CHAPTER IV.
The next morning a small band of soldiers, headed by Henrique Ferriera, wound their way toward the humble home of Jarima.
On arriving, they found to their astonishment the door fastened close, and no one to answer their knock.
"Never mind, break it down," Henrique said, roughly.
In obedience a few heavy blows fell on the woodwork, which soon gave way beneath their force.
Stepping over the scattered splinters, Henrique saw a sight which filled him with horror.
Crouching on the bare floor, her hands twined convulsively in her long hair, was a woman, with three sleeping children leaning against her.
On a hard straw mattress, almost in shadow, lay Jarima, his face covered with blood, which oozed in streams from his mouth.
Henrique gazed for an instant on the awful sight, then turned towards his men.
"We have arrived a little too late; blind men cannot see, or dumb ones tell tales. Some horrible wretch has done this deed, fearful of his betraying them. I wonder who?"
The woman, when questioned, could tell them nothing. She only knew her husband had been brought home in his present condition at daybreak, and remained unconscious since.
"I regret to say it is our painful duty to take him; every care will be given him. He is suspected of having murdered Luiz Falcam."
"No, no; you are mistaken! It is some one else, not he. Jarima was much too gentle to kill any one!" the woman cried, passionately.
Her prayers and supplications were unavailing. Henrique was obliged to do his duty, and bade his men take the suffering man to prison.
Some hours later, as Diniz stood in his room, just before setting out in search of Henrique, that man entered the house, followed by several soldiers.
"Diniz Sampayo, I arrest you on the charge of having stolen a poignard, set with jewels, from Manuel Tonza de Sepulveda."
Diniz started, and flushed angrily.
"I steal? When you know it is the weapon I bought from Phenee, the Jew, as proof against the murderer."
"So you said; but we have heard another tale to that. Anyhow, if you are innocent, you will be set free as soon as you are tried."
"But the man Jarima? Have you not been for him?"
"Yes, but he is useless; when we arrived, some one had been before us, and not only blinded him, but cut out his tongue, so that he could not speak."
"How horrible! How could any one have been so cold-blooded?" Diniz gasped, turning pale.
"Evidently it was done for some purpose. But come, Sampayo, I cannot wait here."
"Will nothing I say convince you I am innocent? If innocence gives strength, I shall soon be at liberty."
Henrique smiled scornfully, and hurried the young man away.
"You will not be alone; your prison-cell is shared by another—Phenee, the Jew. An old friend of yours, is he not?" Henrique asked.
"Friend—no! I have only spoken to him once in my life. What is he arrested for?"
"Being a receiver of stolen goods," grimly.
Diniz thought suddenly of Miriam, and wondered how she would bear this blow. Her only relative and dearly-loved parent torn from her side, to linger in a damp cell. How bitterly he blamed himself for having been the cause of Phenee's capture! If he had not disclosed the secret of Phenee having bought the poignard from Jarima, no one would have suspected him.
"Poor girl! She will regret now having helped a stranger, who, in return, has brought her only grief and desolation," he murmured, sorrowfully.
Miriam passed nearly three days in sad thought, when her solitary mourning was broken by the visit of a thickly-veiled woman, whose low, sweet tones fell like softest music on Miriam's ear.
"Are you alone?" she asked, glancing questioningly round the room.
"Yes. Did you want me?"
"I do, very badly. I remembered only to-day that you once proved a true friend to Diniz Sampayo, and I came to know if you would again aid him?" throwing back her veil, and disclosing a pale, sweet face, stamped by deepest grief.
"Diniz Sampayo! But is he, then, in need of help—in danger?" a sudden fear lighting up her face.
"Yes, he is in prison," sadly.
"You are sure? How can it be possible? What has he done?" in amazed wonder.
"He has done nothing. Only his enemies have thrown the suspicion of his having stolen a poignard from Manuel Tonza—a poignard which I know he bought here. It is my fault this has happened. It was to avenge the death of the man I loved—his dearest friend—that he placed his life in peril!"
"I remember well. It is quite true he bought it here, soon after Jarima, the fisherman, had sold it to my grandfather. He, poor dear, is also in sorrow, imprisoned for having received stolen goods, as if he could tell when things are stolen!" indignantly.
"I am very sorry, Miriam; but if you help me, you will help your grandfather also," Lianor urged gently.
"I will!" Miriam cried firmly; "I will never give up until I have them both safely outside that odious prison!"
Lianor gazed with grateful affection at the girl's expressive face, which now wore such a look of determined courage.
"If I can do anything, let me know directly," Lianor said, gently. "Gold may perhaps be useful, and I have much."
"Thank you, but I am rich; and I know grandfather would lose all, rather than his liberty. You are Don Garcia's daughter, are you not?"
"Yes," somewhat sadly. "You know me?"
"By sight, yes."
"I shall see you again, I hope," Lianor said, as Miriam followed her to the door. "You will tell me of your success or failure?"
"Yes; I will come or write."
When her charming visitor had gone, Miriam returned to her seat, a pained expression on her bright face.
"He also there. Poor Diniz! But I will save him yet," determinedly.
Hastily opening a heavy iron box, she drew out a handful of gold.
Placing this in her pocket, she softly left the house, and scarcely knowing what instinct prompted her, she hurried towards a small hotel not far from the sea.
"Can you tell me," she began breathlessly to a sunburnt man standing near, "if there are any ships leaving here to-morrow?"
"I don't know, senora. I will inquire," he answered politely, and after an absence of about ten minutes, he returned to say "that Captain Moriz, of the Eagle, was even then preparing for departure on the morrow."
"Where does he live?" Miriam said, eagerly.
"He is staying at this hotel at present."
"Do you think I could see him? It is very important."
"I dare say. You can at least try," smilingly.
The Jewess thanked her good-natured commissioner, and lightly ascended the steps.
"I wish to see Captain Moriz. Is he in?"
"I think so," the man answered after one quick glance at Miriam; "I will inquire."
Miriam waited with growing impatience until the man returned, and was relieved when she heard that the captain was not only there, but would see her.
With wildly beating heart the girl followed her conductor to a large, darkly-furnished room, where, by a table scattered with papers, sat a tall, bronzed seaman.
"I believe you are leaving India to-morrow? Would you mind telling me where you are going?"
"To Africa," a look of surprise crossing his face.
"Are you going to take passengers?"
"That was not my intention."
"But if any one asked you, would you refuse?"
"I don't know. I did not want any one on board," Moriz answered uneasily.
"If you knew it would do some one a great service? I am rich, and would pay you well; so do not hesitate on that account."
"Is it you who wish to go?"
Miriam blushed, and bit her lip angrily. She had not intended to betray her secret so soon.
"Yes, it is I, and two other people. Will you take us, and set us down on one of those small islands on the coast, where no one would find us?"
Moriz hesitated; but he could not withstand the eager pleading in the slumbrous eyes, the intense pathos in the sweet voice.
"Yes," he said at last, very slowly, "I will take you on board; but you must be ready by to-morrow night. I cannot wait for stragglers," trying to force much severity into his tones.
"Oh, thank you! I am content now. Do not fear; we shall be in time. Until then adieu," she said softly.
And, with a graceful bow, she departed.
Her next step was in the direction where Phenee was confined.
She found no difficulty in finding the jailer, a hard-looking man enough, though Miriam thought she could see a gentle expression in his eyes when they rested on two young children, whose pale, wasted features gave evidence of close confinement in that dreary place.
"I may win him yet by those little ones," she murmured; "gold will have power to touch his heart for their sakes."
"You wished to see me, senora?"
"Yes. I want you to answer a few questions. First, have you not got Phenee, the Jew, and Diniz Sampayo here?"
"Yes, senora."
"Are they together?"
"No, senora."
"Could it be possible for you to set them free, without fear of detection?" eagerly.
"Yes, senora; but I am not a traitor."
"But think, Vincent: my poor grandfather has done no harm, and he will perish in that horrible place, though innocent. And the Senor Sampayo, as I have proof, bought the poignard himself from my grandfather. Why, then, should you say he stole it?" indignantly.
"It is not I who accused him; my duty here is to guard the prisoners— not to try them."
"Vincent," Miriam continued, in a low, pleading voice, "you are poor; your little children are pining for want of fresh, pure air. I am rich, and can give you enough money to live in comfort away from this close den. Release my friends, and the power of saving your children shall be yours. Look!" drawing one of the wondering girls to her side, "see how pale and thin she is! Can you refuse my offer when the lives of those you love depend upon it?"
Vincent felt the truth of her words, and knew the only things he cherished on earth, those innocent children, were slowly fading and pining away for want of fresh air.
The man raised his head, and glanced earnestly at the moved expressive face, then in a low, hoarse voice he muttered:
"Be it so. I will help the prisoners to escape. I cannot see my little ones dying before my eyes, when an opportunity is given me to save them."
"Then to-morrow at sunset you will bring them to the Golden Lion, I will be there, ready with the money."
"I will not fail, senora. May Heaven forgive me if I am doing wrong!"
After a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere she had moved far, she returned, and paused before Vincent.
"I forgot to ask you about that poor man, Jarima," she said, gravely.
"He did not live long, senora, after he was brought here."
"And his wife—children?"
"Of them I know nothing," he answered quietly.
Ere she continued her homeward way, Miriam sped swiftly toward Jarima's poor home, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by the eldest of the three children, and forcing a purse of money into his brown hand, the girl whispered sweetly:
"For your mother, little one; from a friend," then moved silently away, hurrying homeward to await patiently for the long hours to pass, ere her grandfather would be released.
Vincent, true to his word, gathered his few belongings together, and when the evening came, went softly to the cells in which his prisoners lay, and, setting them free, told them to follow him.
Wondering, yet glad, Phenee, leaning on Diniz's arm for support, slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led them toward the hotel Miriam had named.
There, sure enough, the young Jewess was waiting, and after tenderly embracing Phenee, and smiling softly at Diniz, she turned to Vincent and placed a bag of gold in his hand.
"This is your reward. May you and your little ones live in happiness!" she said earnestly.
"We leave Goa to-night, senora. My life would be worth nothing if I stayed here after this. Good-by, and thank you for your generosity."
Miriam hastened her grandfather to the ship, shocked at his feebleness; but for Sampayo he would scarcely have been able to get there.
Only once he spoke to the girl ere he retired to his cabin for the night.
"The money and jewels, Miriam—what have you done with them?"
"They are here, grandfather. I brought everything of value away with me."
"That is right, child. You are a good girl!"
Miriam stood rather sadly beside the bulwarks, gazing at the land in which she had been born, and which she was now leaving forever.
A low sigh broke from her lips.
"Why do you sigh? Are you sorry to quit your native land?" a voice whispered in her ear.
"Yes; though for my grandfather's sake I cannot deeply regret it," Miriam answered, gazing at Diniz with tear-dimmed eyes.
"I have not thanked you yet for having released me from that dreadful place, or even a worse doom. I am still scarcely able to realize my good fortune. What made you, a stranger, think of one whom all others had forgotten?"
"Not all. It was Donna Lianor who told me where you were, and asked me to help you," Miriam said, blushing beneath his tender, grateful gaze. "Besides, I looked upon you as a friend," almost inaudibly.
"That is what I want to be—your friend. And Lianor—how is she?— well?"
"As well as it is possible to be under the heavy trial she went through this morning. She was married to Manuel Tonza," sadly.
"Poor girl! Poor Lianor! Hers is indeed an unhappy lot!" Diniz murmured pityingly.