke, Maceio."

There was a space at the foot of the form on which it was necessary to subscribe her name and local address. So she wrote, "Iris Yorke, steamship Unser Fritz, Maceio harbor." Hozier was standing by her side as she printed the words legibly. She looked up at him with a curiously tense expression that he did not fathom immediately. They were in the busy main street again ere its meaning occurred to him. The cable committed her irrevocably. She felt that she was signing her own condemnation!

Among the four people, therefore, who entered the Hotel Grande in the Rua do Sul there were two whose feelings were the reverse of cheerful. But convention is stronger than the primal impulses—sometimes it triumphs over death itself—and convention was all-powerful now. It led Iris away captive in the train of the smiling and voluble Senhora Pondillo, and it immersed Hozier in a tangle of fearsome words which turned out to be the stock in trade of a clothier. The mere male of Maceio decks himself with gay plumage. Philip was hard put to it before he secured some garments which did not irresistibly recall the heroes of certain musical comedies popular in England.

Coke experienced worse vicissitudes. Even the variety and richness of a master mariner's vocabulary was taxed to its utmost resources when he was coaxed into "trying on" a short jacket apparently intended for a toreador. Such minor troubles, however, were overcome in time. A razor and a hot bath were by no means the least important items of the rejuvenating process, and when the two men entered the salon where Dom Corria was holding an impromptu reception they looked like a couple of coffee-planters from the Argentine. Schmidt was there already. For some reason, the new President seemed to be so fond of the Unser Fritz's commander that he refused to be parted from him. It was not until long afterward that Hozier discovered the reason of this mushroom friendship. The German consul was in the room.

The appearance of Iris caused something akin to a sensation. The Dona Pondillo could not create English clothes, nor bad copies of French, but her own daughters dressed in the height of local fashion, and Dom Corria's earnest request had made them generous. The dark-eyed, olive-complexioned women of Alagoas are often exceedingly beautiful, but few of those present had ever seen a brown-haired, brown-eyed, fair-faced Englishwoman. Iris was remarkably good-looking, even among the pretty girls of her own county of Lancashire. Her large, limpid eyes, well-molded nose, and perfectly formed mouth were the dominant features of a face that had all the charm of youth and health. Her smooth skin, brown with exposure to sun and air, glowed into a rich crimson when she found herself in the midst of so many strangers. The slightly delicate semblance induced by the hardships and loss of rest which fell to her lot since the Andromeda went to pieces on the Grand-pere rock in no wise detracted from her appearance. She wore the elegant costume of a Maceio belle with ease and distinction. If she was flurried by the undisguised murmur of admiration that greeted her, she did not show it beyond the first rush of color.

Dom Corria, dragging Schmidt with him, hurried to meet her. Surprise at his gala attire helped to conquer her natural timidity, for the President was gorgeous in blue and gold.

"My good wishes are soon changed into congratulations, Senhor," she said.

"Ah, my dear young lady, I am overjoyed that you should be here to witness my success," he cried. Then, as if he had waited for this moment, he turned to the assembled company and delivered an eloquent panegyric of the Andromeda's crew and their deusa deliciosa—for that is what he called Iris—a delightful goddess. He had made many speeches already that day, but none was more heartfelt than this. His eulogy was unstinted. Luckily for Iris, she was so conscious of the attention she attracted that she kept her eyes steadfastly fixed on the carpet. Otherwise, having a well-developed sense of humor, she must have laughed outright had she seen Coke's face.

He, of course, understood no word that was said. But De Sylva's animated gestures and flashing eyes were enough. Ever and anon, the excitable citizens of Maceio would turn and gaze at one or other of the three, while loud cries of "Bravo!" punctuated the President's oratory. When Coke's turn came for these demonstrations, he tried to grin, but was only able to scowl. For once in his stormy life he was nonplused. His brick-red countenance glowed with heat and embarrassment. At the close of the speech he muttered to Hozier:

"Wish I'd ha' known wot sort of beano I was comin' to. Dam if I ain't meltin'."

This ordeal ended, dejeuner was served. The President took in Iris and the Dona Pondillo. They were the only ladies present. The three sailors, some staff officers, and a few local celebrities, made up the rest of the company.

Hozier, though by no means indifferent to the good fare provided, was wondering how many hours would elapse before Iris's cablegram reached Verity's office, when some words caught his ear that drove all other considerations from his mind.

"I am sorry to say that, in my opinion, there is not the slightest chance of your message reaching England to-day, Miss Yorke," the President was saying.

"But why not?" she asked, with an astonishment that was not wholly the outcome of regret.

"The cable does not land here, and the transmitting stations will be closely watched, now that my arrival in Brazil is known. Even the simplest form of words will be twisted into a political significance. No, I think it best to be quite candid. Until I control Pernambuco, which should be within a week or ten days, you may rest assured that no private cablegrams will be forwarded."

"Oh, dear, I fully expected a reply to-day," she said, and now that she realized the effect of a further period of anxiety on the Bootle partnership she was genuinely dismayed.

"You may be sure it will not come," said Dom Corria. "Indeed I may as well take this opportunity of explaining to you—and to my other English friends"—with the interpolated sentence his glance dwelt quietly on Hozier and Coke—"the exact position locally. You see, Maceio is a small place, and easily approached from the sea. A hostile fleet could knock it to pieces in half an hour, and it would be a poor reward for my supporters' loyalty if my presence subjected them to a bombardment. I have no strong defenses or heavy guns to defy attack, and my troops are not more than a thousand men, all told. It is obvious that I must make for the interior. There, I gather strength as I advance, the warships cannot pursue, and I can choose my own positions to meet the half-hearted forces that Dom Miguel will collect to oppose me. In fact, I and every armed man in Maceio march up-country this afternoon."

Iris, by this time, was thoroughly frightened, and Hozier, who read more in De Sylva's words than was possible in her case, was watching the speaker's calm face with a fixity that might have disconcerted many men. Dom Corria seemed to be unaware of either the girl's distress or Philip's white anger.

"You naturally ask how I propose to safeguard the companions of my flight from Fernando Noronha," he went on. "I answer at once—by taking them with me. The Senhora Pondillo and her family will accompany her husband to my quinta at Las Flores. A special train will take all of us to the nearest railway station this afternoon. Thence my estate is but a day's march. You and my other friends from both ships will be quite safe and happy there until order is restored. You must come. The men's lives, at any rate, would not be worth an hour's purchase if my opponent's forces found them here, and I feel certain that one or more cruisers will arrive off Maceio to-night. For you, this excursion will be quite a pleasant experience, and you can absolutely rely on my promise to send news of your safety to England at the very first opportunity."

Iris could say nothing under the shock of this intelligence. She looked at Philip, and their eyes met. They both remembered the glance they had exchanged at the post-office. Preoccupied by their own thoughts, neither of them had noticed the smile San Benavides indulged in on that occasion, nor did they pay heed to the fact that he was smiling again now, apparently at some story told him by General Russo. But San Benavides was sharp-witted. He needed no interpreter to make clear the cause of the chill that had fallen on the President's end of the table.

"He has told them," he thought, perhaps. And, if further surmise were hazarded as to his views, they might well prove to be concerned with the wonderful things that can happen within a week or ten days—especially when things are happening at the rate taken by events just then in Brazil.

Of course, as a philosopher, San Benavides was right; it was in the role of prophet that he came to grief, this being the pre-ordained fate of all false prophets.



CHAPTER XIV

CARMELA

Among the many words borrowed by the Brazilians from their Spanish-speaking neighbors, that for "to-morrow" is perhaps the most popular. The Spaniard's Manana is so elastic that it covers any period of time between the next twenty-four hours and the indefinite future. When, therefore, Dom Sylva spoke of controlling Pernambuco before the month of September was barely half sped, he was either too sanguine, or too literal in his translation of easy-going Portuguese into vigorous English.

His quinta, or country house, was situated on the upper watershed of the river Moxoto. There he raised his standard, thither flocked rebels galore, and in that direction, with due caution, President Barraca pushed columns of troops by road and rail from Bahia, from Pernambuco, and from Maceio itself. For Barraca held the sea, and the wealthy and enterprising south was strongly opposed to war, while Dom Corria trusted to the mountains and drew his partisans from the less energetic north. This bald statement has an unconvincing sound in the ears of races which dwell north of the equator, but it must be remembered that Brazil, in more respects than one, is the land of topsy-turveydom. Were it not that the mass of the people was heartily sick of a corrupt regime, De Sylva would have been dead or in irons on his way back to Fernando Noronha well within the time allotted for the consolidation of his rule. As it was, minor insurrections were breaking out in the southern provinces, the reigning President could trust only in the navy, and the conservatism of commerce and society, as represented by the great landowners of Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, and Minas Geraes, alone stifled the upgrowth of an overwhelming national movement in Dom Corria's favor.

In a word, De Sylva commanded public sympathy but small resources; Barraca was unpopular but controlled the navy and part of the army. Given such conditions—with the added absurdity that the troops on both sides were most unwilling to face long-range rifle fire but would cheerfully hack each other to mince-meat with knives—and a tedious, indeterminate campaign is the certain outcome. De Sylva had said that local conflicts were usually "short and fierce." Applied to such upheavals as had taken place in the capital during recent years, the phrase was strictly accurate. He himself had been bundled out of office between Mass and Vespers on a memorable Sunday. But a convict on a remote island cannot organize such a perfect example of a successful revolt. He had done much in gaining a good foothold; the rest must be left to time and chance.

A few indecisive but sanguinary engagements were fought in the neighborhood of Pesqueira, a town in the hills about one hundred miles from the seaboard. These proved that General Russo was a valiant fighter but a poor tactician—and that was all. He was opposed by a commander of little courage but singular skill in strategy. To restore the balance, Dom Corria took the field in person, and Dom Miguel Barraca hastened from Rio de Janeiro to witness the crushing of his arch-enemy.

The position was complicated by the arrival at Pernambuco of a German squadron bearing a telegraphic cartel from the Emperor. A German ship had been seized on the high seas. Why? And by whom? And how could anybody dare? Then Brazil quivered, for every South American knows in his heart that the great navy of Germany is being created not so much to destroy England as to dispute the proud doctrine of the United States that no European power shall ever again be allowed to seize territory on the American continent.

So there were strenuous days and anxious nights at Las Flores, where President De Sylva sought to equip and discipline his levies, and at Carugru, where President Barraca called on all the gods to witness that De Sylva was a double-dyed traitor.

Under such circumstances it is not surprising that a grand display of money and audacity, backed by sundry distant roars of the British lion, should enable two elderly Britons and a young Brazilian lady to pass through the lines of the Exercito Nacional, as Barraca had christened his following, in opposition to De Sylva's army of Liberation. Lest too many people should become interested, the adventure was essayed on the night of October 2d. Early next day the travelers and their guides reached the rebel outposts. The young lady, who seemed to be at home in this wild country, at once urged her horse into a pace wholly beyond the equestrian powers of her staid companions. They protested vainly. She waved a farewell hand, cantered over several miles of a rough road, and dashed up to the Liberationist headquarters about eight o'clock.

There was no hesitancy about her movements. She drew rein in approved Gaucho style, bringing her mount to a dead stop from a gallop.

"Where is the President?" she asked breathlessly.

"There, senhora," said an orderly, pointing to a marquee, open on every side, wherein De Sylva sat in conference with his staff.

So many officers and mounted soldiers were coming and going, so great was the bustle of preparation for some important movement then in train, that no one specially noted her arrival. She dismounted, and drew the reins across the horse's head ere she tied him to a tree. She saw a tall young man emerge from the tent, jump on a charger held by a soldier, and ride off at a fast pace toward the house of Las Flores, which stood in a large garden on the slope of a neighboring hill. His appearance seemed to puzzle her momentarily. His attire was that of Brazil, but neither his manner nor horsemanship was typical of the Brasileiro. In walking, he moved with an air of purposeful concentration that differed singularly from the languorous stroll of the average Brazilian officer, while his seat in the saddle, though confident enough, could not be mistaken for that of a man who never walks a yard if there is an animal to bestride.

The new arrival was, however, at once too weary and too excited to give further heed to one who was an utter stranger. She pushed her way through knots of smoking loungers, entered the tent, and uttered a little scream of delight when the President, who was writing at a big table, happened to glance at her. De Sylva rose hastily, with an amazed look on his usually unemotional face; forthwith the girl flung herself into his arms.

"Father!"

"Carmela!"

San Benavides, whose back was turned, heard the joyous cries of the reunited father and daughter. They were locked in each other's embrace, and the eyes of every man present were drawn to a pathetic and unexpected meeting. For that reason, and because none gave a thought to him, the pallor that changed the bronze of his forehead and cheeks into a particularly unhealthy-looking tint of olive green passed unnoticed. He swallowed something. It must have been a curse, for it seemed to taste bitter. But he managed to recover some shred of self-control ere the Senhora De Sylva was able to answer her father's first eager questions; then, with a charming timidity, she found breath to say:

"And what of Salvador—is he not here?"

Yes, Salvador was there—by her side—striving most desperately to look lover-like. They clasped hands. Brazilian etiquette forbade a more demonstrative greeting, and Carmela attributed Salvador's manifest sallowness to the hardships of campaigning no less than the shock of her sudden appearance.

But the business of red war gave little scope for the many confidences that a girl who had journeyed more than four thousand miles for this reunion might naturally exchange with a father and a lover. Some important move was toward, and the President and his chief-of-staff had no time to spare.

"You have come to bring me luck, Carmela meu," said De Sylva, stroking his daughter's hair affectionately. "To-day we make our first real advance. Salvador and I are going to the front now, almost this instant. But there will be no fighting—an affair of outposts at the best—and when everything is in order we shall return here to sleep. Expect us, then, soon after sunset. Meanwhile, at the quinta you will find the young English lady of whose presence you are aware. Give her your friendship. She is worthy of it."

"Adeos, senhora!" echoed San Benavides, bringing his heels together with a click, and saluting. He gathered a number of papers from the table with nervous haste, and at once began to issue instructions to several officers. De Sylva renewed the signing of documents. Russo and he conversed in low tones. A buzz of talk broke out in the tent. Carmela felt that she had no part in this activity, that her mere presence was a positive hindrance to the work in hand. A trifle disappointed, yet not without a thrill of high resolve to create for herself an indispensable share in the movement of which her father was the central figure, she went out, unhitched her tired horse, and walked to the house.

In Brazil, a quinta, or farm, may range from a palace to a hovel. Dom Corria was rich; consequently Las Flores attained the higher level. It was a straggling, roomy structure, planned for comfort and hospitality rather than display, and the gardens, to whose beauty and extent was due the Spanish name, used to be famous throughout the province. Carmela had not seen the place during five years; she expected to find changes, but was hardly prepared for the ravages made by neglect, aided by unchecked tropical growth, as the outcome of her father's two years in prison. The flowers were gone, the rarer shrubs choked by rank weeds, the trees disfigured by rampant climbers. But, in front of the long, deep veranda, even the attention of a month had restored much of its beauty to a widespread lawn. Here, at that early hour, the air was cool and the shade abundant; indeed, so embossed in towering trees was the wide greensward, that it seemed to flow abruptly into the veranda without ever a path or garden gate to break the solid walls of foliage.

Filled with tumultuous memories, her heart all throbbing at the prospect of her father's fortunes being restored, the Senhora De Sylva was entering a gate that led to the left front of the house, when the young man came out whom she had seen leaving the headquarters tent. Again he rode like one in a hurry, and she noted that he emerged from a side path which gave access to the lawn. He gave her a sharp glance as he passed. She received an impression of a strong face, with stern-looking, bright, steel-blue eyes, a mouth tensely set, an aspect at once confident yet self-contained. She was sure now he was not a Brazilian, and he differed most materially from the mental picture of Captain James Coke created by the many conversations in which he had figured during her long voyage from Southampton in company with David Verity and Dickey Bulmer.

So Carmela wondered now who he could be, nor was her wonder lessened when she peered through the screen of trees, and saw a girl, whom she recognized instantly as Iris, furtively dabbing her tear-stained face with a handkerchief.

Unhappily, the President's daughter was not attractive in appearance. She had fine eyes, and she moved with the natural elegance of her race, but her features were somewhat angular for one of pure-blooded Portuguese descent, and a too well-defined chin was more effectual as an index of character than as an element of personal charm. Close acquaintance with the cosmopolitan society of Paris and London had familiarized her with many types of European and American beauty, and her surprise that such an uncommonly good-looking girl should be the niece of David Verity was not unmingled with pique at finding her already installed in remote Las Flores.

The veranda seemed to be a hive of feminine industry. The Dona Pondillo and her daughters, together with the female relatives of several noted men among the insurgents, were cutting and stitching most industriously. Iris Yorke's advice, perhaps her assistance, was evidently in demand. Assuming that the young man who rode thither so rapidly had gone to see her, she could not have been absent from the sewing party more than five minutes, yet half a dozen ladies were clamoring for her already. The truth was that many of them had never plied a needle before in their lives. They had to be taught everything. One peasant woman would have accomplished more real work than any five of the Librationist grandes dames.

Despite her firm chin, Carmela De Sylva did not contemn the meretricious aid of dress. Iris looked fresh and cool in soft muslin, whereas the newcomer was travel-stained and disheveled. The pack-mules were lagging on the road, but a wash and general tidying of dust-covered garments would help the President's daughter to regain the assurance, now sadly lacking, which would be necessary ere she won her rightful place in a community largely composed of strangers. As she led her horse back into the main avenue, she was sorry that her father or Salvador could not spare even the few minutes that would have sufficed for an introduction. At any rate, she would probably find an old servant at the back of the house—some family retainer whose welcome would charm away this displeasing sense of intrusion.

On the way to the stables she heard a man singing. The words were in English. They were also quaint, for they dealt with life from a point of view which differed widely from that presented by Dom Corria's finca.

"Oh, it's fine to be a sailor" [sang Watts], "an' to cross the ragin' main, From Hooghly bar to New Orleens to roam, But I 'ope that my old woman will put me on the chain Next time I want to quit my 'umble 'ome."

Possibly the verse was an original effort, because there followed a marked change in tune and meter.

"'Mid pleasures an' palaces——'" he began, when Senhora De Sylva came upon him as he sat on a fence, pipe in hand, with his back braced comfortably against a magnificent rosewood tree. He stopped, grinned sheepishly, and, not recognizing the lady, tried to cover his confusion by lighting the pipe.

"Are you one of the Andromeda's men?" asked Carmela, speaking in the clear and accurate English used by her father.

It was well for Watts that the tree prevented him from falling backwards. He was quite sober, but cheerful withal, as he had nothing to do but sleep, smoke, eat, and drink the light wine of the district, of which his only complaint was that "one might mop up a barrel of it an' get no forrarder." Nevertheless, he received a positive shock when addressed in his own language by a young woman who was obviously of Brazil. He stared at her so hard that he forgot the steady progress of the slow-burning tand-stikkor match recently ignited. Its sulphurous flame reached his fingers and reminded him.

"My godfather!" he howled, springing from the rail, and recovering his wits instantly. "Beg pardon, mum, but you took me aback all standin' as the saying is. Christopher, didn't that match wake me up!"

"I am afraid it is my fault," said Carmela, who could look sympathetic where Iris would want to laugh. "I have just arrived here, and everybody seems to be so full of troubles that I am glad to hear you singing."

"Oh, that's just hummin', mum. If you're fond of music you ought to 'ear Schmidt, Captain Schmidt of the Unser Fritz——"

Carmela struck an attitude.

"Wot, d'ye know 'im?" asked Watts.

"No, it is something—rather important. I must go back to my father. Ah, I ought to explain. I am the Senhora De Sylva, Dom Corria's daughter."

"Are you really, mum,—miss?" exclaimed Watts, highly interested. "'Ow in the world did ye manage to come up from the coast? Accordin' to all accounts——"

"Yes, what were you going to say?" for the man hesitated.

"Well, some of our chaps will 'ave it that we're runnin' close-hauled on a lee shore."

Carmela knit her brows. The Watts idioms were not those of her governess.

"We had no great difficulty in passing through Dom Barraca's lines, if that is what you mean," she said. "Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer had obtained special permits, but in my case——"

"Mr. 'oo, did you say, miss?" demanded Watts, whose lower jaw actually dropped from sheer amazement.

"Mr. Verity, the owner of the Andromeda. You are one of the crew, I suppose?"

"I'm the chief officer. Watts is my name, miss. But d'you mean to tell me that ole David Verity 'as come 'ere—to Brazil—to this rotten . . . Sorry, miss, but you gev' me a turn, you did. An' Dickey Bulmer—is 'e 'ere too?"

"Yes, or he soon will be here. I rode on in advance of the others."

"Well—there—if that don't beat cock-fightin'!" cried Watts. "Wot'll Coke say? W'y, 'e'll 'ave a fit. An' Miss Iris! She's to marry ole Dickey. Fancy 'im turnin' up! There'll be the deuce an' all to pay, now, wot between 'im an' Hozier an' the dashin' colonel."

The horse, trying to nibble some grass at Carmela's feet, suddenly threw his head up, for the cruel South American bit had tightened under a jerk of the reins.

"Who is Mr. Hozier?" asked the girl calmly.

"He is, or was, our second mate, but since the colonel an' 'e got to loggerheads 'e took an' raised a corps of scouts. Some of our fellows joined, but not me. Killin' other folks don't agree with me a little bit. I don't mind a shine in a snug or a friendly scrap over an extry drink, but w'en it comes to them long knives——"

"And the colonel—what is his name?" broke in Carmela, turning to loosen the surcingle. She could control her voice but not her eyes, and she did not wish to startle this open-mouthed gossip.

"San Benavides, miss. Captain 'e was on Fernando Noronha; 'e took a mighty quick jump after we kem ashore. But I ax your pardon for ramblin' on in this silly way. Won't you go inside? There's a useful ole party there, name of Maria——"

"Ah, Maria—dear, good Maria—she at least will not have forgotten me," sobbed Carmela in her own tongue, and Watts afterwards informed Coke that although the inhabitants of China were noted for their peculiar ways, when it came to a show-down in that qualification, the average woman could beat any Chinky ever born. Had he but known more, Watts was also in a position to state that he had squared accounts with the scornful President.

For the Senhora De Sylva might have been seized with mortal illness if judged solely by the manner in which she staggered into her father's house, threw her arms around the neck of an elderly woman whom she petrified by her appearance, and almost fainted—not quite, but on the verge, much nearer than such a strong-minded young lady would have thought possible an hour earlier.

Maria screamed loudly. Tongue-tied at first, she was badly scared when Carmela collapsed on her ample bosom. Restoratives and endearments followed. Carmela asked to be taken to a room where she might wash and shake the dust from her hair and clothes. Maria considered ways and means. Every room in the big house was crowded.

"Who is in my own apartment?" demanded Carmela.

Even before the answer was forthcoming she guessed the truth. The Senhora Ingleza, of course. Those fine eyes of hers flashed dangerously.

"What, then? Does this woman come here and take all?" she cried.

"Ah, pequinina, do not be angry," said Maria. "Who save the good God could tell that you would come from Paris to-day? And the Senhora Ingleza will be glad to give place to you. She is so kind, so unselfish. All the men adore her."

"So I hear," murmured Carmela, trying to still the passion that throbbed in her heart, since she was aware that neither Maria nor any other among the old domestics at Las Flores knew of her engagement, and pride was now coming to her aid.

"She will have no word to say to any of them," gabbled Maria. "There is a young Englishman—well, it is no affair of mine, but I am told she loves him, yet is promised to another, an old man, too. Santa Mae! That would not suit me if I were her age!"

This home-coming of Carmela was quite an important event in its way. At first sight it bore the semblance of a mere disillusionment such as any girl might experience under like circumstances. She had been taken from Las Flores to occupy a palace at Rio de Janeiro, and was driven from the palace to the hotel life of the Continent. During two years she had not seen either father or lover; and lovers of the San Benavides ilk are apt to console themselves during these prolonged intervals. Yet Carmela's shattered romance was the pivot on which rested the future of Brazil.

Had she gone straight to Iris on leaving her father, and made known the astounding tidings that Verity and Bulmer were riding up the Moxoto Valley barely three miles away, Iris would surely have devised some means of acquainting Philip Hozier with the fact. In that event, assuming that he awaited their arrival, the first march of an extended reconnaissance which he thought desirable would necessarily be postponed. And then—well, the recent history of Brazil would have to be re-written, since there cannot be the slightest doubt that Dom Corria De Sylva would never have occupied the Presidential chair a second time.

It would be idle now to inquire too closely into the springs of Philip's resolve to take service under a foreign flag. Perhaps the irksome state of affairs at Las Flores, where there was no mean between loafing and soldiering, was intolerable to a spirited youngster. Perhaps San Benavides, constantly riding in from the front, irritated him beyond endurance by his superior airs. Or it may be that a growing belief in Iris's determination to sacrifice herself by redeeming her bond made him careless as to what happened in the near future. The outcome of one or all of these influences was that he sought, and was readily given, a commission in the Army of Liberation. Like all sailors, he preferred the mounted arm, and De Sylva, having the highest opinion of his thoroughness, actually appointed him to command a branch of the Intelligence Department.

Philip, trained to pin his faith in maps and charts, came to the conclusion that Las Flores could be attacked from the rear, which lay to the northwest. The Brazilians laughed at the notion. Where were the troops to come from? Barraca must bring all his men by sea. There were none stationed in those wild mountains.

"Better go and make sure," quoth Philip.

He ascertained the President's intentions as to the next twenty-four hours, assembled his little body of scouts, saw to their forage and equipment, took leave of Iris, and hurried off.

When two stout and elderly fellow-countrymen of his climbed the last mile of the rough valley beneath the Las Flores slope, Philip and his troop were a league or more beyond the Moxoto's watershed.

Meanwhile, Carmela De Sylva proved that her resolute chin was not deceptive as a guide to temperament. The Dona Pondillo deemed her a spirit when she appeared on the veranda, but Carmela's impetuous kiss soon disabused the worthy dame of her error.

Iris, wondering why the lively chatter of her Brazilian friends was so suddenly stilled, to be succeeded by a hubbub of excited words as the older ladies present gathered around the new-comer, asked one of the Pondillo girls what had happened.

"It is Carmela, the President's daughter," giggled the other. "Mother says she is engaged to San Benavides. What fun! But where has she come from? When last I heard of her she was in Paris."

A month of close companionship with people who spoke Portuguese all day long, and often far into the night, had familiarized Iris with many of the common phrases. Thus, she gathered one fact as to Carmela, and more than suspected another. For a reason that every woman will understand, she felt a subtle thrill of fear. If San Benavides were really Carmela's accepted lover, then, indeed, Iris had good cause for foreboding. Though the Brazilian had never directly avowed his passion, since he knew quite well that she would refuse to listen, she could not be blind to his infatuation. Only the threat of her dire displeasure had restrained Hozier from an open quarrel with him. Her position, difficult enough already, would become intolerable if De Sylva's daughter became jealous, and she had no doubt whatsoever that San Benavides would seek to propitiate the woman he loved by callously telling the woman he had promised to marry that his affections were bestowed elsewhere.

Her heart sank when she discovered this new maelstrom in her sea of troubles; but here was Carmela herself speaking to her, and in English:

"So you are Iris Yorke!" the girl was saying. "I have heard so much of you, yet you are so utterly different from what I imagined."

"You have heard of me?" repeated Iris, and surprise helped her to smile with something of her wonted self-possession.

"Yes, on board the steamer. We sailed from Southampton, and had little else to talk of during the voyage. But, of course, you cannot understand. Among my fellow-passengers were your uncle and Mr. Bulmer."

Iris had long relinquished any hope of communicating with Bootle until the present deadlock in the operations of the two armies was a thing of the past. Completely mystified now by Carmela's glib reference to the two men whose names were so often in her thoughts though seldom on her lips, she could only gaze at the Senhora De Sylva in silent bewilderment.

Carmela, feeling that she was gaining ground rapidly, affected a note of polite regret.

"Please forgive me for being so abrupt. Perhaps I ought to have prepared you. But it is quite true. Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer came with me from Europe. We all reached Pernambuco the day before yesterday. Indeed, if it were not for them, and the assistance they gave me, I would not be here now. No one recognized me, fortunately, and—I hope you will not be vexed—I passed as Mr. Verity's niece. In fact, I took your place for the time."

A notable feature of the De Sylva utterance was its clearness. Carmela's concluding words could not possibly be mistaken for anything else. Their meaning, on the other hand, was capable of varying shades of significance; but Iris was far too amazed to seek depths beneath their literalness.

"If Mr. Verity and Mr. Bulmer are in Brazil——" she began tremulously, but Carmela broke in with a shrill laugh.

"There is no 'if.' Look below there, near my father's tent! They have arrived. They are asking for you. Come, let us meet them! I must see my father before he departs."

Iris's swimming eyes could not discern the figures to which Carmela was pointing. But this strange girl's triumphant tone rang like a knell in her heart. She was not thinking now of the complications that might arise between San Benavides and his discarded flame. She only knew that, by some miracle, her uncle had come to bring her home, and with him was the man to whom she was plighted, while Philip, only half an hour ago, had told her he would not see her again until the following evening.

So this was the end of her dream. Bitter-sweet it had been, and long drawn out, but forthwith she must awake to the gray actualities of life.

She felt Carmela dragging her onward, irresistibly, vindictively. She saw, as through a mist, David Verity's fiery-hued face, and heard his harsh accents. Yes, there was no mistake. Here was Bootle transported to Brazil, Linden House to Las Flores!

"By gum, lass," he was bellowing, with a touch of real sentiment in his voice, "you've given us a rare dance afore we caught up wi' you. But 'ere you are, bright as a cherry, an' 'ere is Dickey an' meself come to fetch you. Dash my wig, there's life in the old dogs yet, or we'd never ha' bin able to ride forty mile through this God-forgotten country. An' damme if that isn't Coke, red as a lobster. Jimmie, me boy, put it there! Man, but you're a dashed long way from port!"

Happily, Iris was too stunned to betray herself. She extended a hand to the sun-browned, white-haired old man standing by her uncle's side.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Bulmer," she said simply. And, in that hour of searing agony, she meant it, for it is easier to look back on suffering than to await it, and she had been living in dread of this meeting for many a weary day.



CHAPTER XV

SHOWING HOW BRAZIL CHOSE HER PRESIDENT

Two thousand five hundred years ago the prophet Jeremiah expressed incredulity as to the power of an Ethiopian to change his skin or a leopard his spots. The march of the centuries has fully justified the seer's historic doubt, so it makes but slight demand on the critical faculties to assume that two years' residence in Europe had not cooled the hot southern blood flowing in Carmela's veins.

She had hated Iris before she set eyes on her; she hated her now that she had seen her rare beauty; she gloated on the suffering inflicted by the presence of the faded old man who claimed her as his bride. Though it was of the utmost importance that she should hasten to her father, she returned to Las Flores in her rival's company, their arms linked in seeming friendship, and the Brazilian girl's ears alert to treasure every word that told of Bulmer's wooing.

Therein she greatly miscalculated the true gentility of one whom his cronies described as "a rough diamond." Bulmer realized that Iris was overwrought. Vague but sensational items in newspapers had prepared him in some measure for the story of her wanderings since last they met in quiet, old-fashioned Bootle. He felt that she was altered, that their ways in life had deviated with a sharpness that was not to be brought back into parallel grooves simply because he had traveled many thousands of miles to find her.

So Dickey contented himself by listening to Coke's Homeric account of the Andromeda's wrecking, and if he interposed an occasional question, and thus drew the girl's sweet voice into the talk, it was invariably germane to the strange history of the ship and her human freight.

Coke's narrative was picturesque and lurid. At times, he called himself to order; at times, both Iris and Carmela affected not to have heard him. But Carmela's interest never flagged. Nor did Bulmer's. As the yarn progressed—for Watts and Schmidt and Norrie had joined them, and the whole party was seated in an inner room where an impromptu meal was provided—both the woman of Brazil and the man of Lancashire seized on the same unspoken motif. Every incident centered in the striking personality of Philip Hozier. From the instant the second shell struck the winch, and laid him apparently dead on the forecastle, to the very hour of this coming together at Las Flores, Hozier held the stage. It was he who took Iris on his shoulders and brought her to safety through the spume of the wrathful sea, he who carried her to the hut, he who crossed Fernando Noronha alone to protect her.

Coke was impartial. He would have minimized his own singular bravery in running up the ship's signals had not Iris given him a breathing-space while she enthralled the others with her description. Otherwise, Coke skipped no line of his epic.

"You'll rec'lect," he wheezed, in a voice that rasped like a file, "you'll rec'lect, Mr. Verity, as I said to you that Hozier was good enough to take charge of the bridge of a battleship. By—well, any 'ow, if I'd said the Channel Fleet I shouldn't 'ave bin talkin' through me 'at. Look at 'im now. 'E's the on'y reel live man Dom Wot's-'is-name 'as got. Sink me! if it wasn't for the folks at 'ome, an' the fac' that the Andromeeda's skipper ought to keep clear of politics in this crimson country, I'd 'ave a cut in at the game meself."

It might be hoped that Carmela's mood would soften when she discovered her rival's hapless love, but that would be expecting something which her bursting southern heart could not give. A volcano pours forth lava, not water. It scorches, not heals. Iris, willing or not, had sapped her Salvador's allegiance. Carmela wanted to see those curved lips writhing in pain, those brown eyes dimmed, that smooth brow wrung with the grief that knows no remedy.

A fierce joy leaped up in her when Verity spoke of an early departure.

"You see, Iris," he explained, "these Brazilian bucks may be months in settlin' their differences. Dickey an' me, 'elped a lot by our Consul, squeezed a pass out of the President—beg pardon, miss, but 'e is President, in Pernambuco, at all events," he said in an apologetic "aside" to Carmela—"an' the sooner we make tracks for ole England the better it'll be for all of us. Wot do you say to an early start to-morrow? We'd be off to-night, on'y I'm feared my rheumaticky bones wouldn't stand the racket."

The color ebbed from Iris's face, but she said at once:

"I shall be ready, uncle dear. I promised Dom Corria to look after the hospital appliances that are so much needed by the poor soldiers, but the Senhora De Sylva will attend to that much more effectually than I."

"Good! Then that's settled."

David pursed out his thick lips with a sigh of relief. Though he had watched the spoken record of the Andromeda and her company for craftier hints than was suspected by his fellow travelers, he was not deaf to Coke's appreciation of Hozier. The silence of his niece on that same topic was alarming, but the position could not be so bad if she was willing to leave for the coast without seeing him again. No secret was made of Philip's errand into the interior. The homeward-bound cavalcade would be at Pesqueira ere he returned to the finca.

Carmela, of course, did not believe in a woman's complacency in such a vital matter. She was ever prepared to spring, to strike, to wrench their plans to suit her own ends; but, contrive as she might, she could not succeed in leaving Iris alone with Bulmer. Full of device, she was foiled at each turn. The day wore, the sun went down, the starlit sky made beautiful a parched earth, but never a word in privacy did Iris exchange with her husband-to-be. Carmela's malice was not hidden from her, but she despised it. There was some ease for her tortured brain in defeating it. If the Senhora De Sylva had only understood how thoroughly the Englishwoman loathed her petty jealousy, it was possible that the few remaining hours of their enforced intimacy might have been rendered less irksome.

But, by this time, fate had gathered the slackened strings of their destinies. Thenceforth they became her puppets. Permitted for a little while to play the tragi-comedy of life according to their own inclinations, now the stern edict had gone forth that they were to act their allotted parts in one of those fascinating if blood-stained dramas that the history of nations so often puts on the stage. The future is the most cunning of playwrights. No man may tell what the next scene shall be. And no man, nor any woman, could guess the mad revel of hate and war that would rage that night around the placid homestead of Las Flores.

Behind the veranda was a huge ballroom, converted, by the exigencies of the campaign, into a dining hall for the many inmates of the finca. The Brazilian ladies, the sailors, some sick or wounded officers who were not confined to bed, even the household servants, took their meals there in common. Supper was served soon after nine o'clock. When cigars and cigarettes were lighted, and the company broke up into laughing, gossiping, noisy groups, the place looked more like a popular Continental cafe than a room in a private mansion.

Though De Sylva, General Russo, San Benavides, and some score of members of the President's staff who usually dined at the finca, were now absent, there was no lack of lively chatter. A very Babel of tongues mixed in amity. The prevalent note was one of cheery animation. Carmela exerted herself to win popularity, and a President's daughter need not put forth very strenuous efforts in that direction to be acclaimed by most.

Iris was listening, with real interest, to Verity's description of the finding of Macfarlane in the Andromeda's boat by a Cardiff-bound collier three days after he had drifted away from Fernando Noronha.

"The yarn kem to us through the Consul at Pernambuco," he said. "Evidently, from wot you tell me, it's all right. Poor ole Mac 'ad a bad time afore 'e was picked up, but 'e was alive, an' I'm jolly glad of it, for 'e'll be a first-rate witness w'en this business comes up in court."

"Wot court?" demanded Coke sharply.

"The court that settles our claim, of course," retorted Verity, with a quick ferret look at his fellow-conspirator.

"There'll be no claim. The President means to stump up in style. You take my tip, an' shut up about courts," said Coke.

"It'll cost Brazil a tidy penny," remarked Bulmer thoughtfully. "Nobody would ever imagine wot bags of gold an' parcels of di'monds sailors an' firemen carry around in their kit-bags till a ship is lost an' a Gover'ment 'as to pay."

Watts deemed this an exquisite joke. He laughed loudly.

"That reminds me," he cried. "W'en the Gem of the Sea turned turtle on the James an' Mary——"

A criado, a nondescript man-servant attached to the household, stooped over Iris and whispered something. She gathered that she was wanted in the pateo, or court-yard, which, owing to the construction of the house, stood on one side instead of in front, where the lawn usurped its usual position.

"Who is it?" she asked.

The voice sank even lower.

"Colonel San Benavides, Senhora."

She had gathered sufficient of Brazilian ways to understand that the man had been bribed to convey this request to her without attracting attention.

"Tell him to wait," she said, hoping to gain a moment wherein to decide how best to act.

"It is urgent, Senhora—ao mesmo tempo, the colonel said."

"Go! That is my answer."

The man's unwillingness to obey showed how imperative were his instructions. She rose, and the criado hurried out, satisfied that she would follow. But Iris had no wish to meet San Benavides. If she were seen with him in the dark pateo at this late hour, fuel would be added to the fire of Carmela's foolish spite. She was aware of Carmela's covert glance watching her from the other end of the long room. What was to be done? Why not send Carmela in her stead? They were almost of the same height, and dressed somewhat alike in flowered muslin. It would be an amusing mistake, though annoying, perhaps, to San Benavides; at any rate, Carmela would not object, and Iris was fully resolved not to keep the tryst in person.

She walked straight to her enemy.

"Colonel San Benavides awaits you in the pateo," she said in English.

"Awaits me!"

There was no mistaking the gleam in those jet-black eyes. The smoldering fire flamed into furnace heat at the implied indignity of such a mandate being delivered by Iris.

"I suppose so," said Iris carelessly. "A servant brought the message. He came to me in the first instance, but I am just going to my room to pack my few belongings. We leave here at daybreak, you know."

Carmela tried to smile.

"I shall be sorry to lose you," she said, "though I admit it will be pleasant to occupy my own room again."

Then Iris was genuinely distressed.

"I had not the least notion——" she began, but Carmela nodded and made off, saying as she went:

"What matter—for one night?"

So, at last, she would learn the truth. Salvador was out there, alone. She would soon judge him. If he were innocent, she would know. If he had merely been made the sport of a designing woman, she was ready to forgive. In a more amiable mood than she had displayed at any moment since her arrival at Las FIores, Carmela hastened along a dark corridor, crossed a bare hall, passed through a porch, and searched the shadows of the pateo for the form of her one-time lover.

A voice whispered, in French:

"Come quickly, Senhora, I pray you!"

It startled her to find San Benavides talking French, until it occurred to her that Iris and he must converse in that language or hardly at all. The thought was disquieting. The volcano stirred again.

"Senhora, je vous prie!" again pleaded the man, who was on horseback under the trees.

She did not hesitate, but ran to him. Without a word of explanation, he bent sideways, caught her in his arms, drew her up until she was seated on the holsters strapped to a gaucho saddle, and wheeled his horse into a gallop. Filled with a grim determination, she uttered no protest. Not a syllable crossed her lips lest he should strive to amend his woeful blunder. She noticed that they were not going toward the camp, but circling round the enclosed land in the direction of the hills. Though the night was dark, the stars gave light enough for the horse to move freely. Carmela's head was bent. A gauze-like mantilla covered her black hair, and, strange though it may seem, one woman's small waist and slim figure can be amazingly like the same physical attributes in another woman.

But San Benavides wondered why the cold Ingleza had surrendered so silently. He expected at least a scream, a struggle, an impassioned demand to be released. He was prepared for anything save a dumb acceptance of this extraordinary raid.

So he began to explain.

"One word, Senhora!" he muttered. "You must think me mad. I am not. All is lost! Our army is defeated! In an hour Las Flores will be in flames!"

The girl quivered in his arms. A moaning cry came from her.

"It is true, I swear it!" he vowed. "I mean you no ill. I fought till the end, and my good horse alone carried me in advance of the routed troops. Dom Corria may reach the finca alive, but, even so, he and the rest will be killed. I refused to escape without you. Believe me or not, you are dearer than life itself. In the confusion we two may not be missed. Trust yourself wholly to me, I beseech you!"

He spoke jerkily, in the labored phrase of a man who has to pick and choose the readiest words in an unfamiliar language.

Carmela, with a sudden movement, raised her face to his, and threw aside her veil.

"Salvador!" she said.

His eyes glared into hers. His frenzied clutch at the reins pulled the horse on to its haunches.

"My God! . . . Carmela!" he almost shrieked.

"Yes. So you are running away, Salvador—running away with the English miss—deserting my father in the hour of his need! But she will die with the others, you say. Well, then—join her!"

During that quick twist on the horse's withers, she had plucked a revolver from a holster. She meant to shatter that false face of his utterly, to blast him as with lightning . . . but the lock snapped harmlessly, for San Benavides had, indeed, borne himself gallantly in the fray. He struck at her now in a whirl of fury. She winced, but with catamount activity drew back her arm and hit him on the temple with the heavy weapon. He collapsed limply, reeled from off the saddle, and they fell together. The frightened horse, finding himself at liberty, galloped to the camp, where already there was an unusual commotion.

Carmela flung herself on the man's body. She was capable of extremes either of grief or passion.

"Salvador, my love! my love!" she screamed. "What have I done? Speak to me, Salvador! It is I, Carmela! Oh, Mary Mother, come to my aid! I have killed him, killed my Salvador!"

He looked very white and peaceful as he lay there in the gloom. She could not see whether his lips moved. She was too distraught to note if his heart was beating. It seemed incredible that she, a weak woman, should have crushed the life out of that lithe and active frame with one blow. Then a dark stain appeared on the white skin. Her hands, her lips, were covered with blood. She tasted it. The whole earth reeked of it. It scorched her as with vitriol. She rose and ran blindly. The darkness appalled her. No matter now what fate befell, she must have light, the sound of human voices. . . . And she sobbed piteously as she ran:

"Salvador! Oh, God in heaven, my Salvador!"

It is not the crime, but the conscience, that scourges erring humanity. Carmela needed some such flogging. It was just as well that her fright at the horrible touch of blood was not balanced by the saner knowledge that a ruptured vein was nature's own remedy for a man jarred into insensibility. Long before Carmela reached the finca, San Benavides stirred, groaned, squirmed convulsively, and raised himself on hands and knees. He turned, and sat down, feeling his head.

"The spit-fire!" he muttered. "The she-devil! And that other! Would that I could wring her neck!"

A sputtering of rifles crackled in the valley. There was a blurred clamor of voices. He looked at the sky, at the black summits of the hills. He stood up, and his inseparable sword clanked on the stony ground.

"Ah, well," he growled, "I have done with women. They have had the best of my life. What is left I give to Brazil."

So he, too, made for Las Flores, but slowly, for he was quite exhausted, and his limbs were stiff with the rigors of a wild day in the saddle.

Carmela went back to a household that paid scant heed to her screaming. Dom Corria was there, bare-headed, his gorgeous uniform sword-slashed and blood-bespattered. General Russo, too, was beating his capacious chest and shouting:

"God's bones, let us make a fight of it!"

A sprinkling of soldiers, all dismounted cavalry or gunners, a few disheveled officers, had accompanied De Sylva in his flight. With reckless bravery, he and Russo had tried to rally the troops camped at headquarters. It was a hopeless effort. Half-breeds can never produce a military caste. They may fight valiantly in the line of battle—they will not face the unknown, the terrible, the harpies that come at night, borne on the hurricane wings of panic. Unhappily, De Sylva and his bodyguard were the messengers of their own disaster. The cowardly genius at Pesqueira had planned a surprise. He would not lead it, of course, but in Dom Miguel Barraca he found an eager substitute. It was a coup of the Napoleonic order; an infantry attack along the entire front of the Liberationist position cloaked the launching against the center of a formidable body of cavalry. The project was to thrust this lance into the rebel position, probe it thoroughly, as a surgeon explores a gunshot wound, and extract the offender in the guise of Dom Corria.

The scheme had proved eminently successful. The Liberationists were crumpled up, and here was Dom Corria making his last stand.

He deserved better luck, for he was magnificent in failure. Calm as ever, he tried to be shot or captured when the reserves in camp failed him. Russo and the rest dragged him onward by main force.

"They want me only," he urged. "My death will end a useless struggle. I shall die a little later, when many more of my friends are killed. Why not die now?"

They would not listen.

"It is night!" they cried. "The enemy's horses are spent. A determined stand may give us another chance."

But it was a forlorn hope. As San Benavides lurched into the pateo, the horses of the first pursuing detachment strained up the slope between house and encampment.

Carmela, all her fire gone, the pallid ghost of the vengeful woman who would have shattered her lover's skull were the revolver loaded, was the first to see him. She actually crouched in terror. Her tongue was parched. If she uttered some low cry, none heard her.

Dom Corria, striving to dispose his meager garrison as best he could, met his trusted lieutenant. His face lit with joy.

"Ah, my poor Salvador!" he cried. "I thought we had lost you at the ford!"

"No," said San Benavides. "I ran away!"

Even in his dire extremity, De Sylva smiled.

"Would that others had run like you, my Salvador!" he said. "Then we should have been in Pernambuco to-morrow."

The Brazilian looked around. His eye dwelt heedlessly on the cowering Carmela. He was searching for Iris, who had been compelled by Coke and Bulmer and her uncle to take shelter behind the score of sailors who still remained at Las Flores.

"It is true, nevertheless," he said laconically. "I knew the game was lost, so I came here to try and save a lady."

"Ah—our Carmela? You thought of her?"

"No!"

Then the spell passed from Carmela. She literally threw herself on her lover.

"Yes, it is true!" she shrieked. "He came to save me, but I preferred to die here—with you, father—and with him."

Dom Corria did not understand these fire-works, but he had no time for thought. Bullets were crashing through the closed Venetians. Light they must have, or the defense would become an orgy of self-destruction, yet light was their most dangerous foe when men were shooting from the somber depths of the trees.

The assailants were steadily closing around the house. Their rifles covered every door and window. Each minute brought up fresh bands in tens and twenties. At last, Barraca himself arrived. Some members of his staff made a hasty survey of the situation. There were some three hundred men available, and, in all probability, Dom Corria could not muster one-sixth of that number. It was a crisis that called for vigor. The cavalry lance was twenty miles from its base, and there was no knowing what accident might reunite the scattered Liberationists. One column, at least, of the Nationalists had failed to keep its rendezvous, or this last desperate stand at Las Flores would have proved a sheer impossibility.

So the house must be rushed, no matter what the cost. This was a war of leaders. Let Dom Corria fall, and his most enthusiastic supporters would pay Dom Miguel's taxes without further parley. A scheme of concerted action was hastily arranged. Simultaneously, five detachments swarmed against the chosen points of assault. One crossed the pateo to the porch, another made for the stable entrance, a third attacked the garden door, a fourth assailed the servants' quarters, and the fifth, strongest of all, and inspired by Dom Miguel's presence, battered in the shutters and tore away the piled up furniture of the ballroom.

The Nationalist leader's final order was terse.

"Spare the women; shoot every rebel; do not touch the foreigners unless they resist!"

With yells of "Abajo De Sylva!" "Morto por revoltados!" the assailants closed in. Neither side owned magazine rifles, so the fight was with machetes, swords, and bayonets when the first furious hail of lead had spent itself. No man thought of quarter, nor ceased to stab and thrust until he fell. Not even then did some of the half-savage combatants desist, and a many a thigh was gashed and boot-protected leg cut to the bone by those murderous hatchet knives wielded by hands which would soon stiffen in death.

When three hundred desperadoes meet fifty of like caliber in a hand-to-hand conflict—when the three hundred mean to end the business, and the fifty know that they must die—fighting for choice, but die in any event—the resultant encounter will surely be both fierce and brief. And never was fratricidal strife more sanguinary than during the earliest onset within the walls. Each inch of corridor, each plank of the ballroom floor, was contested with insane ferocity. This was not warfare. It savored of the carnage of the jungle. Its sounds were those of wild beasts. It smelled of the shambles.

By one of those queer chances which sometimes decide the hazard between life and death, the window nearest that end of the room where the sailors strove to protect a few shrieking women had not been broken in. Here, then, was a tiny bay of refuge; from it the men of the Andromeda and the Unser Fritz, Bulmer, Verity, Iris, and such of the Brazilian ladies as had not fled to the upper rooms at the initial volley, looked out on an amazing butchery. De Sylva, no longer young, and never a robust man, had been dragged from mortal peril many times by his devoted adherents. Carmela had snatched a machete from the fingers of a dying soldier, and was fighting like one possessed of a fiend.

Once, when a combined rush drove the defenders nearly on top of the non-combatants, Iris would have striven to draw the half-demented girl into the little haven with the other women.

But Coke thrust her back, shouting:

"Leave 'er alone. She'll set about you if you touch her!"

Dickey Bulmer, too, who was displaying a fortitude hardly to be expected in a man of his years and habits, thought that interference was useless.

"Let 'er do what she can," he said. "She doesn't know wot is 'appenin' now. If she was on'y watchin' she'd be a ravin' lunatic. God 'elp us all, we've got ourselves into a nice mess!"

Somehow, the old man's Lancashire drawl, with its broad vowels and misplaced aspirates, exercised a singularly soothing effect on Iris's tensely-strung nerves. It seemed to remove her from that murder-filled arena. It was redolent of home, of quiet streets, of orderly crowds thronging to the New Brighton sands, of the sober, industrious, God-fearing folk who filled the churches and chapels at each service on a Sunday. These men and women of Brazil were her brothers and sisters in the great comity of nations, yet Heaven knows they did not figure in such guise during that hour of intense emotions.

But if Dickey Bulmer's simple words exalted him into the kingdom of the heroic, David Verity occupied a lower plane. Prayers and curses alternated on his lips. He was stupefied with fear. He had never seen the lust of slaying in men's eyes, and it mesmerized him. Many of the sailors wanted to join in on behalf of their friends. It needed all Coke's vehemence to restrain them. "Keep out of it, you swabs," he would growl. "It's your on'y chanst. This isn't our shindy. Let 'em rip an' be hanged to 'em!" Yet he was manifestly uneasy, and he kept a wary eye on De Sylva, whom he appraised at a personal value of five thousand pounds "an pickin's."

A tall, distinguished-looking man, wearing a brilliant uniform, his breast decorated with many orders, now appeared on the scene. He shouted something, and the attacking force redoubled their efforts. He raised a revolver, and took deliberate aim at Dom Corria. Coke saw him, and his bulldog pluck combined with avarice to overcome his common sense. Without thought of the consequences, he sprang into the swaying mob and pulled De Sylva aside. A bullet smashed into the wall behind them.

"Look out, mister!" he bellowed. "'Ere's a blighter 'oo wants to finish you quick!"

De Sylva's glance sought his adversary. He produced a revolver which hitherto had remained hidden in a pocket. Perhaps its bullets were not meant for an enemy. He fired at the tall man. A violent swerve of the two irregular ranks of soldiers screened each from the other. An opening offered, and the man who had singled out Dom Corria for his special vengeance fired again. The bullet struck Coke in the breast. The valiant little skipper staggered, and sank to the floor. His fiery eyes gazed up into Verity's.

"Damme if I ain't hulled!" he roared, his voice loud and harsh as if he were giving some command from the bridge in a gale of wind.

David dropped to his knees.

"For Gawd's sake, Jimmie!" he moaned.

"Yes, I've got it. Sarve me dam well right, too! No business to go ag'in me own pore old ship. Look 'ere, Verity, I'm done for! If you get away from this rotten muss, see to my missus an' the girls. If you don't—d—n you——"

"Fire!" shouted a strong English voice from without. A withering volley crashed through the open windows. Full twenty of the assailants fell, Dom Miguel de Barraca among them. There was an instant of terrible silence, as between the shocks of an earthquake.



"Now, come on!" shouted the same voice, and Philip Hozier rushed into the ballroom, followed by his scouts and a horde of Brazilian regulars. No one not actually an eye-witness of that thrilling spectacle would believe that a fight waged with such determined malevolence could stop so suddenly as did that fray in Las Flores. It was true, now as ever, that men of a mixed race cannot withstand the unforeseen. Dom Miguel fallen, and his cohort decimated by the leaden storm that tore in at them from an unexpected quarter, the rest fled without another blow. They raced madly for their horses, to find that every tethered group was in the hands of this new contingent. Then the darkness swallowed them. Dom Miguel's cavalry was disbanded.

At once the medley within died down. Men had no words as yet to meet this astounding development. Dom Corria went to where his rival lay. Dom Miguel was dying. His eyes met De Sylva's in a strange look of recognition. He tried to speak, but choked and died.

Then the living President stooped over the dead one. He murmured something. Those near thought afterward that he said:

"Is it worth it? Who knows!"

But he was surely President now; seldom have power and place been more hardly won.

His quiet glance sought Philip.

"Thank you, Mr. Hozier," he said. "All Brazil is your debtor. As for me, I can never repay you. I owe you my life, the lives of my daughter and of many of my friends, and the success of my cause."

Philip heard him as in a dream. He was looking at Iris. Her eyes were shining, her lips parted, yet she did not come to him. By her side was standing a white-haired old man, an Englishman, a stranger. Bending over Coke, and wringing his hands in incoherent sorrow, was another elderly Briton. A fear that Philip had never before known gripped his heartstrings now. He was pale and stern, and his forehead was seamed with foreboding.

"Who is that with Miss Yorke?" he said to Dom Corria.

The President had a rare knack of answering a straight question in a straight way.

"A Mr. Bulmer, I am told," he said.

There was a pause. General Russo, carved from head to foot, but so stout withal that his enemies' weapons had reached no vital part, approached. He thumped his huge stomach.

"We must rally our men," he said. "If we collect even five thousand to-night——"

"Yes," said De Sylva, "I will come. Before I go, Mr. Hozier, let me repeat that I and Brazil are grateful."

"May the devil take both you and Brazil!" was Philip's most ungracious reply, and he turned and strode out into the night.



CHAPTER XVI

WHEREIN THE PRESIDENT PRESIDES

Before the exciting story so rudely interrupted is resumed, it may be well to set down in their sequence the queer workings of fortune which led to Philip's timely reappearance at Las FIores.

His troop of scouts consisted of twenty-eight men. Five were sailors and firemen from the Andromeda; three were Germans from the Unser Fritz. But the whole eight were ex-soldiers, and one man-at-arms trained on the European model is worth ten of the Brazilian product. The remaining twenty were hillmen, good riders, excellent shots, and acquainted with every yard of the wild country within a radius of a hundred miles. They would fight anybody if well led, and here it may be observed that when Philip called on them to storm the ballroom, he said, "Come on!"; between which curt command and its congener, "Go on!" these half-breed warriors drew a fine distinction. The language difficulty was surmounted partly by an interpreter in the person of one of the Germans, who spoke English and had lived in Bahia, partly by signs, and largely by Philip's methods as a leader.

He never asked his men to do anything that he did not do himself, and they were never dubious as to his tactics, since he invariably closed with any Nationalist detachment met during the day's operations.

About mid-day, then, they came upon the advance guard of a column sent off a week earlier by the expert at Pesqueira with instructions to arrive at Las Flores before sunset that very day. Instantly the twenty-nine charged; with equal celerity the advance guard bolted. From the crest of a rocky pass Philip looked down on a column of fully a thousand men. The situation was critical. It called for prompt handling. Five men held the horses; twenty-three spread themselves among the rocks; Philip unslung his carbine; and twenty-four rifles indulged in long-range practice on a narrow mountain path crowded with men and animals.

Nothing more was needed. It has been noted already that the Brazilians disliked long-range shooting. There was a stampede. The scouts occupied the ridge until sundown, and were returning leisurely to report the presence of the column, when they fell in with the first batch of fugitives from the valley. Forthwith, Philip became a general and each scout an officer. They reasoned and whacked the runaways into obedience, picked up quite a number of men who were willing enough to fight if told what was expected of them—and the rest was a matter of simple strategy such as Macaulay's schoolboy would exhibit in the escalade of a snow fort. But it was a near thing. Five minutes later, and Hozier might have seized the presidency himself.

And now, as to the night, and the next day.

Russo and his diminished staff took Philip's little army as a nucleus. Brazil had duly elected Dom Corria, as provided by the statute, and the news spread like wild fire. Before morning, the Liberationists were ten thousand strong. Before night closed the roads again, the Pesqueira genius wrote to Dom Corria under a flag of truce, and pointed out that he served the President, not any crank who said he was President, but the honored individual in whom the people of Brazil placed their trust. Dom Corria replied in felicitous terms, and, as the newspapers say, the incident ended. The navy sulked for a while, because they held that Russo's treatment of the Andorinha was not cricket, or baseball, or whatsoever game appeals most to the Brazilian sportsman. It was not even professional football, they said; but an acrimonious discussion was closed by a strong hint from the Treasury that pay-day might be postponed indefinitely if too much were made of a regrettable accident to the guns of the Maceio artillery.

Meanwhile, Dom Corria, the man who did not forget, was puzzled by two circumstances not of national importance. San Benavides, never a demonstrative lover where Carmela was concerned, was a changed man. He was severely wounded during the fight, and Carmela nursed him assiduously, but there could be no doubt that he was under her thumb, and would remain there. The indications were subtle but unmistakable. Carmela even announced the date of their marriage.

Dom Corria remembered, of course, what San Benavides and his daughter had said when they all met in the ballroom. It seemed to him that Salvador was telling the truth and that Carmela was fibbing on that occasion. But he let well enough alone. It was good for Salvador that he should obey Carmela. He blessed them, and remarked that a really "smart" wedding would be just the thing to inaugurate the new reign at Rio de Janeiro.

He was far more perplexed by the untimely wrath of Philip Hozier. He thought of it for at least five minutes next morning. Then he sought Dickey Bulmer, who had just quitted Coke's bedroom, and was examining the rare shrubs that bordered the lawn.

"What news of that brave man?" asked Dom Corria, and his deep voice vibrated with real feeling.

"First-rate, sir," said Dickey. "The bullet is extracted, and the doctor says 'e'll soon be all right. Leastways, that's wot Iris tells me. I can't talk Portuguese meself, an' pore old Jimmie's langwidge ain't fit to be repeated."

The President laughed.

"He is what you call a bundle of contradictions, eh?—a rough fellow with the heart of a bull. But he saved my life, and that naturally counts for a good deal with me. And how is your niece after last night's terrible experience?"

"My niece? D'ye mean Iris?" demanded Bulmer, obviously somewhat annoyed.

"Yes."

"She's not my niece; she's——"

"Your grand-daughter, then?"

"No, sir. That young lady 'as done me the honor of promisin' to be my wife."

"Oh!" said Dom Corria, fixing his brilliant eyes on Bulmer's vexed face.

"There's no 'Oh' about it," growled Dickey. "It was all cut an' dried weeks ago, an' she 'asn't rued of 'er bargain yet, as far as I can make out."

"You mean that the marriage was arranged before the Andromeda sailed?" said Dom Corria gently.

"W'y, of course. It couldn't very well be fixed after, could it?"

"No—not as between you and her. I can vouch for that. Forgive me, Mr. Bulmer—I have a daughter of marriageable age, you know, and I speak as a parent—do you think that it is a wise thing for a man of your years to marry a girl of twenty?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't do it."

"But may it not be selfish?"

Then downright Lancashire took hold of the argument.

"Look 'ere, wot are you drivin' at?" demanded Dickey, now in a white heat of anger. He had yet to learn that the President preferred a straight-forward way of talking.

"I want you to forego this marriage," he said.

"Why?"

"Because that charming girl loves another man, but feels that she is bound to you. I understand the position at last. Mr. Bulmer, you cannot wish to break her heart and drive that fine young fellow, Philip Hozier, to despair. Come, now! Let you and me reason this thing together. Possibly, when she agreed to marry you she did not know what love is. She is high-minded, an idealist, the soul of honor. What other woman would have consented to be separated from her friends on Fernando Noronha merely because it increased their meager chances of safety? How few women, loving a man like Philip Hozier, who is assured of a splendid reward for his services to this State, would resolutely deny the claims of her own heart in order to keep her word?"

Bulmer had never heard anyone speak with the crystal directness of Dom Corria. Each word chipped away some part of the fence which he had deliberately erected around his own intelligence. Certain facts had found crevices in the barrier already; Dom Corria broke down whole sections. But he was a hard man, and stubborn. Throughout his long life he had not been of yielding habit, and his heart was set on Iris.

"You are mighty sure that she is wrapped up in this young spark," he growled.

"Were I not, I would not have interfered. Take my advice. First, ask yourself an honest question. Then ask the girl. She will answer. I promise you that."

"I'm a rich man," persisted Dickey.

"Yes."

"Nobody forced 'er, one way or the other."

"Possibly. One wonders, though, why she hid herself on the Andromeda."

"It's true, I tell you. David said——"

"Who is David?"

"Her uncle."

"In England, I take it, if a man wishes to marry a girl he does not woo her uncle. Of course, these customs vary. Here, in Brazil——"

Then Bulmer said something about Brazil that was not to be expected from one of his staid demeanor. In fact, he regarded Brazil as the cause of the whole trouble, and his opinion concerning that marvelous land coincided with Hozier's. He turned and walked away, looking a trifle older, a trifle more bent, perhaps, than when he came out of the house.

An hour later, Dom Corria and Carmela met in a corridor. They were discussing arrangements for a speedy move to the capital when Iris ran into them. Her face was flushed, and she had been crying. Much to Carmela's amazement, the English girl clasped her round the neck and kissed her.

"Tell your father, my dear, that he has been very good to me," she whispered; then her face grew scarlet again, and she hurried away.

"Excellent!" said the President. "That old man is a gentleman. His friend is not. Yet they are very much alike in other respects. Odd thing! Carmela cara, can you spare a few minutes from your invalid?"

"Yes, father."

"Go, then, and find that young Englishman, Philip Hozier. Tell him that the engagement between Miss Yorke and Mr. Bulmer is broken off."

Carmela's black eyes sparkled. That wayward blood of hers surged in her veins, but Dom Corria's calm glance dwelt on her, and the spasm passed.

"Yes, father," she said dutifully.

He stroked his chin as he went out to pronounce a funeral oration on those who had fallen during the fight.

"I think," said he reflectively, "I think that Carmela dislikes that girl. I wonder why?"

Philip had never, to his knowledge, seen the Senhora De Sylva. Watts spoke of her, remarking that she was "a reel pleasant young lady, a bit flighty, p'raps, but, then, 'oo could tell wot any gal would do one minnit from the next?" And that was all.

It was, therefore, something more than a surprise when the sallow-faced, willowy girl, black-haired, black-eyed, and most demure of manner, whom he remembered to have met in the gateway of Las Flores early on the previous day, came to his tent and asked for him.

She introduced herself, and Philip was most polite.

"My father sent me——" she began.

"I ought to have waited on the President," he said, seeing that she hesitated, "but several of my men are wounded, and we have so few doctors."

She smiled, and Carmela could redeem much of her plainness of feature by the singular charm of her smile.

"Dom Corria is a good doctor himself," she said.

"His skill will be much appreciated in Brazil at the present moment," said he, rather bewildered.

"He mends broken hearts," she persisted.

"Ah, a healer, indeed!" but he frowned a little.

"He is in demand to-day. He asked me to tell you of one most successful operation. The—er—the engagement between Miss Iris Yorke—is that the name?—and Mr.—Mr.—dear me——"

"Bulmer," scowled Philip, a block of ice in the warm air of Brazil.

"Yes, that is it—well—it is ended. She is free—for a little while."

There was a curious bleaching of Philip's weather-tanned face. It touched a chord in Carmela's impulsive nature.

"It is all right," she nodded. "You can go to her."

She left him there, more shaken than he had ever been by thunderous sea or screaming bullet.

"They are cold, these English," she communed, as she passed up the slope to the house. "It takes something to rouse them. What would he have said were he in Salvador's place last night!"

It did not occur to her that Philip could not possibly have been in Salvador's place, since God has made as many varieties of men as of berries, whereof some are wholesome and some poisonous, yet they all have their uses. And she might have modified her opinion of his coldness had she seen the manner of his meeting with Iris.

Visiting the sick is one of the Christian virtues, so Philip visited Coke. Iris had just finished writing a letter, partly dictated, and much altered in style, to Mrs. James Coke, Sea View, Ocean Road, Birkenhead, when a gentle tap brought her to the door. She opened it. Her wrist was seized, and she was drawn into the corridor. She had no option in the matter. The tall young man who held her wrist proceeded to squeeze the breath out of her, but she was growing so accustomed to deeds of violence that she did not even scream.

"There is a British chaplain at Pernambuco," was Philip's incoherent remark.

"I must ask my uncle," she gasped.

"No. Leave that to me. No man living shall say 'Yes' or 'No' to me where you are concerned, Iris."

"Do not be hard with him, Philip dear. He was always good to me, and—and—I have grown a wee bit afraid of you."

"Afraid!"

"Yes. You are so much older, so much sterner, than when you and I looked at the Southern Cross together from the bridge of the Andromeda."

"I was a boy then, Iris. I am a man now. I have fought, and loved, and suffered. And what of you, dear heart? We went through the furnace hand in hand. What of the girl who has come forth a woman?"

There was an open window at the end of the passage. Watts had bought, or borrowed, or looted a bottle of wine. Schmidt and he were in a shaded arbor beneath, and his voice came to them:

"It is always fair weather When good fellows meet together . . ."

But another voice, hoarse as a foghorn, boomed through the door which Iris had left ajar.

"Bring 'er in 'ere, you swab. D—n your eyes, if you come courtin' my nurse, you'll 'ave to do it in my room or not at all. Wot the——"

"Come in, dear," said Iris. "The doctor says he is not to excite himself. And he will be so glad to see you. He has been asking for you all day."

* * * * * *

At Pernambuco, his excellency the President of the Republic of Brazil was waited on by Admiral Prince Heinrich von Schnitzenhausen, who was attended by an imposing armed guard. After compliments, the admiral stated that his Imperial master wished to be informed as to the truth or otherwise of a circumstantial statement made by the German Consul at Maceio, and confirmed by functionaries at Pernambuco, that on a certain date, to wit, September the 2d, he, Dom Corria De Sylva, aided and abetted by a number of filibusters, did unlawfully seize and sequestrate the steamship Unser Fritz, the said steamship being the property of German subjects and flying the German flag.

Though the admiral's sentence was much longer than its English translation, it only contained a dozen words. Its sound was fearsome in consequence, and its effect ought to have been portentous. But Dom Corria was unmoved.

"There is some mistake," said he.

"Exactly," said the admiral, "an-error-the-most-serious-and-not-easily-rectifiable."

"On your part," continued Dom Corria. "The vessel you name is the property of my friend and colleague Dom Alfonso Pondillo, of Maceio. He purchased and paid for her on September 1st. Here is the receipt of the former owners, given to the Deutsche Bank in Paris, and handed to Senhor Pondillo's agents. You will observe the date of the transaction."

The admiral read. He read again.

"Ach Gott!" he cried angrily. "There are some never-to-be-depended-upon fools in the world, and especially in Hamburg."

"Everywhere," agreed Dom Corria blandly. Carmela's memory was not quite of the hereditary order. She had forgotten, for three whole days, that the letter containing the receipt was in her pocket.

* * * * * *

When Coke was pronounced fit for comfortable travel, David Verity and Dickey Bulmer conveyed him home. They took with them drafts on a London bank for amounts that satisfied every sort of claim for the sinking of the Andromeda. Judged by the compensation given to the vessel's survivors, there could be no doubt that the dependants of the men who lost their lives would be well provided for. Even Watts vowed that the President had behaved reel 'andsome, and, as a token of regeneration, swore that never another drop o' sperrits would cross his lips. Wines and beers, of course, were light refreshments of a different order. Schmidt, too, sublimely heedless of the diplomatic storm he had caused, seemed to be contented. He taught Watts "Es gibt nur eine Kaiser Stadt," and Watts taught him the famous chanty of the Alice brig and her marooned crew. But the latter effusion was rehearsed far from Coke's deck-chair, because the captain of the mail steamer said that although he liked Coke personally, some of the lady passengers might complain.

At odd moments David and Dickey Bulmer discussed the partnership. The young people would be home in two months, and then Philip was to come into the business.

"We're growing old, David," said Dickey. "I've got plenty of money, an' you'll 'ave a tidy bit now, but there's one thing neether of us can buy, and that's youth."

"I don't want to be young again," said David, "but I'd like to go back just a year or so—no more.

"Why?"

"Well, there's bin times w'en—w'en I'd 'ave acted different. Wot do you say, Jimmie?"

Coke, thus appealed to, glowered at his employer.

"Say!" he growled. "I say nothink. I know you, David."

Philip and Iris attended Carmela's wedding during their honeymoon. The cathedral at Rio de Janeiro was packed, and Iris was quite inconspicuous among the many richly-attired ladies who graced the ceremony by their presence. Nevertheless, Colonel Salvador San Benavides favored her with a peculiar smile as he led his bride down the central aisle.

She laughed, blushed, and looked at her husband.

"Yes, I saw him," he whispered. "But I never feared him. It was you that made me sit up. By the way, old girl, let us cut out the reception. I want to call at the bank, and at a shop in the Rua Grande. You will be interested."

Well, being a good and loving wife, she was interested deeply. Ten thousand pounds was Dom Corria's financial estimate of the services rendered by Philip, and Iris was absolutely dumfounded by the total in milreis. But her voice came back when Philip took her to a jeweler's, and the man produced a gold cross on which blazed four glorious diamonds. Dom Corria had given her a necklace many times more valuable; but this——

"For remembrance!" said Philip.

"Oh, my dear, my dear!" she murmured, and her eyes grew moist.



THE END