At once the medley within died down. Men had no words as yet to meet this astounding development. Dom Corria went to where his rival lay. Dom Miguel was dying. His eyes met De Sylva's in a strange look of recognition. He tried to speak, but choked and died.
Then the living President stooped over the dead one. He murmured something. Those near thought afterward that he said:
"Is it worth it? Who knows!"
But he was surely President now; seldom have power and place been more hardly won.
His quiet glance sought Philip.
"Thank you, Mr. Hozier," he said. "All Brazil is your debtor. As for me, I can never repay you. I owe you my life, the lives of my daughter and of many of my friends, and the success of my cause."
Philip heard him as in a dream. He was looking at Iris. Her eyes were shining, her lips parted, yet she did not come to him. By her side was standing a white-haired old man, an Englishman, a stranger. Bending over Coke, and wringing his hands in incoherent sorrow, was another elderly Briton. A fear that Philip had never before known gripped his heartstrings now. He was pale and stern, and his forehead was seamed with foreboding.
"Who is that with Miss Yorke?" he said to Dom Corria.
The President had a rare knack of answering a straight question in a straight way.
"A Mr. Bulmer, I am told," he said.