“On what charge?”
“The charge of treason!”
Paola laughed softly, and in a tone denoting genuine amusement.
“Come, my brave detective,” said he; “we will go to the Emperor together, and accuse each other to our hearts’ content!”
He attempted to take Valcour’s arm, in his inimitable jaunty fashion; but the spy shook him off and followed Paola from the room, trembling with suppressed rage.
For my part, I knew not what to make of the scene, except that these men were bitter enemies, and each endeavoring to destroy the other. But could Valcour’s accusation be true? Had the torch of revolution really been fired?
God forbid that I should ever meet with such another man as Francisco Paola again! Deep or shallow, coxcomb or clever conspirator, true man or traitor—it was as impossible to read him or to judge his real character as to solve the mighty, unfathomable secrets of Nature.
One moment I called him traitor; the next I was sure he was faithful to the Cause. But who could judge the man aright? Not I, indeed!
Thus reflecting, I approached the window and looked out. Eight feet below me one of the Uruguayan guards paced back and forth upon the green lawn, his short carbine underneath his arm, and a poniard swinging at his side.
The fellow looked up and saw me.