Even as I did so my pulse gave a bound of joy. The heavy eyelids trembled—ever so slightly—the chest expanded in a gentle sigh, and slowly—oh, so slowly!—the eyes of Dom Miguel unclosed and gazed upon us with their accustomed sweetness and intelligence.
“Master! Master!” cried Pedro, bending over with trembling eagerness, “it is done! It is done, my master! The Revolution is accomplished—Fonseca is supreme in Rio—the army is ours! The country is ours! God bless the Republic of Brazil!”
My own heart swelled at the glad tidings, now heard for the first time. But over the face of the martyred chief swept an expression of joy so ecstatic—so like a dream of heaven fulfilled—that we scarcely breathed as we watched the light grow radiant in his eyes and linger there while an ashen pallor succeeded the flush upon his cheeks.
Painfully Dom Miguel reached out his arms to us, and Pedro and I each clasped a hand within our own.
“I am glad,” he whispered, softly. “Glad and content. God bless the Republic of Brazil!”
The head fell back; the light faded from his eyes and left them glazed and staring; a tremor passed through his body, communicating its agony even to us who held his hands, as by an electric current.
Pedro still kneeled and sobbed, but I contented myself with pressing the hand and laying it gently upon Dom Miguel’s breast.
Truly it was done, and well done. In Rio they were cheering the Republic, while here in this isolated cottage, surrounded by the only carnage the Revolution had involved, lay stilled forever that great heart which had given to its native land the birthright of Liberty.
Lesba had dressed Valcour’s wound with surprising skill, and throughout the long, dreary night she bathed the girl’s hot forehead and nursed her as tenderly as a sister might, while Paola sat silently by and watched her every movement.