“Come in,” said Fonseca, and the new arrival threw aside his cloak and sat with us at the table.
“The last supper, eh?” he said, in a voice that quavered somewhat. “For to-morrow we die. Eh, brothers?—to-morrow we die!”
“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die to-morrow, if you like; die to-night, for all I care. The rest of us intend to live long enough to shout huzzas for the United States of Brazil!”
“In truth, Senhor Piexoto,” said Marco, who was busily eating, “we are in no unusual danger to-night.”
Startled by the mention of the man’s name, I regarded him with sudden interest.
The reputation of Floriano Piexoto, the astute statesman who had plotted so well for the revolutionary party, was not unknown to me, by any means. Next to Fonseca no patriot was more revered by the people of Brazil; yet not even the general was regarded with the same unquestioning affection. For Piexoto was undoubtedly a friend of the people, and despite his personal peculiarities had the full confidence of that rank and file of the revolutionary party upon which, more than upon the grandees who led it, depended the fate of the rising republic.
His smooth-shaven face, sunken cheeks, and somewhat deprecating gaze gave him the expression of a student rather than a statesman, and his entire personality was in sharp contrast to the bravado of Fonseca. To see the two leaders together one would never suspect that history would prove the statesman greater than the general.
“Danger!” piped Piexoto, shrilly, in answer to Sergeant Marco’s remark, “you say there is no danger? Is not de Pintra dead? Is not the ring gone? Is not the secret vault at the Emperor’s mercy?”
“Who knows?” answered Fonseca, with a shrug.
“And who is this?” continued Piexoto, turning upon me a penetrating gaze. “Ah, the American secretary, I suppose. Well, sir, what excuse have you to make for allowing all this to happen under your very nose? Are you also a traitor?”