Then they turned away, and in another hour once more pushed on into the forest.
The black troops were coming home again when they halted at a coffee-planter's fazienda within easy march of the coast to allow the rear guard to come up. They had met with no resistance since they crossed the river. The rebels had melted away before them and vanished into the forests and marshes of the interior, and the troops had pushed on into a waste and empty country finding only a few deserted villages here and there. This was, however, very much what their leader had expected, for he knew that in an affair of this kind everything usually turns upon the first success, and he had made his plans with that fact in view. Dom Clemente Figuera was, at least, a capable soldier.
The fazienda was old and somewhat ruinous. Its prosperity had departed, though plantations of coffee and cocoa still stretched about the rambling white house and dusky laborers' sheds, and a little coarse sugar was made chiefly for the sake of the resultant rum. Cocoa could no longer be grown there by antiquated methods at a profit, and there had of late been trouble about the labor supply. Standing where it did within easy reach of the coast, the fazienda was open to inspection, and the rulers of that colony hadof late been making inquiries as to the way in which the legislation that permitted the planters to engage the negroes brought down from the bush was carried out. Indeed, its owners realized with concern that there was likely to be a change in their ruler's views. Dom Clemente had, in fact, issued one or two proclamations which filled them with alarm, for they knew that what he said was usually done.
Still, during the few days the troops halted there the white planters had many guests, men who had, for the most part, axes to grind. They wished to discover how the changes Dom Clemente appeared to be contemplating might affect their trade, which like everything else in that country depended upon the labor supply. Some of them wanted concessions, and to be the first to benefit by any reprisals that might be made upon the rebels, and others had grievances against the inland officials whom they supposed Dom Clemente was not altogether satisfied with. It was also, they felt, desirable to gain his ear, or, at least, those of his subordinates, before affairs were debated officially when he reached the coast, but perhaps, Dom Clemente was aware of this, for he had most vexatiously remained behind, and those under him had, it seemed, instructions to observe a judicious reticence. In this case, at least, they also considered it advisable to carry their instructions out.
Ormsgill, however, knew very little about what was going on, and late on the second afternoon after he reached the fazienda he sat listlessly in a half-ruinous shed which was partly filled with bags ofcoarse sugar. The door was shut, and he fancied there was a sentry on guard outside it, but from where he sat he could look out through an unglazed window across the tall green cane towards the wooded ridge that shut the plantation in. It is also possible that he could have got out that way and slipped into the cane without anybody noticing him, for black sentries are not invariably watchful, but he had given Dom Clemente his parole, and he would have had to leave behind the boys he had brought down. Besides, he was utterly listless. He had for several months overtaxed his physical strength, and the fever of the country had rudely shaken him, and left behind it an apathetic lassitude, as it frequently does.
It was very hot in the shed which had lain since morning under a scorching sun, and the glare that still streamed in through the window hurt his heavy eyes. He sat on an empty case, ragged and travel-stained, brooding heavily while the perspiration trickled from his worn face. Nothing seemed to matter, and it would have afforded him little pleasure had he been offered his liberty. He would, he knew, leave all he valued behind him when he left that country, and worn out in body as he was, and enervated in will, he shrank from the duty that awaited him, for if he ever reached Las Palmas, which seemed somewhat doubtful, Mrs. Ratcliffe would certainly expect him to carry out his promise. He was in one way sorry for Ada Ratcliffe, but he fancied that she would, after all, probably be satisfied with the things he could offer her. Since that was the case, and she had kept faithwith him, it was evident that he could not draw back now. Perhaps he was foolish, but he was one who kept his word, and at least endeavored to live up to his severely simple code.
At last the glare outside the window commenced to die away, and he could see an odd palm tuft cut with a restful greenness against the paling sky. It was very hot still, but evening was at hand and by and by one of the younger lieutenants who had shown him some kindness on the march would probably come in and talk to him. He fancied he heard the man's footsteps when another half hour had slipped away, and then his voice rose sharply as he said something to the black sentry, but he did not come in, and Ormsgill rose with every nerve quivering when he heard another voice he recognized. Still, he contrived to lay a restraint upon himself when the door opened and Benicia Figuera stood in the entrance.
She was clad in thin draperies that gleamed immaculately white, and the fine lines of the figure they flowed about were silhouetted sharply against the light. Her face was in shadow, but Ormsgill saw the sudden compassion in her eyes, and the blood crept to his forehead. Then she turned for a moment towards the portly, black-robed lady who appeared behind her, and apparently addressed the invisible lieutenant.
"It is very hot here, and I think the Señora Castro would find it more comfortable if you brought her a chair outside," she said. "You can leave the dooropen. It is scarcely likely that I shall run away with your prisoner."
The man outside apparently made no demur and when the portly lady disappeared Benicia turned towards Ormsgill.
"Now we can talk," she said. "You are looking very ill."
Ormsgill drew forward the empty case, and laid some matting on it. "A prisoner's quarters are not usually very sumptuous, and that is the only seat I can offer you," he said. "I was a little astonished when I saw you."
Benicia sat down, and smiled when he found a place among the sugar bags.
"Astonished—that was all?" she said.
The man felt his forehead grow warm, but he laughed. "Well," he said, "I'm not sure that quite expresses everything. Still, I certainly was astonished. I wonder if one could ask what brought you here?"
"I came to meet my father—for one thing," and the little pause might have had its significance, though Benicia who unrolled her fan was handicapped by the fact that she was speaking English and had to choose her words carefully. "I am told that he is expected here some time to-night—but you are ill. It is needless to say—is it not?—that I am sorry."
She looked sorry. In fact, her manner was exquisitely expressive of sympathy, but Ormsgill contrived to answer lightly.
"The thing is not altogether unnatural," he said. "A good many of your father's troops are sick, too. After all, there are worse troubles than a slight attack of African fever, and I shall no doubt get well again presently."
"And you are still—a very little—lame."
It did not strike Ormsgill as significant that she should have noticed this, though he had only moved a pace or two when she came in. Indeed, nothing of that kind would have occurred to him then, for while his blood stirred within him he was struggling fiercely to retain his self-control.
"It is possible that I shall always be a little lame," he said, and laughed somewhat bitterly. "Still, I'm not sure that it matters. You see, I don't even know what will be done with me when we reach the coast."
"You have certainly enemies there—as well as friends. There are gentlemen of some influence who had an interest in Herrero's business, and it seems they have made rather serious complaints against you. It is even suggested that you brought about his death. We, of course, know that such complaints are absurd."
"I wonder why?"
Benicia leaned forward a little with her eyes fixed on him. "It is only strangers one wastes compliments upon," she said. "I think you and I are friends."
She had, it seemed to Ormsgill, not gone far enough, and there was an elusive something in her manner which conveyed the impression that she realized it. He felt his heart beat unpleasantly fast, but he controlled himself, and while he sat silent Benicia's fanclosed with a curious little snap. One could have fancied that she had expected him to speak.
"Still," she said, "there are others who might believe those complaints, and—though you have friends—justice is not always certain in this country. Are you wise in staying here?"
"I'm not sure that I can help it. You see there is a sentry yonder."
Benicia laughed a little. "Pshaw!" she said, "that could be arranged without any great difficulty. One could require, perhaps, two minutes to slip away into the cane, and I think nothing would be discovered until the morning."
"On the contrary, there are several difficulties. For instance, it would probably become evident that the thing had been—arranged. Could I allow you to involve yourself in an affair of that kind?"
"It is by no means certain that I should involve myself. In fact, it is most unlikely," and Benicia laughed again, though she fixed her eyes on him with a curious intentness. "Is it not worth the hazard, Señor, if it set you at liberty to go back to—Las Palmas?"
"No," said Ormsgill with sudden vehemence, while the veins showed swollen on his forehead. "It certainly isn't."
A little gleam of exultation sprang into the girl's eyes, for she recognized the thrill of passion in his voice, and she already knew it was not the woman who awaited him at Las Palmas that he loved. Still, it was, perhaps, fortunate he had answered her inthat decisive fashion, for the Latin nature is curiously complex and always a trifle unstable. Though she could not have told exactly why she had led him on, it is just possible that had he shown any eagerness to profit by the suggestion she had made her tenderness would have changed to vindictive anger. That she would be willing to restore him to the other woman at her peril was, after all, rather more than one could reasonably have expected from her. Benicia Figuera was in several respects very human.
"Ah," she said, with a curious slow incisiveness, "then you are not so very anxious to go back—to her?"
Ormsgill sat still for almost a minute with set lips while the perspiration dewed his lined face. He read what the girl thought in her eyes, and his passion came near shaking the resolution he strove to cling to out of him. Ada Ratcliffe, who did not love him, was far away, and this girl who he felt would, as Desmond had said, stand by the man she loved through everything, sat within a yard of him. He seemed to realize that if he flung aside every consideration that restrained him and boldly claimed her she would listen. Her mere physical beauty had also an almost overwhelming effect on him, and the tinge of color in her cheeks and the softness in her eyes was very suggestive. Then with a little strenuous effort he straightened himself.
"After all," he said, "that is scarcely the question?"
"Still," the girl insisted, "I have offered you liberty, and you do not seem to want it. Since that is so, one could almost fancy it would not grieve you very much if you never went back."
Ormsgill stood up. "Señorita, that is a thing I can not very well answer you. Besides, it does not seem to count. You see, I have pledged myself to go."
"Ah," said the girl, and, though this was no news to her, her fan snapped to again. "Would nothing warrant one breaking such a pledge?"
Then for a few seconds they looked at one another with no disguise between them, and all their thoughts in their eyes. The girl's face was white and intent, the man's drawn and furrowed, and the passion that was fast overmastering all restraint was awake in both alike. It is more than likely that Benicia did not remember that her companion had borne as heavy a stress once before at least. When she came in she had no intention of subjecting him to it again. She had possibly only meant to do him a kindness, perhaps merely wished to see him, though this was a point on which she was never sure; but the fiery Latin nature had been too strong for her. Restraint is, after all, not a characteristic of the people of the South. At length Ormsgill made an effort.
"The thing would be impossible," he said. "I am guarded. There is a sentry at the door."
The girl saw that his control was slackening, for she knew it was not the pledge she had mentionedbut the hazard she would run in setting him at liberty he was referring to, and she laughed, almost exultantly.
"No," she said, "it would be so easy. The sentry is called away for a few minutes. As I said—it could be arranged. Then you slip away into the cane. It is not difficult to reach the city—and you have friends there."
She broke off abruptly, but Ormsgill saw that she had flung her pride away, and, since it was clear that it was not that he might go back to Las Palmas she was willing to connive at his escape, he felt it only remained for him to supply what she had left unsaid. The desire to do so shook him until he closed one hand in an intensity of effort, and for almost half a minute there was a silence that grew almost intolerable.
Then the girl slowly straightened herself, and her eyes gleamed curiously, though her face was very pale.
"The hazard appears too great for you, Señor?" she said.
"Yes," said Ormsgill quietly, noticing the sudden change in her attitude, "in one way it does." Then he made a little abrupt gesture. "As I said, I am pledged to go back to Las Palmas if I am set at liberty—but it is a matter in which I can not permit you to do anything for me."
Benicia stood up very straight, and her eyes had still a curious gleam in them. "Then there is nothing more to be said. It seems you will not listen to any suggestion I can make—and, perhaps, you are right."
She spread out her hands in a vaguely forcefulfashion as she turned from him and moved towards the door, but before she reached it she stopped and glanced at him again. Ormsgill who set his lips tight said nothing at all. Then there was a sound of footsteps outside, and Dom Clemente, who appeared in the entrance, stood still looking at them curiously. It was a moment or two before he turned to Benicia.
"Ah," he said, "I did not know you were here until a few minutes ago and I will not keep you now. I think the Señora is waiting for you."
He stood aside when she swept past him and vanished with a rustle of filmy draperies. Then he turned to Ormsgill.
"Señor," he said, "I am inclined to fancy that you have something to say to me."
The blood rose to Ormsgill's face, and his voice was strained. It was an almost intolerable duty that was laid upon him.
"I am afraid your surmise is not correct," he said. "I have nothing to say."
Dom Clemente let one hand drop on the hilt of his sword. "Señor," he said, "I am informed by my Secretary that the Señorita Benicia Figuera has obtained certain concessions concerning you from a man whose authority we submit to. You are, it seems, to be treated with every consideration, and he will investigate the complaints made against you personally. That," and he made a little impressive gesture, "is evidently the result of the Señorita Benicia's efforts on your behalf. I am here to ask you why she has made them?"
Ormsgill looked at him steadily, though it cost him an effort to answer.
"I have the honor of the Señorita's acquaintance," he said. "It seems she is one who does what she can for her friends. I can offer no other explanation."
"Ah," said Dom Clemente with incisive quietness, "I once informed you that it seemed to me you were doing a perilous thing in going back to Africa. It is possible you will shortly realize that what I said was warranted."
Then he turned and went out, and Ormsgill sat down again with a little gasp, for the tension of the last few minutes had been almost insupportable.
Several hours had passed since Dom Clemente left Ormsgill's quarters when he sat with one of his staff under a lamp in a room of the fazienda. He had laid his kepi on the table, and leaned back in his chair looking at a strip of paper with a little grim smile in his eyes. A negro swathed in white cotton squatted against the wall watching him uneasily, and a black soldier who had led the man in stood with ordered rifle at the door. At length Dom Clemente tossed the paper across to the officer sitting opposite him.
"I should be glad of your opinion," he said.
"It is discreet," said his companion, who examined the paper carefully. "The writer evidently foresaw the possibility of his message falling into the wrong hands. It is also indifferent Portuguese, but I think it is the writing of an educated man."
"Exactly! The question is why should an educated man express himself in that fashion?"
The officer shook his head. "That," he said reflectively, "is a thing I do not understand."
Dom Clemente smiled a little, and took up another strip of paper. "This," he said, "is a message of the same kind which has also fallen into my hands. Doesanything else occur to you when you put the two together?"
"They are from the same man," and then a light seemed to break in upon the officer. "He does not write like a native of the Peninsula."
"No," said Dom Clemente. "I do not think he has ever been there. Still, he had, no doubt, reasons for attempting to write in Portuguese." Then he turned sternly to the crouching negro. "Who gave you this message. Where were you to take the answer?"
"A man of a tribe I do not know," said the messenger who was evidently in a state of terror. "I was to meet him before the morning at a spot about a league away."
"Then," said Dom Clemente, "there is a little service I want from you. You will take some of my soldiers with you when you meet this man. If you attempt to warn him you will probably be shot."
He turned to his companion. "I think it would be advisable for you to go yourself. You will take a reliable sergeant and several files, and arrest the man who wrote this letter. I think you will find that he is the leader of a big game expedition."
The officer raised his eyebrows. "There is no big game in this part of the country."
"That," said Dom Clemente, "is a point the man in question has probably forgotten. In any case, you will arrest him and bring him here. It is, however, advisable that the thing should be done quietly."
The officer signed to the black soldier who moved forward and touched the messenger's shoulder, and Dom Clemente smiled grimly as he once more busied himself with the papers in front of him when they went out.
In the meanwhile Ormsgill lay half-asleep upon a few empty sugar bags in the ruinous shed. His head ached, for the fever still troubled him now and then and the place was almost insufferably hot, but the strain he had borne that afternoon had left him a trifle dazed and insensible to physical discomforts, and at length he sank into fitful slumber. Several times he wakened with a start and closed a hot hand as his troubles returned to him, but he was too limp in mind to grapple with them. It was rather late in the morning when a patter of naked feet and the shouting of orders roused him. It suggested that the troops were being paraded, and looking out through the window he saw Dom Clemente and several officers descend from the planter's house. After that there was a stir and bustle, and by and by he saw a man whom he did not recognize being led towards the house by a group of deferential officers. This, however, did not appear to concern Ormsgill, and leaving the window when his breakfast was brought him he sat down on the sugar bags for another hour or two. Then the door of the shed was flung open and he saw a black sergeant who stood outside beckoning to him.
"Your presence is required," he said in Portuguese.
Ormsgill stood still a moment blinking in the brightness when he left the shed, for the glare of sunlight on trampled sand and white walls set his heavy eyes aching, but when the sergeant made a sign he followed him to the planter's house. He was led into a big scantily furnished room which had green lattices drawn across two of the open windows, but a dazzling shaft of sunlight streamed in through one that was not covered, and he saw a grave-faced gentleman sitting in state at a table. He was, though Ormsgill did not know this, the man who had talked to Benicia on board the gunboat, and had arrived at the fazienda that morning. Two black soldiers with ordered rifles stood motionless behind him, and Dom Clemente sat on the opposite side of the table. Beside him there were also two other officers, one of whom seemed to be acting as secretary, for there was a handful of papers in front of him, and several of Ormsgill's boys squatted, half-naked, impassive figures, against the wall.
Ormsgill stood still, looking at the men at the table with heavy eyes. His thin duck garments were more than a trifle ragged and stained with travel, and his face was haggard. He was, it seemed, to be tried, but he felt no great concern. The result was almost a matter of indifference to him since it only remained for him to go back to Las Palmas if he was set at liberty. There was a momentary silence when he was led in, and then Dom Clemente handed one or two more papers to the secretary.
"There are, as you are aware, several somewhat serious complaints against you," he said in Portuguese. "It is now desirable that they should be investigated. I will have them read to you."
Ormsgill listened gravely while the officer read aloud. He was, it appeared, charged with abducting a native woman from the trader Herrero, and taking away by force labor recruits who had engaged themselves to the latter's associate Domingo. There were also charges of supplying the natives with arms and inciting them to mutiny.
"You have heard?" said the man at the head of the table. "If you do not admit the correctness of all this we will hear what you have to say. You will, however, be required to substantiate it."
Ormsgill roused himself for an effort. After all, liberty was worth something, and it was a duty to attempt to secure it, and for the next quarter of an hour he concisely related all that he had done since he came back to the country after the death of Lamartine. None of those who heard him made any comment, but he could see the little smile of incredulity which now and then flickered into the eyes of the younger officers. The man who sat in state at the head of the table, however, listened gravely, and Dom Clemente's face was expressionless.
"That is all," said Ormsgill at last. "It is very possible that what I have told you may appear improbable, and I can not substantiate it. Most of those concerned are dead. Still, you have some of my boys here, and you can question them."
There was a little silence until the man at the head of the table leaned back in his chair.
"It is a very astonishing story," he said. "There are one or two points I should like made clearer, but in the meanwhile we will hear the boys."
An interpreter was brought in, and with his assistance two of the boys told what they knew. Then he went out again, and Dom Clemente turned to his companion.
"I must admit that I have information which partly bears out what has been said about the native woman Anita," he said. "If this assurance is not sufficient she could be examined later. I have,"—and he looked hard at Ormsgill—"at least no cause to be prejudiced in the prisoner's favor. In the meanwhile one might ask if he can think of nobody else who would support what he has said?"
"No," said Ormsgill dryly, "as I mentioned, most of those concerned are dead."
He saw Dom Clemente glance at the man opposite him who smiled.
"There is one point on which we have not touched," said the latter, who turned to Ormsgill. "How did you get the first eight boys you say you set free out of the country?"
"That," said Ormsgill, "is a thing I can not tell you. It was, at least, not with the connivance of anybody in the city."
Dom Clemente made a little sign to his secretary, who went out, and there was silence for a while. The room was very hot, and Ormsgill felt himself aching in every limb. He had been standing for half an hour now, and his leg was becoming painful. Then therewere footsteps outside, and he gasped with astonishment as a black soldier led Desmond in. The latter, however, turned to the officers.
"You have had me brought here against my will, gentlemen, and it is very possible that you will have grounds for regretting it," he said in English. "It would be a favor if you will tell me what you want?"
The gentleman at the head of the table leaned forward in his chair. "A little information—in the meanwhile," he said quietly. "You recognize the prisoner yonder?"
Dom Clemente translated, and Desmond carefully looked Ormsgill over.
"Well," he said, "I have certainly met him before—in Las Palmas—and other places. He doesn't seem to have thriven since then."
"We would like to know what you were doing at the spot where the soldiers arrested you?"
"That," said Desmond sturdily, "is my own business; and a thing I have not the least intention of telling you."
Two of the officers frowned, but the man at the table waved his hand.
"Well," he said, "we will try another question. It is desirable that we should know how a certain eight boys whom the prisoner brought down to the coast were smuggled out of the country."
Desmond looked at Ormsgill, who nodded. "I think you may as well tell him," he said. "There is reason for believing that our friend yonder who speaks excellent English"—and he indicated DomClemente—"is acquainted with it already. I don't think they can hold—you—responsible."
Then Desmond spoke boldly, answering their questions until almost everything was explained. Dom Clemente's eyes twinkled, and his companion leaned back in his chair with a curious little smile.
"What I have heard is so extraordinary as to be almost incomprehensible," he said. "It seems that you and your friend must have spent a very large amount of money to set these fourteen boys at liberty."
He waved his hand towards the squatting negroes. "Señores," he said turning to the officers, "I would ask you to look at them, and tell me if the thing appears reasonable."
The manner in which the officers smiled was very expressive. It was, they were assured, for these thick-lipped, woolly-haired bushmen crouching half-naked against the wall, without a spark of intelligence in their heavy animal-like faces, that the two English gentlemen had spent money broadcast, faced fatigue and peril, and hazarded the anger of the Government. The thing certainly appeared incomprehensible to them. Desmond guessed their thoughts, and a red flush crept into his sea-bronzed face and a little portentous glint into his eyes.
"I admit that it sounds nonsensical," he said. "Still, Señores, I have the honor of offering you my word."
Then somewhat to the astonishment of all except Dom Clemente, who smiled, the man at the head ofthe table made Desmond a little punctilious inclination.
"Señor," he said, "I think your word would go a long way. In the meanwhile we will hear what the priest has to tell us."
Ormsgill started a little when Father Tiebout was brought in a minute or two later. He sat down and nodded when Dom Clemente had spoken to him.
"Most of what I know is at your service," he said. He commenced with the death of the trader Lamartine, and told his tale quietly but with a certain dramatic force. When he came to the point where he and Nares had written to Ormsgill after Domingo's raid he stopped a moment, and the pause was impressive.
"You will understand, Señores, that we had faith when we wrote to this man," he said.
"You believed he would come back and undertake the task at his peril?"
"The thing," said Father Tiebout quietly, "was, to us at least, absolutely certain."
There was blank astonishment in two of the officers' faces, but the man at the head of the table made a sign of concurrence, and once more a little gleam crept into Dom Clemente's eyes. Then the priest went on, and when at last he stopped there was a full minute's silence. After that the man at the head of the table spoke to Ormsgill, and his voice had a curious note in it.
"How was it you did not ask us to send for this priest and hear him in your defense?" he said.
Ormsgill smiled dryly. "It is not as a rule advisable for a missionary to meddle with affairs of State."
"Ah," said the other man, "it would, I think, make our work easier if none of them did. Well, you have given us a reason, and it is one I could consider satisfactory—in your case."
Then he turned to Desmond. "Señor, I had the honor of asking you a question a little while ago. Perhaps, it may not appear desirable to withhold the information I desired any longer."
Desmond laughed, and looked at him steadily.
"Well," he said, "since you have no doubt guessed my purpose, I will tell you. I came up here to take my friend out of your hands, and if it hadn't been for the thick-headed boy who let the soldiers creep in on us while we were asleep I think I would in all probability have managed it."
"Ah," said the other man spreading out his hands, "I almost believe it is possible."
Then he turned to his companions. "One naturally expects something quite out of the usual course from men like these."
After that he sat silent for at least a minute, until he leaned forward and spoke awhile in a low voice with Dom Clemente who once or twice made a sign of concurrence.
Then he turned to Ormsgill.
"I shall probably have something to say to you again," he said. "This is an affair that demands careful consideration, and in the meantime there are other matters which can not be delayed."
Dom Clemente spoke sharply, and a black sergeant at the door who beckoned Ormsgill and Desmond to follow him went with them to their quarters in the ruinous shed.
"There are, I think, very few men in this country who would have spoken to that man or Dom Clemente as you have done," he said. Then he grinned in a very suggestive fashion. "It is probably fortunate that he seemed to believe you, though if he had been any other man I would have called him very foolish."
Ormsgill said nothing, but sat down among the empty sugar bags, and he and Desmond looked at one another when the patter of the sergeant's feet grew indistinct. Both were glad they were alone, but for a minute or two neither of them broke the silence.
Ormsgill, who reclined among the sugar bags, lighted a cigarette one of the officers had given him before he turned to Desmond.
"I don't know if you are comfortable on that case, but, as you see, I haven't another seat to offer you, and these bags are a trifle sticky," he said. "I understand that my jailers were instructed to show me every consideration."
Desmond laughed as he glanced around the half-ruinous shed. "It's hardly worth while making excuses of that kind," he said. "I'm quite willing to admit that the one thing that's worrying me is the question what your friends mean to do with us."
"It's possible they may set us at liberty, but in the meanwhile you know as much as I do. How did you fall into their hands?"
"I was at Las Palmas when I heard that they were having trouble in the interior. The news wasn't very definite, but it seemed to me I might be wanted and I brought the yacht across as hard as we could drive her."
"Ah," said Ormsgill quietly, "that is, of course, very much the kind of thing one would expect you todo. You were at Las Palmas—but go on. I may ask you something later."
Desmond understood him, and though he had driven thePalestrinamercilessly day after day under the uttermost pressure her boilers would stand he was satisfied. He had not thought it worth while to mention how they had shaken every rag of canvas out while the yacht rolling viciously and shivering in every plate swept along with the spray-clouds flying over her before the big trade breeze combers, or the more arduous days when, while the firemen gasped beneath an almost intolerable heat, they still drove her south at topmost speed over an oily blazing sea across the line. He also fancied he knew what Ormsgill wished to ask him, and a trace of uneasiness crept into his face as he proceeded somewhat hastily.
"Well," he said, "when we got the anchor down I heard that the fighting was over and the troops were coming back again. Somebody told me they had a white prisoner who had evidently been encouraging the rebels, and it seemed to me advisable to set out up country on a shooting trip. There was a rather capable boy among those I hired, and he hadn't much difficulty in making friends with one of the camp followers or carriers when we came up with the troops. After that we followed their track, keeping about a league away from them for almost a week, and I sent you two messages. I suppose you never got them?"
"No," said Ormsgill. "I almost think it's evident that somebody else did."
Desmond made a little sign of concurrence. "Theboy probably sold us, or your friend Dom Clemente was too clever for him. One could fancy that is a very capable man. Anyway, while I was considering how we could arrange to get you off we went to sleep last night in a belt of grass. I took the precaution of sending two sentries out, and I don't know yet why they didn't warn me, but when I awakened early this morning there was a white officer standing over me. As he had several black soldiers with him and we were evidently at his mercy I came along with him. I don't think there was any other course open to me."
"You have done what you could. You brought me no message from Las Palmas?"
Desmond, who once more appeared uneasy, sat silent for a moment or two. Then he leaned forward a trifle with a flush in his face.
"I don't know how you'll take it, but, as a matter of fact, I did," he said. "I brought a letter which Mrs. Ratcliffe gave me, and I believe there was another from Miss Ratcliffe inside it. Unfortunately, one of your friends here confiscated it not long ago as well as every other scrap of paper in my possession."
"They sent me no word when you left Las Palmas before," said Ormsgill with a portentous quietness, though there were signs of tension in his face. Then he straightened himself suddenly. "You are keeping something back. It concerns Ada?"
"It does, and I'm particularly sorry your friends seized that letter. This is an affair I should greatly have preferred to leave in Mrs. Ratcliffe's hands.She"—and Desmond made a little vague gesture—"is a lady of considerable ability and has no doubt explained the thing much more satisfactorily than I could do."
"Go on," said Ormsgill with sharp incisiveness.
Desmond, who still hesitated, looked at him in a curious deprecatory fashion.
"Well," he said, "the fact is Miss Ratcliffe was married the day before I left Las Palmas."
In another moment Ormsgill was on his feet, and his laugh jarred on Desmond's ears.
"Married!" he said hoarsely, clenching one hand tight. "And I've thrown away everything to keep faith with her."
Desmond made a little restraining gesture. "Well," he said, "it's not my business, but I think I understand what you are referring to—and, perhaps, it's scarcely wise to be too sure. With all deference to Mrs. Ratcliffe I can't help fancying you are well out of the other matter. After all, to mention no other reason, it would require a certain amount of courage to recognize that lady as one's mother-in-law."
Ormsgill, who made no answer, turned towards the door, and spoke a few words to the sentry. The latter called to one of his comrades, and Ormsgill, after giving the man a message came back again and sat down quietly.
"I have asked if I may have the letter," he said.
It was brought him ten minutes later unopened, andhe sat very still for awhile after he had read it. Then there was bitterness in his laugh.
"It is in one sense a masterly production," he said. "In fact, both of them are. I am assured that Mrs. Ratcliffe recognized all along that we were never made for one another." He turned, and grasped his companion's shoulder. "Can you tell me anything about this paragon who, it seems, has married Ada?"
A little twinkle crept into Desmond's eyes. "I never heard him called anything of that kind before. Lister, you see, is an unlicked colt, and nobody could have said very much to his credit until lately. Still, he seems to be making an effort to rub out certain defects in his character, and if Miss Ratcliffe can only keep it up they may get along tolerably well together."
"Keep it up?"
Desmond smiled again. "It's probably somewhat delicate ground, but the thing has its whimsical aspect. You see he, perhaps, naturally, regards Miss Ratcliffe as the incarnation of honor and every other estimable equality, which is apt to make her rôle rather a difficult one. I have no doubt her mother has asked you very tactfully not to say anything that might render it harder still if you ever come across Lister, which, if she has any hand in his arrangements, is most unlikely."
"There is a suggestion of that kind here," and Ormsgill gazed at him very grim in face. "You mean that they have not mentioned me to Lister."
"I should consider it very improbable," said Desmond dryly. "As I ventured to suggest, you have, perhaps, after all, no very great cause for regret."
Ormsgill, who said nothing, rose and walked several times up and down the shed, and then moved suddenly towards the door. He spoke a few words to the sentry, after which he sat down and waited for some little time, while Desmond smiled once or twice as he watched him. Then the door was opened, and a black sergeant who appeared in the entrance signed to Ormsgill.
"Dom Clemente can spare you a few minutes," he said.
Ormsgill rose and followed him across the compound and up the veranda stairway into a room where Dom Clemente was sitting alone. He looked up when Ormsgill came in.
"You have some complaint—of the accommodation we have provided you with?" he said.
"No," said Ormsgill, "my business is of a very different nature. You asked me last night, Señor, if I had anything to say to you. I wonder if you will now listen to me for a little while?"
His companion's gesture signified compliance, and Ormsgill proceeded, speaking with a terse directness which, as it happened, served him well. When at last he stopped Dom Clemente looked at him with a little dry smile.
"Señor," he said, "in one sense the explanation is sufficient, though there are, you can understand, respects in which it leaves a little to be desired."
"I make no excuse," and a faint flush crept intoOrmsgill's face. "Only, in this case my mind will always be the same."
The little officer sat still, looking at him steadily, while half a minute slipped away, and Ormsgill felt the silence becoming oppressive. Then he spread one hand out.
"After all," he said, "there are, probably, very few among us who are quite exempt from some folly of this kind, and I think it is to your credit that when you recognized that it was a folly you were willing to carry it out. I may mention that I had the honor of meeting the lady."
Then he made a little expressive gesture. "Señor, you are, at least, one whose word can be relied upon, and that counts for a good deal. It is, however, to be remembered that you are not yet at liberty."
"I think my liberty largely depends upon you. One could fancy that you know how far the complaints against me are credible. In fact, I do not understand why you ever gave them any consideration."
Dom Clemente smiled. "One has usually a motive, Señor, and it is generally wiser not to make it too apparent until the time is ripe. In this case I think the results have warranted everything I have done. Herrero and Domingo, not to mention one or two others, have accomplished their own destruction, though that is, after all, not quite the question. The matter you have laid before me is, it seems to me, one that Benicia must decide."
He rose with the little twinkle still in his eyes. "I will leave you to make it as clear as you can to her."
He went out, and Ormsgill waited, with his heart beating a good deal faster than usual, until Benicia came in. He stood looking at her a moment, with a faint flush in his haggard face.
"Señorita," he said, "I would like you to listen to a story—though it is a little difficult to tell."
For a moment Benicia met his gaze, and saw the little glint in his eyes. She also saw how worn his face was, and the gauntness of his frame, and her compassion was stronger than her pride.
"Ah," she said, "I know it already. I have known it all along."
"Still," said Ormsgill, "there is a little more to be said. I am not going back to Las Palmas if I am set at liberty."
He saw the crimson creep into her forehead. "Benicia," he said, "the woman I was pledged to has cast me off. I am going back to England, and—after all you know—I wonder if I dare venture to ask you if you will come with me."
"Ah," said the girl with a simplicity that had a certain stateliness in it, "I think I would go anywhere with you."
Then Ormsgill strode forward masterfully, and it was a minute later when she smiled up at him. "This," she said, "is not what I meant to do—at least, just now—but when I saw you looking so worn and anxious and remembered that you were still a prisoner I forgot how I hated that Englishwoman. I only remembered how I loved you."
A little later there were footsteps outside, and theblack sergeant once more appeared in the doorway, while when he led Ormsgill away Benicia went straight to a room guarded by a dusky soldier, and demanded to see the officer within. He sent his secretary away, and then looked up at her with a little smile.
"You have a promise to keep," she said. "I have come to ask you to set these two Englishmen at liberty."
"Ah," said the man, "there are, no doubt, one or two reasons for this that you can suggest?"
"You know they have done no wrong."
"It is possible. Still, we have not altogether settled that question yet. Is there nothing else that you can urge in their favor?"
"They are friends of mine."
The officer made a little grave gesture. "That," he said, "goes a long way, but, after all, I am not sure that it goes quite far enough."
Benicia's face grew a trifle warm, but she smiled. "One," she said, "is the man I am going to marry."
Her companion's eyes twinkled. "Well," he said, "in that case we must certainly see what can be done before we march to-morrow."
Benicia asked nothing further, for she was satisfied, and soon after she left the officer Ormsgill sat down opposite Desmond in the half-ruinous shed. He said a few disjointed words, and Desmond laughed cheerfully.
"I knew how it was as soon as I saw you," he said. "Well, I believe we could get hold of an American missionary, and thePalestrina's ready."
The rest of that day passed very slowly with them both, but early next morning they were once more led into the presence of Dom Clemente and the gray-haired officer. When they came in the latter signed to his secretary, and Father Tiebout, who quietly went out. A few minutes afterwards the secretary led Benicia in, and the officer turned to Ormsgill.
"We have," he said, "again carefully considered the complaints against you. As the result of it I think I can venture to set the Señor Desmond at liberty, and to place you at the Señorita Benicia's disposal. She"—and he smiled gravely—"will be held accountable for your behavior while you remain in this country. If it is permissible, I might advise her not to countenance any further undertakings of the kind that brought you back to Africa."