The reason of the captain’s denunciation of George Macbean was a mystery. When he mentioned the Englishman’s name she had noticed a flash in his deep-set eyes betokening a deadly, deep-rooted hatred. And yet it was upon this very man that all her thoughts and reflections had of late been centred.
As they were alone in that grim, gloomy room with its barred partition—the governor having granted them a private conference—she explained how the Socialists had endeavoured to make capital out of the charges against him with a view to obtaining her father’s dismissal from office. She made no mention of her compact with Dubard or her engagement to him, but merely explained how at the eleventh hour, while Montebruno was on his feet in the Chamber of Deputies, the mysterious note had been placed in his hand which had had the effect of arresting the charges he was about to pour forth.
Solaro listened to her in silence while she gave a description of the scene in the Chamber, and related certain details of the conspiracy which she had learned through her father, the details gathered in secret by Vito Ricci.
“Ah?” he sighed at last, having listened open-mouthed. “It is exactly as I expected. Your father’s enemies are mine. Having drawn me safely into their net, they intend to use my condemnation as proof of the insecurity of the frontier and the culpability of the Minister of War.”
“But if they attack the Minister they must attack me personally?” exclaimed the general in surprise; for he had been in ignorance of the widespread intrigue to hold the Ministry of War up to public ridicule and condemnation. “As the frontier is under my command, I am personally responsible for its security?”
“Exactly,” Solaro said in a somewhat quieter tone. “If His Excellency had ordered a revision of my trial, I should most certainly have been proved innocent, and that being so, the Socialists would have had no direct charge which they could level against the Ministry. But as it is, I stand here condemned, imprisoned as a traitor, and therefore my general is culpable, and above him the Minister himself.”
“My father should have pardoned you long ago. It is infamous!” Mary declared, with rising anger. “By refusing your appeal for a new trial he placed himself in this position of peril!”
“Had I been released I would have given into his hands certain information by which he could have crushed the infamous intrigue against him,” said the man behind the bars in a low, desperate tone. “But now it is too late for a revision of my sentence. Our enemies have triumphed. I am to be sent to Gorgona, sent to my death, while the plot against His Excellency still exists, and the coup will be made against him at the very moment when he feels himself the most secure.” Then, watching the pale face, he added suddenly, “Forgive me, signorina, for speaking frankly like this; he is, I recollect, your father. But he has done me a grave injustice; he could have saved me—saved himself—if he had cared to do so.”
“But you have said that my father fears to give you your liberty?” She remarked. “If that is so, it is fear, and not disinclination, that has prevented him granting you a pardon?”
“It is both,” he declared hoarsely.