“Fear!” repeated the Count, a smile flitting over his dark countenance. “But we trifle precious time. What have you to tell me?”
“Something important to our cause,” replied the officer, drawing nearer to his companion. “But first, how goes it yonder?”
He pointed with his finger in the direction of the closet. Federico instinctively started back, but again applied his eye to the loophole on hearing the Count’s answer. “I have just come thence,” he said, “and must soon return. The hand of death is upon him—in vain would he parry the blow. Still the struggle is a hard one; he persists in discrediting his danger, and will abandon none of his habits. But the remorseless tyrant is there, soon to claim him for his own.”
“Then we must take our measures without delay,” said the officer.
“They are already taken,” was his companion’s quiet answer.
“Your colleagues are agreed?”
“Fully agreed.”
“And now?”
“Read that,” said the Count, taking a large folded paper from a portfolio, and spreading it before his friend, who devoured its contents with every demonstration of extreme surprise.
“His handwriting! his signature!” he cried. “A revocation, annihilating the shameless intrigues and machinations of years! Now, Heaven be praised, our country and religion—the faith, honour, and dignity of Spain are rescued! How was it obtained? How possible? My noble friend, you are indeed a great statesman!”