“That matters little,” returned Mazanovitch. “Have we your assurance of safety?”
We heard the voices of Valcour and de Souza in angry dispute; then the captain shouted: “Stand aside!” and there came a furious blow upon the door that shattered the panels.
Bastro raised his rifle and fired. A cry answered the shot, but instantly a second crash followed. The bars were torn from their sockets, the splintered door fell inward, and before we could recover from the surprise we were looking into the muzzles of a score of carbines leveled upon us.
“Very well,” said Paola, tossing the end of his cigarette through the open doorway. “We are prisoners of war. Peste! my dear Captain; how energetic your soldiers are!”
A moment later we were disarmed, and then, to our surprise, de Souza ordered our feet and our hands to be securely bound. Only Lesba escaped this indignity, for the captain confined her in a small room adjoining our own and placed a guard at the door.
During this time Valcour stood by, sullen and scowling, his hands clinched nervously and his lips curling with scorn.
“You might gag us, my cautious one,” said Paola, addressing the officer, who had planted himself, stern and silent, in the center of the room while his orders were being executed.
“So I will, Senhor Paola; but in another fashion,” was the grim reply.
He drew a paper from his breast and continued, “I will read to you my orders from his Majesty, the Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil, dispatched from the station at Cuyaba as he was departing for his capital to quell the insurrection.”
He paused and slowly unfolded the paper, while every eye—save that, perhaps, of Mazanovitch—was fixed upon him with intent gaze.