dge.

Moreover, the task of Jarriquez was in a way very simple. He had either
to inquire nor to rule; he had not even to regulate a discussion nor to
obtain a verdict, neither to apply the articles of the penal code nor to
pronounce a sentence. Unfortunately for the fazender, such formalities
were no longer necessary; Joam Dacosta had been arrested, convicted, and
sentenced twenty-three years ago for the crime at Tijuco; no limitation
had yet affected his sentence. No demand in commutation of the penalty
could be introduced, and no appeal for mercy could be received. It was
only necessary then to establish his identity, and as soon as the order
arrived from Rio Janeiro justice would have to take its course.

But in the nature of things Joam Dacosta would protest his innocence;
he would say he had been unjustly condemned. The magistrate's duty,
notwithstanding the opinions he held, would be to listen to him. The
question would be, what proofs could the convict offer to make good
his assertions? And if he was not able to produce them when he appeared
before his first judges, was he able to do so now?

Herein consisted all the interest of the examination. There would have
to be admitted the fact of a defaulter, prosperous and safe in a foreign
country, leaving his refuge of his own free will to face the justice
which his past life should have taught him to dread, and herein would
be one of those rare and curious cases which ought to interest even a
magistrate hardened with all the surroundings of forensic strife. Was it
impudent folly on the part of the doomed man of Tijuco, who was tired of
his life, or was it the impulse of a conscience which would at all
risks have wrong set right? The problem was a strange one, it must be
acknowledged.

On the morrow of Joam Dacosta's arrest, Judge Jarriquez made his way to
the prison in God-the-Son Street, where the convict had been placed. The
prison was an old missionary convent, situated on the bank of one of the
principal iguarapes of the town. To the voluntary prisoners of former
times there had succeeded in this building, which was but little adapted
for the purpose, the compulsory prisoners of to-day. The room occupied
by Joam Dacosta was nothing like one of those sad little cells which
form part of our modern penitentiary system: but an old monk's room,
with a barred window without shutters, opening on to an uncultivated
space, a bench in one corner, and a kind of pallet in