She cast an odd glance in my direction, bowed coldly to her father, and then seated herself at a small table littered with papers.
A cloud appeared upon Dom Miguel’s brow. He hesitated an instant, and then addressed her in a formal tone.
“I shall not need you to-day, Izabel.”
She turned upon him with a fierce gesture.
“The letters to Piexoto are not finished, sir,” she exclaimed.
“I know, Izabel; I know. But Mr. Harcliffe will act as my secretary, hereafter; therefore he will attend to these details.”
She rose to her feet, her eyes flashing, but her face as immobile as ever.
“I am discharged?” she demanded.
“Not that, Izabel,” he hastened to reply. “Your services have been of inestimable value to the Cause. But they are wearing out your strength, and some of our friends thought you were too closely confined and needed rest. Moreover, a man, they considered—”
“Enough!” said she, proudly. “To me it is a pleasure to toil in the cause of freedom. But my services, it seems, are not agreeable to your leaders—rather, let us say, to that sly and treacherous spy, Francisco Paola!”