“Halt!” cried a stern voice.
The way had led me beneath some overhanging trees, and as I pulled the horse back upon his haunches I caught the gleam of a revolver held by a mounted man whose form was enveloped in a long cloak.
Then came a peal of light laughter.
“Why, ‘tis our Americano!” said the horseman, gayly; “whither away, my gallant cavalier?”
To my delight I recognized Paola’s voice.
“Dom Miguel is imprisoned in the vault!” I almost screamed in my agitation; “and Madam Izabel has stolen the key.”
“Indeed!” he answered. “And where is Senhora Izabel?”
“She has fled to Rio.”
“And left her dear father to die? How unfilial!” he retorted, laughing again. “Do you know, Senhor Harcliffe, it somehow reminds me of a story my nurse used to read me from the ‘Arabian Nights,’ how a fond daughter planned to—”
“For God’s sake, sir, the man is dying!” I cried, maddened at his indifference.