A young girl, about eighteen, with a slender, elegant form, beautiful straight features, and eyes of softest darkness, sitting before a large table covered with maps and drawings, which she was trying vainly to study.
"It is no use!" she cried, at last, pushing back the mass of thick black hair falling over her white brow; "I shall never be able to get India by heart, unless I can see the places. I wish papa would let us go reconnoitering amongst the ruined temples and other mysterious buildings; it is so annoying staying here day after day, never seeing anything outside the palace."
"My dear Lianor," said her companion, a young man scarcely older than herself, and wonderfully like her, "what new idea, have you got now?"
"An idea of seeing more of the curious places I have read so much about. Fancy living a lifetime in a country and never going beyond one town! If I do not get some excitement, I shall die of ennui, so I warn you."
"I quite agree with you, and if uncle would only let us, it would be delightful, seeking out the temples so long deserted. But you know he would not," shrugging his shoulders.
"I'm not so sure of that. Papa never refuses me anything, and when he sees it is necessary to my happiness I should go, he will consent. Anyhow, I will try," jumping eagerly to her feet. "Come, Leone."
Her cousin rose, and took the white, outstretched hand; then like two children they crossed the beautiful marble hall, until, arriving before a door draped with rich curtains, Lianor paused and softly knocked.
"Come in!" rather impatiently.
With a smile Lianor opened the door, and entered, followed by Pantaleone.
In the room, handsomely fitted up as a study, sat a fine-looking, middle-aged man, busily wilting; his dark face wore an expression of severity as he glanced toward the intruders.
It quickly faded, however, on seeing the pretty figure standing there; instead, a gentle smile wreathed his lips.
"Well, Lianor, dearest, what is it?"
"Papa," and the girl stole noiselessly behind his chair, winding her arms around his neck. "I am so miserable, I have nothing to amuse me, and unless you do something to make me happier, I shall go melancholy mad!"
"My dearest child, what is the matter? Are you ill?" anxiously turning to peer into the lovely face.
"No, papa; but I am so tired of this life."
"That is not like my little girl. And I have tried hard to make you happy. Nothing in reason have I refused you—jewels, such as a queen might envy; priceless stuffs to deck your pretty form, and other things which no girl of your age ever possessed," reproachfully.
Lianor bent down, and kissed his brow, lovingly—repentingly.
"You have been a great deal too good to me. But there is something more I wish to ask; it will make me happy if you will grant my request."
"We shall see. Tell me first what it is."
Lianor briefly related her wish to visit the old temple which lay beyond Goa, to search with Panteleone the curious old ruins she had so often read of in her studies.
Don Gracia looked grave; evidently this project did not find much favor in his eyes.
A Portuguese by birth, but sent to Goa as Viceroy, Don Garcia de Sa had lived there long enough to know the treacherous natures of the Brahmins who dwelt near, and feared to let his child run the risk of being found and captured.
But as Lianor had truly remarked, he loved his daughter so passionately that he very rarely refused her anything, even though he doubted the wisdom of complying with her wishes.
"Papa"—the sweet voice was very coaxing, and the red lips close to his cheek—"say yes, darling; it will make me so happy."
"But suppose any danger should threaten you?"
"I should be there to defend my cousin with my life!" Leone cried, fervently.
Don Gracia smiled.
"You speak bravely, my boy; but as yet you are very young. However, as Lianor has set her heart upon this expedition, I suppose I must say yes. In case of danger, I will send some soldiers to escort you."
"Oh, thank you, papa! I am so glad! Come, Leone, we will make haste, so as to set off ere the day gets more advanced."
And warmly embracing her father, the girl sped swiftly away, followed by her cousin.
In half an hour the cortege was ready, and, after some little hesitation on Don Garcia's part, they started.
Lianor, with her two favorite maids, Lalli and Tolla, were cosily seated in a palanquin carried by four strong men. Before, clearing her path from all difficulties, went a body of twenty-five soldiers. Beside her, Panteleone kept up a cheerful conversation, pointing out the beauties of the palaces through which they passed. Some twenty natives, armed with poignards, brought up the rear.
Toki, a native who had grown old in the Viceroy's palace, led the way toward one of the ruined temples—that erected to Siva, the God of Destruction.
Lianor gazed with awed eyes at the magnificent palace, still bearing traces of former beauty.
"How wonderful! I must stay here, Leone, and sketch those old statues. We need go no farther."
The day was beginning to get intensely hot, so the men were nothing loth to seek shelter in the cool temple, to sleep away the sunny hours.
Sketch-book in hand, the girl chose a shady retreat outside, and was soon lost in her work.
Presently the dreamy silence was broken; faint cries from afar reached her; and looking hastily up, Lianor saw a sight which made her stand rooted to the spot in speechless horror.
In the distance, pouring from out the mountains, were a multitude of Indians clad in divers costumes, carrying in their hands fantastic idols, and followed by a train of Brahmins, singing a low, monotonous chant, which had warned the girl of their approach.
Recovering her self-possession, and calling to the startled servants, Lianor entered the temple, where Panteleone and the men were quietly dozing.
"Leone, awake! The Indians are coming!"
The youth sprang to his feet, and, flinging one arm round his cousin, he drew a sharp poignard from his sash, and clutched it firmly.
"Do not be afraid, Lianor. I will guard you with my life!" he said bravely.
"But is there no way to escape?" Lianor asked wildly, frightened at the peril into which her folly had brought them all.
"We might have gone; but it is too late. They are here," Toki said gravely. "The only thing we can do is to hide amongst these broken statues, and perhaps we may be safe from their view."
Scarcely had this been done than the procession arrived, stopped before the temple, and the men commenced building a huge square pile of wood; on this they placed a bier, on which lay the corpse of an old man, decked with silks and costly jewels.
Lianor and Panteleone, watching from their hiding-place the strange preparations, now saw a girl, very young and beautiful, but weeping bitterly, being dragged toward the pile by a tall, hard-looking woman.
"Come!" she cried, in loud, ringing tones, "now is the time to uphold the honor of your family, and show your courage!"
With a shudder the girl drew back, and clasping her hands piteously together, said:
"Why should I thus sacrifice my young life to the cruelty of your customs? I cannot endure the thought of being burnt alive—it is too horrible!"
"It is your duty! A widow must follow her husband in death," coldly.
The youthful widow burst into passionate weeping, and gave an agonized glance around at the vindictive faces; not one among that multitude, she thought, felt pity for the girl who was condemned to so horrible a fate.
She was mistaken, and a second gaze revealed a young boy, not more than fifteen, who was quietly sobbing, an expression of deep anguish on his face.
"Satzavan, my poor brother, you also have come to witness my painful end!"
The boy went toward her, and wound his arms around her slim waist, drawing the dark head onto his shoulder.
"I would that I could help you," he whispered. "But what can I do among all these fiends?"
"It is hard to die thus—so hard."
"Savitre, I am more compassionate than you think, and I have here a draught which will send you into a deep sleep. The pain of death will thus be saved you," Konmia broke in severely, holding a vessel toward the girl.
"No, no!" Savitre shrieked, pushing the potent drink away. "I cannot! Think how awful to awaken with the cruel flames wreathing round my body, and my cries for help useless, deadened by the yells of those people. I cannot—I will not die!"
Satzavan, deathly white, and with quivering features, drew her shuddering frame closer to him, and led her into the temple.
"Leave us for a moment, I implore you," he said, turning to his aunt. "She loves me, and I may perhaps reconcile her to her fate."
"You are the head of your family; I trust to you to bring her to reason—to save the honor of a name until now without blemish," Konmia replied, and placing the poisonous flask in Satzavan's hand, she left them alone in the temple.
"Quick, Savitre; we will drink this draught together, and when they seek you, they will find us both cold in death."
"You also, my brother, speak of death! I must escape—I cannot sacrifice my life!"
"Nor shall you," a gentle voice broke in passionately, and Lianor, her face full of tender compassion, stood before the victim, Panteleone beside her.
"Follow me," the latter said briefly, drawing the girl's arm through his. "Trust us, and you will yet be saved."
With joyful hearts the two Indians accompanied their kind protectors, climbing among the broken gods, higher and higher, until they at last arrived without the temple, the other side from where the Indians were assembled.
There they were rejoined by the soldiers and attendants, and the little party commenced their homeward journey, hoping the wild group would not discover their presence.
But their hopes were not to be realized; ere they had gone many yards, the flight of the rajah's widow had been discovered, and with hideous cries they sought eagerly to find her.
It was not long ere they espied the small party, and full of triumph dashed toward them.
"Lianor, keep back—leave me to deal with these barbarians!" Panteleone said hurriedly, and in a minute a deadly fight began between the Indians and the soldiers.
But what was their strength against more than five hundred strong warriors? Ere long the brave party was captured, and while Konmia dragged the terrified girl towards the funereal-pile, the Indians shrieked aloud in triumphant gladness.
"To-morrow Siva will receive a sacrifice that will remain forever in the memory of those now living. To-day, our chief's widow; to-morrow, the Portuguese prisoners!"
After his daughter had gone, Don Garcia was filled with deep regret at having succumbed so readily to her wishes.
A presentiment of evil he could not control made him walk restlessly up and down the room.
A timid knock at the door roused him from his painful musings.
"Come in!" he cried quickly.
The door opened, and a tall, remarkably handsome man, dressed in the garb of a sea-captain, entered.
"What, Falcam, is it you, my boy?" the don cried gladly, wringing the young man's hand.
"Yes, senor. I have some papers from Tonza. There has been a slight rising at Diu, but, fortunately, we were able to suppress it in time," handing the don a sealed packet.
After casting his eyes rapidly over the contents, Don Garcia smiled and turned with a pleased look towards the captain.
"Manuel tells me of your bravery in saving Diu, and asks me to promote you. I will do all I can. I am proud to call you friend."
Luiz flushed, and a bashful light filled his eyes; but, ere he could answer, the don continued:
"However, you have come in time to be of service to me. My daughter, much against my wishes, has gone on an expedition to the Temple of Siva. From what I have since heard, I am afraid danger threatens my Lianor. Will you help me to rescue her?"
"Will I lay down my life to keep her from harm! Oh, senor, how can you ask? Let me start immediately, and ere long I will bring your child back in safety," fervently.
Don Garcia was surprised at the young man's eagerness, but refrained from speaking, only to thank him for his kind offer.
Five minutes later Luiz Falcam, accompanied by a troop of brave sailors, started off towards the Temple of Siva.
As he neared, sounds of strife, mingled with heartrending shrieks, broke upon his ears. Urging his trusty band, he dashed onward until he arrived at the scene of terror.
Startled by the sudden apparition, the Indians lost, for a time, their self-control, and the sailors found it easy to subdue them.
Luiz had flown at once to Lianor's side, clasping her frail form tightly in his arms, while Panteleone wrenched Savitre from her aunt, as she was about to fling her on the now burning pile.
Even at the same moment, Satzavan, a smile of revengeful triumph on his face, wound a thick scarf over Konmia's head, and threw her with remorseless force into the flames, leaving her to meet the fate destined for his sister.
Those Indians who had not been taken had fled; so the band was free to wend its way homeward, though nearly half had been killed in the strife.
Still holding Lianor, now weeping quietly, in his arms, Luiz led the way towards the road, where the palanquin stood, and placing the girl gently in, raised her white hands passionately to his lips.
"Lianor, Lianor, my own darling!" he murmured, gazing into her pallid face with lovelit eyes. "If I had been too late, and found you gone!"
Lianor smiled tremulously through her tears, and a blush mantled to her cheeks.
"You have saved my life. I can never repay you," earnestly.
Panteleone, still pale and anxious, now appeared leading the little widow, who seemed overjoyed at her release. She sank down gladly beside Lianor, and then the palanquin was borne away, guarded by Luiz and Panteleone, Satzavan walking behind.
Don Garcia's delight knew no bounds when he saw the procession entering the palace gates, and he ran eagerly to receive his daughter.
"My loved child! How unwise I was to let you go, to send you into danger," he cried, carrying her in his arms from the palanquin to the marble hall. "If it had not been for our young friend, Falcam, I should never have seen you again."
"But, papa, think! If we had not gone, this poor girl would have been burnt to death," Lianor said, shudderingly, drawing Savitre towards her.
"Ah, yes. Poor child!" stroking the young widow's glossy black hair. "Now tell me all about it." "Not yet, papa. Let us go and arrange our dresses; mine is torn completely to pieces," laughingly holding up a fragment of cashmere, which in the struggle had become torn.
Holding Savitre's hand in hers, Lianor went swiftly to her rooms, where they could bathe their weary limbs in cool water, and change their tattered robes.
Don Garcia was sitting in his study, regarding with some anxiety Luiz Falcam, who, tall and handsome, stood before him.
"You wish to ask me something, is it not so? Well, speak out, and be sure if it is in my power I will grant it."
"I hardly like to ask. It is, I know, daring. I am but a captain, and you are one of the wealthiest men in India; yet I love your daughter, and that is what I wished to tell you," earnestly.
Don Garcia smiled indulgently, and he gazed kindly at the young fellow's flushed face.
"I told you I would give you what you wished, and I will not break my word. I could safely trust Lianor to you. No other man I know has won so large a place in my esteem. But I dare not speak until I know what my daughter thinks. She will answer for herself touching so delicate a subject. Tell Donna Lianor to come here," he said to Toki.
After what seemed an anxious age to poor Luiz, Lianor entered, leaning lightly on Savitre, somewhat astonished.
"Lianor, may I speak before Savitre?" the don asked gravely.
"Of course, papa. I have no secrets from her."
"My child," drawing her nearer to him, "Luiz Falcam has asked your hand in marriage; what answer shall I give him?"
Lianor blushed divinely, and her dark eyes shyly drooped before the eager glance from those loving blue ones fixed upon her.
"He saved my life, father. I will give it gladly to him," she murmured.
"You love him, child?"
"Dearly. I shall be proud and happy to become the wife of Luiz," gaining courage.
"You have my answer, Falcam. May you be content always. I give her to you with pleasure."
In spite of the don's presence and Savitre's, Luiz could not refrain from drawing the girl into his arms and pressing fervent kisses on her smooth brow, and soft cheeks.
"You shall never repent your choice, darling," he said tenderly. "I cannot give you wealth, but a true heart and a brave hand are solely yours, now and till death!"
"I know, Luiz dear, and to me that gift is more precious than the costliest jewels," the girl whispered fondly.
Their happiness was not without its clouds; Luiz was compelled to leave his betrothed to guard a fort some distance away.
"I will return soon, dearest," he said lovingly, holding the trembling girl in his strong arms, "and then your father has promised our marriage shall take place."
"And you will not run into danger, for my sake?" Lianor pleaded, winding her white arms round his neck. "Think how desolate I should be without you!"
Don Garcia, having a great liking for the young man, saw him go with some regret.
"Don't stay away longer than you can help," he said kindly. "God keep you, my boy."
So Luiz parted from his love, and returned to Diu, carrying in his heart a cherished memory of Lianor, and a tiny miniature of her in his breast-pocket.
When he arrived at the governor's palace, he went directly to Manuel Tonza, to inform him of his departure.
The governor, a tall, dark-looking man of more than thirty, bore on his fine features a look of haughty sternness, mingled with some cruelty.
He glanced coldly at the young captain, and listened in silence to his explanations; but, as Luiz drew from his breast a sealed packet, given him by Don Garcia, Lianor's miniature fell with a crash to the ground, the jeweled case flying open.
Manuel picked it up from the floor with sudden swiftness, and gazed admiringly at the pictured face.
"Who is this?" he asked abruptly.
"Lianor de Sa, Don Garcia's daughter.
"Lianor de Sa, and so beautiful as this!" the governor muttered inaudibly. "I forgot she had grown from a child to a woman; I must see her. How comes 'it, though, her miniature is in his hands? Surely they could not have betrothed her to a captain!"
With a gesture of disdain he flung the miniature on the table, and told Luiz his presence was no longer needed.
Once alone, and a singular smile crossed the governor's face.
"I must pay Don Garcia a visit. It is long since I saw him. I never dreamt his little daughter had grown up so lovely. Thank Heaven, I am rich! My jewels and wealth might tempt a queen! I need not fear refusal from a viceroy's daughter."
Full of complacent contentment, Tonza made hasty preparations for leaving Diu, and that same evening saw him a welcome guest of Don Garcia.
He was charmed with Lianor.
In spite of himself, a deep passionate love wakened in his heart for her, and he determined to win her for his wife.
First he wished to gain Don Garcia over to his side, so took an early opportunity of speaking to him on the subject.
The viceroy listened in grave silence, and a look of regret stole into his eyes.
"I am sorry," he said gently. "Why have you come too late? My child is already betrothed."
"To whom?" hoarsely.
"Luiz Falcam."
"But he is only a captain, and poor! Surely you would not sacrifice your child to him? Think what riches I could lay at her feet! As my wife, Lianor would be one of the most envied of women."
"I know, and I wish now I had not been so hasty; but Luiz saved her life, won my gratitude; then, as the price of his act, asked Lianor's hand. I was forced to consent, as I had said I would give him whatever he asked," with a sigh.
"A promise gained like that is not binding. It was taking an unfair advantage of your gratitude."
"I do not like to break my promise, but I will do what I can for you; I will ask Lianor, and if she cares for you more than for Luiz, she shall wed you."
"Thank you; and I will try hard to gain her love," Manuel answered hopefully.
When Lianor heard the subject of the conference between her father and Tonza, her indignation was unbounded.
"How can you act so dishonorably, papa?" she cried angrily, "after betrothing me to Luiz; now, because Tonza is rich and wishes to marry me, you would break your word."
"But, my dear, think how different Manuel is to Falcam! He can give you a beautiful home, and jewels such as a queen might envy, while the captain can give you nothing."
"He can give me a brave, loving heart, which is worth all the world to me! No; while Luiz lives I will be true to him. No other shall steal my love from him," firmly.
"Is that the answer I am to give Tonza?"
"Yes. Thank him for the great honor he has done me; but, as I cannot marry two men, I choose the one I love—who first won my hand and saved my life."
When Manuel heard her answer he was filled with rage and hate.
"So—so," he muttered, a sinister look creeping over his face, "she will not wed me while Falcam lives. But should he die—what then?"
To Lianor he was always gentle, trying by soft words and many little attentions to win her regard; a very difficult task. Since her father's conversation, she shrank as much as possible from him, hoping he would understand her studied coldness.
"Savitre," she said one evening, as they were dressing for a ball, given in her honor, "that horrid man's attentions are becoming intolerable! He will not see how I detest him, and am bound by love and promise to another. I wish Luiz was here; he has been away so long. I am tired of Tonza's persistence and papa's reproaches."
"Never mind, dearest; all will be well when your brave lover returns. Perhaps he may be even now on the way. I am sure if he knew how terribly you were persecuted he would fly to you at once," Savitre whispered softly.
"I feel miserable—unhappy. Lalli, put away those robes and give me a plain black dress. During Luiz's absence I will put on mourning, so Tonza can read the sorrow I feel in my heart."
"But, dear, what will your father say?" Savitre asked anxiously.
"He will be angry, I know. But it is partly his fault I am obliged to act thus."
In a few minutes Lalli and Tolla had silently arrayed their young mistress in trailing black robes, which clung softly to her beautiful form.
No jewelry relieved the somberness of her dress; her dark hair, thick and long, fell like a veil over her shoulders, adding to the mournfulness of her garb by its dusky waves.
Below, in the handsome marble hall, stood Don Garcia and Tonza, both watching with suppressed impatience the richly-hung staircase leading to Lianor's apartments.
"It is late. I hope nothing has occurred," Manuel said anxiously, drawing the velvet curtain aside to gaze across the hall.
Even as he did so, Lianor, leaning lightly on Satzavan's shoulder, appeared, her graceful head held proudly erect, an expression of supreme indifference on her face.
Both men started with an exclamation of alarm—rage on Manuel's part.
"What! In mourning, and for a ball?" Manuel gasped with rising passion.
"Lianor, what does this farce mean? Why have you disguised yourself? How dare you disobey me when I said so particularly I wished you to appear at your best? I have been too weakly indulgent with you, and now you take advantage of my tenderness to disgrace me by showing my guests your foolish infatuation for a man to whom I now wish I had never promised your hand."
Lianor lifted her reproachful eyes to his, her pale face, even whiter in contrast with her somber dress, full of resolute rebellion.
"I am not ungrateful, papa, for your kindness, but I will never forget the promise I gave Luiz. My love is not to be bought for gold; I gave it willingly to the man to whom you betrothed me, and, father, none of our family have ever acted dishonorably; so I am sure you will not be the first to break your word."
"Do not be too sure of that, Lianor. I am more than half inclined to make you accept Tonza, and forget your vows were ever plighted to that pauper captain."
"You could not be so hard, knowing how my happiness is bound up in him. I will never, while Luiz lives, give my hand to another."
"Thank you, Lianor; nor will Falcam let you," a deep voice broke in suddenly, and Luiz, his face flushed with mingled pleasure and disgust, came toward her, followed by his bosom friend, Diniz Sampayo, a young and rich noble.
Lianor threw herself into his arms with a glad cry, while Don Garcia and Manuel, full of rage, stole away, leaving the lovers alone.
"My darling, then I heard truly when they said my own dear love was being forced to wed another. Thank Heaven, I left Diu at once, and came to you, as your father seems inclined to listen to Manuel's suit," Luiz said tenderly, bending to kiss the pale face.
"I am so glad you have come, Luiz! I felt so lonely without you near me, to give me hope and courage."
"My poor little love! But why these robes, Lianor? I thought it was a day of festival at the palace?"
"I know; but I was determined, during your absence, to keep Tonza from paying me his odious attentions by putting on mourning. He could not fail to see where my thoughts were. Now you have returned, I will throw them aside, and show them it is a time of rejoicing with me. Wait, Luiz."
With a tender smile the young lover unclasped her slender form and let her glide swiftly away.
But not long did he wait; soon the curtains were again lifted, and Lianor, radiant as a bright star, in trailing robes of white and gold, diamonds flashing on her bare arms and round her delicate throat, came towards him.
"My queen, my own dear love! what should I do if they took you from me?" passionately pressing her hands to his lips.
"They will never do that, Luiz. I am determined not to allow Tonza to win my father over to his way of thinking."
Manuel Tonza watched the happy lovers with bitterest hate gnawing at his heart, deadly schemes against his fortunate rival flitting through his subtle brain.
Late that night, when the weary guests were parting, Tonza stole noiselessly from the palace; and when he returned, in less than half an hour, his face wore an expression of fiendish triumph and delight.
He was even polite to Luiz, much to that young man's surprise, though he doubted the sincerity of Manuel's words.
Happy and content, after a tender adieu to Lianor, the captain left the viceroy's palace, to seek his own apartments.
Not far had he gone, however, when a shadow stole silently behind him, and the next moment he felt himself suddenly grasped by powerful hands and flung to the ground.
Almost stunned by the fall, he was yet able to see the dark face bending over him.
From the shadows came another form, one he recognized. A gleaming poignard was placed in the assassin's hand, which descended ere he could break from that strong hold, and was buried deep in his heart.
Guiltily two forms glided away in opposite directions, leaving Luiz, pale and cold, lying in a stream of blood—dead!
It was still early when Lianor awoke; but in spite of the drowsiness overpowering her, she hastily rose, and calling her maids, bade them quickly arrange her toilet.
"I am restless, and cannot stay longer indoors; I wish to be out in the fresh air," she explained to Savitre, who entered soon after.
Scarcely, however, had they arrived without the palace gates, than Diniz Sampayo, his face pale and haggard, eyes full of fear and anguish, came hastily to her side.
"Donna Lianor, return to your father's house; I have something to tell you which I dare not breathe here—it is too horrible! Prepare yourself for a great shock, my poor child! I wish some one else had brought the awful tidings," he cried hoarsely.
Lianor stood perfectly still, and her eyes grew wide and her face blanched with awakened fear. Clasping her hands piteously together, she said:
"Tell me now. I am brave—can bear anything! Is it Luiz? Is he ill—in danger? Oh, Diniz, for pity's sake tell me!"
Diniz took the trembling hands in his, and quietly bidding the others follow, led her silently through the town, until they arrived at the house where Luiz had taken rooms with his friend.
"Perhaps it is best you should see him. Poor Luiz! How can I break the awful truth to you? Your betrothed—the man you loved—is dead— murdered by a cowardly hand on his way home from your father's palace!"
Lianor grew deathly pale.
"Dead!" she repeated, clasping her hands despairingly to her throbbing brow. "It cannot be true! My darling dead—murdered!"
"My poor child, it is only too true! This morning he was found, and brought home, stabbed through the heart!"
"But who could have done it?" Savitre asked in a low, hushed whisper.
"I wish I knew. But, alas! that is a mystery!"
Lianor gazed helplessly from one to the other, then, breaking from her friend's gentle hold, staggered forward.
"Where are you going, Lianor?" Diniz asked, anxiously.
"To him. I must see for myself the terrible truth."
"Can you bear it?"
"Yes—oh, yes!"
Very tenderly Diniz took one of the trembling hands in his, and led her toward a darkened chamber, where, on the blue-draped bed, lay the still form of his young friend.
A convulsive shudder shook Lianor's slender frame as she gazed on those handsome features set in death's awful calm; the closed eyes, which would never look into her own again; the cold lips which would never breathe loving words into her ear, or press her brow in fond affection.
She could not weep, as Savitre wept; tears refused to ease the burning pain at her heart. Only a low moan broke from her as she threw herself suddenly over that loved body.
"My love—my darling! Why did I ever let you leave me? How can I live without you?"
"Hush, Lianor! Come, you can do nothing here. But one thing I promise you, I will avenge his death at any cost! The murderer will be found and punished—no matter who it is!" Diniz cried, earnestly.
"Thank you; and if I can aid, rely on my help," Lianor murmured, bravely.
Then, bending reverently to press a last kiss on the pallid brow, she allowed Diniz to lead her from the room to her own home.
In the hall they were met by Don Garcia, in a terrible state of anxiety for his daughter.
"Where have you been, Lianor? What is the matter? You look ill! And what is that?" pointing to a vivid red stain which marred the white purity of her dress.
A low, delirious laugh broke from the girl's pale lips, and, stretching out her arms, she waved Don Garcia back.
"Do not touch me!" she cried, hoarsely. "He—my love, my darling—is dead! See, his life-blood stains my hands—my robe! Oh, heavens, that I should have lived to know such agony!"
She stopped; the outstretched arms fell inertly down, the graceful head drooped, and without one cry or moan, Lianor fell heavily to the ground—unconscious.
"Explain, Savitre—Sampayo, what means this strange raving? Who is dead?" Don Garcia said, fearfully.
"It means that Luiz Falcam was found murdered this morning! Your daughter went to see him for the last time, and returns, overcome with grief and sorrow."
Without a word, but very white, the viceroy carried his child to her room, and left her in the care of Savitre and her two attendants, while he went to find the particulars of Falcam's tragic end.
For days and weeks Lianor kept to her rooms, seeing no one except her father and Sampayo, whom she looked upon as the avenger of Luiz.
Long and tenderly was her lover's memory sorrowed over, until the once beautiful girl was but a mere wraith.
A few weeks later Don Garcia himself was taken ill, and one day, feeling slightly better, he sent for his daughter, to whom he wished to speak on important business.
He was not kept long waiting. Lianor soon appeared, looking like a crushed flower in her somber robes.
"You wished to see me, papa?"
"Yes, Lianor; but you can almost guess for what. You know how much I desire to see you wedded to my friend; a man who loves you and will make you happy. I shall not live long, of that I feel sure. Manuel Tonza has waited patiently, and I think it is only right you give him hope. To-day you will accept his hand, and in another week, with my consent, you will become his wife."
Lianor reeled against the bed, and held firmly to the silken curtains to prevent herself falling.
"Do you mean this, father? His wife—when he murdered Luiz?"
"What nonsense are you saying, child? Do not let me hear you speak like this again. What motive could a wealthy man like Tonza have in getting rid of one of his own employes? Grief has turned your brain. Cast aside those weird garments, and in three hours be ready to receive your future husband."
A low, gasping cry fell on his ears as he finished speaking, and he turned in time to see the slight figure sway to and fro, then fall heavily to the ground.
But what use was her feeble strength against the powerful wills of two determined men?
Ere the day was over, Lianor, with a heart full of bitter, despairing grief for Luiz, was bound by a sacred promise to a man whom she knew to be both bad and selfish—whom she hated!
In one of the many straggling streets, almost hidden behind a few large shops of curious build, stood a small boutique full of ancient relics and jeweled bric-a-brac.
Inside, seated by the counter, writing in a large ledger, was an old man, whose hooked nose and piercing eyes proclaimed him at once to be from the tribe of Israel.
This Jew, Phenee, was not alone. Flitting about the shop, arranging the antique curiosities, was a young and very beautiful girl, with delicate features and lustrous, black eyes.
"Can I help you, grandfather?" the girl asked, suddenly stopping before the desk, and leaning both dimpled arms on the dusty book.
"No, no, Miriam; I have almost finished. Leave me for a few moments' quiet."
Miriam sank gently on a high chair, and drooping her head pensively on her hand, sat for some time in unbroken silence, gazing out through the open door at the motley crowds passing by.
Suddenly a dusky form, clad in the garb of a fisherman, entered, and drawing near Phenee, glanced nervously around.
"I wish to sell that. How much will you give me for it?" laying a jeweled poignard, with a golden chain attached, on the desk.
Phenee took it up and examined it attentively, then looked searchingly at the man.
Satisfied at his scrutiny, the Jew named a very low price, one which his customer had some hesitation in accepting; but at last, seeing Phenee was obdurate, he took the offered money, and glided off like a spectre.
"What a curious poignard, and how pretty!" Miriam said, lifting it from the scales, where Phenee had placed it. "I am surprised he took so little for it."
"I'm not. One can't offer too little for stolen goods."
"Do you think this is stolen?"
"I am sure it is. That man never came honestly by it."
Scarcely had the poignard been put on one side, when two young men, handsomely dressed, entered the shop, and asked for some emeralds.
"While you are choosing, I will have a look round at all these curiosities, Miguel," the youngest of the men remarked.
"As you like; I shan't be long, Diniz."
Sampayo nodded, and commenced his search, turning over every object that took his fancy, aided by Miriam.
"I will show you something very curious—a poignard strangely fashioned," the girl said, drawing the weapon her grandfather had just bought from its hiding place.
Diniz took it up and examined it attentively, then a low cry broke from his lips, and his face grew pale.
"Where did you get this?"
"I have just bought it. It is a very pretty toy for a gentleman," Phenee broke in persuasively.
With almost eager haste Diniz bargained for the poignard, and at last managed to bring the Jew down to ten times the sum he had given the fisherman.
After his friend, Miguel Reale, had chosen the jewels he wanted, Diniz hurried him away.
Not many hours later, as the young Jewess sat alone, her grandfather having gone some distance off on business, she was startled by Sampayo suddenly reappearing, a look of intense anxiety on his face.
"Senora," he said politely, drawing from his breast the poignard, "can you tell me from whom your father bought this?"
"I do not know his name, but I believe he is a fisherman and lives in yonder village," Miriam answered simply.
"Should you know him again? Pardon my asking, but it is very important I should discover the owner of this weapon. By doing so I may be able to bring a murderer to meet his doom, and avenge the death of my best friend!"
Miriam gazed at him compassionately, a serious light in her dark eyes.
"I will help you," she said suddenly, moved as it were by a strange impulse; "I have long wished for occupation—some useful work, though I should have liked something less terrible than helping to trace a murderer; still, I will aid you if I can."
"Thank you. But if he never came here again?"
"I shall not wait for that. To-morrow I will visit those huts in which the fishermen dwell; I may then find the man who sold the poignard, or at least a clew to the mystery."
Diniz took one of the small hands in his, and pressed it reverently to his lips.
"You will not go alone; I will be your companion. Together we shall work better. But your father will he consent to your accompanying me?"
"My grandfather loves me too dearly, and trusts me too fully, to refuse me anything. He need not know the errand upon which I am bent," a faint blush rising to her cheeks.
After making all necessary arrangements for the next day, Sampayo left the Jewess, to wait impatiently until the hour arrived for him to start on his melancholy errand.
It was still early when he left the crowed streets, to walk quickly in the direction of a small fishing village, some distance off.
Half way he saw the tall, graceful figure of a young girl, whose long veil of soft silky gauze hid her face from passers-by. He recognized her at once—it was the beautiful Jewess. So, hastening his steps, he soon stood before her.
"Senora," he said gently.
The girl started, turned, then smiled through the screening folds of gray.
"It is you? I was afraid you would not come," in a relieved tone.
"I am too anxious to find that man, to lose the chance you have so kindly given me. I only hope I am not putting you to any inconvenience," Diniz said, gallantly.
"Not at all. I am only too happy to be of some use," earnestly.
For many hours they wandered about from house to house, Miriam having armed herself with a large sum of money, hoping by acts of charity to gain access into the poor dwellings.
They were almost despairing of finding a clew to the whereabouts of the fisherman, when three little children, poor and hungry-looking, playing outside a tiny hut, attracted Miriam's attention.
Stooping, she spoke gently to the little things, and won from them the tale of their excessive poverty, which she promised to relieve if they would take her to their mother.
This they willingly did, and Miriam found a pale, delicate-looking woman, who, notwithstanding the raggedness of her dress, still bore traces of having been at one time different to a poor fisherman's wife.
Encouraged by the soft tones of her mysterious visitor, the woman gradually unburdened her troubled heart by telling her the history of her wretched life; how she had been doomed to follow her husband, an Indian chief, to death; but, loving life better, she escaped with her little children, but would have died of hunger on the seashore if Jarima, her second husband, had not rescued her and offered her his name and home.
"He is very good to me and my children; the past seems but a dream now. If only we had money, all would be well."
Miriam, with a few gentle, consoling words, slipped a few bright coins into the tiny brown hands of the astonished babies; then, with a sigh, she bade the grateful mother adieu and went out to where Diniz was waiting.
He read by her face that she had no better tidings, and, drawing her hand through his arm, he turned away.
"Will it never come—the proof I want?" he said, half bitterly.
Scarcely had the words left his lips when a glad cry of "Father!" rent the air, and three small forms bounded over the white shingle towards a tall man, dressed in white linen.
Almost convulsively Miriam pressed Sampayo's arm to arrest his hasty steps.
"We need go no farther," she whispered. "That is the man you want; and if he is that woman's husband, his name is Jarima."
"Thank Heaven! To-morrow he will be arrested and the truth discovered," Diniz muttered.
Silently they watched the man walk towards his humble home, the children clinging lovingly to his hands. The woman came forward with a bright smile, holding up her face to receive his caress.
"There can be no doubt. It is Jarima, and the man who sold the poignard."
"Luiz's murderer," Diniz added between his set teeth.
Almost feverishly Sampayo hurried Miriam away. He was anxious to tell Lianor of his success, and bring the assassin to justice.
Some distance from the Jew's shop he bade Miriam adieu, promising to call and let her know the result.
On reaching Don Garcia's palace Diniz was surprised at the sounds of bright music, mingled with happy voices, that floated on the air.
Satzavan was the first to meet him, and he went forward with a welcoming smile.
"Where is Lianor?" Diniz asked anxiously, glancing round the deserted halls.
"In the grounds. Don Garcia has his home full of guests in honor of his daughter's betrothal with Manuel Tonza."
"Lianor betrothed, and to him!" in consternation.
"Yes," sadly; "her father has commanded her to accept him, and, since she lost poor Falcam, she is indifferent whom she weds."
"But Tonza above all other men!" bitterly.
With a dark shadow on his brow, Diniz followed the young Indian into the spacious grounds, where Lianor, surrounded by many richly-dressed ladies, was sitting.
"I cannot speak to her before all those people. Go, Satzavan, and bring her to me."
The youth darted off obediently, and presently returned to the tree where Diniz stood almost hidden by its shady branches, leading Lianor, whose face wore a look of some wonder.
"Diniz, is it really you? Have you brought me any news?" she asked eagerly.
Sampayo took her outstretched hand and kissed it reverently.
"Yes," he said softly; "good news."
"What is it? Tell me!"
"I have discovered the man who, I think, struck the blow by instigation of the real murderer. Until he is taken I can do nothing further."
"But who is he? How did you find him?"
"He is a poor fisherman, named Jarima, and it was through a young Jewess, Phenee's grandchild, to whom the poignard was sold, I found him."
"That was very good of her to help you."
"It was, indeed. The whole morning she has searched with me for the man, and at last our labor was rewarded. To-morrow Jarima will be under arrest."
As the words left his lips, a sudden movement amongst the trees startled them.
"I am sure that was some one," Lianor cried, turning pale, and clasping Diniz's arm.
Satzavan glided noiselessly away, but soon returned to say no one had passed by.
Possibly the noise was occasioned by the wind rustling through the leaves.
"Very likely," Lianor said quietly, "though it made me nervous. Suppose any one overheard us?"
"Rest assured, dear, that nothing now can come between me and my revenge. But, Lianor, is it true you are betrothed to Tonza?"
"Yes, Diniz, it is true. Papa has commanded me to accept him. I hate him; but now poor Luiz is dead, I care not who becomes my husband," hopelessly.
"I wish it were other than Tonza, Lianor. I cannot trust him; nor will I believe but what he had a hand in Luiz's death."
"That is what I think, but papa says it is only fancy; Manuel is too upright to do such a treacherous thing."
A silvery laugh broke suddenly on the silence which had fallen between them, and Savitre, leaning lightly on Panteleone's arm, stood before them.
The rajah's young widow made a strange contrast to Lianor, gay with rich colors.
Judging from Panteleone's ardent gaze, he, at least, saw some beauty in the dusky, changing face.
"What, Sampayo! I did not know you were here," the young man cried gladly, seizing Diniz's hand in a warm grip. "Have you brought good news?"
"Yes, better than I expected," Diniz answered; and briefly recounted the success which had attended his morning's search.
"I do not wish to meet your father to-night, Lianor; until this business is settled, I could not enter into any amusement. First, I will go to Henrique Ferriera, the magistrate, and arrange with him about Jarima's capture."
"But you will come to-morrow, will you not—to tell me the result?" Lianor asked anxiously.
"Assuredly; unless anything serious prevents me."
"Thank you," she murmured gratefully.
A kind hand-pressure from all, and Sampayo walked quickly away; while Lianor, her heart somewhat lightened by this news, returned to her father's guests with Satzavan.
Savitre would have followed, but Panteleone held her back with a few whispered words, and, nothing loth, the little widow sauntered with him through the shady grounds, apart from the rest.
"Savitre," Leone said suddenly, "would you be willing to leave your country—to go with me to Portugal?"
Savitre gazed at him in some wonderment.
"Surely you are not thinking of leaving India?" she cried, a sudden anxiety dawning in her dark eyes.
"Yes; my father wishes me to return, and as soon as Lianor is married we are going."
The girl remained silent; only a few pearly tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Savitre, dearest one, do not weep! Would it be so dreadful for you to quit the country?"
"It is not that," with a stifled sob; "but I had not thought of your leaving us, or the friendship between us being broken."
"Nor will it, my darling! Don't you understand? I love you too dearly to give you up; I want you to be my wife, so that none can part us. Say my hopes are not all in vain!"
A vivid flush mantled the clear, dark skin, and the lustrous eyes drooped in confusion.
"You really mean that? You love me, a girl who is not even of your own kind?"
"I love you with all my heart and soul. Ever since the day when It drew you half-fainting from off the already lighted pile, I have felt my affection growing deeper and deeper, until it has absorbed my whole being. My happiness is never complete unless I am near you. Tell me, darling, that you return my love!" "How could I help but love you—you who saved my life? Oh, Leone, you cannot think how proud I am at being chosen by you before all others!"
With a joyous exclamation, Panteleone drew her to his breast, pressing passionate kisses on her brow, cheeks, and lips, his heart thrilling with rapture at the realization of his dreams.
The next morning a small band of soldiers, headed by Henrique Ferriera, wound their way toward the humble home of Jarima.
On arriving, they found to their astonishment the door fastened close, and no one to answer their knock.
"Never mind, break it down," Henrique said, roughly.
In obedience a few heavy blows fell on the woodwork, which soon gave way beneath their force.
Stepping over the scattered splinters, Henrique saw a sight which filled him with horror.
Crouching on the bare floor, her hands twined convulsively in her long hair, was a woman, with three sleeping children leaning against her.
On a hard straw mattress, almost in shadow, lay Jarima, his face covered with blood, which oozed in streams from his mouth.
Henrique gazed for an instant on the awful sight, then turned towards his men.
"We have arrived a little too late; blind men cannot see, or dumb ones tell tales. Some horrible wretch has done this deed, fearful of his betraying them. I wonder who?"
The woman, when questioned, could tell them nothing. She only knew her husband had been brought home in his present condition at daybreak, and remained unconscious since.
"I regret to say it is our painful duty to take him; every care will be given him. He is suspected of having murdered Luiz Falcam."
"No, no; you are mistaken! It is some one else, not he. Jarima was much too gentle to kill any one!" the woman cried, passionately.
Her prayers and supplications were unavailing. Henrique was obliged to do his duty, and bade his men take the suffering man to prison.
Some hours later, as Diniz stood in his room, just before setting out in search of Henrique, that man entered the house, followed by several soldiers.
"Diniz Sampayo, I arrest you on the charge of having stolen a poignard, set with jewels, from Manuel Tonza de Sepulveda."
Diniz started, and flushed angrily.
"I steal? When you know it is the weapon I bought from Phenee, the Jew, as proof against the murderer."
"So you said; but we have heard another tale to that. Anyhow, if you are innocent, you will be set free as soon as you are tried."
"But the man Jarima? Have you not been for him?"
"Yes, but he is useless; when we arrived, some one had been before us, and not only blinded him, but cut out his tongue, so that he could not speak."
"How horrible! How could any one have been so cold-blooded?" Diniz gasped, turning pale.
"Evidently it was done for some purpose. But come, Sampayo, I cannot wait here."
"Will nothing I say convince you I am innocent? If innocence gives strength, I shall soon be at liberty."
Henrique smiled scornfully, and hurried the young man away.
"You will not be alone; your prison-cell is shared by another—Phenee, the Jew. An old friend of yours, is he not?" Henrique asked.
"Friend—no! I have only spoken to him once in my life. What is he arrested for?"
"Being a receiver of stolen goods," grimly.
Diniz thought suddenly of Miriam, and wondered how she would bear this blow. Her only relative and dearly-loved parent torn from her side, to linger in a damp cell. How bitterly he blamed himself for having been the cause of Phenee's capture! If he had not disclosed the secret of Phenee having bought the poignard from Jarima, no one would have suspected him.
"Poor girl! She will regret now having helped a stranger, who, in return, has brought her only grief and desolation," he murmured, sorrowfully.
Miriam passed nearly three days in sad thought, when her solitary mourning was broken by the visit of a thickly-veiled woman, whose low, sweet tones fell like softest music on Miriam's ear.
"Are you alone?" she asked, glancing questioningly round the room.
"Yes. Did you want me?"
"I do, very badly. I remembered only to-day that you once proved a true friend to Diniz Sampayo, and I came to know if you would again aid him?" throwing back her veil, and disclosing a pale, sweet face, stamped by deepest grief.
"Diniz Sampayo! But is he, then, in need of help—in danger?" a sudden fear lighting up her face.
"Yes, he is in prison," sadly.
"You are sure? How can it be possible? What has he done?" in amazed wonder.
"He has done nothing. Only his enemies have thrown the suspicion of his having stolen a poignard from Manuel Tonza—a poignard which I know he bought here. It is my fault this has happened. It was to avenge the death of the man I loved—his dearest friend—that he placed his life in peril!"
"I remember well. It is quite true he bought it here, soon after Jarima, the fisherman, had sold it to my grandfather. He, poor dear, is also in sorrow, imprisoned for having received stolen goods, as if he could tell when things are stolen!" indignantly.
"I am very sorry, Miriam; but if you help me, you will help your grandfather also," Lianor urged gently.
"I will!" Miriam cried firmly; "I will never give up until I have them both safely outside that odious prison!"
Lianor gazed with grateful affection at the girl's expressive face, which now wore such a look of determined courage.
"If I can do anything, let me know directly," Lianor said, gently. "Gold may perhaps be useful, and I have much."
"Thank you, but I am rich; and I know grandfather would lose all, rather than his liberty. You are Don Garcia's daughter, are you not?"
"Yes," somewhat sadly. "You know me?"
"By sight, yes."
"I shall see you again, I hope," Lianor said, as Miriam followed her to the door. "You will tell me of your success or failure?"
"Yes; I will come or write."
When her charming visitor had gone, Miriam returned to her seat, a pained expression on her bright face.
"He also there. Poor Diniz! But I will save him yet," determinedly.
Hastily opening a heavy iron box, she drew out a handful of gold.
Placing this in her pocket, she softly left the house, and scarcely knowing what instinct prompted her, she hurried towards a small hotel not far from the sea.
"Can you tell me," she began breathlessly to a sunburnt man standing near, "if there are any ships leaving here to-morrow?"
"I don't know, senora. I will inquire," he answered politely, and after an absence of about ten minutes, he returned to say "that Captain Moriz, of the Eagle, was even then preparing for departure on the morrow."
"Where does he live?" Miriam said, eagerly.
"He is staying at this hotel at present."
"Do you think I could see him? It is very important."
"I dare say. You can at least try," smilingly.
The Jewess thanked her good-natured commissioner, and lightly ascended the steps.
"I wish to see Captain Moriz. Is he in?"
"I think so," the man answered after one quick glance at Miriam; "I will inquire."
Miriam waited with growing impatience until the man returned, and was relieved when she heard that the captain was not only there, but would see her.
With wildly beating heart the girl followed her conductor to a large, darkly-furnished room, where, by a table scattered with papers, sat a tall, bronzed seaman.
"I believe you are leaving India to-morrow? Would you mind telling me where you are going?"
"To Africa," a look of surprise crossing his face.
"Are you going to take passengers?"
"That was not my intention."
"But if any one asked you, would you refuse?"
"I don't know. I did not want any one on board," Moriz answered uneasily.
"If you knew it would do some one a great service? I am rich, and would pay you well; so do not hesitate on that account."
"Is it you who wish to go?"
Miriam blushed, and bit her lip angrily. She had not intended to betray her secret so soon.
"Yes, it is I, and two other people. Will you take us, and set us down on one of those small islands on the coast, where no one would find us?"
Moriz hesitated; but he could not withstand the eager pleading in the slumbrous eyes, the intense pathos in the sweet voice.
"Yes," he said at last, very slowly, "I will take you on board; but you must be ready by to-morrow night. I cannot wait for stragglers," trying to force much severity into his tones.
"Oh, thank you! I am content now. Do not fear; we shall be in time. Until then adieu," she said softly.
And, with a graceful bow, she departed.
Her next step was in the direction where Phenee was confined.
She found no difficulty in finding the jailer, a hard-looking man enough, though Miriam thought she could see a gentle expression in his eyes when they rested on two young children, whose pale, wasted features gave evidence of close confinement in that dreary place.
"I may win him yet by those little ones," she murmured; "gold will have power to touch his heart for their sakes."
"You wished to see me, senora?"
"Yes. I want you to answer a few questions. First, have you not got Phenee, the Jew, and Diniz Sampayo here?"
"Yes, senora."
"Are they together?"
"No, senora."
"Could it be possible for you to set them free, without fear of detection?" eagerly.
"Yes, senora; but I am not a traitor."
"But think, Vincent: my poor grandfather has done no harm, and he will perish in that horrible place, though innocent. And the Senor Sampayo, as I have proof, bought the poignard himself from my grandfather. Why, then, should you say he stole it?" indignantly.
"It is not I who accused him; my duty here is to guard the prisoners— not to try them."
"Vincent," Miriam continued, in a low, pleading voice, "you are poor; your little children are pining for want of fresh, pure air. I am rich, and can give you enough money to live in comfort away from this close den. Release my friends, and the power of saving your children shall be yours. Look!" drawing one of the wondering girls to her side, "see how pale and thin she is! Can you refuse my offer when the lives of those you love depend upon it?"
Vincent felt the truth of her words, and knew the only things he cherished on earth, those innocent children, were slowly fading and pining away for want of fresh air.
The man raised his head, and glanced earnestly at the moved expressive face, then in a low, hoarse voice he muttered:
"Be it so. I will help the prisoners to escape. I cannot see my little ones dying before my eyes, when an opportunity is given me to save them."
"Then to-morrow at sunset you will bring them to the Golden Lion, I will be there, ready with the money."
"I will not fail, senora. May Heaven forgive me if I am doing wrong!"
After a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere she had moved far, she returned, and paused before Vincent.
"I forgot to ask you about that poor man, Jarima," she said, gravely.
"He did not live long, senora, after he was brought here."
"And his wife—children?"
"Of them I know nothing," he answered quietly.
Ere she continued her homeward way, Miriam sped swiftly toward Jarima's poor home, and knocked gently at the door. It was opened by the eldest of the three children, and forcing a purse of money into his brown hand, the girl whispered sweetly:
"For your mother, little one; from a friend," then moved silently away, hurrying homeward to await patiently for the long hours to pass, ere her grandfather would be released.
Vincent, true to his word, gathered his few belongings together, and when the evening came, went softly to the cells in which his prisoners lay, and, setting them free, told them to follow him.
Wondering, yet glad, Phenee, leaning on Diniz's arm for support, slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led them toward the hotel Miriam had named.
There, sure enough, the young Jewess was waiting, and after tenderly embracing Phenee, and smiling softly at Diniz, she turned to Vincent and placed a bag of gold in his hand.
"This is your reward. May you and your little ones live in happiness!" she said earnestly.
"We leave Goa to-night, senora. My life would be worth nothing if I stayed here after this. Good-by, and thank you for your generosity."
Miriam hastened her grandfather to the ship, shocked at his feebleness; but for Sampayo he would scarcely have been able to get there.
Only once he spoke to the girl ere he retired to his cabin for the night.
"The money and jewels, Miriam—what have you done with them?"
"They are here, grandfather. I brought everything of value away with me."
"That is right, child. You are a good girl!"
Miriam stood rather sadly beside the bulwarks, gazing at the land in which she had been born, and which she was now leaving forever.
A low sigh broke from her lips.
"Why do you sigh? Are you sorry to quit your native land?" a voice whispered in her ear.
"Yes; though for my grandfather's sake I cannot deeply regret it," Miriam answered, gazing at Diniz with tear-dimmed eyes.
"I have not thanked you yet for having released me from that dreadful place, or even a worse doom. I am still scarcely able to realize my good fortune. What made you, a stranger, think of one whom all others had forgotten?"
"Not all. It was Donna Lianor who told me where you were, and asked me to help you," Miriam said, blushing beneath his tender, grateful gaze. "Besides, I looked upon you as a friend," almost inaudibly.
"That is what I want to be—your friend. And Lianor—how is she?— well?"
"As well as it is possible to be under the heavy trial she went through this morning. She was married to Manuel Tonza," sadly.
"Poor girl! Poor Lianor! Hers is indeed an unhappy lot!" Diniz murmured pityingly.
In a large, handsome room, overlooking a shining river, now ablaze with sunshine, sat a beautiful woman, wearing on her face unmistakable signs of sadness.
She scarcely heeded the opening door, until two pretty children came bounding to her side, clambering onto her chair and lap.
Then her face changed, and a sweet, tender smile chased away all gloom; the idle hands were busy now stroking the curly heads pressed so close against her.
"I would have brought them to you before, but their father wished to keep them; he is always so happy when they are near," a little, dark-eyed woman, clad in picturesque robes of brilliant crimson and gold, said rapidly, as she threw herself down on a pile of soft cushions opposite the sweet, pale mother.
Lianor sighed, but she could not look sad long with those loved children clasped in her arms.
"I cannot understand Manuel," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes; "he is so strange, sometimes gay—almost too gay; then he relapses into a gloomy, brooding apathy, from which even the children have no power to rouse him."
"But you have. He is never too morose to have a smile for you. I think, sometimes, he feels lonely. You are bound to him, yet your heart is as unresponsive to his passionate love as if you were strangers," Savitre said, thoughtfully.
"Do you think so, Savitre? I am indeed sorry; but you know how impossible it is to forget my first love. I like Manuel, but beyond that, affection—except for my darlings—is dead; buried in Luiz's grave."
"Hush! here comes Manuel," Savitre whispered, warningly.
It was indeed Manuel, older and graver-looking than of yore, with a deep melancholy in his eyes, brought there only by intense suffering.
Savitre, on his entrance, softly glided from the room, leaving husband and wife alone.
"Lianor," he began, a bright smile lighting up his face as he bent to kiss her fair brow, "I have been thinking, and am resolved to quit India and return to Portugal. I have been here long enough. Don't you think that will be pleasant, dearest?"
"Nothing would please me more," Lianor cried, delightedly. "The greatest wish of my life is to see Portugal once more, to show our country to our children," bending to kiss her tiny daughter's face.
"Then it will be granted. Prepare to start as soon as possible. Now, I am determined to leave here. Something seems to urge me to go at once."
Only too anxious, Lianor began her arrangements.
Savitre, who had never cared to leave her friend before, even to become Panteleone's bride, entered into the preparations with unconcealed eagerness.
She had faithfully promised her lover that, once in Portugal, she would, with his father's approval, marry him.
Lianor felt no regret at leaving India, except for a loved grave—her father's—which she had so carefully tended.
Not many days after, Manuel Tonza, his wife, children, Panteleone, and Savitre, accompanied by several faithful servants, including Lalli and Tolla, embarked in a fine stately ship, which was to bear them in safety to their home.
Tonza seemed full of joy as he saw the last lines of the Indian coast disappear. He had rarely appeared so happy since his marriage with Lianor five years before.
For several days the good ship went steadily on her way, until one night a terrific storm arose, and the vessel, heedless of the human cargo it was bearing, drifted onward at the mercy of the tempest.
Tonza, holding Lianor and his children closely to him, stood silently dismayed, scarcely able to realize the awful danger which lay before him and those he loved.
Still onward, through the almost impenetrable darkness, went the doomed ship, until, as the dense shadows began to clear and the storm to cease, a sudden shock was felt by all—she had struck against some rocks and was slowly sinking!
"We must be somewhere near land," the captain cried, his voice sounding above the roaring waters.
By aid of the fast-breaking dawn, they could see the line of high, dark rocks, upon which the ship had met her fate.
With much difficulty and peril, under the captain's cool directions, the crew managed at last to leave the sinking vessel, not without much loss of life. Out of nearly five hundred only a few arrived in safety, amongst whom were Tonza, his wife, children, Savitre, and Panteleone.
When the day broke in calm splendor, the sun shown upon a mournful sight—a group of shipwrecked men and women.
No sign of habitation met their view; only a weary waste of bare land, sheltered by a few trees, from whose branches hung a goodly supply of fruit.
"If we go farther inland, we are sure to find some natives, if only savages," Tonza remarked gravely; and followed by the men, he commenced the long, weary way.
Lianor, pale but firm, holding in her arms her little daughter, walked beside him, heedless of the fatigue which oppressed her and made her long to sink upon the sandy ground to rest.
Onward they went, never pausing to rest their tired feet until, as the day was about to decline, they came to a deep waterfall, over which they had to cross. No easy task, as the only means of doing so was by an uneven path, made from a line of rocks, on either side of which the boiling waters poured in terrific fury.
Tonza—who, now the captain had perished, placed himself at the head of the crew—was the first to put his foot upon the crossing; then, turning to the people, he said:
"Be careful, and not glance behind or down, or you will lose your balance and fall."
Lianor, who, by her husband's wish, had given her child to one of the men, followed closely behind Manuel, who held his boy in his arms.
Silently, without daring to murmur one word, the men walked bravely onward.
They were nearly half way across.
Manuel had indeed touched firm ground, when a sudden cry from her little girl made Lianor turn in affright to see what ailed her.
That move was fatal; the next instant she had lost her footing and fallen into the dashing torrent.
With a despairing shriek Manuel stopped, and had not some one held him back, would have dashed in after his wife. Panteleone, who saw a chance of saving her, quickly slipped over the side, caught her in his aims as she was about to sink, then bore her to land.
Forgetful of all others, Manuel threw himself beside her still form, from which all life seemed to have fled, calling wildly on her name, pressing passionate kisses on her cold face, hoping by the warmth of his caresses to bring back the color to her cheeks.
But it was useless; Lianor was dead; her head having struck against a rock, caused instant unconsciousness, from which they could not rouse her.
When Tonza realized the awful truth he rose to his feet, pale and haggard, his eyes full of despairing anguish.
"It is just; my sin is punished. My wife, the only thing I loved on earth, for whose sake I committed crime, is taken from me! She alone had power to make me happy; without her I cannot live. It is time I confessed all, and you shall be my judges. It was I who caused the death of Luiz Falcam, that I might win his betrothed; and when I heard that Diniz Sampayo had discovered partly the truth, I had him thrown into prison on suspicion of having stolen the very poignard with which Luiz had met his death—one that I myself had placed in the assassin's hand! You all know how he escaped, but he is an exile for my fault. If ever you should see him, tell him his innocence is established; he can return to India in peace. You have heard my story, now judge me;" and with arms crossed over his breast, his head bowed in deepest grief and humility, he waited his sentence.
A dead hush fell over the group, broken only by the suppressed sobs of Savitre, who was crouching beside Lianor, and the pitiful moans of the little girl dying in one of the rough seamen's arms.
At last Pantaleone, a look of compassion on his face, went towards his friend, and, laying his head on Tonza's shoulder, said gently:
"My cousin, you have sinned, but God has sent your punishment; that is sufficient. Live to devote your life to bringing up the little motherless children left to you. Restore Sampayo to his own again; then try, by true repentance, to atone for the wrong you did him."
Tonza raised his head, and glanced gratefully at Panteleone; but his eyes were full of firm resolution none could understand.
"You are good, but my life is worth nothing, now she has gone. See, this poor babe will soon follow her mother. Garcia I leave to you; he is too young to realize his loss; but never let him know his father's sin!" he exclaimed hoarsely; and, after pressing his boy tightly to his breast, kissed the dying child; then softly lifting Lianor in his arms, he first pressed his lips reverently on her pale brow, and, before any one could prevent him, or realize what he was about to do, he had sprang from the rock into the deep torrent, and disappeared with his precious burden from their view.
A cry of horror burst from the lips of all present, and many efforts were made to find their bodies; but in vain.
With saddened hearts the people turned away, and continued their journey, praying they might ere long find help and shelter.
Before the day had closed another soul had winged its flight to Heaven, and the tiny waxen form of Lianor's baby-girl left in its last resting-place in the golden sand.
A small wooden house, surrounded by sweet-scented flowers of brightest hue, amongst which a beautiful, dark-eyed woman was softly gliding, culling large clusters of the delicate blossoms.
As she stopped to gather a few rich carnations, singing in a low, musical voice, a man, young and handsome, slipped from beneath the pretty porch, and walking noiselessly behind her, suddenly lifted her in his strong arms, pressing the slight form tenderly to his breast.
"Take care, Diniz," she cried, warningly, a ring of deepest joy thrilling her clear voice. "You will spoil all my flowers!"
"Except the fairest of all—yourself. Ah, Miriam, my darling! how happy we have been since that day when you so generously saved me from a felon's doom!" rapturously kissing the beautiful, dark face so near his own.
Their bliss was broken by a crowd of brown-skinned people, moving toward the cottage, seemingly acting under some emotion.
"What has happened? What is it?" husband and wife cried simultaneously.
"We have seen a party of white men, doubtlessly shipwrecked on the coast, coming in this direction. They are even now in sight," one man said quickly.
Diniz flushed, and his eyes grew bright with suppressed joy.
"Perhaps some of our countrymen, Miriam. Let us hasten forward to welcome them," he cried eagerly; and leading his wife, while the crowd followed curiously behind, Sampayo hurried in the direction from whence the strangers were coming.
It was not long before they met the tired crew, now dwindled to about twenty, many having perished on the way.
As Diniz stepped towards the first stranger, on whose arm leaned a young and beautiful woman, a low cry burst from his lips.
"Panteleone!" he gasped, "is it really you?"
"What, Diniz!" and the two friends, separated for so long a time, warmly clasped hands.
"But how comes it that you are like this?"
Panteleone briefly related their voyage from India, and the disastrous end. Tears shone in his eyes when he recounted the sad death of Lianor and her husband.
"Poor, poor girl! How sorry I am!" Diniz said mournfully, while Miriam, scarcely able to repress her sobs, drew Lianor's orphan boy in her arms, and bore him to their pretty home.
"You are welcome—all!" Sampayo said gently, turning to the haggard-looking seamen. "Come."
A few days later a grand old ship, bound for Portugal, started from that coast, bearing the wrecked crew to their former destination.
Amongst those on board were Diniz and his wife (Phenee had long since joined his forefathers), who, now his innocence was made known, had no longer the fear of being imprisoned, and could return in safety to his native land.
Panteleone's father received Savitre with almost paternal love, and some months after their arrival, when their mourning for poor Lianor was lessened, the two faithful hearts became one.
Little Garcia, Tonza's son, was tenderly nurtured in their tranquil home, and the aunt he loved so dearly became a second mother, replacing the one he had lost.
No shadow of his father's sin darkened his young life; he lived unconscious of the sad fate of his mother, who, won by crime, by her death avenged Luiz Falcam, for, through her, Manuel Tonza had atoned for all.
THE END.
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