“Ride with Senhor Harcliffe to the station at Cruz. Take there the train for Rio. Present the American to Mazanovitch, who is to obey his instructions.”
The men bowed silently.
“But you, senhor,” I said, eagerly, “can you not yourself assist us in this search?”
“I never work,” was the reply, drawled in his mincing manner. “But the men I have given you will do all that can be done to assist you. For myself, I think I shall ride on to de Pintra’s and kiss my sister good morning. Perhaps she will give me a bite of breakfast, who knows?”
Such heartlessness amazed me. Indeed, the man was past my comprehension.
“And General Fonseca?” said I, hesitating whether or no to put myself under Paola’s command, now that the chief was gone.
“Let Fonseca go to the devil. He would cry ‘I told you so!’ and refuse to aid you, even though his own neck is in jeopardy.” He looked at his watch. “If you delay longer you will miss the train at Cruz. Good morning, senhor. How sad that you cannot breakfast with us!”
Touching his hat with a gesture of mock courtesy he rode slowly on, and the next moment, all irresolution vanishing, I put spurs to my horse and bounded away, the two men following at my heels.
Presently I became tortured with thoughts of Dom Miguel, stifling in his tomb of steel. And under my breath I cursed the heartless sang froid of Francisco Paola, who refused to be serious even when his friend was dying.
“The cold-blooded scoundrel!” I muttered, as I galloped on; “the cad! the trifling coxcomb! Can nothing rouse him from his self-complaisant idiocy?”