CHAPTER XV
SHOWING HOW BRAZIL CHOSE HER PRESIDENT
Two thousand five hundred years ago the prophet Jeremiah expressedincredulity as to the power of an Ethiopian to change his skin or aleopard his spots. The march of the centuries has fully justified theseer's historic doubt, so it makes but slight demand on the criticalfaculties to assume that two years' residence in Europe had not cooledthe hot southern blood flowing in Carmela's veins.
She had hated Iris before she set eyes on her; she hated her now that shehad seen her rare beauty; she gloated on the suffering inflicted by thepresence of the faded old man who claimed her as his bride. Though itwas of the utmost importance that she should hasten to her father, shereturned to Las Flores in her rival's company, their arms linked inseeming friendship, and the Brazilian girl's ears alert to treasure everyword that told of Bulmer's wooing.
Therein she greatly miscalculated the true gentility of one whom hiscronies described as "a rough diamond." Bulmer realized that Iris wasoverwrought. Vague but sensational items in newspapers had prepared himin some measure for the story of her wanderings since last they met inquiet, old-fashioned Bootle. He felt that she was altered, that theirways in life had deviated with a sharpness that was not to be broughtback into parallel grooves simply because he had traveled many thousandsof 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, andthus drew the girl's sweet voice into the talk, it was invariably germaneto the strange history of the ship and her human freight.
Coke's narrative was picturesque and lurid. At times, he called himselfto 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 yarnprogressed--for Watts and Schmidt and Norrie had joined them, and thewhole party was seated in an inner room where an impromptu meal wasprovided--both the woman of Brazil and the man of Lancashire seized onthe same unspoken _motif_. Every incident centered in the strikingpersonality of Philip Hozier. From the instant the second shell struckthe winch, and laid him apparently dead on the forecastle, to the veryhour of this coming together at Las Flores, Hozier held the stage. Itwas he who took Iris on his shoulders and brought her to safety throughthe spume of the wrathful sea, he who carried her to the hut, he whocrossed Fernando Noronha alone to protect her.
Coke was impartial. He would have minimized his own singular bravery inrunning up the ship's signals had not Iris given him a breathing-spacewhile she enthralled the others with her description. Otherwise, Cokeskipped 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 goodenough 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' thatthe _Andromeeda's_ skipper ought to keep clear of politics in thiscrimson country, I'd 'ave a cut in at the game meself."
It might be hoped that Carmela's mood would soften when she discoveredher rival's hapless love, but that would be expecting something which herbursting southern heart could not give. A volcano pours forth lava, notwater. It scorches, not heals. Iris, willing or not, had sapped herSalvador's allegiance. Carmela wanted to see those curved lips writhingin pain, those brown eyes dimmed, that smooth brow wrung with the griefthat 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 insettlin' their differences. Dickey an' me, 'elped a lot by our Consul,squeezed a pass out of the President--beg pardon, miss, but 'e isPresident, in Pernambuco, at all events," he said in an apologetic"aside" to Carmela--"an' the sooner we make tracks for ole England thebetter it'll be for all of us. Wot do you say to an early startto-morrow? We'd be off to-night, on'y I'm feared my rheumaticky boneswouldn'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 thehospital appliances that are so much needed by the poor soldiers, but theSenhora 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 hadwatched the spoken record of the _Andromeda_ and her company for craftierhints than was suspected by his fellow travelers, he was not deaf toCoke's appreciation of Hozier. The silence of his niece on that sametopic was alarming, but the position could not be so bad if she waswilling to leave for the coast without seeing him again. No secret wasmade of Philip's errand into the interior. The homeward-bound cavalcadewould be at Pesqueira ere he returned to the _finca_.
Carmela, of course, did not believe in a woman's complacency in such avital matter. She was ever prepared to spring, to strike, to wrenchtheir plans to suit her own ends; but, contrive as she might, she couldnot succeed in leaving Iris alone with Bulmer. Full of device, she wasfoiled at each turn. The day wore, the sun went down, the starlit skymade beautiful a parched earth, but never a word in privacy did Irisexchange with her husband-to-be. Carmela's malice was not hidden fromher, but she despised it. There was some ease for her tortured brain indefeating it. If the Senhora De Sylva had only understood how thoroughlythe Englishwoman loathed her petty jealousy, it was possible that the fewremaining hours of their enforced intimacy might have been rendered lessirksome.
But, by this time, fate had gathered the slackened strings of theirdestinies. Thenceforth they became her puppets. Permitted for a littlewhile to play the tragi-comedy of life according to their owninclinations, now the stern edict had gone forth that they were to acttheir allotted parts in one of those fascinating if blood-stained dramasthat the history of nations so often puts on the stage. The future isthe most cunning of playwrights. No man may tell what the next sceneshall be. And no man, nor any woman, could guess the mad revel of hateand war that would rage that night around the placid homestead of LasFlores.
Behind the veranda was a huge ballroom, converted, by the exigencies ofthe campaign, into a dining hall for the many inmates of the _finca_.The Brazilian ladies, the sailors, some sick or wounded officers who werenot confined to bed, even the household servants, took their meals therein common. Supper was served soon after nine o'clock. When cigars andcigarettes were lighted, and the company broke up into laughing,gossiping, noisy groups, the place looked more like a popular Continentalcafe than a room in a private mansion.
Though De Sylva, General Russo, San Benavides, and some score of membersof the President's staff who usually dined at the _finca_, were nowabsent, there was no lack of lively chatter. A very Babel of tonguesmixed in amity. The prevalent note was one of cheery animation. Carmelaexerted herself to win popularity, and a President's daughter need notput forth very strenuous efforts in that direction to be acclaimed bymost.
Iris was listening, with real interest, to Verity's description of thefinding of Macfarlane in the _Andromeda's_ boat by a Cardiff-boundcollier 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 badtime 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 aquick ferret look at his fellow-conspirator.
"There'll be no claim. The President means to stump up in style. Youtake my tip, an' shut up about courts," said Coke.
"It'll cost Brazil a tidy penny," remarked Bulmer thoughtfully. "Nobodywould 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' aGover'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 onthe James an' Mary----"
A _criado_, a nondescript man-servant attached to the household, stoopedover Iris and whispered something. She gathered that she was wanted inthe _pateo_, or court-yard, which, owing to the construction of thehouse, stood on one side instead of in front, where the lawn usurped itsusual 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 manhad been bribed to convey this request to her without attractingattention.
"Tell him to wait," she said, hoping to gain a moment wherein to decidehow 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 hisinstructions. She rose, and the _criado_ hurried out, satisfied that shewould follow. But Iris had no wish to meet San Benavides. If she wereseen with him in the dark _pateo_ at this late hour, fuel would be addedto the fire of Carmela's foolish spite. She was aware of Carmela'scovert glance watching her from the other end of the long room. What wasto be done? Why not send Carmela in her stead? They were almost of thesame height, and dressed somewhat alike in flowered muslin. It would bean amusing mistake, though annoying, perhaps, to San Benavides; at anyrate, Carmela would not object, and Iris was fully resolved not to keepthe 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 smolderingfire flamed into furnace heat at the implied indignity of such a mandatebeing 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 topack 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 bepleasant to occupy my own room again."
Then Iris was genuinely distressed.
"I had not the least notion----" she began, but Carmela nodded and madeoff, 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 hehad merely been made the sport of a designing woman, she was ready toforgive. In a more amiable mood than she had displayed at any momentsince her arrival at Las FIores, Carmela hastened along a dark corridor,crossed a bare hall, passed through a porch, and searched the shadows ofthe 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 occurredto 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 horsebackunder the trees.
She did not hesitate, but ran to him. Without a word of explanation, hebent sideways, caught her in his arms, drew her up until she was seatedon the holsters strapped to a gaucho saddle, and wheeled his horse into agallop. Filled with a grim determination, she uttered no protest. Not asyllable crossed her lips lest he should strive to amend his woefulblunder. She noticed that they were not going toward the camp, butcircling round the enclosed land in the direction of the hills. Thoughthe night was dark, the stars gave light enough for the horse to movefreely. Carmela's head was bent. A gauze-like mantilla covered herblack hair, and, strange though it may seem, one woman's small waist andslim figure can be amazingly like the same physical attributes in anotherwoman.
But San Benavides wondered why the cold Ingleza had surrendered sosilently. He expected at least a scream, a struggle, an impassioneddemand to be released. He was prepared for anything save a dumbacceptance 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 inflames!"
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 tillthe end, and my good horse alone carried me in advance of the routedtroops. Dom Corria may reach the _finca_ alive, but, even so, he and therest will be killed. I refused to escape without you. Believe me ornot, you are dearer than life itself. In the confusion we two may not bemissed. Trust yourself wholly to me, I beseech you!"
He spoke jerkily, in the labored phrase of a man who has to pick andchoose the readiest words in an unfamiliar language.
Carmela, with a sudden movement, raised her face to his, and threw asideher veil.
"Salvador!" she said.
His eyes glared into hers. His frenzied clutch at the reins pulled thehorse on to its haunches.
"My God! . . . Carmela!" he almost shrieked.
"Yes. So you are running away, Salvador--running away with the Englishmiss--deserting my father in the hour of his need! But she will die withthe others, you say. Well, then--join her!"
During that quick twist on the horse's withers, she had plucked arevolver from a holster. She meant to shatter that false face of hisutterly, to blast him as with lightning . . . but the lock snappedharmlessly, for San Benavides had, indeed, borne himself gallantly in thefray. He struck at her now in a whirl of fury. She winced, but withcatamount activity drew back her arm and hit him on the temple with theheavy weapon. He collapsed limply, reeled from off the saddle, and theyfell 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 extremeseither of grief or passion.
"Salvador, my love! my love!" she screamed. "What have I done? Speak tome, Salvador! It is I, Carmela! Oh, Mary Mother, come to my aid! Ihave killed him, killed my Salvador!"
He looked very white and peaceful as he lay there in the gloom. Shecould not see whether his lips moved. She was too distraught to note ifhis heart was beating. It seemed incredible that she, a weak woman,should have crushed the life out of that lithe and active frame with oneblow. Then a dark stain appeared on the white skin. Her hands, herlips, were covered with blood. She tasted it. The whole earth reeked ofit. It scorched her as with vitriol. She rose and ran blindly. Thedarkness appalled her. No matter now what fate befell, she must havelight, the sound of human voices. . . . And she sobbed piteously as sheran:
"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 frightat the horrible touch of blood was not balanced by the saner knowledgethat a ruptured vein was nature's own remedy for a man jarred intoinsensibility. Long before Carmela reached the _finca_, San Benavidesstirred, groaned, squirmed convulsively, and raised himself on hands andknees. He turned, and sat down, feeling his head.
"The spit-fire!" he muttered. "The she-devil! And that other! Wouldthat I could wring _her_ neck!"
A sputtering of rifles crackled in the valley. There was a blurredclamor of voices. He looked at the sky, at the black summits of thehills. He stood up, and his inseparable sword clanked on the stonyground.
"Ah, well," he growled, "I have done with women. They have had the bestof 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 andblood-bespattered. General Russo, too, was beating his capacious chestand shouting:
"God's bones, let us make a fight of it!"
A sprinkling of soldiers, all dismounted cavalry or gunners, a fewdisheveled officers, had accompanied De Sylva in his flight. Withreckless bravery, he and Russo had tried to rally the troops camped atheadquarters. It was a hopeless effort. Half-breeds can never produce amilitary caste. They may fight valiantly in the line of battle--theywill not face the unknown, the terrible, the harpies that come at night,borne on the hurricane wings of panic. Unhappily, De Sylva and hisbodyguard were the messengers of their own disaster. The cowardly geniusat 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 ofthe Napoleonic order; an infantry attack along the entire front of theLiberationist position cloaked the launching against the center of aformidable body of cavalry. The project was to thrust this lance intothe rebel position, probe it thoroughly, as a surgeon explores a gunshotwound, and extract the offender in the guise of Dom Corria.
The scheme had proved eminently successful. The Liberationists werecrumpled up, and here was Dom Corria making his last stand.
He deserved better luck, for he was magnificent in failure. Calm asever, he tried to be shot or captured when the reserves in camp failedhim. Russo and the rest dragged him onward by main force.
"They want me only," he urged. "My death will end a useless struggle. Ishall die a little later, when many more of my friends are killed. Whynot die now?"
They would not listen.
"It is night!" they cried. "The enemy's horses are spent. A determinedstand 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 betweenhouse and encampment.
Carmela, all her fire gone, the pallid ghost of the vengeful woman whowould have shattered her lover's skull were the revolver loaded, was thefirst to see him. She actually crouched in terror. Her tongue wasparched. If she uttered some low cry, none heard her.
Dom Corria, striving to dispose his meager garrison as best he could, methis trusted lieutenant. His face lit with joy.
"Ah, my poor Salvador!" he cried. "I thought we had lost you at theford!"
"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 weshould have been in Pernambuco to-morrow."
The Brazilian looked around. His eye dwelt heedlessly on the coweringCarmela. He was searching for Iris, who had been compelled by Coke andBulmer and her uncle to take shelter behind the score of sailors whostill remained at Las Flores.
"It is true, nevertheless," he said laconically. "I knew the game waslost, 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 herlover.
"Yes, it is true!" she shrieked. "He came to save me, but I preferred todie here--with you, father--and with him."
Dom Corria did not understand these fire-works, but he had no time forthought. Bullets were crashing through the closed Venetians. Light theymust have, or the defense would become an orgy of self-destruction, yetlight was their most dangerous foe when men were shooting from the somberdepths of the trees.
The assailants were steadily closing around the house. Their riflescovered every door and window. Each minute brought up fresh bands intens and twenties. At last, Barraca himself arrived. Some members ofhis staff made a hasty survey of the situation. There were some threehundred men available, and, in all probability, Dom Corria could notmuster 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 noknowing what accident might reunite the scattered Liberationists. Onecolumn, at least, of the Nationalists had failed to keep its rendezvous,or this last desperate stand at Las Flores would have proved a sheerimpossibility.
So the house must be rushed, no matter what the cost. This was a war ofleaders. Let Dom Corria fall, and his most enthusiastic supporters wouldpay Dom Miguel's taxes without further parley. A scheme of concertedaction was hastily arranged. Simultaneously, five detachments swarmedagainst the chosen points of assault. One crossed the _pateo_ to theporch, another made for the stable entrance, a third attacked the gardendoor, a fourth assailed the servants' quarters, and the fifth, strongestof all, and inspired by Dom Miguel's presence, battered in the shuttersand 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 unlessthey resist!"
With yells of "Abajo De Sylva!" "Morto por revoltados!" the assailantsclosed in. Neither side owned magazine rifles, so the fight was withmachetes, swords, and bayonets when the first furious hail of lead hadspent itself. No man thought of quarter, nor ceased to stab and thrustuntil he fell. Not even then did some of the half-savage combatantsdesist, and a many a thigh was gashed and boot-protected leg cut to thebone by those murderous hatchet knives wielded by hands which would soonstiffen in death.
When three hundred desperadoes meet fifty of like caliber in ahand-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 inany event--the resultant encounter will surely be both fierce and brief.And never was fratricidal strife more sanguinary than during the earliestonset within the walls. Each inch of corridor, each plank of theballroom floor, was contested with insane ferocity. This was notwarfare. It savored of the carnage of the jungle. Its sounds were thoseof wild beasts. It smelled of the shambles.
By one of those queer chances which sometimes decide the hazard betweenlife and death, the window nearest that end of the room where the sailorsstrove 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_ andthe _Unser Fritz_, Bulmer, Verity, Iris, and such of the Brazilian ladiesas had not fled to the upper rooms at the initial volley, looked out onan 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, andwas fighting like one possessed of a fiend.
Once, when a combined rush drove the defenders nearly on top of thenon-combatants, Iris would have striven to draw the half-demented girlinto 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 expectedin 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 usall, we've got ourselves into a nice mess!"
Somehow, the old man's Lancashire drawl, with its broad vowels andmisplaced aspirates, exercised a singularly soothing effect on Iris'stensely-strung nerves. It seemed to remove her from that murder-filledarena. It was redolent of home, of quiet streets, of orderly crowdsthronging to the New Brighton sands, of the sober, industrious,God-fearing folk who filled the churches and chapels at each service on aSunday. These men and women of Brazil were her brothers and sisters inthe great comity of nations, yet Heaven knows they did not figure in suchguise during that hour of intense emotions.
But if Dickey Bulmer's simple words exalted him into the kingdom of theheroic, David Verity occupied a lower plane. Prayers and cursesalternated on his lips. He was stupefied with fear. He had
never seenthe lust of slaying in men's eyes, and it mesmerized him. Many of thesailors wanted to join in on behalf of their friends. It needed allCoke's vehemence to restrain them. "Keep out of it, you swabs," he wouldgrowl. "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 eyeon De Sylva, whom he appraised at a personal value of five thousandpounds "an pickin's."
A tall, distinguished-looking man, wearing a brilliant uniform, hisbreast decorated with many orders, now appeared on the scene. He shoutedsomething, and the attacking force redoubled their efforts. He raised arevolver, and took deliberate aim at Dom Corria. Coke saw him, and hisbulldog pluck combined with avarice to overcome his common sense.Without thought of the consequences, he sprang into the swaying mob andpulled De Sylva aside. A bullet smashed into the wall behind them.
"Look out, mister!" he bellowed. "'Ere's a blighter 'oo wants to finishyou quick!"
De Sylva's glance sought his adversary. He produced a revolver whichhitherto had remained hidden in a pocket. Perhaps its bullets were notmeant for an enemy. He fired at the tall man. A violent swerve of thetwo irregular ranks of soldiers screened each from the other. An openingoffered, and the man who had singled out Dom Corria for his specialvengeance fired again. The bullet struck Coke in the breast. Thevaliant little skipper staggered, and sank to the floor. His fiery eyesgazed up into Verity's.
"Damme if I ain't hulled!" he roared, his voice loud and harsh as if hewere 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 goag'in me own pore old ship. Look 'ere, Verity, I'm done for! If you getaway from this rotten muss, see to my missus an' the girls. If youdon't--d--n you----"
"Fire!" shouted a strong English voice from without. A withering volleycrashed through the open windows. Full twenty of the assailants fell,Dom Miguel de Barraca among them. There was an instant of terriblesilence, as between the shocks of an earthquake.
A withering volley crashed through the window]
"Now, come on!" shouted the same voice, and Philip Hozier rushed into theballroom, followed by his scouts and a horde of Brazilian regulars. Noone not actually an eye-witness of that thrilling spectacle would believethat a fight waged with such determined malevolence could stop sosuddenly as did that fray in Las Flores. It was true, now as ever, thatmen 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 anunexpected quarter, the rest fled without another blow. They raced madlyfor their horses, to find that every tethered group was in the hands ofthis new contingent. Then the darkness swallowed them. Dom Miguel'scavalry was disbanded.
At once the medley within died down. Men had no words as yet to meetthis astounding development. Dom Corria went to where his rival lay.Dom Miguel was dying. His eyes met De Sylva's in a strange look ofrecognition. He tried to speak, but choked and died.
Then the living President stooped over the dead one. He murmuredsomething. 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 morehardly won.
His quiet glance sought Philip.
"Thank you, Mr. Hozier," he said. "All Brazil is your debtor. As forme, I can never repay you. I owe you my life, the lives of my daughterand 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 wereshining, her lips parted, yet she did not come to him. By her side wasstanding a white-haired old man, an Englishman, a stranger. Bending overCoke, and wringing his hands in incoherent sorrow, was another elderlyBriton. A fear that Philip had never before known gripped hisheartstrings now. He was pale and stern, and his forehead was seamedwith foreboding.
"Who is that with Miss Yorke?" he said to Dom Corria.
The President had a rare knack of answering a straight question in astraight way.
"A Mr. Bulmer, I am told," he said.
There was a pause. General Russo, carved from head to foot, but so stoutwithal 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 thousandto-night----"
"Yes," said De Sylva, "I will come. Before I go, Mr. Hozier, let merepeat that I and Brazil are grateful."
"May the devil take both you and Brazil!" was Philip's most ungraciousreply, and he turned and strode out into the night.