Again I looked up; but this time her eyes were lowered and her expression was set and impenetrable.
“Do not let us part in anger,” I resumed, a tremor creeping into my voice in spite of me—for this girl had been very dear to my heart. “Let us say we have both acted according to the dictates of conscience, and cherish only memories of the happy days we have passed together, to comfort us in future years.”
She started, with upraised hand and eager face half turned toward the door. Far away in the distance I heard the tramp of many hoofs.
“They are coming, senhor!” called the man who stood beside the horses—one of our patriots. “It’s the troop of Uruguayans, I am sure.”
Pedro, the station-master, ran from his little office and extinguished the one dim lamp that swung from the ceiling of the room in which we stood.
In the darkness that enveloped us Lesba grasped my arm and whispered “Come!” dragging me toward the door. A moment later we were beside the carriage.
“Mount!” she cried, in a commanding voice. “I will ride inside. Take the road to San Tarem. Quick, senhor, as you value both our lives!”
I gathered up the reins as Pedro slammed tight the carriage door. A crack of the whip, a shout of encouragement from the two patriots, and we had dashed away upon the dim road leading to the wild, unsettled plains of the North Plateau.
They were good horses. It surprised me to note their mettle and speed, and I guessed they had been carefully chosen for the night’s work—an adventure of which this dénouement was scarcely expected. I could see the road but dimly, but I gave the horses slack rein and they sped along at no uncertain pace.
I could no longer hear the hoof-beats of the guards, and judged that either we had outdistanced them or the shrewd Pedro had sent them on a false scent.