The horses were drawn up to the side of the street and left standing. As Clif and the driver entered the little park, which seemed untenanted, a brown-limbed lad, lithe and sinewy, hastily entered by another gate.
He was panting for breath as if from a long and hard run, but he did not slacken speed among the trees and bushes a few paces behind the others.
The driver glanced back once and saw him, but Clif continued on unsuspectingly to where the park ended abruptly at a low stone rampart.
Beyond this was a steep declivity—a stone precipice—which extended down with scarcely a break to the roofs of the houses one hundred feet below.
The face of the precipice was of rock with here and there a tuft of scraggly vegetation growing in the small crevices.
Clif paid little attention to these details. He was lost in admiration of the really beautiful view stretched out before him.
Darkness was almost at hand, but away in the east, a soft rosy glow still lingered above the hills. Down below at his feet was a panorama of lights and shadows, twinkling sparks of fire, and black objects grotesque in their vagueness.
The river flowed beyond the town, lighter in color and bearing smudges which on nearer view would have resolved themselves into steamers and ships and fishing craft of many sizes.
This much Clif saw and admired, then he remembered the lateness of the hour and was on the point of turning to go when suddenly he felt a pair of sinewy arms clasped about his body.
A low voice hissed some command in Portuguese, then a soft object, evidently a coat, was thrown over his head and wound tightly.