Captain Mazanovitch was with us. He had retired from active service to enjoy his remaining years in his daughter’s society, and although he seldom allowed one of us to catch a glimpse of his eyes, the face of the old detective had acquired an expression of content that was a distinct advantage to it.
I had chosen to occupy my old room off the library, and early on the morning following our arrival I arose and passed out into the shrubbery. Far down the winding walks, set within the very center of the vast flower gardens, was the grave of Dom Miguel, and thither I directed my steps. As I drew near I saw the square block of white marble that the patriots had caused to be erected above the last resting-place of their beloved chieftain. It bore the words
“MIGUEL DE PINTRA
SAVIOR OF BRAZIL”
and is to this day the mecca of all good republicans.
Lesba was standing beside the tomb as I approached. Her gown was as white as the marble itself, but a red rose lay upon her bosom and another above Dom Miguel. She did not notice my presence until I touched her arm, but then she turned and smiled into my eyes.
“‘Savior of Brazil!’” she whispered softly. “It is splendid and fitting. Did you place it there, Robert?”
“No,” I answered; “the credit is due to Piexoto. He claimed the privilege for himself and his associates, and I considered it his right.”
“Dear uncle!” said she; and then we turned reverently away and strolled through the gardens. Every flower and shrub lay fair and fresh under the early sun, and we admired them and drank in their fragrance until suddenly, as we turned a corner of the hedge, I stopped and said:
“Lesba, it was here that I first met you; on this exact spot!”