His daughter! How much of the mystery that had puzzled me this simple word revealed!
Paola, still kneeling and covering his face with his hands, was sobbing like a child; Mazanovitch drew a long breath and allowed his lids to again droop slowly over his eyes; and then Lesba looked up and our eyes met.
“I am just in time, Robert,” she murmured happily, and bent over Valcour to hide the flush that dyed her sweet face.
I started, and looked around me. In the gathering twilight the forms of the slaughtered Uruguayans lay revealed where they had fallen, for not a single member of Dom Pedro’s band of mercenaries had escaped the vengeance of the patriots.
Those of our rescuers who survived were standing in a little group near by, leaning upon their long rifles, awaiting further commands.
Among them I recognized Pedro, and beckoning him to follow me I returned to the house and lifted a door from its hinges. Between us we bore it to the yard and very gently placed Valcour’s slight form upon the improvised stretcher.
She moaned at the movement, slowly unclosing her eyes. It was Paola’s face that bent over her and Paola that pressed her hand; so she smiled and closed her eyes again, like a tired child.
We carried her into the little chamber from whence Lesba had escaped, for in the outer room lay side by side the silent forms of the martyrs of the Republic.
Tenderly placing Valcour upon the couch, Pedro and I withdrew and closed the door behind us.
I had started to pass through the outer room into the yard when an exclamation from the station-master arrested me. Turning back I found that Pedro had knelt beside Dom Miguel and with broken sobs was pressing the master’s hand passionately to his lips. My own heart was heavy with sorrow as I leaned over the outstretched form of our beloved chief for a last look into his still face.