and passed swiftly
through a silent town till they reached the closed gates of an infantry
barrack perched on a hill that rose steeply above the clustering roofs
of Maceio.

Though the seeming mendicant limped slightly, his superior stature
enabled him to keep pace with the officer. The pair neither lagged nor
hesitated. The officer knocked loudly on a small door inset in the big
gates. After some delay it was opened. A sentry challenged.

"Capitao San Benavides," announced the officer, and the man stood to
attention.

"Enter, my friend," said San Benavides to his ragged companion. The
latter stepped within; the wicket was locked, and the click of the bolt
was suggestive of the rattle of the dice with which Dom Corria De Sylva
was throwing a main with fortune. Perhaps some thought of the kind
occurred to him, but he was calm as if he were so poor that he had
naught more to lose.

"Who is the officer of the guard?" San Benavides asked the soldier.

"Senhor Tenente [Lieutenant] Regis de Pereira, senhor capitao."

"Tell him, with my compliments, that I shall be glad to meet him at the
colonel's quarters in fifteen minutes."

The queerly-assorted pair moved off across the barrack square. The
sentry looked after them.

"My excellent captain seems to have been brawling," he grinned. "But
what of the _mendigo_?"

What, indeed? A most pertinent question for Brazil, and one that would
be loudly answered.

The colonel's house was in darkness, yet San Benavides rapped
imperatively. An upper window was raised. A voice was heard, using
profane language. A head appeared. Its owner cried, "Who is
it?"--with additions.

"San Benavides."

"Christo! And the other?"

"One whom you expect."

The head popped in. Soon there was a light on the ground floor. The
door opened. A very stout man, barefooted, who had struggled into a
pair of abnormally tight riding-breeches, faced them.

"Can it be possible?" he exclaimed, striking an attitude.

Dom Corria spoke not a word. He knew the value of effect, and could
bide his time. The three passed into a lighted apartment. De Sylva
placed himself under a chandelier, and took off a frayed straw hat
which he had borrowed from someone on board the _Unser Fritz_. The
colonel, a grotesque figure in his present _deshabille_, bowed low
before him.

"My President!--I salute you," he murmured.

"Thank you, General," said Dom Corria, smiling graciously. "I knew I