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diff --git a/30623-h/30623-h.htm b/30623-h/30623-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ae77999 --- /dev/null +++ b/30623-h/30623-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,18785 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.1//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml11/DTD/xhtml11.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Missourian, by Eugene P. (Eugene Percy) Lyle</title> +<style type="text/css"> +body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} +p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:0; text-align:justify; padding-right:2ex;} +p + p {margin-top:0; text-indent:1em;} +div.bquote {font-size:1.0em; margin:5px 5%;} +div.bquote p {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.center {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +div.poetry {text-indent:0em; margin-left:2em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} +p.center {text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} +p.caption {font-size:smaller; text-indent:0em;} +p.tp {font-size:1em; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} +h1,h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;} +h1 {font-size:1.6em;} +h1.pg {text-align:center; font-weight:bold; font-size: 190%;} +h2 {font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} +a {text-decoration:none;} +div.figcenter p {text-align:center;} +div.figcenter {text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em;} +span.h2fs {font-size:smaller;} +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; clear:both;} +td.c1 {text-align:right; padding-right:10px; vertical-align:top;} +td.c2 {text-align:left; padding-right:40px; vertical-align:top;} +td.c3 {text-align:right; vertical-align:bottom;} +td.right {text-align:right} +td.left {text-align:left} +hr.tb {border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; height: 1px; width: 10em; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;} +hr.pb {border:none; page-break-after:always; margin-top:4em;} +.pagenum {display:none;} +.pncolor {color:inherit;} + +div.nbox {text-align:center; margin-left:10%; width:70%; font-size:smaller;} +div.box {text-align:center; margin-left:10%; width:80%; font-size:smaller;} +div.mbox {text-align:center; margin-left:10%; width:85%; font-size:smaller;} +div.wbox {text-align:center; margin-left:10%; width:90%; font-size:smaller;} +p.ar {text-align:right;} + +@media screen { +hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver;} +.pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} +.pncolor {color:silver;} +div.nbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:25ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.box {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:35ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.mbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:45ex; font-size:smaller;} +div.wbox {text-align:center; margin:1ex auto; width:55ex; font-size:smaller;} + } + + .center { text-align: center; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Missourian, by Eugene P. (Eugene Percy) +Lyle, Illustrated by Ernest Haskell</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Missourian</p> +<p>Author: Eugene P. (Eugene Percy) Lyle</p> +<p>Release Date: December 7, 2009 [eBook #30623]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSOURIAN***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3 class="center">E-text prepared by Roger Frank<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<p class='tp' style=''>THE MISSOURIAN</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='ill_1'></a> +<img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' id="img001" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“JACQUELINE”<br />“She was the spirit of the enigma, the very personification<br />of the Napoleonic sphinx” +</p></div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:2em;margin-bottom:20px;'>The Missourian</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>By</p> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.3em;margin-bottom:10px;'>EUGENE P. LYLE, Jr.</p> + +<div style='margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center; padding:10px; margin:4px auto; width:270px;'> +<p class='tp' style='text-align: left;'>“In my predestin’d Plot of Dust and Soul.”</p> +<p class='tp' style='text-align:right; margin-bottom:20px;'>–<i>Omar</i></p> +</div> +<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:40px;'><i>Illustrated by Ernest Haskell</i></p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p class='tp' style=''>New York</p> +<p class='tp' style='font-size:larger;'>Doubleday, Page & Company</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>1905</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style=''>Copyright, 1905, by</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>Doubleday, Page & Company</p> +<p class='tp' style='margin-bottom:20px;'>Published, August, 1905</p> +<p class='tp' style=''><i>All rights reserved, including that of translation +into<br />foreign languages, including the Scandinavian</i></p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style=''>To</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>MY TWO BEST FRIENDS</p> +<p class='tp' style=''>My Father and my Mother</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<table summary='TOC'> +<tr><td colspan='3' style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em;padding-bottom:20px'>CONTENTS</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan='3' style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em;padding-bottom:10px;'>PART I. The Thorn in the Land of Roses</td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>I.</td><td class='c2'>A Wilful Maid Arrives</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_1'>3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>II.</td><td class='c2'>A Fra Diavolo in the Land of Roses</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_2'>11</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>III.</td><td class='c2'>The Violent End of a Terrible Bandit</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_3'>18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>IV.</td><td class='c2'><i>La Luz</i>, Blockade Runner</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_4'>27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>V.</td><td class='c2'>The Storm Centre</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_5'>34</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VI.</td><td class='c2'>A Bruising of Arms for Jacqueline</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_6'>45</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VII.</td><td class='c2'>Swordsmanship in the Dark</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_7'>55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VIII.</td><td class='c2'>The Thoughts of Youth May Be Prodigiously Long Thoughts</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_8'>64</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>IX.</td><td class='c2'>Toll-Taking in the Huasteca</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_9'>69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>X.</td><td class='c2'>The Brigand Chief</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_10'>80</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XI.</td><td class='c2'>The Cossacks and Their Tiger Colonel</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_11'>89</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XII.</td><td class='c2'>Pastime Passing Excellent</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_12'>98</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIII.</td><td class='c2'>Unregistered in Any Studbook</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_13'>108</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIV.</td><td class='c2'>The Herald of the Fair God</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_14'>114</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XV.</td><td class='c2'>The Ritual</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_15'>122</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVI.</td><td class='c2'>He of the Debonair Sceptre</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_16'>131</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVII.</td><td class='c2'>Rather a Small Man</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_17'>140</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVIII.</td><td class='c2'>Little Monarchs, Big Mistakes</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_18'>149</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIX.</td><td class='c2'>A Tartar, <i>and</i> a Tartar</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_19'>156</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XX.</td><td class='c2'>In the Wake of Princely Cavalcades</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_20'>164</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXI.</td><td class='c2'>The Red Mongrel</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_21'>173</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXII.</td><td class='c2'>“Equidad en la Justicia”</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_22'>182</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXIII.</td><td class='c2'>A Curious Pagan Rite</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_23'>188</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXIV.</td><td class='c2'>The Man Who Did Not Want to be Shot</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_24'>193</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXV.</td><td class='c2'>The Person on the Other Horse</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_25'>200</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXVI.</td><td class='c2'>The Strangest Avowal of Love</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_26'>209</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXVII.</td><td class='c2'>Berthe</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_27'>219</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXVIII.</td><td class='c2'>“Mike”</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_28'>228</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXIX.</td><td class='c2'>The Whisper of the Sphinx</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_29'>238</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXX.</td><td class='c2'>The Ambassador</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_30'>242</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXXI.</td><td class='c2'>Carlota</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_31'>253</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXXII.</td><td class='c2'>The Woman Who Did Not Hesitate</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_32'>258</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXXIII.</td><td class='c2'>A Sponsor to the Fat Padre</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_33'>266</a></td></tr> +<tr><td colspan='3' style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; padding-top:30px;padding-bottom:20px;'>PART II. The Rose That Was a Thorn in the Land of Roses</td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>I.</td><td class='c2'>Meagre Shanks</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_34'>273</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>II.</td><td class='c2'>The Black Decree</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_35'>284</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>III.</td><td class='c2'>As Between Women</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_36'>293</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>IV.</td><td class='c2'>The Lacking Coincidence</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_37'>298</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>V.</td><td class='c2'>The Missourians</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_38'>306</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VI.</td><td class='c2'>If a Kiss Were All</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_39'>315</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VII.</td><td class='c2'>A Crop of Colonels</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_40'>324</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>VIII.</td><td class='c2'>Royal Resolution</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_41'>335</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>IX.</td><td class='c2'>Interpreter to the Almighty</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_42'>344</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>X.</td><td class='c2'>Alone Among His Loving Subjects</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_43'>351</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XI.</td><td class='c2'>Fatality and the Missourian</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_44'>359</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XII.</td><td class='c2'>The Rendezvous of the Republic</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_45'>369</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIII.</td><td class='c2'>A Buccaneer and a Battle</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_46'>380</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIV.</td><td class='c2'>Blood and Noise–What Else?</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_47'>391</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XV.</td><td class='c2'>Of All News the Most Spiteful</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_48'>406</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVI.</td><td class='c2'>Vendetta’s Half Sister, Better Born</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_49'>422</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVII.</td><td class='c2'>Under a Spanish Cloak</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_50'>434</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XVIII.</td><td class='c2'>El Chaparrito</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_51'>443</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XIX.</td><td class='c2'>In Articulo Mortis</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_52'>459</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XX.</td><td class='c2'>Knighthood’s Belated Flower</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_53'>465</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXI.</td><td class='c2'>The Title of Nobility</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_54'>475</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXII.</td><td class='c2'>The Abbey of Mount Regret</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_55'>484</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXIII.</td><td class='c2'>The Contrariness of Jacqueline</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_56'>496</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='c1'>XXIV.</td><td class='c2'>The Journalistic Sagacity of a Daniel</td><td class='c3'><a href='#link_57'>506</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:larger;margin-bottom:20px;'>THE PEOPLE OF THE STORY</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Missourian</span>, known in every +fight as the Storm Centre. His real name is John D. Driscoll, familiarly +shortened to Din Driscoll. At the close of the Civil War he finds himself a +lieutenant-colonel in General Joe Shelby’s brigade of Confederate +daredevils, sent by his comrades as emissary to the Emperor Maximilian of +Mexico.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Jacqueline</span>, who is the Marquise +Jeanne d’Aumerle, on a mission of high politics from Napoleon III. to the Court +of Mexico.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Berthe</span>, her maid.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Maximilían</span>, archduke of Austria, +occupant of the New World throne created for him.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Charlotte of Orleans</span>, the +Empress.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Anastasio Murguía</span>, a Mexican +hacendado, who acquires riches by running Federal blockades into Southern ports. +He is both a coward and a miser.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>María de La Luz</span>, his +daughter.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Rodrigo Galán</span>, brigand and +guerrilla.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Tiburcio</span>, blackmailer of the +highway, scout, and “loyal Imperialist.”</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Augustin Fischer</span>, “the Fat +Padre,” a renegade priest of subtle parts.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Michel Ney</span>, grandson of the +“Bravest of the Brave.”</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Marshal Bazaine</span>, +commander-in-chief of the French Army of Occupation in Mexico.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Madame la Marechale</span>, his +bride.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Colonel Dupin</span>, the “Tiger +of the Tropics,” chief of the Contra Guerrillas.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Miguel Lopez</span>, colonel of +Dragoons, a favorite of the Emperor.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Monsieur Éloin</span>, the +Emperor’s secretary.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Marquez</span>, <span +style='font-variant:small-caps'>Miramon</span>, <span +style='font-variant:small-caps'>Mejía</span>, <span +style='font-variant:small-caps'>Mendez</span>, Imperialist officers.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Régules, Escobedo</span>, Republican +officers.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Daniel Boone</span>, first scout among +the Missourians, one-time editor and editor yet to be.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Old Brothers and +Sisters</span>,” “<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Tall +Mose</span>” <span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Bledsoe, of The County +of Pike</span>, and yet more of the Missouri colonels.</p> + +<p style='margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; margin-bottom:.5ex;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Benito Juarez</span>, president of the +Mexican Republic.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='tp' style='font-size:1.2em;margin-bottom:20px;'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</p> + +<table summary='loi'> +<tr><td> +<p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Jacqueline</span>”<br /> +“She was the spirit of the enigma, the very personification of the Napoleonic sphinx”</p> +</td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_1'><i>Frontispiece</i></a> +</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td><td><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Facing page</span></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Murguía</span>”<br /> + “He +had evidently passed through salty spray, had braved the deep, this shrinking +old man in frayed black”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_16'>16</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Rodrigo Galán</span>”<br /> +“The fierce stranger, however, seemed undecided. His brow furrowed, and +for the moment he only stared”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_18'>18</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>John Dinwiddie Driscoll, the +Missourian</span>”<br />“His cheeks were smooth, but they were tight and +hard and brown from the weathering of sun and blizzard”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_38'>38</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Colonel Dupin</span>”<br /> +“The Tiger of the Tropics ... the chief of Contra Guerrillas”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_94'>94</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Emperor Maximilian</span></p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_134'>134</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>María de la Luz</span>”<br /> +“The tapestry behind them parted and fell”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_146'>146</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td><p style='margin-left:2em;text-indent:-2em;text-align:left;'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Berthe</span>”<br />“... +brought down the ponderous knocker so terrifically that it abashed her, for all +her present agitation”</p></td> +<td style='vertical-align:top; text-align:right;'><a href='#ill_220'>220</a></td></tr> + +</table> +<hr class='pb' /> + +<h1>PART FIRST<br /><span style='font-size:smaller;'>THE THORN IN THE LAND OF ROSES</span></h1> + +<table summary='poetry' style='width:22em'><tr> +<td class='left'> +“Array you, lordyngs, one and all,<br /> +For here begins no peace.” +</td></tr> +<tr><td class='right'>– +<i>The Ballad of the Battle of Otterburn</i> +</td> +</tr></table> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span><a id='link_1'></a>CHAPTER I<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Wilful Maid Arrives from France</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“I’ll tell thee, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>As You Like It.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Jacqueline was a gentlewoman of France. But there was usually mischief in her +handsome head, for all its queenly poise. Just now, she was running away from +the ship. Captain and officers of the <i>Impératrice Eugénie</i>, Imperial red +pantaloons, gilt Imperial eagles, such tokens of awe were yet not awful enough +to hold Jacqueline. So, with the humility of limp things in that sticky air, the +sailors shoved closer in the small boat and made place for the adjustment of +crisp skirts. With the lady went her gentle little Breton maid, who trembled +with the trembling of every plank in those norther-rocked waters. The high sun, +just showing himself after the late gale, was sucking a gummy moisture out upon +all surfaces, and the perspiring men felt mean and base before the starchy +freshness of the two girls.</p> + +<p>No one was pleased that Jacqueline was going, except Jacqueline herself. But +she was keen for it. She had been impervious to their flustered anxiety, also to +the tributes to her importance betrayed therein. In vain they argued no fewer +than two emperors to dissuade her. She meant to have a walk on the shore +and–a demure Parisian shrug settled it.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline rested a high-heeled boot on a coil of rope and blithely hummed an +old song–“Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!” Oh, how she had +wearied of bumping, heaving, bumping! At first she had enjoyed the storm. It was +a new <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span>kind of play, and +the mise-en-scène was quite adequate. But ennui had surged in again long before +danger had surged out. And now she considered that some later sensation was due +her, just as supper after an evening of fasting. In such a way, her life long, +Jacqueline had sustained existence. Her nourishment was ever the latest +“frisson,” to use her own word. She craved thrills of emotion, +ecstatic thrills. Naturally, then, three weeks of ocean had fretted the restless +lass as intolerable, tyrannical.</p> + +<p>During the norther’s blinding fury, the liner of the Compagnie +Trans-Atlantique had groped widely out of her course, to find herself off +Tampico when the storm abated. But the skipper saw in his ill-luck a chance for +fresh meat, and he decided to communicate with the port before going on to Vera +Cruz. And when Jacqueline found that out, she decided to communicate with the +port too.</p> + +<p>Little enough harm in that, truly; if only it were any one else but +Jacqueline. In her case, though, all concerned would have felt easier to keep +her on board. Then, when the ship sailed, they were sure to have her there. +Otherwise, they assuredly were not. For they knew well her startling capacity +for whims. But never, never, could they know the startling next way a whim of +hers might jump. Yet did she give herself the small pains of wheedling? Not she. +The mystery of her august guardianship, of no less than two emperors, and the +responsibility falling on captain, crew, red trousers, and gilt eagles–Hé +bien, what then? Neither were they cunning with their dark warnings of outlawry +and violence. Dreadfulest horrors might lurk in the motley Gulf town held by +force against bloodthirsty Mexicans. But croaking like that only gave brighter +promise of the ecstatic shiver. So, parbleu, she went!</p> + +<p>The brunt of anxiety fell on poor Sergeant Ney. Here was a young soldier whom +a month before Louis Napoleon had <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_5'></a>5</span>summoned to the Tuileries, to charge him with the +lady’s safe return to Maximilian’s court in the City of Mexico, +where she was First Dame of Honor about the Empress Charlotte. The order was not +a military one, else it must have fallen to an officer of rank. It was not even +official. But no doubt it enfolded more of weight for that very reason. Napoleon +III. believed that in the unofficial, in littleness and dark gliding, lay the +way to govern a state. Michel Ney regarded his task as a complete enigma. He had +only to see a girl to the end of her journey. He was a slow-thinking, even a +non-thinking agent, but in a contingency he could fight, still without +thinking.</p> + +<p>The girl under his escort, however, was another sort of agent entirely. She +was the spirit of the enigma, the very personification of the Napoleonic sphinx. +She was the Imperial Secret flung a thousand leagues, there to work itself out +alone in a new land of empire. Two months ago Louis Napoleon had recalled her +from the Mexican court to her old circle, to the Tuileries, to St. Cloud, to +Compiègne, and almost at once he had sent her back again. This time she came +with the sphinx’s purpose.</p> + +<p>Getting himself into the small boat, Ney stole a glance at the gray eyes +opposite him–for the moment they were gray, as well as treacherously +innocent and pensive–and he reflected woefully that she had quite too much +spirit altogether for an Egyptian dame of stone. She was making it very hard for +him. What caprice might not possess her while on shore, and the ship to sail +within a few hours? It was not a predicament for sabre play. And he made the +mistake of trying to wield his wits a little.</p> + +<p>“I should take it as an honor, mademoiselle,” he faltered, +“I should, truly, if you’d only believe that I would impose my +escort for the pleasure it gives me, as well as–as well +as––”</p> + +<p>But she did not seem to notice that he stumbled. Her <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span>eyes were intent on the green water, which +the oars transmuted into eddying crystals. He would go on, she knew, and lay +more exposed the place where she meant to strike. She had coquetted with him, +old play fellow that he was, for just a little during the voyage, as with others +too, for that matter. But she had tired of it, as she had also of the chagrin of +wives and sweethearts on board, or as she had of Hugo’s “Napoleon le +Petit,” which she read purely out of contrariness to the censorship laid +on the exiled poet. Michel Ney, however, and this she noted carefully, now kept +close within his soldier’s shell. He had that unofficial duty to think on, +which was enough and over.</p> + +<p>“––as well as,” he finished desperately, “as a duty +to an authority over us both. If you would believe that, +mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>Then she struck. A word sufficed. “Oh, Monsieur the Sergeant!” +she exclaimed. Her tone was deprecating, but she lingered wickedly on the title. +The young Frenchman looked down on his natty uniform. No other cut or cloth in +the whole imperial army of France was more dashing than the sky-blue of a +Chasseur d’Afrique, but none of that filled Michel’s eyes. For him there +were only the worsted stripes. He colored and winced.</p> + +<p>“Forgive me,” she said meekly, “I should have said, +‘Monsieur the Duke.’”</p> + +<p>The Chasseur flushed like a boy. “Why <i>will</i> you harp on what a +grandfather made me?” he blurted out. “And what’s a +duke––?”</p> + +<p>“And a prince?–the Prince of Moskowa!” She courtesied from +her slender waist.</p> + +<p>“Alas for my blunders,” she sighed, “for it <i>was</i> more +delicate after all to call you sergeant. In that I congratulate you yourself, +Michel, and never a grandfather.”</p> + +<p>Ney frowned unhappily. “The first prince of Moskowa <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span>was once a sergeant,” +he murmured, “and why shouldn’t I, in this new +country––”</p> + +<p>“Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,” she sang, and smiled on +him.</p> + +<p>His eyes flashed, and because of the voice his heart quickened. He had heard +of “this new country.” It was “a gold mine in a bed of +roses,” but with a thorn, to say nothing of a bayonet, for every bud, and +like many another young Frenchman he hoped to win renown in the romantic Mexican +Empire, sprung like Minerva from the brain of his own emperor. And now here was +a girl humming the war song of his fathers and of his race, and flaunting his +warrior’s ambition in it.</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“My Sergeant has gone to the wars,<br /> +Far off to war in Flanders.<br /> +He’s a bold prince of commanders,<br /> +With a fame like Alexander’s–<br /> +Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!<br /> + <br /> +“Mon Sergot s’en va t-en guerre–<br /> +Ne sais quand reviendra.<br /> +Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!”</p> +</div> + +<p>Having thus ousted the crusading hero of the song, and put the slang for +“sergeant” in his stead, Jacqueline leaned back on the gunwale quite +contented. She fell to gazing on the transparent emerald of the inshore, and +plunged in her hand. The soft, plump wrist turned baby pink under the riffles. +Of a sudden Berthe her maid half screamed, whereat with a delighted little gasp +of fright, she jerked out the hand. But she put it back again, to tempt the +watchful shark out there.</p> + +<p>“<i>My</i> grandfather was only a duke,” she mused aloud, very +humbly. But she peeped up at Ney in the most exasperating manner. He could just +see the gray eyes behind the edge of lace that fell from the slanting brim of +her hat. He would not, though, meet the challenge. He kept to sincerity as the +safer ground.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span>“Like mine, +mademoiselle, yours made himself one, under Napoleon.”</p> + +<p>“The <i>great</i> Napoleon,” she corrected him gently.</p> + +<p>Michel assented with a sad little nod. Then he raised his head bravely. +“And why not do things <i>without</i> a <i>great</i> Napoleon, and, after +all, isn’t he <i>a</i> Napoleon, and one who––”</p> + +<p>“Is lucky enough to bear a name that means seven million votes. +<i>I</i> should rather be a ‘sergeant’ and congratulate none but myself on +it, Monsieur the–Duke.”</p> + +<p>Again, with the wisdom of a slow intelligence, the Chasseur held back from +her subtleties. If only he might betray her into frankness–a compliment +she paid to few men and to a woman never–then, just possibly, he might +make her tractable as to their prompt return to the ship.</p> + +<p>“Still, it <i>is</i> a name to rally to,” he persisted, +acknowledging in spite of himself the magic that had swayed the Old Guard.</p> + +<p>For once she left the poor shark in peace.</p> + +<p>“A name, a name?” she repeated.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t ‘France’ enough of a name for your rallying, +monsieur?”</p> + +<p>But the honest mood could not last. In the same breath she hastened on, +“Yes, yes, France, the beloved of us proud grandchildren of original +dukes. Of myself, sir, with a château in the Bourbonnais, whose floors are as +well watered as the vineyards outside. And your France too, Michel, giving you +only your clean linen to disguise the sergeant and remind us of the marshal of +the First Empire. Of course,” she added kindly, “there is the +bravery. I had forgotten that, O grandson of the ‘brave des braves.’ But +then?–Bonté divine, there’s no rank in courage, mon ami! It’s +not the epaulette of a French uniform–it’s the merest +lining.”</p> + +<p>“And that,” the youth cried doggedly, “is still enough +to––”</p> + +<p>“To do things for France, eh petit piou-piou?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span>“Hélas! our +France can’t expect much from me. But you, mademoiselle, you will do +things for her!” It was a spontaneous tribute, just that, without thought +of prying into the secret of her mission, “While I,” he ended +dismally, “can only fight.”</p> + +<p>“But you forget,” she answered gravely, “that after all a +woman can only give.”</p> + +<p>That cynicism of life which had become a part of the young girl was yet +gaiety itself. Youth and health and beauty would not have even cynicism +otherwise. But now, as she spoke, the irony was bitter, and worn, as of age. And +behind it was a woman’s reluctance before some abhorred sacrifice, a +sacrifice which would entail the woman’s power to give.</p> + +<p>Ney stared at her uncomprehendingly. Here lay a clue to her mysterious errand +in Mexico. But he was not thinking of her as the Napoleonic enigma personified. +It was of herself he thought, an enigma apart. She was a flower of France. Yet +many, many flowers blossom there. She might be a grande dame, of nobility of +womanhood as well as of family. Or again, she might be only an alluring, +heartless witch, that helped to make tempting, and damnable, the brilliant +Second Empire. But in any case, Jacqueline was truly as dainty as a flower.</p> + +<p>“It has already cost us enough to gain this New World,” ventured +the Chasseur, waving a hand toward the desolate shore, “and we made +Maximilian emperor, but now they say that, that he would–they say so in +Paris, mademoiselle–that he would rob us of it.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, monsieur?” There was warning in the look she gave +him.</p> + +<p>“But,” he plunged on boldly, “our soldiers still hold it, +that is, until, until someone shall win it for us for our very own, absolutely. +Ducal grandfathers never did more than that for France.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span>“Where +<i>are</i> you leading, Michel? Please take me with you.”</p> + +<p>“To a question. Don’t you think ‘someone’ is risking a +great deal for a little walk on shore?”</p> + +<p>Before she answered he knew that she had seen through all his blundering +wiles.</p> + +<p>“Are there guerrillas there?” she asked pensively.</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> should know. But they say, that out of Tampico +especially––”</p> + +<p>She was gazing toward the land, sandy and flat. Once she looked back with +lively distaste at the rocking ship. Now she interrupted.</p> + +<p>“It would be fun traveling overland–and +<i>such</i> excitement!”</p> + +<p>Ney’s shoulders went up in despair.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my poor guardian!” she exclaimed contritely. “But why +aren’t you a reader of the poets? Then you would find something to say to +make me feel–sorry.”</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> say it then.”</p> + +<p>“Why, for example, you might call all the stored vengeance of heaven +right down on my ungrateful top.”</p> + +<p>The soldier gazed at the ungrateful top. It was of burnished copper. A +rebellious lock was then blowing in the wind, and there was a wide, rakish crown +of rice-white straw. There was also a soft skin of creamy satin, lips blood red, +a velvet patch near a dimple, and two gray eyes that danced behind the +hat’s filmy curtain. An ungrateful top, out of all mercy!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span><a id='link_2'></a>CHAPTER II<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Fra Diavolo in the Land of Roses</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“A haunter of marshes, a holder of moors.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Beowulf.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The torpid, sordid and sun-baked port of Tampico gave little promise of aught +so romantic and rare and exotic as the young French woman’s coveted thrill +of ecstasy. There was first the sand bar, which kept ships from coming up the +deep Pánuco to the town. Beyond there were lagoons and swamps mottling the flat, +dreary, moisture-sodden, fever-scourged land. There were solemn pelicans, and +such kind of grotesque bird as use only one leg, it being long enough for two, +and never that to walk upon, so far as anybody had ever noticed. Such an old +fellow would outline himself against the yellow loneliness, like a lump of +pessimistic philosopher impaled on the end of his own hobbling crutch. Tarpons +and sharks and sword-fish, monstrous, sinister, moved slothfully in the viscid +waters. From scrubby growth on the banks a hundred or a hundred thousand crows +had much ado with rebuking the invaders of their solitude.</p> + +<p>Next, clusters of thatch roofs appeared, and in an hour the party from the +<i>Impératrice Eugénie</i> gained the wharf of the port. The sailors managed to +steer through a tangle of shipping and dugout scows, the latter heaped high with +fruits and flowers of many colors, or hides or fish of many aromas. Before the +small boat could touch the worm-eaten quay, Jacqueline had poised herself on its +edge, caught her skirts, and hopped lightly over the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> stretch of water yet remaining. Then she +gazed curiously around on Mexico.</p> + +<p>And Mexico was there in various forms to greet her, though in no form +animated. Sluggish creatures under peaked sombreros of muddied straw seemed to +be growing against the foreground of wharf and dingy warehouses, and fastened to +the background of sallow blazing streets and sallow reflecting walls there were +still the same human barnacles. But no creature seemed ever to move. They all +looked a part of the decay, of putrefying vegetable and flesh and fish +everywhere, which grew so rank in life that in death their rotting could never +keep pace.</p> + +<p>A lazy town stretched up a lazy street. On a hill farther up the river a +fortress basked in peace, and had no desire to be disturbed. In the town the +buildings were of warped timber, and a few of stone. Parasitic tumors, like +loathsome black ulcers, swelled abundantly on the roofs. They were the buzzards, +the only form of life held sacred. To clean up nature’s and man’s +spendthrift killing was a blessed service in Tampico. It saved exertion.</p> + +<p>A strange region, by all odds! But at least one could walk thereon, and +Jacqueline thought it droll. An outlandish corner of the earth such as this was +something never experienced before. But as to that, the outlandish corner might +have said the same about Jacqueline. Men stared like dazed sheep on the +astounding apparition of a lady. Some among them were entirely clothed, in +sun-yellowed white. There was a merchant or so, a coffee exporter or so, a +ranchero or so, and hacendados from the interior. But they were all hard, +typical, and often darkly scowling, which seemed an habitual expression inspired +by the thought of a foreign Hapsburg emperor so mighty and proud, far off in +their capital. There was not an officer among them; nor, quite likely, a +gentleman. Never a bit of red was to be seen from the garrison on the hill. The +French <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span>invaders up +there, with pardonable taste, kept to themselves. Their policing ended with the +smothering of revolt. So against the stain of tainted mankind, the vision of +delicate femininity contrasted as a fleck of spotless white on a besmeared +palette. But crows, scavengers, men, they were all so many +“creatures” to Jacqueline–the setting of a very novel scene, +and she would not have had it otherwise.</p> + +<p>She turned to her maid, who shrank hesitating in the boat. “Berthe, you +pitiful little ninny, are you coming? Then do, and do not forget the +satchel.” For a promenade of an hour the inhabitants of two imperial +courts must needs have a satchel, filled of course with mysteries of the toilet. +The maid obeyed, and followed her mistress up the lazy ascending street. They +passed through the Alameda of dense cypresses, an inky blot as on glaring manila +paper, while the shade overhead was profane with jackdaws. The lady tripped on, +and into the street again. Ney and a sailor hurried to overtake her. The other +sailors meantime went on their errand for fresh meat, but Michel had said to the +steward in charge, “If there should be any need, I’ll send this man +to you. Then you come, all of you, quick!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline pushed on her voyage of discovery, and her retinue trooped behind, +single file, over the narrow, burning sidewalks of patched flagstone. The word +“Café” on a corner building caught her eye. It was a native fonda, +overflowing with straw-bottomed chairs and rusty iron tables half-way across the +street, making carts and burros find their way round. Mexico’s outward +signs at least were being done over into French. Hence the dignity of +“Café.”</p> + +<p>“Here is Paris,” the explorer announced. “And this is the +Boulevard.” She seated herself before one of the iron tables that rocked +on the egg-like cobblestones. She made Ney sit down also, and included Berthe +and the sailor. An olive barefoot boy took their order for black coffee. +Jacqueline’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_14'></a>14</span>elbows were on the table and her chin on two finger +tips, and she disposed herself placidly, as though this were the Maison Dorée +and Tout Paris sauntering by. The town was beginning to stretch after its +siesta. That is to say, divers natives manifested symptoms of going to move in +the course of time.</p> + +<p>“Look!” exclaimed Jacqueline. “Only give yourself the +trouble to look!”</p> + +<p>She was pointing to a man, of course. The Chasseur stirred uneasily. One +could never see to the end of Jacqueline’s slender finger. “There, +Berthe,” she cried, “it’s Fra Diavolo, just strayed from the +Opéra.”</p> + +<p>The stranger she meant was talking darkly to another man in the door of the +Café. If a Fra Diavolo, he was at least not disguised in his monk’s cowl, +either because the April day was too hot or because he had never owned one. But +he stood appareled in his banditti rôle, very picturesque and barbaric and +malevolent. And though he posed heavily, he yet had that Satanic fascination +which the beautiful of the masculine and the sinister of the devil cannot help +having. His battered magnificence of a charro garb fitted well the diabolic +character which Jacqueline assigned him. Spurs as bright as dollars jangled on +high russet heels. His breeches closed to the flesh like a glove, so that his +limbs were as sleek as some glossy forest animal’s. The cloth was of +Robin-Hood green, foxed over in bright yellow leather. From hip to ankle +undulated a seam of silver clasps. More silver, in braided scrolls, adorned his +jacket, and wrapped twice around the waist was a red banda. Jacqueline would +have preferred the ends dangling, like a Neapolitan’s. The ranchero, for +such he appeared, wore two belts. One was a vibora, or serpent, for carrying +money; the other held his weapons, a long hunting knife and a revolver, each in +a scabbard of stamped leather embroidered with gold thread. His sombrero was +high pointed and heavy, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_15'></a>15</span>of chocolate-colored beaver encircled by a silver rope +as thick as a garden hose.</p> + +<p>“Now there’s realism in those properties,” Jacqueline noted +with an artist’s critical eye. “See, there’s dry mud on his +shoes, and his bright colors are faded by weather. That man sleeps among the +rocks, I’ll wager, and he’s in the saddle almost constantly too. My +faith, our Fra Diavolo is exquisite!”</p> + +<p>The other of the two men was a withered, diminutive, gaunt and hollow old +Mexican. He quailed like a frightened miser before Fra Diavolo.</p> + +<p>“The risk? Coming to this town a risk!” Fra Diavolo was echoing +the ancient man. “Bah, Murguía, you would haggle over a little risk as +though it were some poor Confederate’s last bale of cotton. But +I–por Dios, I get tired of the mountains. And then I come to Tampico. Yet +you ask why I come? Bien, señor mio, this is why.” A gesture explained. +Fra Diavolo unctuously rubbed his thumb over his fingers. The meaning of the +gesture was, “Money!”</p> + +<p>The old man recognized the pantomime and shivered. He shrank into his long +black coat as though right willingly he would shrink away altogether. His +parsimony extended even to speech. He pursued his fugitive voice into the depths +of the voluminous coat and there clutched it as a coin in a chest. Then he paid +it out as though it were a coin indeed.</p> + +<p>“But––” he stammered.</p> + +<p>“No buts,” the fierce ranchero growled thunderously. “Not +one, Don Anastasio, not while our country bleeds under the Austrian +tyrant’s heel, not while there yet breathes a patriot to scorn peril and +death, so only that he get the sinews of war.”</p> + +<p>The curiously unctuous gesture grew menacing, brutal. Don Anastasio twitched +and trembled before it. Under the towering and prismatic Fra Diavolo he cowered, +an insignificant figure. The unrelieved black of his attire accorded with his +meagre frame. It was secretive, miserly. A black stock <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span>covered a withered collar. A dingy silk +tile was tightly packed over a rusted black wig. Boots hid their tops under the +skirts of his coat, and the coat in turn was partly concealed under a black +shawl. But there was one incongruous item. Boots, coat, hat and all were crusted +with brine. He had evidently passed through salty spray, had braved the deep, +this shrinking old man in frayed black. Just now his eyes, normally moist and +avaricious, were parched dry by fear, as though a flame had passed over them. +They might have rattled in their gaping sockets. Fear also helped him clutch his +voice, which he paid out regardless of expense.</p> + +<p>“You know, Don––” But Fra Diavolo scowled, and the name +died on his lips. “You know,” he went on, “why you +haven’t seen me for so long. It’s the blockade up there. It’s +closer than ever now. This time I waited many nights for a chance to run in, and +as many more to run out again.”</p> + +<p>“And you squeezed the poor devils all the harder for your weevily corn +and shoddy boots?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline, who could not hear a word, told her companions with a +child’s expectancy only to wait and they would see Fra Diavolo eat up the +poor little crow.</p> + +<p>The crow, meantime, was trying to oust the notion that had alighted in the +brain of Fra Diavolo. “Of course I ought to ask the Confederates higher +prices as the risks increase,” he said, then paused and shook his head and +wig and hat like a mournful pendulum. “But how can I? The South hardly +grows any more cotton. It cannot pay high, and––”</p> + +<p>“And that’s not my affair, but––” Again the business +of thumb and fingers–“but this is. Quick now!”</p> + +<p>“Señor, I–Your Mercy knows that I always pay at–at the +usual place–near the forest.”</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_16'></a> +<img src='images/illus-016.jpg' id="img002" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“MURGUÍA”<br />“He had evidently passed through salty spray, had<br />braved the deep, this shrinking old man in frayed black” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span>“You mean +that you won’t pay here, because I am the one in danger here, and not you? +Bien, you want a money-getting man for your daughter, eh, Don Anastasio, though +you’ll deny that you would give her to any man? Bien, bonissimo, I am +going to prove myself an eligible suitor. In another minute Your Mercy will be +frightened enough to pay. Attention now!”</p> + +<p>So saying he drew a reed whistle from his jacket. It was no thicker than a +pencil, and not half so long.</p> + +<p>Murguía gripped his arm. “My daughter?” he cried. “It has +been weeks since I–but you must have seen her lately. Oh tell me, señor, +there is no bad news of her?” He had forgotten the threatened extortion. +His voice was open too, generous in its anxiety.</p> + +<p>“News of her, yes. But it is vague news. There’s a mystery about +your daughter, Don Anastasio.”</p> + +<p>But at this point Fra Diavolo dismissed mystery and daughter both with an +ugly grimace. Nor would he say another word, for all the father’s +pleading. Instead, he remembered the little reed whistle in his hand, and swung +round to blow upon it, in spite of the palsied hand clutching at his arm. But in +turning, he became aware of the amused Parisienne watching him. His jaw fell, +whereat Don Anastasio’s hand slipped from his arm, and Don Anastasio +himself began to slip away.</p> + +<p>“Stop!” roared Fra Diavolo. “No, go ahead. Wait at the +mesón, though, until I come. Wait until I give you your passports.”</p> + +<p>Then he turned again to stare at the girl who all unconsciously had wrought +the poor little crow’s release.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span><a id='link_3'></a>CHAPTER III<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Violent End of a Terrible Bandit</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Come listen to me, you gallants so free,<br /> +All you that love mirth for to hear,<br /> +And I will tell you of a bold outlaw.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Robin Hood.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>“Oh, oh, now he’s coming to eat <i>us</i>!” Jacqueline +gasped.</p> + +<p>The fierce stranger, however, seemed undecided. His brow furrowed, and for +the moment he only stared. Jacqueline peeped through the lashes curtaining her +eyes. She wanted to see his face, and she saw one of bold lines. The chin was a +hard right angle. The mouth was a cruel line between heavily sensuous lips. The +nose was a splendid line, and a very assertive and insolent nose altogether. The +forehead was rugged, with a free curving sweep. Here there would have been a +certain nobility, only its slope was just a hint too low. The skin was tawny. +The moustache was black and bristling, as was also the thick hair, which lay +back like grass before a breeze. The shaggy eyebrows were parted by deep clefts, +the dark corrugations of frowning. One wondered if the man did not turn the +foreboding scowl on and off by design. But all these were matters that fitted in +with the other striking “properties,” and Jacqueline was fairly well +satisfied with her Fra Diavolo. As she declared to herself, here was the very +dramatic presence to mount upon a war charger!</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_18'></a> +<img src='images/illus-018.jpg' id="img003" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“RODRIGO GALÁN”<br />“The fierce stranger, however, seemed undecided.<br />His brow furrowed, and for the moment he only stared” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span>Now when +Jacqueline peeped–there was something irresistible about it–the +furrows in the black-beetled brow smoothed themselves out, whether the stranger +meant them to or not. And a vague resolve took hold on him, and quickened his +breath. Her glance might have been invitation–Tampico was not a drawing +room–but still he hesitated. There was a certain hauteur in the set of the +demoiselle’s head, which outbalanced the mischief in her eyes. He felt an +indefinable severity in her tempting beauty, and this was new to his philosophy +of woman. But as he drank in further details, his resolve stiffened. That +Grecian bend to her crisp skirt was evidently an extreme from the Rue de la +Paix, foretelling the end of stupendous flounces. Then there was the tilt to the +large hat, and the veil falling to the level of the eyes, and the disquieting +charm of both. The wine-red lips had a way of smiling and curling at the same +time. And still again there was that line of the neck, from the shoulder up to +where it hid under the soft, old-gold tendrils, and that line was a thing of +beauty and seductive mystery. The dreadful ranchero went down in humility before +the splendor of the tantalizing Parisienne.</p> + +<p>Michel Ney leaned nearer over the table. “In all conscience, +mademoiselle, your Fra Diavolo is bizarre enough,” he said, “but +please don’t let us stir him up. Think, if anything should happen to you, +why Mexico, why France would––”</p> + +<p>“You flatter!” she mocked him. “Only two empires to keep me +out of a flirtation? It’s not enough, Michel.”</p> + +<p>A shadow fell over them. “My apologies,” spoke a deep voice, +“but the señorita, she is going to the City, to the Capital, +perhaps?”</p> + +<p>The syllables fell one by one, distinct and heavy. The Spanish was +elaborately cermonious, but the accent was Mexican and almost gutteral.</p> + +<p>“L’impertinent!” cried Ney, bounding to his feet. No diffidence +cloyed his manner now. He was on familiar ground at last, for the first time +since fighting Arabs in Algeria. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_20'></a>20</span>He was supremely happy too, and as mad as a Gaul can +be. “L’impertinent!” he repeated, coaxingly.</p> + +<p>“Now don’t be ridiculous, Michel,” said Jacqueline. +“He can’t understand you.”</p> + +<p>Moreover, the fame of the Chasseurs, of those colossal heroes with their +terrible sabres, of their legendary prowess in the Crimea, in China, in Italy, +in Africa, none of it seemed to daunt the Mexican in the least.</p> + +<p>“How, little Soldier-Boy Blue?” he inquired with cumbrous +pleasantry.</p> + +<p>“Alas, señor,” said Jacqueline, “he’s quite a little +brother to dragons.”</p> + +<p>“What are you talking about?” Michel demanded.</p> + +<p>“I am keeping you from being eaten up, young sire, but,” and +Jacqueline’s tone changed, “pray give yourself the trouble to be +calm. He only means a kindly offer of service, no doubt, however strange that +may seem to your delicacy of breeding, Monsieur the Duke.”</p> + +<p>Michel heaved a sigh and–sat down. He was no longer on familiar ground. +Then Fra Diavolo proceeded to verify mademoiselle’s judgment of him. +Sombrero in hand and with a pompous courtliness, he repeated his natural +supposition that the señorita was on her way to the City (meaning the City of +Mexico), and perhaps to the court of His Glorious Majesty, Maximiliano. He +offered himself, therefore, in case he might have the felicity to be of use. +This she need not consider as personal, if it in any way offended, but as an +official courtesy, since she saw in him an officer–an officer of His Most +Peace-loving Majesty’s Contra Guerrillas. And thus to a conclusion, +impressively, laboriously.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline was less delighted than at first. The dash and daredeviltry was +somehow not quite sustained. But she replied that he had surmised correctly, and +added that she was Mademoiselle d’Aumerle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span>He started at the +name, and her eyes sparkled to note the effect. “The Marquesa Juana de +Aumerle!” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“Jeanne d’Aumerle, no other, sir,” she assured him, but she +watched him quizzically, for she knew that another name was hovering on his +lips.</p> + +<p>“Surely not––” he began.</p> + +<p>“Si señor,” and she smiled good humoredly, “I +am–‘Jacqueline.’”</p> + +<p>It was a name that had sifted from the court down into distant plebeian +corners of the Mexican Empire, and it was tinged–let us say so at +once–with the unpleasing hue of notoriety.</p> + +<p>“His Ever Considerate Majesty Maximiliano would be furious if any harm +should befall Your Ladyship,” Fra Diavolo observed, “though,” +he added to himself, “the empress would possibly survive it.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline looked at him sharply. But in his deferential manner she could +detect no hint of a second meaning. Yet he had laid bare the kernel of the whole +business that bore the name of Jacqueline. She betrayed no vexation. If this +were her cross, she was at least too haughtily proud to evade it. For a passing +instant only she looked as she had in the small boat, when she had said that +about the mission of a woman being to give. The next moment, and the mood was +gone.</p> + +<p>With knowledge of her identity, the project that was building in the +stranger’s dark mind loomed more and more dangerously venturesome. But as +he gazed and saw how pretty she was, audacity marched strong and he wavered no +longer. And when she thanked him, and added that the ship was only waiting until +she finished her coffee, he roused himself and drove with hard will to his +purpose.</p> + +<p>“Going on by water?” he protested. “But Señorita de +Aumerle, we are in the season for northers. Look, those mean another +storm,” and he pointed overhead, to harmless little cotton bunches of +clouds scurrying away to the horizon.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span>“Éh +bien,” returned the señorita, “what would you?”</p> + +<p>He would, it appeared, that she go by land. He hoped that she did not +consider his offer an empty politeness, tendered only in the expectation of its +being refused. He so contrived, however, that that was precisely the way his +offer might be interpreted, and in that he was deeper than she imagined. She +grew interested in the possibility of finishing her journey overland. He +informed her that one could travel a day westward on horseback to a place called +Valles, then take the City of Mexico and Monterey stage, and reach the City in +two days, which was much shorter than by way of the sea and Vera Cruz. He spoke +as dispassionately as a time table. But he noted that she clothed his skeleton +data with a personal interest. And Ney also, who had caught the drift of things, +saw new mischief brewing in her gray eyes.</p> + +<p>“You really are not thinking, mademoiselle––” he +interrupted.</p> + +<p>“And why not, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Why–uh–the bandits, of course.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline turned to the stranger who served as itinerary folder. Would he +dispose of the childish objection? He would. But he wondered why the señor had +not mentioned one who was the most to be feared of all bandits; in fact, the +most implacable of the rebels still battling against His Truly Mexican Majesty. +The stranger paused expectantly, but as Ney seemed to recognize no particular +outlaw from the description, he went on with a deepening frown, +“––and who is none other than the Capitan Don Rodrigo +Galán.”</p> + +<p>“Who’s he?” Ney inquired, willing enough to have any +scarecrow whatever for Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>“Is it possible?–Your Mercy does not know?”</p> + +<p>Ney pleaded that he had never been in the country before.</p> + +<p>“But surely,” the Mexican objected, “Don Rodrigo is a +household word throughout Europe?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span>“He has +certainly been heard of in Mexico,” said Jacqueline, whereat Fra Diavolo +turned to her gratefully. “But,” she added, “Monsieur Ney will +now find in him another objection to my journeying overland.”</p> + +<p>The ardor of the bandit’s eulogist faltered. “The señor might +indeed,” he confessed, “only,” and here he hesitated like a +man contemplating suicide, “only, Don Rodrigo has been–yes, +he’s been shot, from ambush; and his band–yes, his band is scattered +forever.”</p> + +<p>Having achieved the painful massacre, Fra Diavolo traveled on more easily to +assure the señorita that since then the country had been entirely pacified. Ney, +however, was not. How did they know the story was true? And if it was, he was +sorry. He would enjoy meeting the terrible and provokingly deceased Monsieur +Rodrigue, if only to teach him that being terrible is not good manners. But, did +they know for certain that the bandit was dead?</p> + +<p>“We do,” said the Mexican, again like a reluctant suicide, +“because I killed him myself.”</p> + +<p>“But how are we to know, sir,” Ney persisted, “that you are +so terrible on your own account?”</p> + +<p>“My identification, you mean? Bueno, it is only just. Here, this may +do,” and the ranchero drew a paper from his money belt and handed it to +Jacqueline. The paper was an order addressed to one Captain Maurel, who was to +proceed with his company to the district of Tampico, and there to take and to +shoot the guerrilla thief, Rodrigo Galán, and all his band, who infested the +district aforesaid, known as the Huasteca. The Captain Maurel would take note +that this Rodrigo Galán frequented the very city of Tampico itself, with an +impudence to be punished at all hazards. Signed: Dupin, Colonel of His +Majesty’s Contra Guerrillas.</p> + +<p>“Colonel Dupin?” Jacqueline repeated with a wry mouth. Dupin, the +Contra-Guerrilla chief, was a brave Frenchman. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_24'></a>24</span>But the quality of his mercy had made his name a +shudder on the lips of all men, his own countrymen included.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Fra Diavolo between his teeth, “Mi Coronel +Dupin–the Tiger.”</p> + +<p>“So he is called, I know,” said Jacqueline. “And you, it +appears, are Captain Maurel–Maurel, but that is French?”</p> + +<p>“The way it is spelled on the paper, yes. But my Coronel, being French, +made a mistake. He should have written it ‘Morel.’”</p> + +<p>“No matter,” said Jacqueline, “for you are only a trite, +conventional officer, after all. But how much merrier it would be if you +were–were––” and suddenly she leaned over the paper and placed +an impetuous finger on the bandit’s name. “So,” she continued +wistfully, “there is no danger. We ride, we take a stage. It is tame. I +say it is tame, monsieur!”</p> + +<p>Captain Maurel, or Morel, desired to add that there was a trader who owned an +hacienda in the interior, and that this trader was starting for his plantation +the very next morning; all of which was very convenient, because the trader had +extra horses, and he, Captain Morel, had a certain influence with the trader. +The señorita’s party could travel with his friend’s caravan as far +as the stage.</p> + +<p>“Voilá!” cried Jacqueline. “It is arranged!”</p> + +<p>“Diable, it is not!” Michel was on his feet again.</p> + +<p>His wayward charge looked him over reflectively. “Our Mars in his baby +clothes again,” said she, as a fond, despairing mother with an +incorrigible child.</p> + +<p>The Mexican had shown himself hostile and ready. But seeing +Jacqueline’s coolness he melted out of his somewhat theatrical bristling, +lest her sarcasm veer toward himself.</p> + +<p>The tempestuous Mars, however, was beyond the range of scorn. He kept one +stubborn purpose before him. “We go back to the ship, or”–he +took breath where he meant to put a handsome +oath–“or–it’s a fight!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span>“There, +there,” said Jacqueline gently. “Besides, are you not to go with me +just the same?”</p> + +<p>Ney turned to the stranger. “I ask you to withdraw, sir, both yourself +and your offers, because you’re only meddling here.”</p> + +<p>The intruder grew rigid straightway. “<i>I</i> am not one to take back +an offer,” he stated loftily. His voice was weighted to a heavier +guttural, and in the deep staccatos harshly chopped off, and each falling with a +thud, there was a quality so ominous and deadly that even Jacqueline had her +doubts. But she would not admit them, to herself least of all. “And I, +Monsieur Ney,” she said, “have decided to accept,” though she +had not really, until that very moment.</p> + +<p>Ney turned to the one sailor with him. “Run like fury!” he +whispered. “Bring the others!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, very well,” said the Mexican.</p> + +<p>As he doubtless intended, Fra Diavolo’s words sounded like the low +growl of an awakening lion, and at the same time he brought forth the reed +whistle and put it to his lips. The note that came was faint, like that of a +distant bird in the forest.</p> + +<p>Ney smiled. It seemed inadequate, silly. Lately he had become familiar with +the sonorous foghorn, and besides, he was not a woodsman and knew nothing of the +penetration of the thin, vibrant signal. When the sailors should come, he would +take the troublesome fellow to the commander of the garrison on the hill. But +then a weight fell on him from behind, and uncleanliness and garlic and the +sweating of flesh filled his nostrils. Bare arms around his neck jerked up his +chin, according to the stroke of Père François. Other writhing arms twined about +his waist, his legs, his ankles; and hands clutched after his sabre and pistol. +But at last he stood free, and glared about him, disarmed and helpless. +Jacqueline’s infernal Fra Diavolo was surveying him from the closed door +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span>of the Café, behind +which he had swept the two women. His stiff pose had relaxed, and he was even +smiling. He waved his hand apologetically over his followers. “His +Exceeding Christian Majesty’s most valiant contra guerrillas,” he +explained.</p> + +<p>The so-called contra guerrillas were villainous wretches, at the gentlest +estimate. Their scanty, ragged and stained cotton manta flapped loosely over +their skin, which was scaly and as tough as old leather. Most of them had +knives. A few carried muskets, long, rusty, muzzle-loading weapons that threw a +slug of marble size.</p> + +<p>Almost at once the burly French sailors appeared, but Fra Diavolo’s +little demons closed in behind them and around them and so kept them from +reaching Ney. Thus both sides circled about and moved cautiously, waiting for +the trouble to begin in earnest. Michel only panted, until at last he bethought +himself that there was such a thing as strategy.</p> + +<p>“One of you out there,” he shouted in French, “quick, go to +the fort. Bring the soldiers!”</p> + +<p>The Mexicans did not understand, and before they could prevent, a sailor had +taken to his heels.</p> + +<p>Then Fra Diavolo comprehended. “You idiots!” he bellowed. +“You–Pedro! Catch him! Faster!–Catch him, I say!”</p> + +<p>A little demon darted away in pursuit of the sailor. Obviously, the situation +hung on the swifter in the race.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span><a id='link_4'></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>La Luz, Blockade Runner</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Romeo and Juliet.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>“Mesón” is Spanish for hostelry. In the ancient caravansaries, +like the one at Bethlehem sacred to the Christ child, the same accommodations +were meted out to man and beast alike. More recently there are +“hotels,” which distinguish a man from his beast, usually; though +sometimes undeservedly. And so the word “mesòn” got left behind +along with its primitive meaning. But in Mexico word and meaning still go +together to this day, and both described pretty well the four walls in Tampico +where Anastasio Murguía tarried. Excepting the porter’s lodge at the +entrance, the establishment’s only roof formed an open corridor against +one of the walls, in which species of cloister the human guests were privileged +to spread their blankets in case of rain or an icy norther. Otherwise they slept +in the sky-vaulted court among the four-footed transients, for what men on the +torrid Gulf coast would allow his beast more fresh air than himself?</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio’s caravan filled the mesón with an unflurried, +hay-chewing promise of bustle-to-be at some future date. Except for the camels +and costume lacking, the Mexican trader might have been a sheik in an oasis +khan. His bales littered the patio’s stone pavement. They were of cotton +mostly, which he had bought in the Confederate States, in exchange for +necessities of warfare and life. Complacent burros and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span>horses were juggling into their mouths +some final grains from the sacks over their noses. Peon servants stolidly busied +themselves around charcoal braziers.</p> + +<p>An American leaned in the cavernous doorway. The tarnished insignia on his +collar indicated an officer of Confederate cavalry. He was smoking a cob pipe, +of which he seemed quite fond. And as a return for such affection, the venerable +Missouri meerschaum lent to its young master an air that was comfortably +domestic and peaceable. The trooper wore a woolen shirt. His boots were rough +and heavy. Hard wear and weather had softened his gray hat into a disreputable +slouch affair. A broad black-leather belt sagged about his middle from the +weight of cartridges. Under his ribs on either side protruded the butt of a +navy-six, thrust in between shirt and trousers. He watched with dozing interest +the muleteers inside as they roped up straw, tightened straps, and otherwise got +ready for departure. Then Anastasio Murguía appeared coming up the street, just +from his lately recorded interview with Fra Diavolo. The weazened little old +Mexican was in a fretful humor, and his glance at the lounging Southerner was +anything but cordial. He would have passed on into the mesón, but the other +stopped him.</p> + +<p>“Well, Murgie, are we projecting to start to-night?” the trooper +inquired in English. “Eh?–What say?”</p> + +<p>What Don Anastasio had said was nothing at all, but being thus urged, he +mumbled a negative.</p> + +<p>“Not starting to-night?” his questioner repeated. “Now, why +don’t we?–What?–Lordsake, man, dive! Bring up that voice there +for once!”</p> + +<p>Murguía sank to the chin in his black coat. Glancing apprehensively at the +cavalryman’s long arm, he edged away to the farther side of the doorway. +Experience had accustomed the ancient trader to despots, but in this cheery +youngster of a Gringo the regal title was not clear, which simply made <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span>tyranny the more irksome. +The Gringo was the veriest usurper. He did not justify his sway by the least +ferocity. He never uttered a threat. Where, then, was his right to the sceptre +he wielded so nonchalantly? Were there only some tangible jeopardy to his pelt, +Murguía would have been more resigned. But his latest autocrat was only +matter-of-fact, blithely and aggravatingly matter-of-fact.</p> + +<p>By every rule governing man’s attitude toward man, the Señor Don should +have been the bully, and the youngster the cringing sycophant. For since their +very odd meeting two weeks before, the tyrant had been in the power of the +tyrannized. It began on Murguía’s own boat, where Murguía was absolute. +Any time after leaving Mobile he had merely to follow his inclinations and order +the fellow thrown overboard. Yet it was the soldier boy who had assumed the +ascendancy, and it could not have been more natural were the boat’s owner +a scullion and the intruder an admiral.</p> + +<p>“And why <i>don’t</i> we start to-night?” the complacent +usurper demanded in that plaintive drawl which so irritated the other. +“You went for your passports, didn’t you get ’em?”</p> + +<p>“Si–si, señor.”</p> + +<p>“Good! Then to-night it is, eh?–Can’t you speak out, +<i>my</i> gracious!”</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> might go to-night,” the trader suggested timidly.</p> + +<p>“Alone?–N-o, parting isn’t the sweet sorrow it’s +cracked up to be. Besides, I don’t know the roads, but of course +that’s nothing to losing a jovial old mate like you, Murgie.”</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio smirked at the pleasantry. “But <i>I</i> can’t go +to-night, señor. I–I have to see–someone–first.”</p> + +<p>The trooper betrayed the least impatience. “Now look here–usurer, +viper, blanketed thief, honorable sir, you <i>know</i> I’m in a +hurry!”</p> + +<p>That his haste could be any concern of Murguía’s was preposterous, and +Murguía would have liked nothing better than <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_30'></a>30</span>to tell him so. But he did not, and suffered inwardly +because somehow he could not. He harbored a dim but dreadful picture of what +might happen should the amiable cavalryman actually lose his temper. Loss of +patience had menace enough, though the Southerner had not stirred from his lazy +posture in the doorway nor overlooked a single contented puff from the Missouri +meerschaum.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” Don Anastasio paid out the hard-found words +through his teeth, “but possibly we can leave to-morrow. Will, will that +suit Your Mercy, Señor Coronel?”</p> + +<p>“Oh perhaps. Anyhow, don’t go to forgetting, now, that I’m +in a hurry.”</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio breathed easier, and he even grew so bold as to recall a +certain suspicion he had entertained. “Your errand down here must be of +considerable importance, Señor Coronel?” he ventured.</p> + +<p>“There you are again–crawling again.” It was evident that +the trooper’s normal condition was a great, hearty, calm good humor.</p> + +<p>But the Mexican’s shriveled features grew sharper and his moist eyes +more prying. His suspicion had tormented him ever since fate had thrown the +Confederate in his way. This had happened one stormy night at Mobile. The night +in question was pitch dark. The tide was favorable, too, but a norther was +blowing, the very same norther that had turned the <i>Impératrice Eugénie</i> off +her course. Murguía’s skipper had chosen the hour of midnight for running +the Federal blockade outside, and he had already given the order to cast off, +when a horseman in a cape overcoat rode to the edge of the wharf.</p> + +<p>“Wait there!” the horseman trumpeted through his hand.</p> + +<p>It was the first word Murguía had ever heard from his future tyrant, and even +then the cool tone of authority nettled him. But he reflected that here might be +a passenger, and a passenger <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_31'></a>31</span>through the blockade usually meant five hundred +dollars in gold. He ordered the plank held for a moment.</p> + +<p>“They tell me–whoa, Demijohn!–you are going to +Tampico?” hallooed the same voice.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Murguía answered, and was going to name his price, when +without more ado the cavalier rode across, dismounted on the deck, and tossed +his bridle to the first sailor.</p> + +<p>“Ca-rai!” sneered the astonished Mexican, “one would think +you’d just reached your own barnyard, señor.”</p> + +<p>“My own barnyard?” echoed the stranger bitterly. “I +haven’t seen my own barnyard, or anything that is mine, during these four +years past. But you were about to start?”</p> + +<p>“Not so fast, señor. Fare in advance, seven hundred dollars.” +Murguía looked for the haggling to come next, but somehow the sniff he heard was +not promising.</p> + +<p>“Usurer, viper, blanketed thief, benevolent old rascal,” the +trooper enumerated as courteously as “Señor Don” or “Your +Mercy,” “you don’t surprise me a bit, not when you charge us +three thousand dollars gold for freight on a trunk of quinine!”</p> + +<p>“G-g-get back on your horse! G-get off this boat!”</p> + +<p>But the intruder calmly drew off his great coat, and Murguía saw the butts of +pistols at his waist. Yet they had no reference to the removal of the cape. The +latter was a simple act of making oneself at home.</p> + +<p>“I reckon,” said the newcomer cheerily, “there’s no +question of fare. Here, I’ve got a pass.”</p> + +<p>By a lantern Murguía read the paper handed him. It was signed: +“Jefferson Davis, President C. S. A.” Therein Mr. Anastasio Murguía +or any other blockade runner was required on demand of the bearer, Lieut. Col. +Jno. D. Driscoll, to transport the said Driscoll to that part outside the +Confederacy which might happen to be the blockade runner’s +destination.</p> + +<p>The peevish old man scowled, hesitated. He read the order <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span>again, hesitated again, and +at last handed it back, his mind made up.</p> + +<p>“Have the goodness, señor, to remove yourself from my boat.”</p> + +<p>But the lieutenant colonel placidly inquired, “Carry any government +cotton this trip? No, I know you don’t. Then you’re in debt to the +government? Correct. So I reckon you’ll carry me in place of the +cotton.”</p> + +<p>The demand was just. For their golden privileges the blockade runners took a +portion of their cargo on government account. But Murguía knew that the army of +Northern Virginia must surrender soon. The Confederacy was really at an end, and +this would be his last trip. Why, then, pay a dying creditor?</p> + +<p>“The favor, señor! Or must I have you kicked off?”</p> + +<p>The señor, however, with his charger behind him, was foraging over the deck +to find a stall, and in a fury Murguía plucked at his sleeve. But Driscoll +wheeled of his own accord to inquire about horse accommodations, and then the +Mexican wondered in his timid soul at his own boldness. It loomed before him as +unutterably more preposterous than the lone wanderer’s preposterous act of +taking possession single handed. Yet the lone wanderer was only gazing down on +him very benignly. But what experience of violent life, of cool dealing in +death, did poor Don Anastasio behold on those youthful features! In a panic he +realized certain vital things. To evade his debt to a government that could +never claim it was very seductive and business-like. But there were the +Confederate batteries on the wharf, and a line of torpedoes across the entrance +to the bay. There were the Federal cannon of Fort Morgan, just beyond. His +passenger, if rejected, had only to give the word, and there would be some right +eager shooting. And as the Southerners shot, in their present mood, they would +remember various matters. They would remember the treasure he <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span>had wrung from their +distress; the cotton bought for ten cents and sold abroad for a dollar; the +nitre, the gunpowder, the clothing and medicines, rated so mercilessly dear; the +profits boosted a thousand per cent., though an army was starving.</p> + +<p>And yet Murguía could not lift his soul from the few hundred dollars of +passage money. He almost had his man by the sleeve again. But no, there were +four hundred odd bales on board. There was <i>La Luz</i>, his fleet £20,000 +Clyde-built side-wheeler, bought out of the proceeds of a single former trip. +Even if torpedoes and cannon missed, the Fort and blockaders outside would be +thankful for the alarm, and make sure of him. A few hundred dollars was an +amount, but the benignity in Driscoll’s whimsical brown eyes meant a great +deal more, such for instance, as cotton and steamer and Don Anastasio plunging +to the bottom of the bay.</p> + +<p>“Oh I s’y, sir,” interrupted a voice in vigorous cockney, +“this ’ere tide ain’t in the ’abit o’ waitin’. If +we go to-night, we go this minute, sir!” It was the skipper, and the +skipper’s ultimatum.</p> + +<p>“W’y yes,” drawled the lieutenant colonel, +“let’s be marching. I forgot to tell you, I’m in a hurry. Come +on, Demijohn,” and man and horse went in search of beds.</p> + +<p>Murguía looked venomous, but the plank was drawn on board.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span><a id='link_5'></a>CHAPTER V<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Storm Centre</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“God forbid I should be so bold as to press to heaven in my young days.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Titus Andronicus.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The feathering buckets of the paddle wheels began to turn; and <i>La Luz</i>, +long, low, narrow, and a racer, moved noiselessly out into the bay. A few yards +only, and the loungers on the wharf could neither see nor hear her. Except for +the muffled binnacle light, there was neither a ray nor a spark. The anthracite +gave almost no smoke. The hull, hardly three feet above water amidships, was +“Union color,” and invisible at night. The waves slipped over her +like oil, without the sound of a splash, almost without breaking. She glided +along more and more swiftly. The silent engines betrayed no hint of their power, +though breathing a force to drive a vessel five times as large.</p> + +<p>There were many entrances to the bay, and Murguía had had his steamer built +of light draft especially, to profit by any outlet offering least danger from +the vigilant patrol outside. The skipper had already chosen his course. Because +of the gale, he calculated that the blockaders would get a considerable offing, +lest they flounder mid the shoal waters inshore. He knew too, even if it were +not so dark, that a long, foamy line of surf curtained the bay from any watchful +eye on the open sea. By the time she reached the beach channels, <i>La +Luz</i> had full speed on. Then, knifing the higher and higher waves, she made a +dash for it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span>For a slender +steamer, and in such weather, the risk was desperate. The skipper hoped that the +blockaders would never credit him with quite the insanity of it. He held the +wheel himself, while beside him his keenest-sighted quartermaster stood guard +with a glass. The agitated owner was there also, huddled in his black shawl, but +the binoculars glued to his eyes trembled so that he could hardly have seen a +full-rigged armada in broad daylight.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the quartermaster touched the skipper’s arm under the shrouded +binnacle. “I s’y sir,” he whispered excitedly, +“they’re–<i>there!</i> There, anchored at the inshore station, +just off the bar! My eye, but hain’t they beastly idiots? They’ll +smash to pieces.”</p> + +<p>The skipper looked and Murguía tried to look. But they saw nothing. Except +for the booming of the surf, they might have been on a landless sea, alone in +the black night. Don Anastasio was shaking at such a rate that his two +companions in the dark wheelhouse were conscious of it. He cursed the +quartermaster for a pessimist. The skipper, though, was brave enough to +believe.</p> + +<p>“We’re expected, that’s gospel,” he muttered. But he +did not change his course, for he knew that on his other side there was a second +fleet, tugging at drift leads off the entrance to the main ship channel. It was +near hopeless, but he meant to dart between the two.</p> + +<p>“Now for a reception as ’ull touch us to the quick, as Loo-ee Sixteenth +said––” The skipper cut himself short. “Aye, aye, sir,” +he cried, “they’ve spied us!”</p> + +<p>“They haven’t!” groaned Murguía. “How could +they?”</p> + +<p>“’T’aint important now, sir, how they could. There might be a gleam in +our wake. But any’ow they ’ave.”</p> + +<p>They had indeed. Less than a mile to port there suddenly appeared two red +lights, two sullen eyeballs of fire. Then, a rocket cleft the darkness, its +slant proclaiming the fugitive’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_36'></a>36</span>course. Hurriedly the <i>Luz’s</i> quartermaster +sent up a rocket also, but in the opposite direction. It was useless. A third +rocket from the signaling blockader contradicted him.</p> + +<p>“We’re bein’ chased,” announced the skipper. +“One of ’em ’as slipped her chain and got off.”</p> + +<p>As <i>La Luz</i> had gained the open, the skipper let his quartermaster take +the wheel. “’Old her to the wind, lad,” he cautioned. “A beam +sea ’ud swamp us.” Next he whistled down to the engine room. They were to +stoke with turpentine and cotton. At once Murguía began to fidget. “It, it +will make smoke,” he whined.</p> + +<p>“An’ steam. We’re seen a’ready, ain’t we, +sir?”</p> + +<p>“But it costs more.”</p> + +<p>“Not if it clears us. Soft coal ’ud seem bloomin’ expensive, sir, +if we got over’auled.”</p> + +<p>The race was on. In smooth water it would scarcely have been one. But the +boiling fury cut knots from the steamer’s speed, while the Federals sent +after her only their sailing vessels, which with all canvas spread bent low to +the chase. They had, however, used up time to unreef; and with the terrific +rolling they would not dare cast loose a gun.</p> + +<p>When morning dawned thickly behind the leaden sky, the three men in the +wheelhouse made out a top-gallant sail against the horizon. “By +noon,” said the skipper, “the beggars ’ull ’ave us.”</p> + +<p>He was a small pert man, was the skipper, with a sharp face, an edge to his +voice, and two little points of eyes that glowed. Salt water had not drenched +his dry cockney speech, and he was a gamin of the sea and as keen to its gammon +ways as in boyhood he had been to those of pubs around the old Bow Bells.</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio heard the verdict with a shudder. Given the nature of the man, +his mortal fear was the dreadfullest torture that could be devised. The game +little cockney peered into <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_37'></a>37</span>his distorted face, and wondered. Never was there a +more pitiful coward, and yet the craven had passed through the same agony full +twenty times during the last few years. Murguía knew nothing of the noble +motives which make a man stronger than terror, but he did know a miser’s +passion. He begrudged even the costlier fuel that was their hope of safety.</p> + +<p>“Your non-payin’ guest, sir,” said the skipper, pointing +downward. “’Spose he wants to buy them ’ere smokestacks?”</p> + +<p>The trooper had appeared on deck. He was clinging to a cleat in the rail with +a landsman’s awkwardness and with the cunning object of proving to the +ship that he wasn’t to be surprised off his feet another time. He swayed +grandly, generously, for’ard and aft, like a metronome set at a large, sweeping +rhythm. Every billow shot a flood from stern to bow, and swished past his boots, +but he was heedless of that. His head was thrown back, a head of stubborn black +curling tufts, and he seemed absorbed in the <i>Luz’s</i> two funnels. They +gave out little smoke now, for with daylight the skipper had changed to +anthracite again, in the forlorn hope of hiding their trail. But it had lessened +their steam pressure, and in a short time, the skipper feared, the pursuer would +make them out, hull and all.</p> + +<p>A moment later the passenger climbed into the wheelhouse. “Look +here–Mur–Murgie,” he said, “for a seven-hundred-dollar +rate that was a toler’ble unsteady cabin I had last night; restless, sort of. +It’s mighty curious, but something’s been acting up inside of me, +and I can’t seem to make out <i>what</i> it is!” As he spoke, he +glanced inquiringly from owner to skipper. He might have been another Panurge +envying the planter of cabbages who had one foot on solid earth and the other +not far away. He looked pale.</p> + +<p>It afforded Don Anastasio little satisfaction to find a young man not more +than twenty-two or three. Without his great coat the Southerner proved lithe +rather than stocky. There <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_38'></a>38</span>was even an elusive angular effect to him. Yet the +night before he had looked as wide and imposing as the general of an army. His +cheeks were smooth, but they were tight and hard and brown from the weathering +of sun and blizzard. His features had that decisive cleanliness of line which +makes for strong beauty in a man. Evidently nature had molded them boyishly soft +and refined at first, but in the hardening of life, of a life such as his, they +had become rugged. Most of all, the face was unmistakably American. The large +mouth had that dry, whimsical set, and that sensitiveness to twitching at the +corners, which foretells a smile. The brown eyes sparkled quietly, and contour +and expression generally were those which one may find on a Missourian, or a +Texan, or on a man from Montana, or even on a New Yorker born; but never, +anywhere, except on an American. Whatever is said to the contrary, the new +Western race in its fusing of many old ones has certainly produced not one but +several peculiarly American types, and Driscoll’s was American. It was +most so because it had humor, virility, and the optimism that drives back +despair and holds forth hope for all races of men.</p> + +<p>Murguía was right, his passenger seemed a boy. But war and four years of +hardest riding had meant more of age than lagging peace could ever hold. +Sometimes there flitted across the lad’s face a vague melancholy, but +being all things rather than self-inspecting, he could never quite locate the +trouble, and would shake himself out of it with a sort of comical wonder. +Bitterness had even touched him the night before, as it did many another +Southerner on the eve of the Surrender. Yet the boy part in him made such moods +rare, and only passing at their worst. On the other hand the same boy-part gave +a vigor and a lustre to his occupation, though that occupation +was–fighting. He knew no other, and in that the young animal worked off +excess of animal life with a refreshing gusto. Even his comrades, of desperado +stripe that they were, had dubbed him the Storm Centre. And so he was, in every +tempest of arms. The very joy of living–in killing, alas!–always +flung him true to the centre. But once there, he was like a calm and busy +workman, and had as little self consciousness of the thing–of the +gallantry and the heroism–as the prosiest blacksmith. He had grown into a +man of dangerous fibre, but he was less aware of it than of his muscles.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_38'></a> +<img src='images/illus-038.jpg' id="img004" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“JOHN DINWIDDIE DRISCOLL–THE MISSOURIAN”<br />“His cheeks were smooth, but they were tight and hard and<br />brown from the weathering of sun and blizzard” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span>Various items on +the <i>Luz</i> struck the trooper as amusing. There was the incongruity of his +seven-hundred-dollar cabin, the secession of his stomach from the tranquillity +of the federal body organic, and finally, this running away from somebody. But +he quickly perceived that the last was serious enough. The skipper lowered his +glasses, and shook his perky head a number of times. “<i>Who</i> said life +was all beer and skittles?” he demanded defiantly, and glared at Driscoll +as though <i>he</i> had. But getting no answer, he seemed mollified, as though +this proved that the man who <i>had</i> said it was an imbecile. Murguía, by the +way, had come to hate no truth more soulfully than the palpable shortcoming of +life in the matter of beer and skittles. And now it was borne in upon him again, +for the skipper announced, definitely and with an oath, that they’d have +to begin throwing the cargo overboard.</p> + +<p>Poor Don Anastasio behaved like a man insane. He wrung his hands. He +protested stoutly, then incoherently. He whined. He glared vengefully at the +dread sail on the horizon, and then he shrank from it, as from a flaming sword. +And as it grew larger, his eyeballs rounded and dried into smaller discs. But at +once he would remember his darling cotton that must go to the waves, and the +beady eyes swam again in moisture, like greenish peas in a sickly broth. Avarice +and terror in discord played on the creature as the gale through the whimpering +cordage.</p> + +<p>“No ’elp for it, sir,” said the skipper, bridling like a bantam. +“Didn’t I try to save <i>my</i> cargo, off Savannah, and didn’t +I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span> lose my sloop to +boot? Didn’t I now, sir?–Poor old girl, mebby she’s our chaser +out ’ere this very minute.”</p> + +<p>“Try–try more turpentine,” said Murguía weakly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, or salt bacon, sir, or cognac, or the woodwork, or any blarsted +thing I see fit, sir!” The little skipper hit out each item with a step +downward to the deck, and five minutes later Murguía groaned, for bale after +bale came tumbling out of the hold. Then over they began to go, the first, the +second, the third, and another, and another, and after each went a moan from +Anastasio. He leaned through the window to see one tossing in the waves, then +suffered a next pang to see the next follow after. It was an excruciating +cumulus of grief. The trooper regarded him quizzically. Destruction of merely +worldly goods had become routine for him. He returned to his contemplation of +the two funnels.</p> + +<p>The skipper came back, dripping with pray. “The wind’s +changin’,” he said, “and that’ll beat down the sea +some.”</p> + +<p>“Reckon they’ll get us?” Driscoll asked.</p> + +<p>Murguía took the query as an aggravation of woe, and he turned wrathfully on +the trooper. “Don’t you see we’re busy?”</p> + +<p>“I see you’re very damn sullen, <i>gra</i>-cious me!–Reckon +they will, captain?”</p> + +<p>“We’ll be eatin’ a United States of America supper, +chained, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Now look here,” said Driscoll plaintively, +“<i>I</i> don’t want to get caught.”</p> + +<p>“But I hope as you’ll bide with us, sir?”</p> + +<p>“Still, I was just thinking–now that smoke––”</p> + +<p>“And I’m a thinkin’ you don’t see much smoke. +We’re keepin’ out o’ sight as long as God’ll let +us.”</p> + +<p>“But, Captain, why not smoke up–big? Just wait now–this +ain’t any of my regiment, I know that–but listen a minute anyway. +Well, once or twice when we were in a fix, in camp, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span>say, and we knew more visitors were coming +than was convenient, w’y, we’d just light the campfires so they +would smoke, and then–meantime–we’d light out too. Old Indian +trick, you know.”</p> + +<p>The skipper was first impatient. But as that did no good, he cocked himself +for a laugh. Then his mouth puckered to a brisk attention, and at the last word +he jumped to his feet. “Damme!” he said, and went thumping down the +steps again. He splashed through the water on deck, minding the stiff wind not +at all, and dived into the engine-room.</p> + +<p>“Soft coal!” gasped Murguía with relief.</p> + +<p>It was pouring from the stacks in dense black clouds.</p> + +<p>The captain returned. “We’ll try to save the rest o’ that +’ere cotton, sir,” he said.</p> + +<p>He looked out at the trembling smoke that betrayed their course so rashly, +and from there back to the pursuer on the horizon. He waited a little longer, +carefully calculating; then sent an order down the tube to the engineer. The +dampers were shut off, and the fuel was changed to anthracite. Soon the smoke +went down, and a hazy invisible stream puffed from the funnels instead. The +<i>Luz</i> swung at right angles to her former course. The paddles threshed +hopefully, and on she sped, leaving no track. The skipper gazed back at the +lowering line, which ended abruptly on their port and trailed off toward the +horizon with a telegraphy of deceit for the distant sail.</p> + +<p>“You soldiers, colonel,” he announced, “don’t ’ave no +monopoly on tricks and gammon, <i>I’m</i> a thinkin’. But I s’y, w’at +if you and me go down to my cabin and have a <i>noggin</i>?”</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>Thus <i>La Luz</i> ran her last blockade, and came safely into port. She +reached Tampico some two days before the <i>Impératrice Eugénie</i>. Whereupon +Din Driscoll, as he was called anywhere off the muster roll, informed Don +Anastasio that he <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span> +would continue with him on into the interior. And as seen already, Murguía +humbly excused delay, though his guest was not invited, not wanted, and +cordially hated besides. That meek smirk of Don Anastasio’s was the +absurdest thing in all psychology.</p> + +<p>Yet what perhaps aggravated the old man most was curiosity. He craved to know +the errand of his young despot. In the doorway of the Tampico mesón he still +hovered near, and ventured more questions.</p> + +<p>“How was it that, that <i>you</i> happened to be sent, señor?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“Well now,” observed the trooper, “there you go figuring it +out that I was sent at all.”</p> + +<p>“It must have been–uh, because you know Spanish. Are you +a–a Texan, Señor Coronel?”</p> + +<p>“They raised me in Missouri,” said the colonel. “But I +learned to talk Pan-American some on the Santa Fé trail. We had wagon trains out +of Kansas City when I was a good sight younger.”</p> + +<p>“I thought,” said the old man suspiciously, “that perhaps +you learned it with Slaughter’s army, along the Rio Grande. Slaughter, +he’s near Brownsville yet, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“Is he?”</p> + +<p>“With about twenty-five thousand men?”</p> + +<p>“Lord, I’ve clean forgot, not having counted ’em +lately.”</p> + +<p>“Where did you come from then, when you came to Mobile?”</p> + +<p>“W’y, as I remember, from Sand Spring, Missouri, near the +Arkansas line.”</p> + +<p>A more obscure crossroads may not exist anywhere, but its bare mention had a +curious effect on the prying Don Anastasio. In the instant he seemed to cringe +before his late passenger.</p> + +<p>“Then you–Your Mercy,” he exclaimed, “belongs to +Shelby’s Brigade?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span>The Missourian +nodded curtly. His questioner was extraordinarily well informed.</p> + +<p>“And, and how many men has Shelby at Sand Spring?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, millions. At least millions don’t appear to stop ’em +any.”</p> + +<p>“But señor, how, how many Confederates are there altogether west of the +Mississippi?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll, though, had had enough. “Look here Murgie,” he said, +“if you keep on crawling, you’ll crawl up on a mongoose one of these +days, and <i>those</i> things have teeth.”</p> + +<p>He might have gone further into natural history, but a sudden commotion down +the street interrupted. “It’s a race!” he cried. +“No–Lordsake, if they ain’t fighting!”</p> + +<p>He drew off his coat, took the pipe from his mouth, and shoved it into his +hip pocket, all with the air of a man who has smoked enough and must be getting +to work. His brown eyes quickened. It was akin to the satisfaction a merchant +feels who scents an unexpected order. He was ready to deliver the goods +instantly. His heavy boots went clattering and his great spurs jangling, and +soon he was stooping over two men rolling in the dust. But he straightened and +thrust his hands into his pockets. He was disappointed. The unexpected order was +a hoax. The combatants were one to one, and he could not fairly enter into +competition. Then an unaccustomed method for getting into the bidding occurred +to him. He might be peacemaker. He leaned over again, to separate them. Each +long-fingered hand reached for a collar. Yet even as he caught hold one of his +prizes went limp in his grasp. He pulled out the survivor, who proved to be a +ragged Mexican with a knife. The other was a French sailor. Driscoll shook the +native angrily, whereupon the little demon swung the knife with vicious intent. +But Driscoll held him at arm’s length, and the sweeps fell short, to the +amazement and rage of his captive.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span>“You +miserable little chocolate-hided galoot, why couldn’t you wait for +me?”</p> + +<p>But the chocolate-hided only squirmed to get away. Driscoll glanced up the +street whence the two had come. At the next corner, before a café, he saw things +more promising. A ranchero with a drawn revolver was holding off a young officer +in sky-blue uniform, while around them a swarm of natives and ten or eleven +sailors were circling uneasily, as if waiting for some sign to begin +hostilities. The joy of battle dilated the trooper’s nostrils.</p> + +<p>“W’y, here I’ve been wasting time on a smaller +edition.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he flung aside his prisoner; and in another minute he was the +centre of the main affair, and having an excellent time.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span><a id='link_6'></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><span class='h2fs'>A Bruising of Arms for Jacqueline</span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,<br />And fetteled him to shoote.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Robin Hood.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Into the crowd before the café, the Storm Centre pushed the argument of +shoulders, and quickly gained for himself the place which his pseudonym +indicated. Then he stopped, and looked puzzled. Which side to take? The French, +being outnumbered, offered the larger contract.</p> + +<p>“What’s the row?” Driscoll inquired of Ney. But he was +ignored. “Might answer,” he suggested insidiously, “for +it’s only a toss-up anyhow which way I enlist. Look here, Sky-Blue, if you +don’t understand Spanish, just say so, and tell me why you don’t +start the game.”</p> + +<p>Ney shoved him aside impatiently, but he calmly stepped back again.</p> + +<p>“Come now,” he argued plaintively, “let me in, don’t +be selfish? But–goodness gracious, man, why don’t you draw your +gun?”</p> + +<p>“Because, my good fellow, I haven’t any.”</p> + +<p>The mystery cleared at once, for now Driscoll understood the strategic +outlay. Its key was Fra Diavolo, with a pistol at Ney’s head, and quite +statuesque the romantic Mexican looked. But out of the tail of his eye Fra +Diavolo noted the American, at first with contemptuous amusement only. Then, as +though such had been the situation from the start, he grew aware of an ugly +black muzzle under his chin. For very safety <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_46'></a>46</span>he froze rigid, and dared not turn his own weapon from +Ney to his new aggressor. But he wondered how the ugly black muzzle came there. +He had not seen the American move. But for those who did see, the action seemed +deliberate, with no hint of the actual panther-like turn of the wrist from the +waist outward.</p> + +<p>With his left hand Driscoll next drew forth the second of the brace, and held +it out to Ney in his palm. The Chasseur seized the weapon joyfully. He +straightened as the humiliation of a disarmed soldier fell from him. But at once +his face clouded, and with an oath he handed back the navy-six.</p> + +<p>“W’y, what’s the matter?” asked Driscoll.</p> + +<p>“You are trifling, man. That thing has no trigger.”</p> + +<p>Much as an artisan would explain the peculiarities of a favorite tool, +Driscoll said, “Now look here, you strip it–this +way–so.”</p> + +<p>And as he explained, he illustrated. He raised the hammer under his thumb, he +released it on the cartridge, and Fra Diavolo’s sombrero flew off.</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo threw up his hand involuntarily, and there was a second report. +Fra Diavolo’s pistol twisted out of his grasp. The brace of navies had not +gone higher than the American’s waist.</p> + +<p>“So,” Driscoll concluded.</p> + +<p>At the same moment one of the sailors, a bullet-headed lad of Normandy, was +observed to do a very peculiar thing. Jumping in front of Fra Diavolo he drew up +one knee, for all the world like a dancer who meant then and there to cut a +pigeon’s wing. His foot described a circle under the knee, then the +performer turned partly round, and as a lightning bolt his leg straightened out +full against Fra Diavolo’s stomach. The ranchero dropped like a bag of +sand, except that he groaned. Ney captured the fallen pistol. A musket blazed, +and a sailor cursed. And forthwith the maelstrom began. It went swirling <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span>round, with weird +contortions and murderous eddies, but always its seething vortex was the lone +trooper.</p> + +<p>Luckily, firearms were out of the question where both sides were so mixed +together. But Mexicans and sailors plied their knives instead, so that there was +much soppy red spreading over the yellowish white of shirts, and over the blue +of jackets. The pigeon-wing diversion, called the savate, also played its +bizarre rôle, for wherever a Frenchman found space for the straightening out of +a leg, in that instant a little native shot from him as a cat from the toe of a +boot. Fra Diavolo was deposited flat on his back each time he tried to rise, +till the sole of a foot took on more terror than a cannon’s mouth. As for +Michel Ney, he was beautiful and gallant, now that what he had to do came +without thinking. He achieved things splendidly with the butt of his +enemy’s revolver, and exhorted his men the while to the old, brilliant +daring of Frenchmen.</p> + +<p>The Storm Centre, though, was merely workmanlike. He put away the +six-shooters, and strove barehanded with joy and vigor, which was delightful; +yet so systematic, that it was anything rather than romance. It might have been +geometry, in that a foe is safer horizontal than perpendicular, and the theorem +he applied industriously, with simple faith and earnest fists.</p> + +<p>Yet, all told, it was a highly successful affair. Din Driscoll objected to +the brevity, but that could hardly be altered for his sake. The little demons of +Mexicans crawled from the outskirts of the mess, here one, there two or three, +and now many, limping and nursing heads, and rubbing themselves dubiously, with +hideous grimaces.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the café door opened, and Jacqueline emerged, tripping lightly. Din +Driscoll was filling his cob pipe, but he paused with a finger over the bowl. +“If there isn’t a woman in it!” he muttered. He felt imposed +upon. The game was a man’s game, and now its flavor was gone.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span>Jacqueline had +seen nothing of the fray, but now she saw Fra Diavolo’s Contra Guerrillas +skulking away and the sardonic captain himself fuming in ignoble soreness on his +back. “Indeed,” with fine scorn she demanded of Ney, “and how +did you manage it?”</p> + +<p>“Looks like the wrong side won out,” mused Driscoll, feeling a +little uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“Permit me to congratulate you–sergeant,” she went on. +“It’s a good beginning for promotion. If you only knew how hard +Maximilian tries to win over these natives, and here the very first thing +you–Hélas! poor Prince Max!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll caught one word from her French. “What’s that about +Maximilian?” he interrupted. He had to repeat, and then Jacqueline only +glanced at him over her shoulder. Some mule driver, she imagined, and turned +again to the abashed Chasseur.</p> + +<p>But the pseudo mule driver moved squarely in front of her. He was embarrassed +and respectful, but determined. Jacqueline lifted her brows. “My good man, +this is effrontery!” But her good man did not quail. She noticed him a +little then. He was ruddy and clean, with a stubble growth on his jaw. Since the +civilization of Mobile, Lieutenant Colonel Jno. D. Driscoll had backslided into +his old campaign ease. His first genuine stiff beard had found him sabre in +hand, so that his knowledge of cutting instruments and of arched brows was +limited. He said that he would be much obliged to have his question answered. +Whereat Jacqueline thought, by her faith, “What a round, wholesome voice +these rustics sometimes have!” The one she heard possessed the full rich +quality of an Irishman’s brogue, with the brogue worn off.</p> + +<p>“You know Spanish, do you not, señorita?”</p> + +<p>“Mais–why, better than I thought,” she returned in English; +and in English that was piquant because it could not <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span>help being just the least bit French as +well. “Much better–because, I comprehend even yours, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Con-<i>grat</i>-ulate you,” Driscoll returned. “But +what’s this about Maximilian?”</p> + +<p>An eagerness in his manner caught her attention. But she answered with her +old irony. “His Imperial Majesty seems to concern you profoundly, +monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“H’m’m–oh no! Only it’s curious how he gets +mixed up in this shindy of ours.”</p> + +<p>“If–if you are asking about Maximilian, señor,” a heavy +voice began. Fra Diavolo at least was not indifferent to the American’s +questioning, and now he explained that the lady was the Marquesa d’Aumerle, and +that she was on her way from Paris to the Mexican court. But a storm having +brought her to Tampico, she wished to finish her journey overland. He, the +Capitan Morel of His Majesty’s Contra Guerrillas, had offered her escort +for the trip. But the French caballero had presumed to force her to continue by +water.</p> + +<p>“By water?” Driscoll repeated, glaring at Ney. “That poor +little girl!–And make her sick again!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s chin tilted. “Ma foi, monsieur, I was not +sick.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll noted her fragile dainty person, and recalling his own experience, +had grave doubts about the consistency of Nature. But this was apart. There was +still the mystery of his having blundered into a business that somehow concerned +the Emperor of Mexico. And it was a matter that must be set right.</p> + +<p>“You say you are an officer,” he demanded of the ranchero, +“but your Greaser clothes, that’s not a uniform?”</p> + +<p>Uniforms were not necessarily a part of the contra-guerrilla service, said +the Mexican; and besides, there might be reasons for a disguise. But as to his +own identity, he reproduced the order signed by Colonel Dupin.</p> + +<p>“Correct,” said Driscoll, and handed back the paper.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span>“Now +then,” he added to Ney, “what do you say for yourself?”</p> + +<p>Unconsciously the French soldier replied as to a superior officer. +“I’ve just been transferred to the service of His Excellency, +Marshal Bazaine, in the City of Mexico, and am on my way there now.”</p> + +<p>“You are in the French service?”</p> + +<p>“Of course I am.”</p> + +<p>“Your rank?”</p> + +<p>“Sergeant.”</p> + +<p>Here, in a caprice of kind heart, as well as of mischief, Jacqueline +interposed. “Your sergeant, Monsieur the American, is the Duke of +Elchingen.” But she might have called Ney a genus homo, for all the +impression it made.</p> + +<p>“Too bad, sergeant,” said Driscoll, “but a captain ranks +first, you know, and–well, I reckon I’ll have to change sides. I +know it’s tough,” and his brow knitted with droll perplexity, +“but I’m afraid we’ll just have to do this thing all over +again, unless–well, unless you give in, sergeant.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline had been waxing more and more agog, and her boot had tapped +impatiently. Now she gave way, and declared that it was too much. What, she +demanded, had monsieur to do with the matter in the first place? Driscoll took +off his slouch hat and ran his fingers through his hair to grope for an answer. +It had never been brought to him before that fighting might be a private +preserve. But his face cleared straightway. In this second skirmish, due +momentarily, he would be a legitimate belligerent and not a trespasser, because +since he had stumbled amuck of Maximilian’s authority, another joust was +needed to correct the first. It all depended on whether Miss–Miss–if +the señorita–still wished to go by land.</p> + +<p>“If monsieur will have the condescension,” returned +Jacqueline.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span>Then out came the +brace of navies once more, as naturally as the order book of the grocer’s +clerk on your back porch. Involuntarily Ney reached for his cap.</p> + +<p>“Now captain,” said Driscoll.</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo took the cue instantly. “A-i, mis muchachos!” he +called, and the little demons came hurrying back, like a damned host with a new +hope of heaven.</p> + +<p>If there were any police about, or had been, they were mysteriously +indifferent. But Jacqueline did just as well. No one had thought to put her back +in the café, and she promptly took a hand in the man’s game.</p> + +<p>“Michel Ney,” she commanded, “do you hear me; lower that +pistol!”</p> + +<p>“You, you wish me to surrender, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“You know I don’t! If anyone even asks it, I will go back to the +ship with you, at once.”</p> + +<p>“But I, I don’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“You understand that I want your escort overland. Is it gallant, then, +to disappoint me by getting yourself killed?”</p> + +<p>“But all your trunks are on the ship.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline turned to her Fra Diavolo. He could answer that? To be sure he +could, and he was honored. He suggested, with her permission, that she spend the +night on shore, she and her maid, since the café was also a hotel. Meantime, the +sailors could bring what she needed from the boat.</p> + +<p>As he listened, Ney’s slow thoughts came to a focus. And when +Jacqueline turned to him again, he gave way graciously, which brought on him a +sharp scrutiny from the ranchero. However, the truce between the two antagonists +was patched up with a readiness on both sides. Ney restored to Fra Diavolo his +pistol, and had his own weapons back in exchange. Next he took the ship’s +steward aside, apparently to instruct him about bringing the trunk. “And +steward,” he whispered, “don’t forget to make it urgent. The +skipper must land all <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_52'></a>52</span>the troops on board at once.” He decided that +meantime he would stroll up to the fort on his own account, and bring down more +aid from there.</p> + +<p>“Now then,” reflected the beaming young Gaul, “our +<i>spirituelle</i> little marquise will find that one may have wits, and not read +her dense old poets, either.”</p> + +<p>He opened the café door for her and both joined the maid Berthe, who was +still clinging to sanctuary inside.</p> + +<p>The American lieutenant-colonel and the Mexican capitan looked at one +another. They felt deserted. Fra Diavolo’s teeth bared. “Ai, que mal +educados,” he observed. “They’re ill-bred, I say. They kick a +gentleman in the stomach–in the stomach, señor!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll turned to go. It was enough of satisfaction to reflect that, if any +mention of the affair reached Maximilian, his own part therein would not injure +his errand to Mexico. As for the rest, Mexicans and French could go their own +ways–he had amused himself. “Well, adios, captain,” he said, +and swung on his heel.</p> + +<p>“Wait! Which direction, señor?”</p> + +<p>“To this mesón here, around the corner.”</p> + +<p>“If Your Mercy is not in a hurry––”</p> + +<p>Driscoll nodded, and the capitan stopped to say a few words to two of his +vagabonds. One of these immediately hurried off in the direction of the river. +The other was still loafing outside the café when his chief rejoined +Driscoll.</p> + +<p>“Looks like you were interested in His Resplendent Majesty,” Fra +Diavolo began with weighty lightsomeness. “Mustn’t hurt his +feelings, eh, caballero?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll laughed easily, “It was all on the girl’s +account,” he said.</p> + +<p>The ranchero glanced at him quickly, sideways, a dark look of suspicion. +“On her account, señor, not Maximilian’s?” he repeated. +“Dios mio, caballero, I’ll wager you have forgotten <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span>her already.” Which, +to tell the truth, was fairly exact.</p> + +<p>At the mesón Don Anastasio regarded the American with much more respect to +see him returning in such company. But to Fra Diavolo he addressed himself in +his thin obsequious voice, “You see I am waiting, as you wished. But on +my, my daughter’s account, I––”</p> + +<p>“So, captain,” Driscoll interrupted, “you’re the one +that’s holding back Murgie! Just tell him, Murgie, that I am in a +rush.”</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo smiled and bade his American have patience, for he quite believed +that the Señor Murguía would be starting in the morning.</p> + +<p>“Si señor,” he went on in a different tone, when Driscoll had +left him alone with the trader, “you set out to-morrow, and you are to +have two extra horses ready. But for whom, do you suppose? Bien, they are for La +Señorita Jacqueline and her maid.”</p> + +<p>Murguía’s countenance changed strangely, a most inexplicable +contortion. His little rat eyes focused on the ranchero, and he drew back in a +sort of fear. Convoy her whom people called Jacqueline through the lawless +Huasteca, at the bidding of this man! “No, no, no!” he cried, and +shuddered too.</p> + +<p>Trying to read a meaning behind the capitan’s dark scowl, he knew only +too well the meaning that was there. He moaned at the thought. Maximiliano would +have him shot, or burned, or tortured. He would lose his ranch, his cotton mill. +He would be poor. It was vague, what would happen, but it was horrible, +horrible!</p> + +<p>“Hush, you fool!” growled Fra Diavolo. “The entire mesón +will hear you, including that Gringo.”</p> + +<p>“That Gringo? He, he is one of your friends?”</p> + +<p>“Friend! For Dios, he nearly ruined my little plans for <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span>Jacqueline. Listen, he has +business of some kind with Maximiliano.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes. And there’s a–a mystery in his +business.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“If I knew, would it be a mystery?”</p> + +<p>“Who is he?”</p> + +<p>“He won’t tell. I only know that he is a Confederate +officer.”</p> + +<p>“A Confederate officer?” The capitan whistled low and softly. +“Come to the Plaza, there you can tell me what you think.”</p> + +<p>And in the solitude of the Plaza they planned according to their +suspicions.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span><a id='link_7'></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Swordsmanship in the Dark</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Cry ‘holla’ to thy tongue, I prithee; it curvets unseasonably.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>As You Like It.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>“Strange there’s no motion,” thought Jacqueline the next +morning, rubbing her eyes. “Why, what ails the old boat, I wonder?” +Then she remembered. She was in the Tampico hotel which called itself a café, +and the landlord’s wife was knocking on her door and calling “Niñ-a, +niñ-a” with a plaintive stress on the first syllable. The word means girl, +and oddly enough, is often used by a Mexican servant to address her +mistress.</p> + +<p>“I’m not a n-e-e-n-ya,” Jacqueline assured her drowsily, +“and if I were, madame, why make a fête out of it this way in the middle +of the night?”</p> + +<p>“Niñ-a,” the unctuous nasal rose higher, “if Your Mercy +goes with Don Anastasio, she must hurry. It is late. It is four o’clock, +niña.”</p> + +<p>“Four o’clock–late?” gasped the luxurious little +marquise. “And how much difference, exactly, would your four +o’clocks make on the planet Mars, my good woman?”</p> + +<p>“But niña, there is Don Anastasio, he is ready to start.”</p> + +<p>“And who is Don Anastasio, pray?”</p> + +<p>“The trader, niña, at the mesón. He is to take Your Mercy to Valles, as +Don–as the Capitan Morel told Your Mercy yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“The Capitan Morel, <i>pardi!</i> Faith, if any man had told <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> me it meant rising at any +such unholy hour. Oh well, I suppose it is the hour for larks, too.”</p> + +<p>And sighing at the sacrifice of an age of slumber, Jacqueline reached out for +the matches. But there was no dainty limbed night table of a Louis XV. beside +her bed, which helped her again to remember where she was, and if doubts still +remained, they were gone when her bare feet touched the fibrous, prickly native +carpet instead of soft furs.</p> + +<p>She groped to the door, and opened it enough to take a greasily odorous +candle from a dusky hand outside. As the sickly glimmer awakened the shadows, +she called the woman back in sudden dismay. “My trunk, señora, kindly have +it sent up at once. No,” she added, catching a fluffy garment from a +chair, “in five minutes.”</p> + +<p>There was a brief silence, followed by positive lament. “Niña, it is +not here. I believe, niñ-a, it is at the mesón, with Don Anastasio.”</p> + +<p>“F-flute!” cried Jacqueline. The word means nothing at all, but +it may express a lass’s exasperation in a wardrobe crisis, and that is +nothing except a catastrophe. “Now just possibly,” she soliloquized, +“they permit themselves to imagine that one can wear a white frock two +days together,” whereupon she sat herself down despairingly among the +crisp things that had already had their poor little day. To mock her there was +the jaunty handsatchel packed for an hour’s shore leave. She let petulance +have sway, and informed herself that she should not go a step, when the voice in +the hall pleaded insidiously that Her Mercy make haste.</p> + +<p>“But I am, señora, I’m making fast haste,” and she sat +three minutes longer, communing with her tragedy. “<i>Oh</i>, this bitten, +biting country,” she cried, gazing ruefully at arms and shoulders, and +fiery blotches on the soft white skin. “Still, if there’s a brigand +for every mosquito, it may yet be worth <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_57'></a>57</span>while.” Hopefully she rose and called Berthe +from the next room to help her dress.</p> + +<p>When the two girls came downstairs, the landlord’s wife took their +satchel, and led them over broken sidewalks to the mesón, where the street was +filled with torches and laden burros and blanketed shadows. Murguía’s +caravan was forming, making a weird, stealthy scene of activity. Jacqueline +picked up a lantern, and searched here and there.</p> + +<p>“Now where <i>can</i> it be?” she cried.</p> + +<p>The rebosa about the shoulders of the Mexican woman rose. She knew nothing. +But the gesture was an unabridged philosophical system as to the resignation and +the indifference that is seemly when one knows nothing. Jacqueline refrained +from pinching her, and pursued the quest of her trunk even into the mesón.</p> + +<p>Hardly had she passed within when a greatly agitated little old man tried to +overtake her. But at the door he thought better of it and vented his chagrin on +the Mexican woman.</p> + +<p>“Why did you let her go in there?” he cried. “She will wake +the Gringo, she will wake the Gringo!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline reappeared. “No trunk,” she announced. “Do you +know, Berthe, I do not believe it came at all?”</p> + +<p>The old man’s voice sounded at her elbow, faltering, placating. +“With permission, señorita, we must be starting.”</p> + +<p>“And similarly with permission, señor, who are you?”</p> + +<p>“Anastasio Murguía, the servant of Your Mercy.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the poor little crow? Perhaps you will tell me, sir, why neither +the Señor Ney nor Fra–nor Captain Morel is here?”</p> + +<p>“The young French caballero had visited the fort last evening, he replied. Her +Mercy knew that? Yes, precisamente. Yes, the caballero had spent the night up +there with his compatriots of the garrison. Her Mercy did not know that? No? But +it was quite exact, yes, because he, Don Anastasio, had been so informed. But +the Señor Ney would meet them out <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_58'></a>58</span>of Tampico–yes, precisamente, with a detachment +of cavalry from the fort.”</p> + +<p>“That poor Michel!” said Jacqueline. “He’s determined +that I am to have a French escort. But Captain Morel, señor?”</p> + +<p>Murguía would not answer. He repeated the question to the Mexican woman, who +took up explanations with a glib readiness. “Si, niña, I saw the capitan, +not more than an hour ago. He was riding by the café, to meet his–Contra +Guerrillas. But he stopped and woke me. He said that I was to bring Your Mercies +here to the mesón, and to say that he would meet Your Mercies–yes, surely, +before you had gone very far, niña.” Her tone was a sugared whine, and +more than once she peered around at Murguía; while he, for his part, stood by as +though overseeing a task. But Jacqueline only allowed herself a little +inconsequential sniff, and went back to the really serious business that did +worry her. She demanded her trunk.</p> + +<p>“How, the señorita does not know?” asked Murguía.</p> + +<p>“Know what?”</p> + +<p>“That the sailors did not come back from the ship?”</p> + +<p>“Not come back! Eh bien, I will not go a step.”</p> + +<p>At first Don Anastasio’s pinched face lighted with relief. But at once +a conflicting anxiety, lest she might <i>not</i> go, seemed to possess him. +“But señorita,” he protested, “what will Your Mercy do? The +ship, yes, señorita, the ship has sailed already. It left last night for Vera +Cruz.”</p> + +<p>“And here am I,” Jacqueline exclaimed, tapping her foot, +“with only one dress!”</p> + +<p>A long bubbling whistle sounded near a gendarme’s lantern in the middle +of the street. A block away another sounded, then another, and another, and +others yet, each thinly shrill and distant. It was the challenge to slumber and +the answer of wakefulness from the watches of the night over the silent +city.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span>“Another +quarter gone by!” Murguía exclaimed nervously. “Come, señoritas, if +we are to reach the Valles stage by nightfall, we have no time to lose. There +are your horses, I will––”</p> + +<p>A tremor cut short his words. Someone had just emerged from the mesón.</p> + +<p>“Gracious, Murgie, off so early?” the newcomer observed +cheerily.</p> + +<p>Murguía scowled. He knew that tone.</p> + +<p>“If I’m late, I apologize,” the other drawled gently, from +behind the flare of a match over his pipe. “Howsoever, all my eyes +weren’t shut, and you wouldn’t of left me. Pretty quiet about +striking camp, though! Didn’t want to disturb me, maybe? Well, well, who +made you so thoughtful? Not Captain Morel? Now I wonder!”</p> + +<p>“I uh, why <i>should</i> I wake you, Mis-ter Driscoll? Have I asked you +even to go?”</p> + +<p>“N-o, but you evidently asked old Demijohn there.” And Driscoll +pointed to his horse, all saddled. “But cheer up, Convoluting Squirmer, of +course I know you aren’t a horse thief. No, I just come out to say you +forgot the blanket. I was sleeping on it.”</p> + +<p>Then he turned to the two girls. They were going also. But why try to leave +him behind, even without a horse? He knew, for all his whimsical cheerfulness, +that something serious was afoot. It was hardly likely that the girls themselves +had interfered. Still, he must make sure. To provoke a reply elsewhere, he asked +Murguía if it were the señoritas, perhaps, and not Captain Morel, who preferred +his absence? A surprised “Ma foi!” from Jacqueline answered him. As +he supposed, she had not thought of him one way or another.</p> + +<p>But she deigned to say, that since the American <i>gentleman</i>–there +was a lingering on the word, which opened wide the Storm Centre’s eyes +with anticipation of battle–that since the American gentleman had broached +the subject of his going <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_60'></a>60</span>(as no doubt interesting him, being about himself), +then she would permit herself to inquire why, indeed, he should be going with +them at all. She had not observed any cordiality in the requests for his +society.</p> + +<p>The light was not good, and she did not see his lips pucker as for a long +whistle. But he did not whistle. He replied very humbly; and so sweetly that +Murguía quailed for the little shrew.</p> + +<p>“W’y miss,” he said, “it all comes of feeling my +responsibility. I’m the cause of your going, and that’s why +I’m going too.”</p> + +<p>His very earnestness gave her to understand that he had forgotten her +entirely. The finesse of the Tuileries could not have struck home more +delicately, and more keenly. “I’ve often heard,” she thought +to herself, “that an awkward swordsman is dangerous.” But she made +no cry of “touchée!” Instead she caught at the point to turn the +blade aside. “Responsibility? Truly sir, you <i>are</i> considerate. But +permit me–my safety on this trip, what concern can that have for Your +Mercy?”</p> + +<p>“None at all,” replied Driscoll, heartily.</p> + +<p>His brow, none the less, was crinkled, and he watched dubiously as Murguía +helped the two girls into great armchair-like saddles. There was not a +woman’s saddle in Tampico, but Jeanne d’Aumerle did not mind that. She, +the marchioness, enjoyed the oddity of a pommel in lieu of horn. And the +lady’s maid might have been on a dromedary, for all the consciousness the +poor child had of it.</p> + +<p>“Say,” Driscoll interrupted with cool obstinacy, +“where’s our friend the captain and that sky-blue +Frenchman?”</p> + +<p>Murguía pretended not to heed him. Jacqueline really did not. But Berthe +spoke up eagerly. She said that the two gentlemen were to meet them later in the +day. At least she hoped so, but–no, no, there could be no doubt of it! Yet +her <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span>words faltered, +and there was an appeal in them. But if she placed any hope in the strange +American, she was quickly disappointed.</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said, as if the matter were of no further +consequence. “Then I can make a nice comfortable report to +Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>“Report to Maximiliano?” exclaimed Murguía.</p> + +<p>Driscoll nodded indifferently.</p> + +<p>“But Señor Coronel, when you do, you–you will remember that I +said nothing to–that is, to persuade the señoritas to take this +journey.”</p> + +<p>“Nor not to take it, Wriggler.”</p> + +<p>“Yet you will say to His Majesty that I did suggest–yes, I do +now–that they had better not––”</p> + +<p>His utterance drivelled to incoherency. The Mexican woman, she of the café, +stood before him. There was a warning on her stolid countenance. Murguía wet his +lips. “But,” he stammered, “there–oh what danger can +there be in their going?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll shoved him aside and placed himself at the head of +Jacqueline’s horse. “You had better risk the water, miss,” he +said quietly.</p> + +<p>“My good sir,” she replied, clear and cold, “I commend your +prudence, in making certain, before you dared touch my bridle-rein, that neither +of the two gentlemen were here.”</p> + +<p>Din Driscoll swung on his heel. “Damned!” he murmured, and he +pronounced the “n” and the “d” thoroughly, to make the +word adequate if possible. “Lord, I believe I feel like a closed incident! +And to think, Demijohn,” he went on as he busied himself about his horse, +“to think that it’s the first and only time we’ve ever seen +trouble coming and tried to keep out of it.”</p> + +<p>But the trouble might appear now, he had done what he could. The thought +brightened him, and he patted his short <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_62'></a>62</span>ribs musingly. There was a friendly protuberance there +on either side. His belt sagged comfortingly. He opened the pack which he was +tying with his blanket behind his saddle, and from it he filled with cartridges +the pockets of his rough cape coat.</p> + +<p>By now the caravan was passing him. The burros, like square-shelled +monstrosities with ears, were settling into a steady trot. Their blanketed +arrieros ran beside them and prodded, and were in turn prodded by the fretful +Murguía. Then Jacqueline rode by on an ambling little mountain-climber. She had +forgotten his presence. This was not a pose with the Marquise d’Aumerle; she +had, really. But her little Breton maid coming behind timidly drew rein. +Driscoll looked and saw in the moving yellow torchlights that her face was +white. A thing like that somehow alters a man’s attitude. +“W’y, child,” he exclaimed, +“what’s––”</p> + +<p>“Monsi–señor,” she said hastily, in pathetic and pretty +broken Spanish, “you, oh, you will not leave us! In the mercy of heaven, +tell me that you will not! Ah, seigneur,” she sobbed, “mademoiselle +will yet lead us to our death!”</p> + +<p>“Berthe,” mademoiselle at that instant called, “oh you +little ninny, are you coming ever?”</p> + +<p>The maid obeyed. “Just the same,” she sighed, “God bless +her!”</p> + +<p>“And did I,” Driscoll had begun angrily, but she was already +gone, and he finished it to himself, “did I once intend to leave +you?”</p> + +<p>He leaped astride his buckskin horse, who trotted with him briskly to the +head of the caravan. Behind was Anastasio Murguía, a quaint combination of silk +hat, shawl, and ranchero saddle. The two Frenchwomen followed, and behind came +the straggling file of burros and pack horses.</p> + +<p>Yet the American was as a solitary traveller leaving a town for the +wilderness at the first touch of dawn. The road soon <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span>narrowed down to a trail as it wound +through the undergrowth of the Huasteca lowlands, then westward toward a bluish +line of mountains. At each cross trail the American would turn in his saddle to +force an indication of their course from Murguía. Then on he would ride again, +the while sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts; thoughts of why he had +come, of how he might succeed, and of the Surrender at that moment perhaps a +fact. For him, though, there was his sabre yet, dangling there under his leg. +And there were the sabres of comrades that likewise would not be given up, for +to save them that shame was he in Mexico. Riding there, so much alone, and +lonely, he was a rough, savage, military figure. But in his meditations, so +grave and unwonted in the wild, hard-riding trooper lad, there was nothing to +indicate a second nature in him, an instinct that was on the alert against every +leafy clump and cactus and mesh of vine.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span><a id='link_8'></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Thoughts of Youth May Be Prodigiously Long Thoughts</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“And many a Knot unravell’d by the Road;<br /> +But not the Master-Knot of Human Fate.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Omar.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Another young person, Jacqueline herself, was also pondering rather soberly +this morning. And her thoughts fitted as oddly with her piquant, lightsome, +cynical youth as the gloomily patriotic ones of the Storm Centre did with his +youth, which was robust and boyish and swashbuckling. To judge from the way +their brains worked now, both young people might have been grave wielders of +state affairs, instead of the lad and the lass so heartily and pettily scorning +each other a short hour before.</p> + +<p>Yes, the great rugged Missourian had his disdain too, and for none other than +the darling beauty of two imperial courts. The beauty would have been vastly +amused, no doubt, had she known of the phenomenon. But knowing a little more, +such as its source and the man himself, she must have flushed and drooped, +piteously hurt, as none in her own circle could have wounded her. The shafts +which flashed in that circle were keenly barbed. They were the more merciless +for being politely gilded. But she understood, and despised, the point of view +there. It was a dais of velvet, of scarlet velvet. And a worldly little +gentlewoman like the Marquise Jeanne was not one to be unaware of the abyss +beneath, of which the flaming color was a symbol. But she rather <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span>enjoyed the darts, if only +to fling them back more dazzlingly tipped.</p> + +<p>The perspective of the Missouri boy was different. And his disdain was +different. A titled belle mattered little with him, and was apart, like the girl +in a spectacular chorus. Operettas and royal courts were shows, which real men +and women paid to see, and to support. He was a deep-breathing, danger-nourished +man of life and of things that count. And his only cynicism, and even that +unconscious, was the dry honest sort which sheer unpolished naturalness bears to +all things trivial and vain and artificial. One can readily understand, then, +the attitude of such a man toward a playactor off the stage; toward a playactor, +that is, who thinks to impress the great, wide, live world with the superficial +mannerisms of his little playacting world. Here was Din Driscoll, Jack Driscoll, +Trooper Driscoll, here he was, traveling near a handsome young woman who for the +moment had been cut off from her precious wee sphere. And he saw her outside of +it, playing coquettishly, and to her own mind, seriously; playing bewitchingly +her shallow rôle patterned after life, yet without once realizing the +counterfeit. The Western country boy, whatever his Cavalier stock, had a +Puritanical backbone in common with the whole American race. And without being +aware of it, his personal, private bearing toward the light and airy French girl +was a sneer, a tolerant, good-natured and indifferent sneer.</p> + +<p>However, Mademoiselle la Marquise was neither amused nor hurt, because, quite +simply, she rode in happy oblivion of the rustic and his standards for the +appraising of a girl. He looked very straight of neck and spine, and she +wondered if he had been cradled in a saddle, but that was all.</p> + +<p>Now if Lieutenant-Colonel Driscoll had had the slightest glimpse of what was +actually passing through the winsome and supposedly silly little head behind +him, there is no reliable <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_66'></a>66</span>telling into what change of opinion he might have been +jostled. But this is certain, that if he had known, he could have saved himself +some rare adventures afterward.</p> + +<p>In Jacqueline’s musings there was poetry and there were politics. The +poetry justified the politics; moreover, was their inspiration. A dilettante +such as Jacqueline, æsthetic and delicately sensitive, was naturally a lover of +the beautiful in her search after emotions. A sentiment for her surroundings +came now as a matter of course. If she turned, she beheld the chaparral plain +stretching flatly back of her to the sands and lagoons of the coast. If she +flirted her whip overhead, down hurtled a shower of bright yellow hail from the +laden boughs. Her nostrils told her of magnolias and orange blossoms; her eyes +and ears, of parrots and paroquets and every other conceit in fantastic plumage. +They were a restless kaleidoscope of colors blending with the foliage, and from +their turmoil they might have been quarreling myriads, and never birds of a +paradise. Little red monkeys grinned down at her as they raced clutching among +the branches, while a big bandy-legged sambo, an exceedingly ill-tempered member +of the same family, bawled his reproaches in a tone gruesomely human. Now and +then her horse reared from an adder squirming underfoot, or she would see a +torpid boa twined sluggishly around a limb, as about a victim. Once in a +jungle-like place she experienced something akin to the prized ecstatic shudder +as she made out the sleek form of a jaguar slinking into the swamp. The ugliest +of the picturesque “properties” was a monstrous green iguana with +his prickly crest and horn and slimy eye, basking full five feet along a rotten +log.</p> + +<p>But the things of horror merely gave to those of beauty a needed contrast, +and did not hurt the poetry in the least. They were every one on the same grand, +wild scale. As the palms, for instance, rising like slender columns a hundred +feet without a single branch. As yet other palms, which were <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span>plumed at the summit like +an ostrich wing; or as the smaller ones at their base, spreading out into fans +of emerald green. Again, as the forest giants which far overhead were the arches +of a watercourse, like the nave of a Gothic cathedral. And even the parasite +vines were of the same Titan designing, for they bound the girders of the vault +in a dense mat of leaves and woven twigs, while underfoot the carpet was soft +inches deep with fern and moss. As for the flowers–Jacqueline wanted to +pluck them all, to wreathe the wondering fawns, as ladies with picture hats do +in the old frivolous rococo fantasies. And as to that, she might have been one +of those Watteau ladies herself, so rich was the coloring there, and she in the +foreground so white, so soft of skin, so sylvan and aristocratic a +shepherdess.</p> + +<p>And then it was a thing for wonderment, that beyond, where the mountains +were, all this world changed, yet changed to another as strange and vast. And +that still farther on there stretched yet other regions, and each one different, +and each no less marvelous and grand. A bewildering prodigality of Nature, +spelling the little word “romance”! Jacqueline’s lip quivered +as she gazed and imagined, and as the poetry of it filled her soul. But of a +sudden the little woman sighed. It was a sigh of rebellion. And just here the +politics leaped forth, inspired of the wild thrilling beauty of the world.</p> + +<p>“To think,” she half cried, “that we are losing +this–all this! And yet we have won it! Mon Dieu, have we not won it? Yet +for whom, alas? Maximilian?–Faw, an ungrateful puppet such as that, to +have, to take from us, such as–this! Now suppose,” her lips formed +the unuttered words, while her gray eyes closed to a narrowing cunning, +“just suppose that we–that someone–reminds His Majesty how +ingratitude falls short of courtesy between emperors.”</p> + +<p>The boy’s thoughts were of the country he had lost. Those of the +resplendent and wayward butterfly were of an empire <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span>she meant to gain. But in her, who might +suspect the consummate diplomat? Even then she was speaking to Murguía, asking +if it were not time that Fra Diavolo remembered his engagements. Driscoll heard +the query, and his comment was a mental shrug of the shoulders.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span><a id='link_9'></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Toll-Taking in the Huasteca</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“And when he came bold Robin before,<br /> +Robin asked him courteously,<br /> +‘O, hast thou any money to spare,<br /> +For my merry men and me?’”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Robin Hood.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>For all his campaigner’s instincts, the first of Driscoll’s +expected troubles came and was gone before he knew that it was trouble. It +arrived so naturally, and was so well behaved! With a stop for a bowl of coffee +at a roadside fonda, they had been traveling for perhaps five hours, when +Driscoll saw the heads of two horses and their riders over the brush, and at a +turn in the trail he found that they were coming leisurely toward him. He +observed them suspiciously, and wistfully. The wild tropics around him had quite +won his heart as peculiarly adapted to violent amusements of a desperate tinge, +far more so really than his own Missouri woodlands. Yet thus far the uneventful +tameness had depressed him as a shameful waste of environment.</p> + +<p>To boot all, here was this brace of villainous, well-armed Mexicans not +giving the least promise of entertainment. There was nothing to distinguish them +from the usual sun-baked rancheros of the Huasteca, unless it were the first +man’s straw sombrero, the heavy silver mounting of which must have been +worth in bullion alone a fair pocketful of pesos. There was a cord of silver +hanging over the broad brim, and there was a silver “T” on one side +of the sugar loaf, an “M” on the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_70'></a>70</span>other side, and a Roman sword in front, and all three +were linked together in fanciful silver scrolls. But the rest of the man was +wretched. His feet were encased in the guaraches, or sandals, of a peon. One of +his eyes was so crossed that hardly more than a baleful crescent was ever +visible. The other vaquero, his companion, had no relieving trait at all, either +luxurious or strikingly evil. His breeches of raw leather flapped loosely from +the knee down, and at the sides they were slit, revealing the dirty white of +cotton calzoncillos beneath. Though the April morning was hot, a crimson serape +covered his shoulders. Both men had pistols, and each also had a long machete +two inches wide hanging with a lariat from his saddle.</p> + +<p>They lifted their sombreros, and he of the gorgeous one inquired if that were +Don Anastasio’s outfit coming up behind. A civil answer was merest +traveler’s courtesy, and Driscoll reluctantly took his cob pipe from his +mouth to reckon that they were pretty nearly correct. He might have loaned them +a thousand dollars, to judge from their gratitude, and they made way for him by +drawing off the trail entirely. Here they halted till all the burros and horses +had gone by. The muleteers in passing them, confusedly touched their hats. +Murguía, who was then in the rear, stopped when he saw the two strangers. +Driscoll looked back, but judged from the greetings that the three were old +acquaintances. The assiduously respectful bearing of the timorous old man was to +be counted as only habitual. And when he saw one of Don Anastasio’s mozos +bring a bottle and glasses, he was completely reassured, and rested like the +others of the caravan some little distance ahead.</p> + +<p>Murguía dismissed the mozo, himself poured the cognac, and begged the honor +of drinking health and many pesetas to his two “friends.” They +craved a like boon, and the clinking of the copitas followed ceremoniously.</p> + +<p>“I counted three hundred and sixty-eight half-bales,” said <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span>he of the crossed eye, with +a head cocked sideways and tilted. The evidence was against it, but Murguía knew +well enough that the sinister crescent was fixed on himself. +“Three-sixty-eight, at half a peso each, that makes one hundred and +eighty-four pesos which Your Mercy owes us, Don Anastasio. Add on collection +charges, ten per cent.–well, with your permission, we’ll call it two +hundred flat.”</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio manifested an itch for argument.</p> + +<p>“Oh leave all that,” he of the crimson serape broke in. +“Why go over it again? We are loyal imperialists, and only our lasting +friendship for you holds us from informing His Majesty’s Contras how you +contribute to that arch rebel, Rodrigo Galán.”</p> + +<p>“But,” weakly protested Murguía, “but who believes that Don +Rodrigo turns any of it over to the Liberal–to the rebel cause?”</p> + +<p>“A swollen-lunged patriot like your Don Rodrigo–of course he +does, every cent,” and the cross-eye took on a jocular gleam.</p> + +<p>“Now, Señor Murguía,” he of the same eye continued, “the +favor of your attention. See that ‘T’ on my sombrero? That’s +‘Tiburcio.’ See that ‘M’? That’s ‘Maximiliano.’ And that +sword? That’s ‘Woe to the Conquered,’ at least the sombrero maker +said so. Well, Don Anastasio––” and he ended with a gesture that the +poor trader saw even in his dreams, the unctuous rubbing of fingers on the +thumb.</p> + +<p>Sadly Don Anastasio unstrapped a belt under his black vest, and counted out +in French gold the equivalent of two hundred Mexican dollars.</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio took the money, and observed, as in the nature of pleasant +gossip, that Don Anastasio had quite an unusual outfit this time.</p> + +<p>Murguía took alarm immediately. “Not so large as usual, Don Tiburcio. +The crops up there––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span>“Crops? No, +I don’t mean your cotton. I mean fine linen and muslin, and silks, and +laces–petticoats and stockings, Don Anastasio.”</p> + +<p>“They–they are Don Rodrigo’s affairs, not mine.”</p> + +<p>“Enough yours for you to be anxious to deliver the goods safely, I +think. But the rate on that class of stuff is rather high. Now what do you +suppose, my esteemed compadre, Don Rodrigo would say if we had to confiscate the +consignment?”</p> + +<p>But Don Anastasio did not need to suppose. “How much?” he +whimpered.</p> + +<p>“Well, with the American––”</p> + +<p>“Fires of hell consume the American! Collect your tolls from him +yourself. He’s no affair of anybody’s.”</p> + +<p>The vaqueros laughed. “We’ll throw in the American for +nothing,” said Don Tiburcio generously. “Besides, to look at him, he +may not be very–tollable. But delicate dress goods now, there’s a +heavy duty on them. I should say a hundred apiece.” And without any +seeming reference to this revenue statement, the toll taker placed the tip of an +index finger under each ear, then pointed them lower down against his throat, +then lower again, and at the last the two fingers met in an acute angle, +significantly acute, under his chin, while the half-veiled black bead in the +outer corner of his eye had a sheen unutterably merry and malignant.</p> + +<p>The pantomime bore a money value, for Murguía stifled his wrath, again drew +out the belt, and more Napoleons changed hands. Murguía was then for remounting, +leaving the flask of brandy with the two imperialist emissaries, as had become +his custom. But the jovial Tiburcio stopped him. “What must you think of +us, Don Anastasio?” he exclaimed contritely. “We haven’t +offered you a drink yet.” Murguía dared not refuse, and he paused for the +return of hospitality from his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_73'></a>73</span>own bottle. At last he was on his horse, when Tiburcio +again called.</p> + +<p>“I say, Don Anastasio, if you want a big return for your +money”–Don Anastasio halted instantly–“if you do, well, +we ought not to say it, being devoted to Maximiliano. But no matter, I will tell +you this much, poor old man–look after your daughter! Look after her, Don +Anastasio! We’ve just come from up there.”</p> + +<p>A half cry escaped the father as he jerked back his horse. He demanded what +they meant. He pleaded. But they waved him to go on, and rode away +indifferently, taking a cross trail through a stretch of timber.</p> + +<p>Rigid, motionless, Murguía looked after them until they had disappeared. But +when they were gone, a frenzy possessed him. He turned and galloped to his +caravan, which was again moving. He did not stop till he reached the American. +“You owe me two hundred dollars,” he cried. Thus his decent emotion +concerning his daughter found vent. “Two hundred, I tell you!”</p> + +<p>“Will you,” asked Driscoll, “take ’em now, or after +you tell me what I owe ’em for?”</p> + +<p>Murguía wavered. The simple question brought him to his senses. But he had +gone too far not to explain. Besides, his insane device for reimbursing himself +appealed to him as good. “Because–don’t you know, señor, that +travelers here must pay toll? You don’t? But it’s true, +and–and I’ve just paid out two hundred pesos on Your Mercy’s +account.”</p> + +<p>The trooper’s brown eyes flashed. “Which way did those thieves +go?” he demanded. “Quick! Which way?”</p> + +<p>Murguía’s avarice changed to trembling. He feared to tell. Driscoll +caught his bridle. “Which way, or by–by–Never mind, +you’ll pay toll to me, too! I’ll just learn this toll-taking trade +myself.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span>Murguía saw a +six-shooter sliding out. “You also!” he cried.</p> + +<p>“Also?” laughed Driscoll. “There, I knew it, they were +robbers.”</p> + +<p>He wheeled and rode back with the fury of a cavalry charge, heedless of +Murguía’s cries to stop by all the saints, heedless of the saints too. +Murguía did not care what happened to his guest, but he cared for what might +happen to himself, afterward, at the hands of Don Tiburcio and partner. He +frantically called out that he was jesting, that Driscoll owed him nothing. But +Driscoll had already turned into the side trail, and was following the hoof +prints there. Murguía could hear the furious crackling of twigs as he raced +through the timber. But in a little while he heard and saw nothing.</p> + +<p>“He’s a centaur, that country boy,” observed Jacqueline +critically. “The identical break-neck Centaur himself. Really, Berthe, I +think we shall have to dub him Monsieur the Chevalier. Why Berthe, how pale you +are!”</p> + +<p>“I? Oh, mademoiselle, is there any danger?”</p> + +<p>“Danger, child? Nonsense!”</p> + +<p>“But what made him do that, that way?”</p> + +<p>“Poor simple babe! That was a pose. Our mule driver knows he can ride, +but we did not. And there you are.”</p> + +<p>“But the little monsieur, he looks like a ghost?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline laughed. “That, I admit, is not a pose. With the little +monsieur, it’s become–constitutional.”</p> + +<p>A half-hour later they heard an easy canter behind them, and Din Driscoll +reappeared, flushed and happy as a boy pounding in first from a foot race. His +left hand covered the bowl of his cob pipe from the wind, the other held his +slouch hat doubled up by the brim. As for bridle hand, old Demijohn needed none. +Driscoll seized Murguía’s silk tile and poured into it from the slouch a +shimmering stream of coin and a mass of crumpled paper.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span>“To be +robbed while I’m along, now that makes me <i>mad</i>,” he said. +“You won’t tell anybody, will you, Murgie?”</p> + +<p>The old man did not hear. His palsied hands were dipping down, dipping down, +bathing themselves in the deep silk hat. The hat was heavy with gold and silver +pesos, and foaming with bills.</p> + +<p>“Greenbacks, Confederate notes,” he mumbled. “Some +I’ve paid before–only, lately, the rascals won’t take anything +but coin.”</p> + +<p>“Why’s that, Murgie?”</p> + +<p>“Why, because these green things are not worth much now, while these +gray ones”–he fingered them contemptuously–“would not, +would not buy a drunkard’s pardon from our cheapest magistrate.”</p> + +<p>The slur on Mexican justice only emphasized his scorn of the Confederate +notes.</p> + +<p>“Give ’em here!” Driscoll snatched them from the yellow, +desecrating fingers. “These here are promises,” he muttered, +“and we’ve been fighting for four years to make them good. For four +years, even the children and old men, and–yes, and the women folks back of +us!”</p> + +<p>The impulsive mood carried him further. He counted and pocketed the despised +notes. Then from an humble tobacco pouch he sorted out a number of British +sovereigns, and flung them into Murguía’s hat.</p> + +<p>“Prob’bly my last blow for them promises,” he murmured to +himself.</p> + +<p>Meantime a burro back of them had become possessed of an idea, which for some +reason necessitated his halting stock still directly across the trail to think +it over. The caravan behind stopped also, while the arrieros snorted +“Ar-re!” and “Bur-ro!” through their noses, and prodded +the beast. Jacqueline lost patience. She touched her horse, which bounded out of +the trail and galloped past the outfit almost to Driscoll <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span>and Murguía. So she had seen the exchange +of money and she had heard. She looked thoughtfully at the trooper’s +straight line of back and shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur the Chevalier,” she murmured softly, as though trying +the sound of the words for the fast time. She would have supposed that none but +a Frenchman could have done that.</p> + +<p>As to Don Anastasio, the Quixotic redemption in specie was beyond him +entirely. He gave it up. The counting of discs was more tangible to his +philosophy. His rusty black tile, so wondrously become a cornucopia of wealth, +had by that same magic upset the old fellow into a kind of hysterical gaiety, +which was most elfish and uncanny. He motioned Driscoll to ride faster.</p> + +<p>“Ai, ai, mi coronel,” he cackled, when they were gone out of +hearing, “you talk of bandits! Ai, ai, Dios mio, <i>you</i> have robbed +<i>them</i>!”</p> + +<p>“What the devil––”</p> + +<p>“Si señor, robbed <i>them</i>! A-di-o-dio-dios! here’s more than +they took from me!”</p> + +<p>“N-o?” said Driscoll in dismay. “Gracious, I hadn’t +any time to count money when I searched ’em!”</p> + +<p>“You!–searched Don Tiburcio?”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Isn’t he a thief?”</p> + +<p>“But–he permitted––”</p> + +<p>“W’y yes, they both let me, I had the drop. But they got +indignant and called me a thief–I believe they’d of called a +policeman if there’d been one handy, or even–– Now what,” he +exclaimed, “what ails the old bare-bones now?”</p> + +<p>The senile mirth had left the trader’s face, and his olive skin was +ashen. “Next time,” he moaned, “next time, Santa María, they +will be in force and they–they will take the very horse from under +me!”</p> + +<p>“Tough luck,” Driscoll observed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span>Murguía darted at +him a look in which there was all the old hate, and more added. But it disturbed +the trooper as little as ever. “Come,” he said, “own up. You +knew we were going to meet those fellows?” Murguía said nothing. “Of +course you knew. But why didn’t you change your route, seeing you’re +too high-minded to fight?–What’s that?–Oh that voice! Dive for +it, man!”</p> + +<p>“I, I couldn’t change on account of my passport.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that got to do with it?”</p> + +<p>“In the passport I declare the route I take.”</p> + +<p>“I see, and you can’t change it afterward?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Now look here, Murgie, have you got any more of these dates +on?–Yes? No?–Murgie, if you don’t dive, by––”</p> + +<p>Murguía dove, and denied with eagerness that he had any further toll-paying +appointments. But Driscoll reckoned that he was lying. “And,” he +added, “we are going to change our route, passport or no passport. +We’ll take–let’s see–yes, we’ll take the very next +crosstrail going in the same general direction.”</p> + +<p>Murguía’s alarm at the proposal belied his former denial. The law +required him to follow the course laid down in his passport, but he feared the +law less than the disappointment of road agents. Don Tiburcio’s receipt +protected him from those controlled by Don Tiburcio. But Tiburcio was not +powerful, except in blackmail. Murguía paid him lest he inform the government of +tribute also paid to Don Rodrigo. Now Rodrigo Galán was powerful. His band +infested the Huasteca. He called himself a Liberal and a patriot, and he really +believed it too. But he also declared that the tolls he collected went to the +revolutionary cause, which declaration, however, even he could hardly have +believed.</p> + +<p>Don Rodrigo gave receipts, and his receipts were alleged guarantee against +other molestation, since he controlled the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_78'></a>78</span>highway more thoroughly than ranger patrols had ever +done. But lately a competitor had appeared in the brush, and he was that +humorous scoundrel, Don Tiburcio of the crossed eye. Goaded near to apoplexy by +the double tolls, Murguía had once ventured to upbraid Don Rodrigo with breach +of contract. There was no longer immunity in the roadmaster’s receipts, he +whined. Then the robber chief had scowled with the brow of Jove, and hurled +dreadful oaths. “You pay an Imperialista!” he stormed in lofty +indignation. “You give funds to put down your struggling, starving +compatriots! So, señor, this is the love you bear your country!”</p> + +<p>It was a touching harangue, and the remorse-stricken trader ever after denied +that he even saw Don Tiburcio, at which times a queer smile would supplant Don +Rodrigo’s black frown.</p> + +<p>It was this same Don Rodrigo who had been reported as slain by +Jacqueline’s Fra Diavolo. But Driscoll, not having heard of his death, was +quite ready to expect more brigands. He insisted, therefore, on changing +trails.</p> + +<p>“The Señor Coronel is most valiant,” sneered Murguía.</p> + +<p>“So darned much so, Murgie, that I want to dodge ’em.”</p> + +<p>But his struggle against temptation was evident. He glanced back at the two +women and again denounced the unfamiliar feminine element in men’s +affairs. To avoid the brigandage encounter took more of manhood than Don +Anastasio might imagine in a lifetime.</p> + +<p>But they had not followed their new route five minutes before Murguía was +again at the trooper’s side. An “I-told-you-so” smirk hovered +on his pinched visage. “Segundino has gone,” he announced.</p> + +<p>“So Segundino has gone?” Driscoll repeated. “Well, and +who’s Segundino?”</p> + +<p>“He’s one of my muleteers, but now I know he is a spy too. He +will tell the bri–if there are brigands–where to meet us.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span>Murguía was thinking, +too, of their reproachful increase on collection charges for the extra +trouble.</p> + +<p>“Then,” said Driscoll, “we’ll go back to our old +trail,” which they did at once. Soon after he was not surprised to hear +from Murguía that “this time it was Juan who had disappeared.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t I tell you to set a close watch?”</p> + +<p>“Y-e-s, but what was the use? He slipped into the brush, and,” +the trader complained, “I can’t spare any more drivers.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t need to. We’ll just keep this trail now.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span><a id='link_10'></a>CHAPTER X<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Brigand Chief</span></span></h2> + +<div class='nbox'> +<p>“Don Rodrigo de Vivar,<br /> +Rapaz, orgulloso, y vano.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>El Cid.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Imagine an abnormally virtuous urchin and an abnormally kindly farmer. The +urchin resolutely turns his back on the farmer’s melon patch, though there +is no end of opportunity. But the farmer catches him, brings him in by the ear, +makes him choose a big one, and leaves him there, the sole judge of his own +capacity. Driscoll had tried to dodge a fight, but Fate was his kindly +farmer.</p> + +<p>“Better fall back a little, Murgie,” he said. “You’d +only scare ’em, you know.”</p> + +<p>He himself passed on ahead. But it was mid-afternoon before anything +happened. Jacqueline meantime had shown some pettish ill-humor. Those who had +fought to be her escort were now singularly indifferent. Driscoll was idly +curious and quietly contemptuous, but he detected no fright in her manner. +“Fretting for her silver-braided Greaser,” he said to himself. +“A pretty scrape she’s got herself into, too! Now I wonder why a +girl can’t have any sense.” But as the answer was going to take too +long to find, he swerved back to the simpler matter of a possible fracas.</p> + +<p>“Well, well,” he exclaimed at last, rising in his stirrups, +“if there isn’t her nickel-plated hero now!”</p> + +<p>A quarter of a mile ahead, mounted, waiting stock-still across the trail, was +Fra Diavolo. The American put away <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_81'></a>81</span>his pipe and barely moved his spurred boot, yet the +good buckskin’s ears pointed forward and he trotted ahead briskly. From +old guerrilla habit, the cavalryman noted all things as he rode. To his left the +blue of the mountain line, being nearer now, had deepened to black, and the +Sierra seemed to hang over him, ominously. But the dark summits were still +without detail, and midway down, where the solid color broke into deep green +verdure and was mottled by patches of dry slabs of rock, there was yet that +massive blur which told of distance. Foothills had rolled from the towering +slide, and mounds had tumbled from the hills, and a tide of giant pebbles had +swept down from the mounds. These rugged boulders had turned the trail, so that +the American was riding beneath a kind of cliff. To his right, on the east of +the trail, the boulders were smaller and scattered, like a handful of great +marbles flung across the cactus plain. He may have glanced toward this side +especially, at the clumps of spiny growth over the pradera, and caught glimpses +behind the strewn rocks, but his look was casual, unstartled. He breathed +deeply, though. The old familiar elation set him vaguely quivering and tingling, +with nervous, subtle desire. The young animal’s excess of life surged into +a pain, almost. Even the buckskin, knowing him, took his mood, and held high his +nostrils.</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo’s peaked beaver, his jacket, his breeches, his high +pommeled saddle, his great box stirrups, the carabine case strapped behind, all +be-scrolled with silver, danced hazily to the magic of rays slanting down from +the lofty Sierra line. Like himself, his horse was a thing of spirited flesh, +for glorious display. The glossy mane flowed luxuriantly. The tail curved to the +ground. A mountain lion’s skin covered his flanks. He was large and sleek +and black, with the metal and pride of an English strain. He was a carved +war-charger. The man astride was rigid, stately. Man and horse had a heroic +statue’s promise of instant, furious life.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span>“Oh, la +beauté d’un homme!” cried Jacqueline, perceiving the majestic outline +silhouetted against the rocks. “Why, why–it’s Fra +Diavolo!”</p> + +<p>“It–it is!” confessed Murguía. There was dread, not +surprise, in his exclamation. The waiting horseman, and a lonely hut there +behind him–none other than a brigand +“toll-station”–these were but too significant of an old and +hated rendezvous. Don Anastasio got to his feet and nervously hurried his +caravan back a short distance. Then he ran ahead again and overtook the two +Frenchwomen. “Señoritas, wait! Neither of you need go. But I will–I +must, but I can go alone, while you––”</p> + +<p>“Why, what ails the man?”</p> + +<p>“Back, señorita, back, before he sees you!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline looked at the imploring eyes, at the palsied hand on her bridle. +“Berthe,” she said, “here’s your little monsieur getting +constitutional again.”</p> + +<p>“You <i>will</i> go, señorita?”</p> + +<p>“Parbleu!” said the girl, and lashed her mustang.</p> + +<p>“Dios, Dios,” gasped the little monsieur, hurrying after them, +“when Maximiliano hears of this––”</p> + +<p>“You should see Maximilian when he is angry,” Jacqueline called +over her shoulder. “It is very droll.”</p> + +<p>Din Driscoll had vaulted to the ground in the instant of halting. Immediately +he led his horse behind the solitary hut, which was a <i>jacal</i> of bamboo and +thatch built under the cliff, and left him there. Demijohn was a seasoned +campaigner, and he would not move until his trooper came for him. When Driscoll +emerged again, his coat was over his left arm, and the pockets were bulging. Fra +Diavolo had already saluted him, but gazed down the trail at the two women +approaching.</p> + +<p>“How are you, captain?” Driscoll began cordially.</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo looked down from his mighty seat. “Ai, mi coronel, I was +expecting Your Mercy.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span>“Honest, +now? Or weren’t you worrying lest I’d got left back in +Tampico?”</p> + +<p>One of the ranchero’s hands rose, palm out, deprecatingly.</p> + +<p>“But someone might have told you I didn’t get left at all,” +Driscoll pursued. “Segundino maybe? Or was it Juan?”</p> + +<p>“Or Don Tiburcio?” suggested the captain. He dismounted and +doffed his big sombrero. “Good, I see you brought Her Ladyship +safely.”</p> + +<p>“Or I myself, rather,” said Jacqueline, reining in her pony at +the moment, “Ah, the Señor Capitan as an escort knows how to make himself +prized by much anticipation.”</p> + +<p>“Señorita!” The Mexican bent in heavy ceremony, the sombrero +covering his breast. “I am honored, even in Your Mercy’s censure. +Those who deserve it could not appreciate it more.”</p> + +<p>“Forward then, captain. On with the excuses, I promise to believe +them.”</p> + +<p>“Those sailors, my lady, who fight with kicks. Ugh!–they attacked +some of my men this morning in Tampico. I had to call at the fort for +aid.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but Maximilian shall hear of this!”</p> + +<p>“I think he will,” and Fra Diavolo bowed again, hiding the gleam +of a smile. “But I forget, your compatriot––”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Ney?–Yes?”</p> + +<p>“He meant to help the sailors––”</p> + +<p>“But he was not hurt?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, no! But he had to be held in the fort.”</p> + +<p>“That poor Michel!”</p> + +<p>“So,” the syllable fell weightily, as if to crush Ney out of her +thoughts, “here I am at last, to claim the distinguished pleasure of +seeing Your Ladyship to the stage at Valles.”</p> + +<p>Din Driscoll had been gazing far away at the mountains, his thumbs tucked in +his belt. He stood so that the Mexican was between him and the scattered +boulders on the right of the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_84'></a>84</span>trail. Now he addressed the mountains. “The +stage at Valles? There is no stage at Valles–– And, captain,” he +dropped Nature abruptly, and turned on the man, “who are you, hombre? +Come, tell us!”</p> + +<p>If Fra Diavolo were a humbug, he was not nearly so dismayed as one might +expect. For that matter, neither was Jacqueline. She inquired of Driscoll how he +knew more about stage lines than the natives themselves. Because the natives +themselves were not of one mind, he replied. For instance, Murgie’s +muleteers had assured him fervidly that there was such a stage, whereas passing +wayfarers had told him quite simply that there was not, nor ever had been.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s gray eyes, wide open and full lashed, turned on Fra +Diavolo. “You are,” she exclaimed, noiselessly clapping her hands as +at a play, “then you are–Oh, <i>who</i> are you?”</p> + +<p>The Mexican straightened pompously. “Who?” he repeated deep in +his chest, “who, but one at Your Mercy’s feet! Who, +but–Rodrigo Galán himself!”</p> + +<p>“The <i>terrible</i> Rodrigo?” She wanted complete +identification.</p> + +<p>He looked at her quickly. The first darkening of a frown creased his brow. +But still she was not alarmed. Berthe, however, proved more satisfying. +“Oh, my dear lady!” she cried, reining in her horse closer to her +mistress.</p> + +<p>“And who,” drawled the American at a quizzical pitch of inquiry, +“may Don Rodrigo be?”</p> + +<p>“What, señor,” thundered the robber, “you +don’t––” He stopped, catching sight of the timorous Murguía +hovering near. “Then, look at that old man, for he at least knows that he +is in the presence of Don Rodrigo. He is trembling.”</p> + +<p>But Jacqueline was–whistling. The bristling highwayman swung round full +of anger. Driscoll stared at her amazed. Then he laughed outright. “Well, +well, Honorable Mr. Buccaneer of the Sierras, now maybe–– Yes, +that’s what I <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_85'></a>85</span>mean,” he added approvingly as Fra Diavolo +leaped astride his charger and jerked forth two pistols from their holsters, +“that’s it, get the game started!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s red lips were again pursed to whistle, but she changed and +hummed the refrain instead:</p> + +<p>“Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll stared at her harder. The words were strange and meant nothing. But +there was a familiarity to the tune. That at least needed no interpreter. The +old ballad of troubadours, the French war song of old, the song of raillery, the +song of Revolution, this that had been a folk song of the Crusader, a Basque +rhyme of fairy lore, the air known in the desert tents of Happy Arabia, known to +the Jews coming out of Egypt, known to the tribes in the days without history or +fifes–why, if this wasn’t the rollicking, the defiant pæan of +Americans! But how came she by it, and by what right?</p> + +<p>“‘And we won’t go home till morning,’” he joined in, +inquisitively.</p> + +<p>The girl paused, as explorers singing it have paused when savages never +before seen by white men joined in with barbarian words. But she went on, +letting the miracle be as it might.</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“‘The news I bear, fair lady––’”</p></div> + +<p>she sang, and nodded at the bandit, to indicate that here was +<i>his</i> line,</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“‘The news I bear, fair lady, Will cause your eyes to +weep.’”</p></div> + +<p>“’––Till daylight doth appear,’” Driscoll +finished it with her. Then both looked up like two children, to the awful +presence on horseback.</p> + +<p>Don Rodrigo was at some pains to recover himself. A helpless girl and one +lone trooper were practising a duet under his very frown. Only a glance toward +the boulders and cacti reassured him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span>“Well, what +next?” Jacqueline demanded sweetly. “Is it to be the–the +‘game’ at last?”</p> + +<p>“One word,” said the Mexican solemnly. Straight in his saddle, he +fixed them with keen eyes, keen, black eyes under shaggy brows. The syllables +fell portentously. His voice deepened as far away thunder. “One word +first,” growled the awakening lion. “You know now that I am Don +Rodrigo Galán. Yes, I am he, the capitan of guerrillas, the rebel, the brigand, +the hunted fugitive. Such names of ignominy a true patriot must bear because he +dares to defy his poor country’s oppressors.” Here Fra Diavolo +scowled; he was getting into form. “But to His Majesty in our own Mexican +capital, to His Glorious Resplendent Most Christian, Most Catholic, +priest-ridden, bloodthirsty, foppish, imbecile decree-making fool of a canting +majesty–to this Austrian archduke who drove forth the incarnation of +popular sovereignty by the brutal hand of the foreign invader–to him I +will yet make it known that the love of liberty, that the loyalty to Liberal +Reforms, to the Constitution, to Law and Order, to–uh–are not yet +dead in these swamps and mountains of our Patria. And he will know it when +he–when he hears my demand for your ransom, Señorita Marquesa. He will +know it, too, when he learns that Captain Maurel–a Frenchman, señorita, +not a Mexican–now lies stark in death in the brush near Tampico, where he +came to take and to hang the steadfast patriot, Rodrigo Galán. But his +Tender-Hearted Majesty will grieve less for that than for the loss of you, +Señorita–Jacqueline. For is it not known that you, the first lady of honor +to the Empress, that you are also His Majesty’s––”</p> + +<p>“My faith,” said Jacqueline, “he speaks Spanish +well!”</p> + +<p>Thus she stopped the insult. Also she stopped an unforeseen champion at her +side. Driscoll, with pistol half drawn, was willing to be checked. A shot just +then, placed as they were, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_87'></a>87</span>would mean a bad ending to the game. That he knew. So +he was thankful for Jacqueline’s hand on his wrist.</p> + +<p>Forked eloquence was silenced by now. Yet the patriot had been in earnest, +under the spell of his own ardor. Don Anastasio, with head bowed, had listened +in sullen sympathy. But both Mexicans started as though stung at +Jacqueline’s applauding comment. Don Rodrigo purpled with rage. She only +looked back at him, so provokingly demure, that something besides the ransom got +into his veins. He wet his lips, baring the unpleasant gleam of teeth.</p> + +<p>“Come!” he said thickly. “You and your maid go with +me.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s jaw dropped. “Diablos,” he exclaimed, +bewildered, “you don’t mean–– Look, Don Roddy, you’re +crazy! Such things––”</p> + +<p>“Come!”</p> + +<p>“But I tell you it’s foolish. Such things do not happen, unless +in melodrama.”</p> + +<p>For reply the guerrilla chief wheeled his charger and caught the bridles of +the two horses that the girls rode. He pulled, so as to leave exposed the +troublesome American behind them.</p> + +<p>“Grands dieux,” exclaimed Jacqueline, “have the men in this +country nothing to do except catch my bridle! But really, sir, this situation is +forced. It is not artistic. As–as Monsieur the Chevalier says, it’s +quite impossible.”</p> + +<p>She looked around for Monsieur the Chevalier to make it so, but to her +dismay, to her disgust, he had taken to his heels. He was running away, as fast +as he could go. Then her horse reared, for musket firing had suddenly, +mysteriously begun on all sides of her. Many fierce pairs of eyes were bobbing +up from behind the boulders on the right of the trail; yellow-brown faces, like +a many-headed Hydra coiled in the cacti. They were shooting, not at her, but at +the fleeing American. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_88'></a>88</span>She felt an object in her hand, which Driscoll had +thrust there, and she remembered that he had whispered something, though she had +forgotten what.</p> + +<p>Her captor was straining at the bridle. In his frenzy he leaned over, to lift +her from the saddle, and then she struck him across the face with her whip. And +then, with what the American had put in her other hand, she struck again. The +weapon was Driscoll’s short hunting knife. The blade grazed +Rodrigo’s shoulder. He loosed his hold, and before he could prevent, both +she and Berthe were in the shack under the cliff. The maid sank to the floor. +The mistress stood in the doorway. There was a glint in the gray eyes not +lovable in man or woman, but in her it was superb.</p> + +<p>Fifty feet back up the trail she saw Driscoll scaling the cliff. That demon +yelling, which is the first spasm of Mexican warfare, had not ceased, and each +demon was shooting as fast as he could reload. She saw the white dust spurt out +from the bullet peppered rock. But either the sun slanting down from the +mountain line was in their eyes, or they were disconcerted at the +American’s change in their plans; at any rate their laboriously ascending +target did not drop. Up he climbed. Jacqueline wondered why he still clung to +the jacket over his arm, as people will cling to absurd things in time of +panic.</p> + +<p>“To go through that peril, and yet a coward!” she murmured. +“It’s a waste––”</p> + +<p>The runaway gained the top of the embankment, and fell behind a rock. And now +a half dozen of the little demons were coming across the trail to the +shack–to take her.</p> + +<p>“Oh, the frisson, the ecstasy!” she cried. There was a certain +poignant sense of enjoyment in it.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span><a id='link_11'></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Cossacks and Their Tiger Colonel</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Ah, Captain, here goes for a fine-drawn bead;<br /> +There’s music around when my barrel’s in tune.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Song of the Fallen Dragoon.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Din Driscoll tumbled himself over among the rocks. “There, I’m +fixed,” he grunted, as he squatted down behind his earthworks. +“Plenty of material here”–he meant the cartridges which he +poured from his coat pockets into his hat–“and plenty out there +too”–indicating the Hydra heads–“and my +pipe–I’ll have a nice time.” He got to work busily.</p> + +<p>In the door of the shack Jacqueline saw the campaign for her possession +begin. Don Rodrigo had fled to the corner of the shack, taking his horse with +him. The hut of bamboo and thatch was no protection against Driscoll’s +fire, but the two girls, though inside the hut, were between and afforded a +better screen. Jacqueline did not, however, hold that against her Fra Diavolo. +To save himself behind a woman was quite in keeping with his sinister rôle. And +she, as an artist, could not reproach him, and as a woman she did not care. But +the American’s running away–now that was out of character, and it +disappointed her.</p> + +<p>She heard Rodrigo bellowing forth an order, and she saw five or six +guerrillas rise out of the cacti and spring toward her. But the constant shadow +of self-introspection haunted her even then. In her despair, and worse, in her +disgust, feeling already those filthy hands upon her, she yet appraised this +jewel among ecstatic shudders, and she knew in her heart that she would not have +had it otherwise.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span>“Oh, am I +ever to <i>live</i>!” she moaned in startled wonderment at herself. +“Always a spectator, always, even of myself!–God, dost thou know? It +is a robbery of living!” And the vagabonds were twenty paces away!</p> + +<p>Something hurt her hand, she opened her clenched palm; it was the horn handle +of Driscoll’s knife. Had she really thought to defend herself with that +inadequate thing? “Poof!” She tossed it from her, vexed at her own +unconscious heroics. Then two dark arms reached out, nearer and nearer, and ten +hooked fingers blurred her vision. But the arms shot upward, the fingers +stiffened, and a body splashed across the doorway at her feet with the sound of +a board dropped on water.</p> + +<p>“Ai, poor man!”</p> + +<p>She was on her knees, bending over him. But a second of the vermin lurched +against her, and he too lay still. A pistol report from the cliff was +simultaneous with each man’s fall. Both were dead. A third sank in the +trail with a shattered hip, and another behind knew the agony of a broken leg. +The marksman’s mercy was evidently tempered according to distance. For, +having the matter now under control, he nonchalantly cracked only shin bones. +Fra Diavolo from his shelter roared commands and curses, but not another imp +would show himself. Crouched jealously, they chose rather to besiege their lone +enemy on the cliff.</p> + +<p>“Must have howitzers,” muttered Driscoll. The soft lead, bigger +than marbles, went “Splut! Splut!” against the rock on all sides of +him, flattening with the windy puff of mud on a wall. But he was well +intrenched, and as the guerrillas were also, he lighted his pipe and smoked +reflectively. But after awhile he perceived a slight movement, supplemented by a +carabine. One of the besiegers was working from boulder to boulder, parallel +with the trail. He did it with infinite craft. At first the fellow crawled; +then, when out of pistol range, he got to his feet and ran. Still running, he +crossed the trail at <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_91'></a>91</span>a safe distance beyond the hut, and began working back +again, this time along the cliff, and toward Driscoll. When about a hundred +yards away, he disappeared; which is to say, he lowered himself into a little +ravine that thousands of rainy seasons had worn through from the foothills. But +almost at once his head and shoulders rose from the nearer bank, and Driscoll +promptly fired. The shot fell short. A pistol would not carry so far; which was +a tremendously important little fact, since the other fellow was aiming a rifle. +The bullet from that rifle neatly clipped a prickly pear over Driscoll’s +head. The strategist certainly knew his business. There was a familiar shimmer +of silver about his high peaked hat. Yes surely, he was Don Tiburcio, the loyal +Imperialist of the baleful eye. No doubt the malignant twinkle gleamed in that +eye now, even as the blackmailer bit a cartridge for the next shot. A victim who +had only pistols, and at rifle range, and with not a pebble for shelter from the +flank bombardment–it was assuredly a situation to tickle Don Tiburcio.</p> + +<p>Now Driscoll’s point of view was less amusing. To change his position, +he must expose himself to a fusilade from across the way. And if he tried to +rush his friend of the gully, the brigands meantime would carry off the two +girls. A gentleman’s part, therefore, was to stay where he was and be made +a target of. But he varied it a little. At Don Tiburcio’s second shot, he +lunged partly to his feet and fell forward as though mortally wounded. He lay +quite still, and soon Don Tiburcio came creeping toward him. Don Tiburcio was +thinking of his lost toll-moneys that should be on the corpse. Driscoll waited, +his nerves alert, his pistols ready. But just beyond range, the blackmailer +paused.</p> + +<p>“Go for the women, you idiots,” he yelled. “The +Gringo’s dead.”</p> + +<p>The idiots verified the title straightway, for up they popped from behind +their boulders and started for the shack.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_92'></a>92</span>“’Possuming’s no use,” Driscoll +muttered, then fired. The guerrillas got back to cover quickly enough, and so +did Don Tiburcio, grinning over his stratagem. In his arroyo again, he proposed +to make the Gringo as a sieve. Each bullet from his carabine twanged lower and +lower. “Ouch!” ejaculated Driscoll. One had furrowed his leg, and it +hurt. He looked anxiously, to see if the Mexican were lowering his aim yet more. +An inch meant such a great deal just then. But a tremendous surprise met him. +For Don Tiburcio had changed his mind. The rascal was firing in another +direction entirely, firing rapturously, firing at his very allies, at the little +imps themselves among the boulders and nettles. And the little imps were +positively leaping up to be shot. They ran frantically, but straight toward the +traitor, and on past him up the trail. The Storm Centre could not shoot lunatics +any more than he could babies. He only stared at them open mouthed.</p> + +<p>“Los Cosacos!–El Tigre! Los Cosacos!” they yelled, +scrambling out upon the road, bleeding, falling, praying, and kissing whatever +greasy amulet or virgin’s picture they owned.</p> + +<p>Then there beat into Driscoll’s ears the furious clatter of hoofs. It +deafened him, the familiar, glorious din of it. The blood raged in his veins +like fiery needle points. To see them–the cavalry, the cavalry! Then they +were gone–a flashing streak of centaurs, a streamer of red in a blur of +dust, maniac oaths, and pistol shots, and sweeping sabres. Hacked bodies were +sucked beneath the swarm as saplings under an avalanche. Driscoll sprang up and +gazed. Through eddying swirls he still could see red sleeved arms reach out, and +lightning rays of steel, and half-naked fleeting creatures go down, and never a +jot of the curse’s speed abate.</p> + +<p>“Lordy, but Old Joe should ’a seen it!” he fairly shouted. He was +thinking of Shelby, of the Old Brigade back in Missouri; daredevils, every one +of them.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span>Don Tiburcio had +sighted the vengeful horde from afar, and had recognized them, since he was, in +fact, one of their scouts. They were the Contra Guerrillas, the Cossacks, the +scourge wielded by the French Intervention and the Empire. And they were Don +Tiburcio’s cue to loyalty. For seeing them, he began firing on his late +friends, the brigands. Yet he spared their Capitan. At the first alarm Fra +Diavolo had vaulted astride his black horse, and Tiburcio darting out, had +caught his bridle, and turned him into the dry bed of the arroyo. Others of the +fugitives tried to escape by this same route, but Tiburcio fought them off with +clubbed rifle, and in such occupation was observed by him who led the Cossacks, +who was a terrible old man, and a horseman to give the eye joy. At the gully he +swerved to one side, and let the hurricane pass on by.</p> + +<p>“Sacred name of thunder,” he cursed roundly, “a minute +later and––”</p> + +<p>“Si, mi coronel,” the faithful Tiburcio acknowledged gratefully, +“Your Excellency came just in time.”</p> + +<p>The colonel of Contra Guerrillas frowned a grim approval for his +scout’s handiwork of battered skulls. He was a man of frosted visage, a +grisly Woden. The hard features were more stern for being ruggedly venerable. +His beard was wiry, hoary gray, through whose billowy depth a long black cigar +struck from clenched teeth. If eyes are windows of the soul, his were narrow, +menacing slits, loopholes spiked by bristling brows. Two deep creases between +the eyes furrowed their way up and were lost under an enormously wide sombrero. +This sombrero was low crowned, like those worn farther to the south, and +ornately flowered in silver. His chest was crossed with braid, cords of gold +hung from the right shoulder to the collar, and the sleeves were as glorious as +a bugler’s. His brick-red jacket fell open from the neck, exposing the +whitest of linen. His boots were yellow, his spurs big Mexican <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span>discs. Altogether the blend +in him of the precise military and the easy ranchero was curiously picturesque. +But Colonel Dupin, the Tiger of the Tropics, was a curious and picturesque man. +His medals were more than he could wear, and each was for splendid daring. But +on a time they had been stripped from him. It happened in China. He had made a +gallant assault on the Imperial Palace, but he had also satiated his barbarian +soul in carnage and loaded his shoulders with buccaneering loot. And though he +wondered at his own moderation, a court martial followed. However, Louis +Napoleon gave him back his medals, and sent him to Mexico to stamp out savagery +by counter savagery.</p> + +<p>“There were two accomplices in this business,” the Tiger was +saying, “one a trader, Murguía––”</p> + +<p>“Killed him my very first shot,” lied Tiburcio. He would save his +golden goose of the golden eggs.</p> + +<p>“And the other, an American?”</p> + +<p>“Got away with the others, señor.” Again Tiburcio’s reason +was obvious. The American, if taken, might tell things.</p> + +<p>“And”–Dupin gripped his cigar hungrily–“and +Rodrigo?”</p> + +<p>For answer the scout waved a hand vaguely up the trail.</p> + +<p>“None went that way?” and the Colonel jerked his head toward the +ravine.</p> + +<p>“No, none. Your Mercy saw me driving them back.”</p> + +<p>“Quick, then, on your horse! We’re losing time.”</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio was reluctant. He had not yet recovered his money from +the American. “But the women, mi coronel? They are there, in that shack. +Hadn’t I better stay––?”</p> + +<p>“Jacqueline, you mean? Of course the little minx is in trouble, the +second she touches land. But you come with me. She shall have another +protector.”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio knew the Cossack chief. He obeyed, and both men galloped away after +the chase.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_94'></a> +<img src='images/illus-094.jpg' id="img005" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“COLONEL DUPIN”<br />“The Tiger of the Tropics ... the chief of Contra Guerrillas” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span>They had not gone +far when they passed Michel Ney swiftly returning. He was the protector Dupin +had in mind. He had seen Jacqueline in the doorway of the hut as he stormed past +with the Contra Guerrillas, but he had been too enthusiastic to stop just then. +He was a Chasseur d’Afrique, and to be a Chasseur d’Afrique was to ride in a +halo of mighty sabre sweeps. And Michel had fought Arabs too–but the good +simplicity of his countenance was woefully ruffled as he turned back from that +charge of the Cossacks.</p> + +<p>“Michel!” cried Jacqueline, stepping over the forms of men before +the hut, and forgetting them. The natty youth was torn, rumpled, grimy. The +sky-blue of his uniform was gray with dust. But to see him at all proved that he +had escaped Fra Diavolo’s web in Tampico. And the relief! It made her +almost gay. “Ah, Michel–le beau sabreur!–and did you enjoy it, +mon ami?”</p> + +<p>He alighted at her feet, and raised her hand to his lips.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” she demanded quick as thought, “my +trunk?”</p> + +<p>“Mon Dieu, mademoiselle, I did well to bring myself.”</p> + +<p>“You should have brought my trunk, sir, first of all. Deign to look at +this frock! No, no, don’t, please don’t. But tell me everything. +What could have happened to you last night? Why did you not meet me this +morning?”</p> + +<p>His story was brief. Of his contemplated strategy at Tampico, there had been +a most lugubrious botching. The night before, when he started to the fort for +aid, Fra Diavolo’s little Mexicans had waylaid him, bound him, and dragged +him back to the café, where Jacqueline that very moment reposed in slumber. And +there, in a back room without a window, he had gritted his teeth until morning. +As for the sailors, who were to return to the ship for her trunk; well, more +little Mexicans had fired on them from the river bank. The small boat, riddled +with shot, had sunk, and the sailors, splashing frantically to keep off the +sharks, had gained the shore opposite. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_96'></a>96</span>But they could neither get word to the ship, nor cross +back to Tampico.</p> + +<p>“Yet,” demanded Jacqueline, “how could you know all this, +there in your prison room?”</p> + +<p>“Am I saying I did, name of a name? Well, those poor sailors wandered +about all night in the swamps across the river, and this morning they ran into +Colonel Dupin and his Contras, and the colonel was frothing mad. He had only +just stumbled on the bodies of Captain Maurel and some of his men, who had been +ambushed and murdered. Poor Maurel was dangling from a tree among the vultures. +Others were mutilated. Some had even been tortured. And all were stripped, and +rotting naked. Mon Dieu, mon dieu, but it’s an inferno, this +country!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, but how did they find you?”</p> + +<p>“Colonel Dupin simply brought the sailors back to Tampico and searched +that café, and got me out. The proprietor wasn’t thought to be any too +good an Imperialist, anyway. They shot him, and then we came right along +here.”</p> + +<p>“Very nice of you, I am sure.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. Dupin isn’t thinking of anybody but your Fra +Diavolo, who must have killed Captain Maurel.–Was he here?”</p> + +<p>“Who? Don Rodrigo?”</p> + +<p>“Don Rodrigo?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. He’s the same as Fra Diavolo.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that bandit,” cried Ney, “that terrible Rodrigue? +But he is dead, don’t you remember, Fra Diavolo said so?”</p> + +<p>“Stupid! Fra Diavolo is Don Rodrigo himself.”</p> + +<p>“Not dead then? And I’ll meet him yet! But,” and his sudden +hope as suddenly collapsed, “Dupin will get him first.”</p> + +<p>“I think not, because Rodrigo did not take the trail.”</p> + +<p>“Then which way did he go? Quick, please, mademoiselle, which +way?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span>“He turned +off into that arroyo.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, what chance, what luck!” But the boy stopped with his foot +in the stirrup. “No, mademoiselle, I can’t leave you!”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes you can. I daresay there’s another champion about.” +She glanced up at the cliff. “And besides, all danger is past. The donkey +caravan is still here, and for company, I have Berthe, of course.”</p> + +<p>“Really, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Michel, really.”</p> + +<p>“Good, I’m off! But we will meet you at–Dupin just told +me–at the next village on this same trail. Now I’m off!” He +was indeed. “I say, mademoiselle,” he called back, “I’m +glad we left the ship, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline turned hastily her gaze from the cliff. He startled her, +expressing her own secret thought.</p> + +<p>Chasseur and steed vanished in the ravine, and she smiled. “The God of +pleasant fools go with him,” she murmured.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span><a id='link_12'></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Pastime Passing Excellent</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Il y a des offenses qui indignent les femmes sans les déplaire.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Emile Augier.</i></p> </div> + +<p>Like another Black Douglas, Din Driscoll rose among the crags, the dark tufts +curling stubbornly on his bared head. He looked a sinewy, toughened Ajax. But he +only spoiled it. For, raising his arms, he stretched himself, stretched long and +luxuriously. His very animal revelling in the huge elongation of cramped limbs +was exasperating. Next he clapped the slouch on his head, and clambered +down.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline might have been surprised to see him. Her brows lifted. “Not +killed?” she exclaimed. “But no, of course not. You gave yourself +air, you ran away.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll made no answer. He was thinking of what to do next. She knew that he +had run because of her, and she was piqued because he would not admit it. +“So,” she went on tauntingly, “monsieur counts his enemy by +numbers then?”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t count them at all,” he murmured absently.</p> + +<p>“But,” and she tapped her foot, “a Frenchman, he would have +done it–not that way.”</p> + +<p>She was talking in English, and the quaintness of it began to create in him a +desire for more. “Done what, miss?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“He would not have run–a Frenchman.”</p> + +<p>“Prob’bly not, ’less he was pretty quick about it.”</p> + +<p>She looked up angrily. Of course he must know that he had been splendid, up +there behind the rocks. And now to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_99'></a>99</span>be unconscious of it! But that was only a pose, she +decided. Yet what made him so stupidly commonplace, and so dense? She hated to +be robbed of her enthusiasm for an artistic bric-à-brac of emotion; and here he +was, like some sordid mechanic who would not talk shop with a girl.</p> + +<p>“I wager one thing,” she fretted, “and it is that when you +bring men down to earth you have not even at all–how do you say?–the +martial rage in your eyes?”</p> + +<p>“W’y, uh, not’s I know of. It might spoil good +shooting.”</p> + +<p>“And your pipe”–her lip curled and smiled at the same +time–“the pipe does not, neither?”</p> + +<p>His mouth twitched at the corners. “N-o,” he decided soberly, +“not in close range.”</p> + +<p>She gave him up, he had no pose. Still, she was out of patience with him. +“Hélas! monsieur, all may see you are Ameri-can. But there, you have not +to feel sorry. I forgive you, yes, because–it wasn’t +dull.”</p> + +<p>“Hadn’t we better be––”</p> + +<p>“Now what,” she persisted, “kept you so long up there, for +example?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll reddened. He had lingered behind the screen of rock to bandage his +furrowed leg. “S’pose you don’t ask,” he said abruptly, +“there’s plenty other things to be doing.”</p> + +<p>He turned and invited the little Breton maid to come from the shack. She was +white, and trembled a little yet. “I knew, I knew you would not leave us, +monsieur,” she was trying to tell him. “But if you had–oh, +what would madame––”</p> + +<p>“Now then,” the practical American interrupted, +“where’s Murgie?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline pointed with the toe of her slipper. There were prostrate bodies +around them, with teeth bared, insolent, silent, horrible. One couldn’t be +sorry they were dead, but one didn’t like to see them. Jacqueline’s +boot pointed to a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_100'></a>100</span>man lying on his face. A silk hat was near by in the +dust. A rusty black wig was loosened from his head. The girl invoked him +solemnly. “Arise, Ancient Black Crow, and live another thousand +years.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll lifted the shrunken bundle of a man, held him at arm’s length, +looked him over, and stood him on his feet. The withered face was more than ever +like a death’s head, and the eyes were glassy, senseless. But as to hurt +or scratch, there was none. The beady orbs started slowly in their sockets, +rolling from side to side. The lips opened, and formed words. “Killed? +yes, I am killed. But I want–my cotton, my burros, my peons–I want +them. I am dead, give them to me.”</p> + +<p>“You’re alive, you old maverick.”</p> + +<p>The gaze focused slowly on Driscoll, and slowly wakened to a crafty leer. +Believe this Gringo?–not he!</p> + +<p>With an arm behind his shoulders Driscoll forced him down the trail to his +caravan. Most of the animals were lying down, dozing under their packs. +Murguía’s eyes grew watery when he saw them, but he was still dazed and +his delusion was obstinate. The leer shot exultant gleams. “A rich man +<i>can</i> enter heaven,” he chuckled with unholy glee.</p> + +<p>“Oh wake up, and give me two donkeys for the girls. Their horses got +hit, you know.”</p> + +<p>Then the stunned old miser began to perceive that he was not in heaven. His +tyrant’s voice! “You get my horses killed,” he whined, +“and now you take my burros.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll said no more, but picked out two beasts and bound some cushioned +sacking on their backs for saddles. Then with a brisk hearty word, he swept +Berthe up on the first one.</p> + +<p>“Next,” he said, turning to Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>But the marchioness drew back. Next–after her maid! It nettled her that +this country boy, or any other, could not <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_101'></a>101</span>recognize in her that indefinable something which is +supposed to distinguish quality.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, now?” he asked. “Quick, please, +I’m in a hurry.”</p> + +<p>“It’s too preposterous. I’ll not!”</p> + +<p>“You will,” he said quietly.</p> + +<p>Her gray eyes deepened to blue with amazement. She stood stock still, +haughtily daring him. She even lifted her arms a little, leaving the girlish +waist defenseless. Her slender figure was temptation, the pretty ducal fury was +only added zest. Up among the rocks Driscoll had found himself whispering, +“She’s game, that little girl!” But at the same time he had +remembered Rodrigo’s innuendo, the linking of her name with +Maximilian’s. She was so brave, and so headstrong, so lovably headstrong, +and her beauty was so fresh and soft! Yet he could not but think of that taint +in what nature had made so pure. Of a sudden there was a something wrong, +something ugly and hideously wrong in life. And the country boy, the trooper, +the man of blood-letting, what you will, was filled with helpless rage against +it; and next against himself, because the girlish waist could thrill him so. +“A silly little butterfly,” he argued inwardly. Before, he had been +unaware of his own indifference. But now he angrily tried to summon it back. He +set his mind on their situation, on what it exacted. It exacted haste, simple, +impersonal haste. And keeping his mind on just that, he caught her up.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you boor!” she cried, pushing at him.</p> + +<p>His jaw hardened. His will was well nigh superhuman, for he battled against +two furious little hands, against the dimple and the patch so near his lips, +against the fragrance of her hair, against the subtle warmth of his burden.</p> + +<p>“No, no!” she panted. “Monsieur, do you hear me? I am not +to be carried!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe not,” said he, carrying her.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span>A moment later +she discovered herself planted squarely on the burro.</p> + +<p>“Bonté divine!” she gasped. But she took care not to fall +off.</p> + +<p>He drew a long breath.</p> + +<p>“Now whip ’em up,” he commanded.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>The first village beyond, where Dupin had promised to meet Jacqueline, was a +squatting group of thatched cones in a dense forest of Cyprus and eucalyptus. +Its denizens were Huasteca Indians, living as they had before the Conquest, +among themselves still talking their native dialect. The name of the hamlet was +Culebra.</p> + +<p>The coy twilight waned quickly, and the caravan was still pushing on through +the thick darkness of the wood, when a high tensioned yelping made the vast +silence insignificant, ugly. But as the travelers filed into the clearing where +the village was, the curs slunk away with coyote humility, their yellow points +of eyes glowing back on the intruders.</p> + +<p>With a forager’s direct method, Driscoll roused the early slumbering +village. He would not take alfafa, he declined rastrojo. It was human food, +corn, that he bought for his horse. He housed his dumb friend under a human roof +too. After which he prepared a habitation for the women. He swept the likeliest +hut clean of ashes, brazier, and bits of pots and jars. He carpeted the earth +floor in Spanish moss, as King Arthur’s knights once strewed their halls +with rushes. It was luxury for a coroneted lass, if one went back a dozen +centuries. There were chinks between the sooty saplings that formed the wall, +but over these he hung matting, and he drove a stake for a candle.</p> + +<p>Supper followed. The trooper chose to change Don Anastasio from host to +guest, and he exacted what he needed from the Inditos. They, for their part, +were alert before his commands. None of them had been overlooked in his +preliminary <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_103'></a>103</span>largesse of copper tlacos and they made the teaming +wilderness contribute to his spread. Kneeling, with sleeves rolled from his hard +forearms, he broiled a steak over hickory forks. The torches of gum tree knots +lighted his banquet, and the faces of the two girls, rosy in the blaze and +mysterious in the shadow, were piquant inspiration. Even the sharp features of +Don Anastasio stirred him into a phase of whimsical benevolence. He knocked two +chickens from their perch in a tree and baked them in a mould of clay. There was +an armadilla too, which a Culebra boy and the dogs had run down during the day. +Its dark flesh was rich and luscious, and the Missourian fondly called it +’possum. Crisply toasted tortillas, or corn cakes, served for bread, and for +spoons as well. But to Driscoll’s mind the real feast was +coffee–actual coffee, which he made black, so very good and black, a +riotous orgie of blackness and strength and fragrance. Here was a feast indeed +for the poor trooper. He thought of the chickory, of the parched corn, of all +those pitiful aggravations that Shelby’s Brigade had tried so hard to +imagine into coffee during the late months of privation along the Arkansas +line.</p> + +<p>And the Marquise d’Aumerle? Learning to eat roasting ears, which somehow just +would leave a grain on her cheek with every bite, the dainty Marquise thought +how much finer was this than the tedious bumping ship. How much more tempting +than the ultra-belabored viands on white china that had to be latticed down! +Here was angel’s bread in the wilderness. And the appetite that drove her +to ask for more, that was the only sauce–an appetite that was a frisson. A +new sensation, in itself!</p> + +<p>And later, sleep too became a passion, a passion new and sweet in its +incantation out of the lost cravings of childhood. When the nearer freshness of +the woods filled her nostrils, there from the live-oak moss in her night’s +abode, she smiled on the grave young fellow who had left her at the door. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span>both girls laughing +together over the masculine notions for their comfort, knew a certain happy +tenderness in their gaiety.</p> + +<p>“Éh, but it’s deep, madame,” said one.</p> + +<p>“It’s the politeness of the heart,” the other +explained.</p> + +<p>Outside Driscoll spread his blanket across the doorway where his horse was +sheltered, and wrapped in his great cape-coat, he stretched himself for a smoke. +But Murguía came with cigars, of the Huasteca, gray and musty. Driscoll accepted +one, waving aside the old man’s apologies. He puffed and waited. +Conviviality in Don Anastasio meant something.</p> + +<p>“Ah, amigo,” the thin voice cracked in a spasm of forced +heartiness, “ah, it was a banquet! Si, si, a banquet! Only, if there were +but a liqueur, a liqueur to give the after-cigar that last added relish, verdad, +señor?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll tapped his “after-cigar” till the ashes fell. +“Well? he asked.</p> + +<p>“Ai de mi, caballero, but I am heavy with regrets. I can offer nothing. +My poor cognac–no, not after such a feast. But whiskey–ah, whiskey +is magnifico. It is American.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, with a genial rubbing of his bony hands. But his sad +good-fellowship was transparent enough, and in the darkness his eyes were beads +of malice. Driscoll half grunted. A long way round for a drink, he thought. +“Here,” he said, getting out his flask, “have a pull at +this.”</p> + +<p>Murguía took it greedily. He had seen the flask before. The covering of +leather was battered and peeled. “Perhaps a little–water?” he +faltered. Driscoll nodded, and off the old Mexican ambled with the flask. When +he returned, he had a glass, into which he had poured some of the liquor. The +canteen he handed back to the trooper, who without a word replaced it in his +pocket. Murguía lingered. He sipped his toddy absently.</p> + +<p>“I, I wonder why the friends of the señoritas do not come?” he +ventured.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span>“Want to +get rid of them, eh, Murgie?”</p> + +<p>The old man shrugged his shoulders. “And why not? You may not believe +me, señor, but should I not feel easier if they were–well, out of the +reach of Don Rodrigo?”</p> + +<p>“Out of––Look here, where’s the danger now?”</p> + +<p>“Ai, señor, don’t be too sure. Colonel Dupin still does not come, +and it might be–because the guerrillas have stopped him.”</p> + +<p>“Man alive, he had ’em running!”</p> + +<p>“H’m, yes, but there’s plenty more. This very village +breeds them, feeds them, welcomes them home. Don Rodrigo can gather ten times +what he had to-day. And if he does, and if, if he is looking for the señoritas +again––”</p> + +<p>Driscoll shifted on his blanket. “I see,” he drawled. “F’r +instance, if the señoritas vanish before he gets here, he won’t blame you? +Oh no, you were asleep, you couldn’t know that I had up and carried +’em off. Anyhow, you’d rather risk Rodrigo than Colonel +Dupin––Yes, I see.” He tucked his saddle under his head, and lay +flat, blinking at the stars. “This trail go on to Valles?” he +inquired drowsily.</p> + +<p>Murguía’s small eyes brightened over him. “Yes,” he said, +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Correct,” yawned the American, “I’ve already made +sure.”</p> + +<p>“And if––” But a snore floated up from the blanket.</p> + +<p>When Murguía was gone, the sleeper awoke. He carefully poured out all the +remaining whiskey. “It may be what they call ‘fine Italian,’” +he muttered, with a disgusted shake of the head, but he neglected to throw the +flask away as well. Next he saddled Demijohn and two of the pack horses, then +lay down and slept in earnest, as an old campaigner snatches at rest.</p> + +<p>The night was black, an hour before the dawn, when his eyes opened wide, and +he sat up, listening. He heard it again, faint and far away, a feeble +“pop-pop!” Then there were <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_106'></a>106</span>more, a sudden pigmy chorus of battle. He got to his +feet, and ran to call the two women.</p> + +<p>“So,” said Jacqueline, appearing under the stars, “monsieur +does not wish to be relieved of us? He will not wait for his friends?”</p> + +<p>“Get on these horses! Here, I’ll help you.”</p> + +<p>Soon they three were riding through the forest, in the trail toward Valles. +Behind them the fairy popping swelled louder, yet louder, and the man glanced +resentfully at his two companions. He was missing the game.</p> + +<p>Back in the village of Culebra a demon uproar hounded Don Anastasio out of +serape and slumber. All about him were fleeing feet. They were shadows, bounding +like frightened deer from the wood, across the clearing, and into the wood +again. Some turned and fired as they ran. Screaming women and children hurried +out of the <i>jacales</i>, and darted here and there. Dogs howled everywhere. A +storm of crashing brush and a wild troop of horsemen, each among them a free +lance of butchery, burst on the village. A second crashing storm, and they were +in the forest again. They left quivering blots in their wake, and a moaning gave +a lower and dreadfuller note to the wailing of women. Only the leader of the +pursuers, with a few others, drew rein.</p> + +<p>“Death of an ox!” the French oath rang out, “We’re in +their very nest. Quick, you loafers, the torch, the torch!”</p> + +<p>Flames began to crackle, and in the glare Murguía was seen frantically +driving burros and peons to safety. The leader of the troop leaned over in his +saddle and had him by the collar.</p> + +<p>“Who the name of a name are you?”</p> + +<p>Don Anastasio looked up. His captor was a great bearded man. “Colonel +Dupin!” he groaned.</p> + +<p>“Who are you?–But I should know. It’s the trader, the +accomplice of Rodrigo. Sacré nom, tell me, where is she? We can’t find her +here. Where is she?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span>“How can I +know, señor? She–perhaps she is gone.”</p> + +<p>“With Rodrigo–ha! But he’ll have no ransom–no, not if +it breaks Maximilian’s heart.–Now, Señor Trader––”</p> + +<p>He stopped and called to him his nearest men. Murguía sank limp.</p> + +<p>“But he hasn’t got her! Rodrigo hasn’t got her!”</p> + +<p>“Who has then?”</p> + +<p>“The other one, the American.”</p> + +<p>“Which way did they go?”</p> + +<p>“If Your Mercy will not––”</p> + +<p>“Shoot him!” thundered the Tiger.</p> + +<p>“But if he will tell us?” someone interposed.</p> + +<p>It was Don Tiburcio, still the guardian angel of the golden goose.</p> + +<p>“Bien,” growled the Tiger, “let him live then until we find +the American.”</p> + +<p>“Which way did they go?” Tiburcio whispered in Murguía’s +ear.</p> + +<p>“To, to Valles,” came the reply.</p> + +<p>The blazing huts revealed a ghoulish joy on the miser’s face. The +Gringo, not he, would now have to explain to the Tiger.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span><a id='link_13'></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Unregistered in Any Studbook</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“La belle chose que l’aristocratie quand on a le chance d’en être.”</p> +<p class='ar'>––<i>Voltaire.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>That garish daub which was sopped up from the burning homes of men and +bespattered over the forest’s dark crest was already mellowing under the +gentler touch of dawn, when the three travelers gained the open country.</p> + +<p>“Poor, dirty, little Inditos,” Jacqueline mused aloud. Berthe +struck her pony in a tremor of fright. The American was riding ahead. +“Fire and sword,” Jacqueline went on, and her voice lowered to +intense scorn, “they make the final tableau, but–it’s gaudy, +it’s cheap.”</p> + +<p>The trail had broadened into a high road, and now it wound among the hills +like a soiled white ribbon. Driscoll turned in his saddle. “I +shouldn’t wonder,” he observed in the full-toned drawl that was +peculiar to him, “but what we’d better be projecting a change of +venue. This route is too public, and publicity around here strikes me as sort of +prejudiced. S’pose we just stir up an alibi?”</p> + +<p>A certain stately old judge back in Missouri would have smiled thus to hear +the scion of his house. But the marchioness, confident in her mastery of +English, thought it was the veriest jargon. What was the boy trying to say? His +next words grew fairly intelligible. “We are now headed for Valles. Well, +we’ve decided not to go to Valles.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps they had, but she at least had ceased deciding anything, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span>since the overruling of +her veto in the matter of precedence when one is hoisted upon a burro.</p> + +<p>A narrow pony path crossed the road. “First trail to the left, after +leaving the wood,” Driscoll said aloud, “and this must be it.” +Campaigner in an unfamiliar country, he had informed himself, and it was with +confidence that he led his little party into the bridlepath. But he looked +anxiously at the forest behind. He did not doubt but that Rodrigo, if it were he +back there, would terrify Murguía into betraying their destination, or their +supposed destination, which was Valles.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you hurry ’em up a bit?” he called back.</p> + +<p>“We do try,” protested Jacqueline, holding aloft a broken switch, +“but they only smile at us.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll got down and undid the spurs from his boots. One of the immense +saw-like discs he adjusted to mademoiselle’s high heel, passing the strap +twice around the silk-clad ankle. Jacqueline gazed down on the short-cropped, +curly head, and she saw that the back of his neck was suddenly red. But the +discovery awakened nothing of the coquette in her. Quite the contrary, there was +something grateful, even gravely maternal, in the smile hovering on her lips for +the rough trooper who took fright like a girl over a revealed instep. Still, the +interest was not altogether maternal as she watched him doing the same service +for Berthe. Perhaps he was too far away, or perhaps practice brought +indifference, but at any rate, his neck was no longer tinged in that fiery +way.</p> + +<p>“Now dig ’em!” said he. “We want to make that clump +of mesquite yonder, now pretty quick.”</p> + +<p>The trees he pointed to were two or three miles away, but the travelers +covered the distance at an easy lope. Driscoll kept an eye on the road they had +just left, and once hidden by the mesquite he called a halt. As he expected, a +number of horsemen appeared at a trot from the direction of the forest. They did +not pause at the cross trail, however, but kept to the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span>highway in the direction of Valles. The +American and the two girls could now safely continue their journey along the +bridlepath.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” Jacqueline questioned demurely, and in her most +treacherous way, “how much longer do we yet follow you up and down +mountains?”</p> + +<p>“W’y, uh–<i>I’m</i> going to the City of +Mexico.”</p> + +<p>“And we others, we may tag along, n’est-ce pas? But the city is far, +far. And, to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Driscoll, “if you should happen to know +of a good hotel––” He paused and gazed inquiringly over hills +covered with banana and coffee to the frost line. He would not have tried a +frailer temper so, but to provoke hers was incense to his own.</p> + +<p>“You others, the Americans,” she said tentatively, as though +explaining him to herself, “you are so greedy of this New World! You +won’t give us of it, no, not even a poor little answer of information. +Alas, Monseigneur the American, I apologize for being on this side the ocean at +all–in a tattered frock.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked, but he could see nothing wrong. She seemed as crisp and +dainty as ever. If there were any disarray, it was a fetching sort, with a +certain rakish effect.</p> + +<p>“Oh that’s all right,” he assured her heartily, +“<i>you</i> can stay.”</p> + +<p>“Really, and after you’ve been writing us notes from Washington +to–to ‘get out’? We French people do not think that was +polite.”</p> + +<p>“I never wrote you any notes, and,” he added in a lowered tone, +“the devil take Washington, since Lee didn’t!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s lips pursed suddenly like a cherry. “Oh pardon +me,” she exclaimed. “I did not know. And so you are a–a +Confederate? But,” and the gray eyes fastened upon him. She rode, too, so +that she could see his face, just ahead <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_111'></a>111</span>of her, “but your faction, the–yes, the +South–she is already vanquis–no!–whipped? I–I +heard.”</p> + +<p>He did not reply, but his expression disturbed her unaccountably. She could +almost note the whimsical daredeviltry fade from his face, as there came instead +the grimmest and strangest locking of the jaws. She tried to imagine the French +beaten and her feelings then, but it was difficult, for her countrymen were +“the bravest of the world, the unconquered.” They had borne victory +over four continents, into two hemispheres. But this American, what must he +feel? He was thinking, in truth, of many things. Of his leave taking with his +regiment, with those lusty young savages of Missourians whom perhaps he was +never to see again. He was thinking of his ride through the South to Mobile, of +the misery in stubborn heroism, of the suffering everywhere, matching that in +the dreary fever camp of the Old Brigade. He was thinking of all the beautiful +Southland torn and ravaged and of the lowering cloud of finality. Of the Army of +Northern Virginia so hard pressed; of the doom of Surrender, a knell already +sounded, perhaps. Never had Jacqueline seen such bitterness on a human face. It +was a man’s bitterness. And almost a desperado’s. At least there was +the making of a desperado in the youth of a moment before. She caught herself +shuddering. There was something so like a lurking death astride the yellow horse +in front of her.</p> + +<p>But over her also there came a change, and it grew as she saw and appreciated +the man in him. Her caprices fell from her, and she was the shrewd woman of the +world, a deft creature of courts, a cunning weaver of the delicate skeins of +intrigue and politics. A glint of craft and purpose struck from the gray eyes, +as in preparation for battle. Her mischievous bantering had really been fraught +with design, and by it she had revealed to herself this man. But the change in +her came when he proved an antagonist, as she now supposed him to be. For in the +uncloaking he stood forth a Confederate. His cause was <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span>lost. He was in Mexico. He was on a +mission, no doubt. One question remained, what could the mission be?</p> + +<p>Abrupt frankness, with its guileful calculation to surprise one into +betrayal, was the subtlest diplomacy. “Let us see,” she mused aloud, +“you, your comrades, monsieur, you have no country now? Bien, that +accounts for your interest in Maximilian?”</p> + +<p>“And what is your interest, Miss–Jack-leen?”</p> + +<p>She staggered before the riposte. The “Jack-leen” was innocent +blundering, she knew that. He had heard Rodrigo address her so, and he used it +in all respect. But there was her own question turned on herself. By “her +interest” he of course meant the interest she was showing in himself; he +was not referring it to Maximilian. And yet the double meaning was there, just +the same. He had struck back, that was certain, but because she could not tell +where, nor even whether he had wounded, she was afraid to parry, much more to +venture another thrust. Those who had sent the rustic evidently knew what they +were about. He could shoot well, which was exhilarating. To redeem one’s +country’s discredited bills, was quixotic. She rose to that, because she +was French. But to fence with herself–well, that was quality. Instinctive, +inbred, unconscious, and unregistered in any studbook of Burke or +Gotha–but quality. And she recognized it, for there was deference in the +silence which her baffled diplomacy now counseled.</p> + +<p>They passed many natives plodding on to Valles with market stuff, going at +the Inditos’ tireless foxtrot, now a man in loincloth stooped under a +great bundle of straw or charcoal, or a family entire, including burro and dog. +Of a gray-bearded patriarch with a chicken coop strapped to his back, Driscoll +inquired the distance to an hacienda of the region which had the name of +Moctezuma. “Probablemente, it will be ten leagues farther on, +señor,” the Huastecan replied.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span>“We are +going,” Driscoll now informed his companions, “to drop in on +Murgie–the hospitable old anaconda.”</p> + +<p>They acquired a pineapple by purchase, and stopped for their morning coffee +at a hut among numberless orange trees, and at another farther on for their +midday lunch, where they learned that the Hacienda de Moctezuma was only just +beyond the first hill, and only just beyond the first hill they learned that +they had six leagues more to go. They covered three of these leagues, and were +rewarded with the information that it was fully seven leagues yet. Geography in +Mexico was clearly an elastic quantity. But towards three o’clock a young +fellow on a towering stack of fagots waved his arm over the landscape, and said, +“Why, señor, you are there now.” Yes, it was the hacienda, but how +far was it to the hacienda house? Oh, that was still a few little leagues.</p> + +<p>In the end, after nightfall, they rode into a very wide valley, where two +broad, shallow rivers joined and flowed on as one through the lowland. Here, on +the brow of a slope, they perceived the walls and the church tower of what +seemed to be a small town. But after one last inquiry, they learned that it was +the seat of Anastasio Murguía’s baronial domain.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span><a id='link_14'></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Herald of the Fair God</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Les grenouilles se lassant<br /> + De l’état démocratique,<br /> + Par leur clameurs firent tant<br /> +Que Jupin les soumit au pouvoir monarchique.”</p> +<p class='ar'><i>La Fontaine.</i></p> </div> + +<p>A wide country road swept up the slope of the hill, curved in toward the low +outer wall of the little town on the brow, then swept down again. The portico of +the hacienda house was set in the wall where the road almost touched, so that +the traveler could alight at the very threshold of the venerable place. Mounting +the half-dozen steps, Driscoll crossed a vast porch whose bare cement columns +stood as sentinels the entire length of the high, one-storied façade, and on the +heavy double doors he found a knocker. Visitors were infrequent there, but at +last a surprised barefoot mozo answered the rapping, and in turn brought a short +man of burly girth and charro tightness of breeches. This chubby person bowed +many times and assured Their Mercies over and over again that here they had +their house. Driscoll replied with thanks that in that case he thought that he +and the other two Mercies would be taking possession, for the night at +least.</p> + +<p>The man was Murguía’s administrador, or overseer. He took it for +granted that the French señor (in those days Mexico called all foreigners +French) and the French señoras were friends of his employer, and Driscoll did +not undeceive him. The trooper’s habits were those of war, and war +admitted quartering yourself on an enemy. He brought the news, too, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span>that Murguía had come +safely through his last blockade run, which alone insured him a welcome without +the fact that ranchero hospitality may be almost Arabian and akin to a +sacrament.</p> + +<p>Plunging into apologies for every conceivable thing that could or might be +amiss, Don Anastasio’s steward led them into the sala, a long front room, +the hacendado’s hall of state. To all appearances it had not been so used +in many years, but the old furnishing of some former Spanish owner still told +the tale of coaches before the colonnade outside and of hidalgo guests within +the great house. There was the stately sofa of honor flanked by throne-like +armchairs, with high-backed ones next in line, all once of bright crimson satin +and now frazzled and stained. The inevitable mirror leaned from its inevitable +place over the sofa, but it was cracked and the gilt of the heavy frame had +tarnished to red. At the other end of the sala, a considerable journey, there +hung a token of the later and Mexican family in possession. The token was of +course the Virgin of Guadelupe in her flame of gold, as she had gaudily +emblazoned herself on the blanket, or serape, of a poor Indian. Murguía’s +print was one of thousands of copies of that same revered serape.</p> + +<p>Urging them to be seated, clapping his hands for servants, giving orders, +ever apologizing, the overseer finally got the travelers convinced that it was +their house and that supper would be ready now directly. With a glance at his +two companions, Driscoll inquired for the señoras of the family, whereupon a +sudden embarrassment darkened the administrador’s fat amiable +features.</p> + +<p>“Doña Luz, Your Mercy means? Ai, caballero, you are most kind. And you +tell me that her father will come to-morrow, that he will–surely +come?”</p> + +<p>“Might we,” Jacqueline interposed, “pay our respects to +Señor Murguía’s daughter?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span>The poor fellow +begged Their Mercies’ indulgence, but Doña Matilde, the señora aunt of +Doña Luz, lay sick in the house. As for Doña Luz, yes, Doña Luz had gone to the +chapel, as she often did of an evening lately, to pray for her aunt’s +recovery. Doña Luz had vowed to wear sackcloth for six months if her dear patron +saint, María de la Luz, would but hear her petition. Out of compassion, +Jacqueline said no more.</p> + +<p>Next morning Driscoll was astir early. He wandered through a thick-walled +labyrinth of corridors and patios, and came at last into a rankly luxuriant +tropical garden, where the soft perfume of china-tree blossoms filled his +nostrils. Keeping on he passed many of the hacienda buildings, a sugar mill, a +cotton factory, warehouses, stables with corrals, and entered a tortuous street +between adobes, where he found the hacienda store. Here the administrador was +watching the clerks who sold and the peons who bought. The latter were mostly +women, barefooted and scantily clothed. Their main want was corn, weevil-eaten +corn, which they carried away in their aprons. They made tortillas of it for +their men laboring in the hacienda fields, or on the hacienda coffee hills. The +store was a curious epitome of thrift and improvidence. One wench grumbled +boldly of short measure. She dared, because she was comely and buxom, and her +chemise fell low on her full, olive breast. She counted her purchase of frijoles +to the last grain, using her fingers, and glaring at the clerk half coaxingly, +half resentfully. But an intensely scarlet percale caught her barbarian eye, and +she took enough of it for a skirt. A dozen cigarettes followed, and by so much +she increased her man’s debt to the hacienda.</p> + +<p>A shrunken and ancient laborer was expostulating earnestly with much +gesturing of skeleton arms, while the administrador listened as one habituated +and bored. The feeble peon protested that he could not work that day. He parted +the yellow <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span>rags +over one leg and revealed decaying flesh, sloughing away in the ravages of bone +leprosy. He showed it without emotion, as some argument in the abstract. And he +was arguing for a little corn, just a little, and he made his palm into a tiny +cup to demonstrate. The administrador opened a limp account book, held his pudgy +forefinger against a page for a second, then shut it decisively. “No, no, +Pedro, not while you owe these twelve reales. Think, man, if you should die. You +have no sons; we would lose.”</p> + +<p>“But, mi patron, there’s my nephew.”</p> + +<p>“True, and he has his own father’s debt waiting for +him.”</p> + +<p>“Just a wee little,” begged the man.</p> + +<p>The overseer shook his head. “When you’ve worked to-day, yes. +Then you may have six cents’ worth, and the other six cents of the +day’s wages counted off your debt. There now, get along with you to the +timber cutting.”</p> + +<p>The administrador brightened on perceiving Driscoll. “How was His Mercy? How +had His Mercy passed the night? How––”</p> + +<p>“Where,” interposed Driscoll, “might one find the nearest +stage to Mexico?”</p> + +<p>Almost nowhere, was the reply. What with the French intervention and +guerrillas, the Compañia de Diligencias had about suspended its service +altogether. “Then,” said Driscoll, “could we hire some sort of +a rig from you?” The administrador believed so, though he regretted +continuously that Their Mercies must be leaving so soon.</p> + +<p>With a nod of thanks Driscoll turned curiously to the loaded shelves, and +gazed at the bolts of manta, calico, and red flannel. “Jiminy +crickets,” he burst forth, “is there anybody on this ranch who can +sew?”</p> + +<p>Yes, the wife of one of the clerks was a passable seamstress. She did such +work for the Doñas at the House.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span>“And can +she do some to-day, and can you send it on to overtake me by +to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>Most certainly.</p> + +<p>Then Driscoll invested in a number of varas of calico print. It was the best +available. But the light blue flowering was modest enough, and there was even a +cheery freshness about it that called up mellowing recollections of bright-eyed +Missouri girls. Yet each time he thought of the costumes he had ordered, he +blushed until his hair roots tingled.</p> + +<p>Intent once more on departure, Din Driscoll hastened back to the House. But +he only learned that Jacqueline and Berthe were not up yet. He mumbled at such +looseness in discipline, until he remembered that they were not troopers, but +girls. And since girls are to be waited for, he did it in his own room. From his +saddlebags he laid out shaving material. The Old Brigade had advised these +things, while speculating with dry concern on what was correct among emperors. +After much sharp snapping of eyes, for the razor pulled, the clean line of his +jaw emerged from lather and stubble. “Just in case any emperor should +happen in,” he tried to explain it, taking a transparently jocose manner +with himself.</p> + +<p>Eight o’clock! Even civilized people do not stay abed that late! Yet he +found only Berthe in the dining room. She had come on a foraging expedition. He +watched the little Bretonne’s deft arranging of a battered tray, and +offered droll suggestions until she began to suspect that he really did not mean +them. Berthe was a nice girl with soft brown hair, and a serious, gentle way +about her.</p> + +<p>The maid found mademoiselle not only still abed, but stretched on a rack of +torture as well, her helpless gaze fixed on a Mexican woman with a hot iron. It +was a flatiron, and it was being applied to Jacqueline’s poor rumpled +frock. The dress was spread over a cloth on the floor, and the woman <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span>strove tantalizingly, and +Jacqueline was trying to direct her.</p> + +<p>“Madame is served,” Berthe announced.</p> + +<p>Madame raised herself on an elbow and looked at the tray, at the sorry +chinaware, at the earthen supplements. “Served?” she repeated. +“Berthe, exaggeration is a very bad habit. But child, what are you about? +This is not a petit déjeuner!”</p> + +<p>“I know, madame, but he told me to bring it. He said we’d be +traveling, and there wouldn’t be time for a second breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“<i>He?</i> Who in the world––”</p> + +<p>“Why, the, the American monsieur. He said just coffee wasn’t +enough, and for me to bring along the entire contest of marksmanship–the, +the whole shooting match–and for madame to hurry.”</p> + +<p>“Berthe! one would say you thought him a prince.”</p> + +<p>“He–he is a kind of prince,” said the little Bretonne +doggedly.</p> + +<p>Madame whistled softly. Still, she ate a hearty breakfast.</p> + +<p>Meantime, outside two resplendent horsemen were galloping up the curving +sweep of the wide road. Their haste smacked of vast importance, and the very +dazzling flash of their brass helmets in the sunlight had a certain arrogance. +The foremost jerked his horse’s bit with a cruel petulance and drew up +before the hacienda house. Several natives were basking on the steps, and he cut +at them sharply with his whip.</p> + +<p>“Wake, you r-rats!” A Teutonic thickness of speech clogged his +utterance, and he turned to his companion. “Tell this canaille,” he +snarled in Flemish, “to go fetch their master here at once.”</p> + +<p>The administrador came hurrying, and was overcome. His hospitable flow gushed +and choked at its source before the splendor of the two cavaliers. They were +Belgians. The first wore a long blue coat bedecked with golden leaves and belted +with a sash. Crosses and stars dangled on his breast. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span>His breeches were white doe, and his +high glossy boots had wrinkles like a mousquetaire’s. Heavy tassels +flapped from his sword hilt. A brass eagle was perched on his helmet. +Altogether, here was a glittering bit of flotsam from the new Mexican Empire. +But a narrowness between the man’s eyes affected one unpleasantly. It was +a mean and a sour scowl, of a fellow lately come into authority. The other man +graced the ornate uniform of an aide in Maximilian’s imperial +household.</p> + +<p>“Your Mercy is–is the Emperor?” stammered the poor fat +administrador.</p> + +<p>He had, indeed, heard rumors of Maximilian on one of his ostentatious +voyages. The first Belgian, however, was in no way embarrassed at the question. +It was a natural mistake, in his opinion.</p> + +<p>“Explain to this imbecile,” he ordered, “since +there’s no better here to receive us.”</p> + +<p>The aide explained. His Imperial Majesty, Maximiliano, was returning to his +capital. Fascinated by the beauty of the tropics, as well as ill of a cough, he +had lingered for a week past at the adjoining hacienda of Las Palmas. He had +also been deep in studies for the welfare of his people. But now the business of +the Empire demanded that he relieve the Empress of her regency. Accordingly, His +Majesty and His Majesty’s retinue had left Las Palmas that very morning, +and would shortly pass by the hacienda of Moctezuma. His Majesty, when en +voyage, always took a loving interest in his subjects, and a sincere ovation +never failed to touch his heart. So Monsieur Éloin–here the aide glanced +with some irony at the first Belgian–so Monsieur Éloin thought that the +master of La Moctezuma would be grateful to know of His Majesty’s +approach, in order to gather the peons from the fields to welcome him. It would +be as well, perhaps, to reveal nothing to the Emperor of this thoughtful +hint.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span>“To make +it quite plain,” concluded the speaker, “can you assemble enough men +within an hour to do a seeming and convincing reverence to your +ruler?”</p> + +<p>“And tell him,” interrupted Monsieur Éloin, “not to forget +the green boughs waving in their hands. Make him understand that there will be +consequences if it’s not spontaneous.”</p> + +<p>As they galloped back to rejoin Maximilian, the imperial aide was thoughtful. +“I can’t help it,” he said aloud, “I feel sorry for him. +How his blue eyes glisten–there are actually tears in them–when he +talks to these Indians of freedom and a higher life! He thinks they love him! +And all this elegance–no wonder they believe that the Fair God is come at +last to right their sorrows.”</p> + +<p>“The loathsome beasts!”</p> + +<p>“But I do feel sorry. He really believes that he will verify the +tradition and be their savior. It’s his sincere goodness of heart. Man, +how exalted he is!”</p> + +<p>“But where’s the harm?”</p> + +<p>“Because, because the poor devils were fooled once before. And their +new Messiah may deceive them as bitterly with unwise meddling as Cortez did with +greed and cruelty.”</p> + +<p>“Messiah for these pigs!” Éloin sneered. “What pleasure it +gives him, <i>I</i> can’t see.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span><a id='link_15'></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Ritual</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“... a bearded man,<br /> +Pamper’d with rank luxuriousness and ease.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Dante.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The Emperor was coming–elaborately, by august degrees.</p> + +<p>First, and far in advance, arrived a haughty pack liveried in the royal green +of ancient Aztec dynasties. New tenants might have been moving on this bright +May day, for the flunkies attended a small caravan of household stuff, which +they crammed through the gaping doorway as nuts into a goose’s maw. The +stuff was all royal, of royalty’s absolute necessities. There were soft +rugs, and finely spun tapestries, and portiéres to smother a whisper. There was +a high-backed chair, and a velvet-covered dais for the high-backed chair. There +were brushes, whose stroke caressed gently and purringly the Hapsburg whisker. +There was a Roman poet, fastidiously bound, and then–there was the +Ritual.</p> + +<p>The Ritual was a massive tome, of glazed, gilt-edged paper, of print as big +for the proclaiming of truth as the Family Bible, of weight to burden a strong +man, of contents to stagger a giant brain, unless the giant brain had in it the +convolution of a smile. Maximilian and Charlotte had reigned a year, and so far +the Ritual was the supreme monument to the glory and usefulness of their Empire. +It decreed, by Imperial dictation and signature, the etiquette that must and +should be observed in the courtly circle. But alas, you can’t codify +genuflections, nor yet a handshake.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span>The next degree +in the imperial advent was the imperial courier, who proclaimed from a curveting +steed what everybody suspected. “Our August Sovereign” was +approaching.</p> + +<p>Several hundred peons stared with open mouths. Gathered before the house, +they prattled to one another in childlike expectancy of the Señor Emperador. +Most of them were learning for the first time that they had an emperor. Still, +it sufficed to know this was an occasion for auto-inspiring vivas, like once +when the Ilustrísimo Bishop came. They took new hold on the green boughs they +were to wave. A handkerchief here and there fluttered from a bamboo pole. Down +in an adobe village by the river junction, every gala scrap of calico print, +whether shirt or skirt, pended from cords stretched across the street; and +cotton curtains, some of crude drawn work, hung outside the windows. All the +poor finery of the Indians was on exhibition to do honor to a gorgeous Old World +court. But the fiesta air had already gotten into the susceptible native lungs, +and that alone, with only a trumpet’s blare, would make for a hurrah in +genuine fervor.</p> + +<p>The roomy porch of the old mansion was crowded with the chief people of the +hacienda, clerks, foremen, house servants, besides the administrador and the +chaplain. Behind a remote column were the three wanderers in the wilderness; the +Storm Centre, the Marchioness, and the Maid. They were to have been gone by now, +and yet it was not the coming of the emperor that had stopped them. The cause +was nearer at hand. Smoking a long black cigar, “grizzled and fierce, as +ornate in braid and decorations as a bullfighter,” Colonel Dupin had +delayed them.</p> + +<p>His Cossacks thronged the colonnade. The brick-red of their raw leather +jackets splotched every other color with rust. The Contra Guerrillas were many +things. They were Frenchmen and Mexicans. They were Americans, Confederate +deserters, Union deserters. They were Negroes and Arabs. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span>They were the ruined of fortune, now +soldiers of fortune. They were pirates and highwaymen. They were gold hunters, +gamblers, swindlers. They were fugitives from the noose, from the garrote, from +the guillotine. But they were all right willing desperadoes. And there was not a +softened feature on a man of the troop. Only a tigerish ferocity could lead +them, could hold them.</p> + +<p>They surrounded the Missourian on the hacienda portico. If only for his +debonnaire indifference, they knew him for a “bad man” such as none +of them might ever hope to be. And they watched him like lynxes, though he was +unarmed. Yet he did not look “bad.” He merely looked bored. He was a +prisoner, but not the only one. Anastasio Murguía fidgetted among the Cossacks +on his own porch. His restless eyes roved incessantly over the crowd, seeking +his daughter, but they were steadily baffled.</p> + +<p>Down in the valley, where the Rio Moctezuma joined its course with the +Pánuco, a dusty mist moved nearer along the old Spanish highway, and faintly +there came the sound of clarions. An eager murmuring arose from the throng on +the hillside. It swelled more confidently to a buzz as the far-away dust lifted +at the ford and revealed the beaded stringing of a numerous company. The distant +bugles rang clearer on the pure air. “Yes, he comes,” the people +cried, “There! Seest thou, hombre?–<i>There!</i> Viva el Señor +Emperador!”</p> + +<p>For Colonel Dupin the cloud of dust would shortly evolve into a staying hand +of mercy, into the exasperating stupidity of mercy. He had captured the American +not ten minutes before, and here was interference in a gauzy haze of dust. He +signed to one of his men to follow with Murguía, and he himself placed a +gauntleted hand on Driscoll’s shoulder. “Now,” he said.</p> + +<p>But a white figure of Mexican rebosa and silken instep moved swiftly from +behind a column and touched the Tiger’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_125'></a>125</span>arm. Both Jacqueline and Berthe had been watching +the Cossack chief rather than the spectacle in the valley. And as he turned on +his prisoner, Berthe half screamed and clutched at the bosom of her dress. It +was Jacqueline who gained his side. She addressed him sharply as one who hates +to reopen a tedious argument.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Dupin,” she cried, “have I not already permitted +myself to tell you–yes, I repeat, you are mistaken. He is in no sense +whatever an accomplice of Rodrigo Galán.”</p> + +<p>The Tiger heard, no doubt, but he did not stop. He kept on toward the door, +Driscoll beside him, and his men around him. He meant to pass through the house. +Some secluded corral in the back would do for the execution. Driscoll seemed as +indifferent as ever, though there was a lithe, alert spring in his step. Behind +him Murguía was moaning, praying to see his daughter. Berthe followed, +bewildered, and silently wringing her hands. But the death march was so +business-like, and every one else was so intent on the approach of a royally +born person, that the crowds shoved aside by the little group never once +suspected that they had just brushed elbows with tragedy in the making.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline caught her breath, sucked it in rather, in a pang of angry +despair; and plucking up her skirts she ran ahead until she could oppose her +slender figure squarely in front of the burly Frenchman. If he were to move on, +he must trample her down. Her eyes, usually so big and round and shading to a +depth of blue with their lively mischief, were all but closed, and through the +narrowed lashes they gleamed like white steel. Her voice, though, was clear and +even, of a studied courtesy.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know, Monsieur le Coronel, suspicion with you is quite enough. +But,” she went on in contempt and feigned surprise at his dullness, +“this rage of yours at being outwitted by Rodrigo Galán blinds you to +something else.–Pardon, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_126'></a>126</span>monsieur, a Frenchman does not jostle a +woman.–Thank you.”</p> + +<p>“But the jostling by a woman’s tongue, mademoiselle.–Well, +what is it? Have mercy, be brief, since I am not even to breathe while my lady +talks.”</p> + +<p>“I was thinking, dear monsieur, of the feelings of an artist, to which +you are very, very blind.”</p> + +<p>“Feelings, artist? Name of a name, mademoiselle!”</p> + +<p>“Precisely, Maximilian’s feelings. You know how he abhors the +sight of blood. Ma foi, and I agree with him.”</p> + +<p>“Go it, Miss Jack-leen!” Driscoll abetted her. Never a word of +their French did he understand, but he knew that she had a power of speech. +Dupin evidently knew it better yet, for though he laughed, he did not laugh +easily.</p> + +<p>“Never fear,” he said, “His Majesty’s delicate +prejudices are safe. It will be all underground before he comes, and no muss at +all.”</p> + +<p>“But you forget,” Jacqueline cried testily, “you forget the +imagination of a poet.”</p> + +<p>“And he will imagine––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, because I shall tell him.”</p> + +<p>“Sacré––”</p> + +<p>“And possibly he would brace his feelings to a second æsthetic horror +as a rebuke for the first. In a word, my colonel, there will be one more body to +follow–underground. Now is this quite clear, or–do you require my +promise on it?”</p> + +<p>The savage old brow manifested the desire to make her a victim as well, but +in this extra blood-thirst she knew that Driscoll was safe. “I understand, +Mademoiselle la Marquise,” he said, laying on heavily the suave gallantry +of a Frenchman. “Yes, I understand. Prince Max values Your +Ladyship’s good taste so highly–– Pardi, I believe he would +certainly shoot me if you told him to.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly,” Jacqueline coldly assented.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span>“And +Monsieur l’Americain may congratulate himself on the influence of mademoiselle, +the arbiter elegantiarum–with His Majesty.”</p> + +<p>“As Monsieur le Tigre may congratulate himself that the American does +not understand this insult, sir.”</p> + +<p>Behind her rose a dry hysterical cackle of renewed hope. “The Little +Black Crow!” she exclaimed. “See, my colonel, he is not worth an +execution all to himself, so do we all go back to contemplate Prince Max’s +loving ovation.”</p> + +<p>“The Emperor arrives!” she cried gayly, returning to the porch. +With the others she was once more behind the remote column, an end of the rebosa +hanging over her arm ready to be flung across her face. “But +what–Hélas, I haven’t my Ritual with me.”–The Ritual +classified every movement, every breath of the Court, as rigidly and with as +little consciousness of humor as Linnæus did his flowers.–“It +can’t be a Minor Palace Luncheon of the Third Class,” she mused, +“and it isn’t Grand Court Mourning of the First Degree. Ha, I have +it, He–that ‘H’ is a capital, please, not as a sacrilege, but to be +Ritualistic–He is out on a voyage of the Minor Class, Small Service of +Honor, Lesser Cortège. Now then, all’s comfortable; no room for plebeian +misconceptions.”</p> + +<p>On they came, each rigidly after his kind, a Noah’s procession of +Dignitaries with the August Sovereign first of all. To bring on the majestic +climax so early was illogical, of course, but dust having happened to be created +before precedence, the Cortège was changed the other way round for a voyage, so +that the First Category people breathed what the August Sovereign kicked up and +kicked up some additional for the Second Category, and the Second did the same +for the Third, and so on down to the Ninth, or “And all others,” who +breathed the best they could and paid the bill.</p> + +<p>Nothing preceded the royal coach except the royal escort, and that by exactly +two hundred paces, in which interval a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_128'></a>128</span>canonical obligation was laid on the dust to settle. +It was a particularly gallant royal escort. The Empress’s Own, or the +Dragoons, or Lancers, or Guardsmen, or Hussars, or whatever they were, were +picked Mexicans; and they were frankly proud of their rich crimson tunics; also, +perhaps, of their heavily fringed standard worked by Carlota herself. A cavalry +detachment in fur caps with a feather completed the body guard. Mexico is a hot +country, but that was no reason why an Austrian regiment should sacrifice its +furry identity.</p> + +<p>“Belgians too!” exclaimed Jacqueline. “And the Mexican +emigrés! They came back when we made it safe for them. But where, oh where, are +the French?”</p> + +<p>“Everywhere,” growled the Tiger, “in mountains and swamps, +dying everywhere, fighting for this Austrian archduke. But he doesn’t like +to be seen with them.”</p> + +<p>Behind eight white mules of Spain, four abreast, rolled the coach of the +Emperor, solitary and marked as majesty itself. There were postilions and +outriders and footmen arrayed in the Imperial livery with the Imperial crown. +And on the coach door flashed Maximilian’s escutcheon, his archducal arms +grafted on the torso of his new imperial estate. There were the winged griffins +with absurd scrolls for tails. They had voracious claws, had these droll beasts +of prey, and they clutched at an oval frame ruthlessly, as though to shatter it +and get at a certain bird within. Poor bird, his shelter looked very fragile, +and he about to be smothered under an enormous diadem as under an extinguisher. +He was none other than the Mexican eagle perched on his own native cactus, and +he desired only peace and quiet while he throttled the snake of ignorance in his +talons, which snake had been his worry ever since the Aztec hordes from the +north had first caged him in. Beneath the Imperial arms was the motto, +“Equidad en la Justicia,” but it seemed an idle promise.</p> + +<p>In the huge traveling coach, with a greyhound at his feet, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span>sat one lone man. He had +a soft skin, rosy like a baby’s, and blue eyes, and what some called a +beautiful golden beard. The huzzas swelled and surged from all sides, and he +smiled on the people. But he gazed beyond them, and into the blue eyes came the +light of exaltation such as is inspired by music that starts a heartstring in +vague trembling.</p> + +<p>The Cortège followed in carriages one hundred paces apart. The first held the +First Grand Dignitary, the only Dignitary of Third Category rank, and hence the +only one who could stand near the throne after Highnesses, Grand Collars, and +Ambassadors. He was the Grand Marshal of the Court and Minister of the Imperial +Household. His privileges consisted of seeing “His Majesty when called +for,” and of “communicating with Him in writing.” But he could +not see Him when not called for. In reality the Grand Marshal was a quiet old +Mexican gentleman who seemed ill at ease. He was General Almonte, one of those +conservatives who had sought their country’s tranquillity in foreign +intervention. But Maximilian had bespangled him into a Dignidad, and thus lost +to himself an able politician’s usefulness. The real man of affairs was an +obscure Belgian who openly and insolently despised everything Mexican. He also +sang chansonettes. He was the sour-browed Monsieur Éloin already mentioned.</p> + +<p>Dignidades enough to make up the Lesser Cortège were not lacking. Riding +alone was the Chief of the Military Household, who could return no salutes when +near His Majesty except from First and Second Category personages. Under the +circumstances, recognition of his own father would have been rank heresy. Then +there was the Grand Physician, the Grand Chaplain, and Honorary Physicians and +Chaplains, who could wear Grand Uniforms and a Cordon and eat at the Grand +Marshal’s table; and there were Chamberlains and Secretaries of Ceremony +and Aides. Many surreptitiously peeped into a monster volume as they <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span>rode. It was not a mass +book nor a materia medica. It was the Ritual.</p> + +<p>The Sixth Grand Dignitary of Cabellerizo Mayor helped His Majesty to descend +from His coach. He did it mid vociferous cheering and waving of boughs and +agitation of handkerchiefs on bamboo poles. Aides and Deputy Dignitaries worked +industriously driving back the simple Inditos.</p> + +<p>“‘The General Aide de Camp,’” Jacqueline quoted reverently, +“‘will keep the people from the Imperial coach, but without maiming +them.’”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span><a id='link_16'></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>He of the Debonair Sceptre</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“And let us make a name.</p> +<p class='ar'>”–<i>Genesis.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The flame of lofty resolve burned with a high, present heat in +Maximilian’s dreamy eyes. But the thing was not statesmanship. The danger +dial pointed to some latest darling phantasy.</p> + +<p>When the young prince–he was but thirty-three–descended from his +carriage, he signed that the Cortège should not form as yet. And instead of +mounting the colonnade steps, he turned and mingled with his humble subjects. A +pleased murmur arose among the Indians. “Que simpático!” they +breathed in little gasps of admiring awe.</p> + +<p>The unusually tall and very fair young man, in the simplicity of black, with +only the grand cross of St. Stephen about his neck, moved about among the ragged +peons. Now and again he spoke to one and another, questioning earnestly. Anxious +orderlies were quick to brush aside the touch of an elbow, but to those outside +the circle, watching what he would do, he seemed alone with his people. And in +thought, he really was. There was a great pity upon his face, and it was the +more poignant because these timorous children could not comprehend the +wretchedness which so appealed to him.</p> + +<p>“And thou?” he demanded of an aged man whose tatters hung heavy +in filth.</p> + +<p>A look of poor simple craft came into the Indian’s face. “I, +señor? María purísima, I am cursed of heaven. But the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span>rich señor wishes to +know–see!” and ere Monsieur Éloin could prevent, he bared a limb of +rotting flesh. “If it were not for my leg, Your Mercy––”</p> + +<p>“<i>Animal</i>,” snarled Éloin in his ear, “can’t you +say ‘Your Majesty’?”</p> + +<p>“Your–Majesty, or if I had children, I could make my +debt–oh, grande, grande, twenty reales, maybe. And then, and then I should +have a red and purple scrape, with a green eagle, like my nephew Felipe +has.–He owes,” the man added in a kind of pride, “thirty +reales, my nephew Felipe does.”</p> + +<p>But his wiles failed. The rich señor turned toward the colonnade, his +sailor’s easy swing giving way to a tread of determination. Also, the pure +flame burned consumingly.</p> + +<p>From the top of the steps, between files of dismounted Dragoons, Maximilian +looked over the people, beyond, in some far away gaze of the spirit.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline hid the golden gleam of her hair under the rebosa. +“Silencium!” she whispered, laying a finger across her lips. +“For now we’ll have the mountains to frisk, and the little hills to +skip. In all the Orient there blooms no flower of eloquence like unto +his.”</p> + +<p>The monarch’s inspired look promised as much. “Mexicans,” +he began. The peons huddled closer, their responsive natures quickened. His +sonorous voice was electrical, despite an accent, despite the German over-gush +of stammering when words could not keep pace with the vast idea. But the one +word of address gave the peons a dignity they had never suspected.</p> + +<p>“Mexicans: you have desired me. Acceding to the spontaneous expression +of your wishes, I have come to your noble country–our dear patria–to +watch over and direct your destinies. And with me came one who feels for you all +the tenderness of a mother, who is your Empress and my August Spouse.”</p> + +<p>“But not,” murmured the sententious lady of the rebosa, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span>“august enough to +appear before Him unless He sends for Her.”</p> + +<p>Proceeding, the speaker solemnly told them of his divine right as a Hapsburg, +as one of the Cæsars, and of his anointment by the Vicar of God at Rome, so that +to God alone was he responsible. As a Mexican he gloried with them in their +liberties, in the True Liberty he brought, for had not the Holy Father said to +him, “Great are the rights of a people, but greater and more sacred are +the rights of the Church?” Hence he burned with Heaven-given fire to lift +them, his subjects, into the vanguard of Nineteenth Century Progress.</p> + +<p>Here Maximilian paused mid cheers, and thinking on his next words, his +delicate hand of a gentleman clenched.</p> + +<p>“Mexicans,” he began again, now in the vibrant tone of an +overpowering emotion. “I pray to fulfil the mission for which God has +placed me here. There are six millions of you, a sober and industrious race. +Cortez found you so, and you astounded him with your civilization. But the +conditions that followed have enslaved you. Enslaved, I repeat, for you are +bound by debt. Your hacendado master contrives that you cannot pay even his +usurious interest. The food you eat, you must buy from him, at his prices, of +the quality he prescribes. And if your debt be not sufficient, that is, if there +seems a chance of your paying it off, then you must increase it to obtain your +daily bread. Your very children are slaves at birth, since with their first +birth they inherit your chains. And if you or your children run away, you or +they may be brought back as runaway slaves. It is thus that I find you, +Mexicans. And I find you awaiting a liberator, waiting vainly through the +centuries. But now, at last, the reward of your suffering and your faith has +come. In a word, which shall be formally recorded in the Journal Official, We +this day decree––”</p> + +<p>“I knew it,” exclaimed Jacqueline, “he always coins his +inspirations.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_134'></a>134</span>“––We this day decree your debts +extinguished, and each and every peon in all our beautiful country–a free +man!”</p> + +<p>“Yet with not,” said Jacqueline, “a foot of land to be free +on. But you know, messieurs, that Utopia is an asylum for the blind.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a spider on his ceiling,” muttered Colonel Dupin, +touching his own head significantly.</p> + +<p>The emancipator’s face was beatific. He heard the peons acclaim him, as +gradually they began to understand that there was to be no more unhappiness. But +it was curious how far, far away the sweet music sounded, even when some belated +“Viva el Señor Emperador!” cracked in ludicrous falsetto. For the +poet-prince these human chords might have been the strings of a harp, softly +touched. And as far away as posterity.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline fell to clapping her hands noiselessly. “Oh, lá-lá,” +she cried, “if we are not to have an epic flight from Monsieur +Éloin!”</p> + +<p>It was true in a degree. Five minutes of stupendous history making had just +elapsed, and some graceful tribute was due. The royal favorite had foreseen the +need, and he was prepared; but whether by borrowing or originating, it is +impossible to say.</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“‘Vous l’avez relevé; votre main souveraine L’a rendu d’un seul coup à +la famille humaine. De ce premier bienfait, Sire, soyez content: L’Indien fera +de vous MAXIMILIEN LE GRAND!’”</p></div> + +<p>“Parbleu, why not?” demanded Jacqueline. “If only he were +as great as his decrees, poor man!”</p> + +<p>Maximilian by this time remembered that he must be somebody’s guest. +“Who receives Us here?” he asked. But none of his court knew. Even +Monsieur Éloin could only point to the administrador. “Why is your master +not present?” inquired General Almonte. The administrador opened his +mouth, and it stayed open. Colonel Dupin had promised to shoot him if he +breathed a word of Don Anastasio being a prisoner.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='ill_134'></a> +<img src='images/illus-134.jpg' id="img006" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +THE EMPEROR MAXIMILIAN +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span>But someone +whispered something to a person on the outskirts of the entourage, who passed it +on to the very centre till it came to the ear of Col. Miguel Lopez of Her +Majesty’s Dragoons. The someone who initiated the message was Don +Tiburcio, the watchful herder over one golden goose. As a result, an aide +rescued Murguía from the claws of the Tiger.</p> + +<p>Maximilian looked the weazened old man over in disappointment. Here, then, +was the lord of Moctezuma, an hacendado, and hence one of the heavy timbers for +his empire building. Don Anastasio scraped awkwardly and craved many pardons for +not being on hand to welcome His Majesty. Overcoming a curious aversion to the +man, the emperor straightway invested him with the newly created order of Civil +Merit, and Don Anastasio, without a peon to till his fields or to oil his +machinery, quaked under the honor of a copper medal.</p> + +<p>“And,” pursued the monarch, “We find a need of stout +officials, for We have been grieved to learn of hacendados who secretly aid the +prowling rebellious outlaws that infest our country.–And as We must have a +prefect in this district of an integrity like your own, it pleases Us, dear +caballero, to name you jefe político.”</p> + +<p>The new jefe’s greenish eyes contracted in terror. He thought of the +brigands whom magistrates were supposed to discourage, and he tried to frame +excuses.</p> + +<p>“Accept, you fool,” someone whispered. “Mexicans +can’t refuse office–that’s decreed.” It was Don +Tiburcio, his sombrero against his breast. To Murguía the Roman sword on the +crown seemed more than ever emblematic of “Woe to the conquered.” In +a veritable panic he accepted.</p> + +<p>As it was fitting that this day of a people’s emancipation <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span>should be commemorated by +public praise to Almighty God, the Lesser Cortège formed, and careful of +precedence, went to worship their Maker. The freedmen trooped after, waving +jubilee branches.</p> + +<p>The little church of the hacienda stood on a barren knoll, mid chaparral and +graves. The curate’s white adobe adjoining was the only near habitation. A +stone walk as wide as the church itself approached for a hundred yards, sloping +up from a pasture below. The one tower opened on four sides for the better ease +of the bell ringers. Its bright mosaic peak rose peaceful and still in the clear +air.</p> + +<p>The Emperor and suite arranged themselves within, and the Inditos gaped +stolidly outside, to hear the Te Deum for their broken shackles. At the most +solemn moment, the Grand Chaplain availed himself of his exclusive privilege, +which was to present the Gospel to the royal lips. Assisting him in the general +service was the hacienda curate. This curate, obscurely found in the Huasteca +wilds and yet not a Mexican, was a large sleek man whose paunch bulged +repulsively under the priestly surplice. His flabby jowls hung down, and gave +his head the shape of a pea, in the top of which were the eyes set close +together. They were restless fawning little eyes and they roved constantly. But +more than aught else, they were adventurous; two bright, glowing beads of +adventure. From the folds of dull yellow flesh they peered forth at the august +worshipers. They hovered first over the Emperor before his cushioned +<i>prie-dieu</i>. Then, in hungry search, they began to roam. They lingered with +General Almonte for a moment, but darted on, unsatisfied. They fluttered yet +longer over Miguel Lopez, the gorgeously uniformed colonel of Dragoons, and +left him only reluctantly. But when they lighted on Monsieur Éloin, they +gleamed. There was no longer uncertainty. They laid bare the man as the print of +a mass-book, and found him profitable reading. After that, the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span>adventurous orbs returned +to their larger prey, the Emperor, and gorging themselves, scintillated more +adventurously than ever.</p> + +<p>And such a feast as the unconscious Hapsburg afforded the ghoul of a priest! +It was a loathsome surgery; greedy fingers trembling on the knife, the +victim’s soul flayed, each nerve of a vanity, or tendon of an ambition, or +full-throbbing vein of hope, each and all lifted one by one from the clotted +mass and scrutinized exultantly. There was not a feature but held a revelation +as sure as vivisection. The high, broad forehead of a gentle poet was often +shaded by a dreamy melancholy, but never once did it furrow in either craft or +cruelty. In that the priest knew his man for a devout mystic, knew him for a +child confidingly looking to a Destiny to inspire his every footstep. Then there +was the beard. It was too great a wealth of whisker, its satin, glossy flow of +too dandified a precision. The delicate finger tips stroked it softly, +affectionately, to the left; then softly, affectionately to the right; and +always dreamily. But the most shameless traitor of all was the lower lip. It was +the Hapsburg lower lip, heavy and thick and sensuous, and ill-fated. Hanging +partly open under the silken drooping moustache, it revealed the spoiled child +of royalty, who mistakes obstinacy for decision, and changes whims with despotic +petulance. Maximilian believed in his star. But a lower lip is more potent than +predestination. He need only have leaned close to his mirror. Then he might have +seen what the priest saw so clearly.</p> + +<p>Maximilian paused on coming out. The freedmen were just rising from their +knees among the thorns and stones. Then it occurred to the liberator that their +participation in the rejoicing was not exactly, ah–conspicuous. +“Would you not think it well, father,” said he to the Grand +Chaplain, “that these poor people partake of the holy communion on this +day that has been so eventful for them? If you approve, let it be ordered +that––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span>“But +Sire––”</p> + +<p>Maximilian turned quickly, a pleased smile on his lips. The interruption came +in his own tongue, in German. And he who had spoken was a German. It was the +hacienda curate. His voice was soft, and purring with deference. He wished to +say, with permission, that the holy sacrament for the Inditos was out of the +question; scarcely one of them had been baptized.</p> + +<p>“Not baptized!” Maximilian exclaimed. “And this, is this +fulfilling your sacred obligations?”</p> + +<p>The curate bowed his head. He had found them thus, when he first came, a few +weeks ago.</p> + +<p>“And you came––”</p> + +<p>“From Durango, sire, where as secretary I served His Señoría +Ilustrísimo, the Bishop of the state.” But, as he meekly explained, he had +sought the Lord’s service among the Huastecans. Pastors were said to be +needed, yet never had he imagined––He stopped short, in naïve +embarrassment.</p> + +<p>Maximilian appreciated his delicacy in not wishing to reflect on the Huasteca +bishop. But from others he learned that neither baptism nor other spiritual +office had been performed in the community for years and years, and that the +bishop resided in the capitol, because among his flock he had neither comforts +nor a befitting state.</p> + +<p>“But why,” Maximilian demanded sternly, “have you not put +to use the few weeks you have been here?”</p> + +<p>The curate’s small eyes leaped to adventure. But he lowered them +hastily, and folded his hands over his rounded soutane. He had heard that His +Majesty might come, he said, and he had presumed so far as to hope that His +Majesty might deign to act as godfather for the poor Indians, and so he had +waited.</p> + +<p>Nothing could have pleased Maximilian more, and he looked at the good priest +with an awakening favor. “Then <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_139'></a>139</span>let it be this afternoon,” he commanded. +“I will stand their sponsor.”</p> + +<p>“––Before God, who will bless Your Majesty,” murmured the +priest.</p> + +<p>And to be brief, let it be recorded that they were baptized by the hundred, +with hurried pomp–“pompes à incendie,” as the godfather +himself described it.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span><a id='link_17'></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Rather a Small Man</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Besides the queene, he dearly loved a fair and comely dame.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>The Ballad of Fair Rosamond.</i></p> </div> + +<p>Jacqueline was protesting to a worried personage in Grand Uniform. The +personage was the Cerberus of the Emperor’s antechamber, and he barred her +way. He was newly a personage, and did not know Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>“But, Señor Oficial de Ordenes,” she insisted, “don’t +you see that if I put my name in your old register there, the man will be shot +while your Dignitaries are deciding to grant my audience!”</p> + +<p>“Shot?” vaguely repeated the monarchial flunkey. He was a +Mexican, and took his unfamiliar responsibilities seriously. He turned to the +Book of Court Etiquette on the centre table.</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” exclaimed the impatient girl, “you +won’t find any precedence for shooting in that thing. A doomed man +hasn’t any, take the word of the Dama Mayor.”</p> + +<p>“Dama Mayor?” This was more tangible, and the Grand Uniform +seized on it gratefully. “But,” and he quoted from the Ritual in +triumph, “no Dama can present herself except on matters of +service.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline hedged guilefully. “Of course not,” she agreed, +“and it’s precisely that why I must see His Majesty. It’s +about, about a piece of valencienne he wished me to bring the Empress from +Europe.”</p> + +<p>The Oficial de Ordenes hesitated. “But the man to be shot?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span>“No +matter, the lace is my business.”</p> + +<p>With which assurance, the Grand Uniform presumed to announce la Señorita +Marquesa d’Aumerle. He reappeared at once from the inner apartment. The +Emperor’s order to admit her that instant rather disturbed his faith in +the Ritual and the leisurely decorum it prescribed.</p> + +<p>Hardly had she stepped within the portières than someone caught her hand, and +she saw Maximilian bending over it. There was an involuntary warmth in his +formal courtier grace. The only other occupant of the hacienda sala was Bebello, +the greyhound. He sprang up from a Hungarian bear rug, and frisked about her +joyfully. Her greeting to him was equally sincere. Quietly releasing her hand, +she patted him fondly, and cooed endearing French. “My little Tou-Tou! +Pauvre petite bête!” Then, raising her head, she seemed to perceive His +Majesty, “Isn’t a bit older, is he, sire?”</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle!” the man exclaimed reproachfully.</p> + +<p>All the time he was staring at her. He stared at the tempestuous ruffling of +her petticoat, which had a wanton air that was most disturbing, at the rebosa +tossed rakishly over her shoulder, with the waistline beneath as languorously +suggested as though she were Spanish-born to rebosas, and lastly, at a freckle +on the very tip of the creamy nose. He admired extravagantly, but he was no less +amazed to see her at all. A moment before he had supposed her demurely breaking +hearts at St. Cloud, and Paris under her feet. He knew how capable she was. It +had happened to him. How he had sought her, before she left! And how maddening +she was! He could recall nothing of encouragement, and yet, blind, susceptible +fool, he had never ceased to be encouraged. She was a master craftsman, since +her art was hidden. Then she had gone back to France; some said because of a +note from Napoleon. But he was of the gloomy opinion that she had simply ceased +to amuse herself. Yet for all that, here <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_142'></a>142</span>she was again, and the astonished prince was eager +to suffer yet more, if it amused her still.</p> + +<p>She explained in a word, as though their meeting in the Huasteca were nothing +extraordinary. Away from Mexico, she had discovered that she wanted to return to +Mexico. The man left in Mexico would have augured much from this, but at her +matter-of-fact tone the glad light faded from his eyes. Jacqueline, by the way, +was a good manager. She reminded him that she had no mother nor father nor other +relative in France–which disposed of France. Then, though he winced, she +added that the experiment of a New World court was a novel spectacle and she +enjoyed it more than the conventional affairs in Europe. Accordingly she would +resume her place as first lady of honor. At Tampico she had wearied of ocean +travel, and–well, that was all.</p> + +<p>Maximilian shuddered. He imagined the terrors she must have encountered. +“But, mademoiselle, the bandits? You did not come alone through that +terrible coast country?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not, sire. And that’s why I reveal myself to Your +Majesty. You are to save the person that brought me.”</p> + +<p>“Have mercy, mademoiselle. One must leap too far who hopes to +understand you.”</p> + +<p>“But there’s nothing to understand. Your Majesty has only to keep +Colonel Dupin from shooting him.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian frowned heavily at the Frenchman’s name.</p> + +<p>“On the porch just now,” Jacqueline explained, “when you +finished speaking, he–the man I am speaking of–announced that he +wanted to see you, but the Tiger drew his pistols to shoot him if he +moved.”</p> + +<p>“Then naturally your friend did not move?”</p> + +<p>“Your Majesty does not know him. But he stopped for me.”</p> + +<p>“Were you so afraid Dupin would lose his prisoner?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span>“I had no +desire to see the prisoner commit suicide. But I had to promise him that he +should see Your Majesty later.”</p> + +<p>“To beg––”</p> + +<p>“He is not one to whine for his life, sire. It is other business he +means. But Your Majesty need not hear his business. Your Majesty need only +<i>see</i> him. Besides, it would hardly be court usage, granting him an audience +so informally, would it?”</p> + +<p>“N-o, but if I am not to hear him, why should I see him?”</p> + +<p>“To save his life, parbleu!”</p> + +<p>“And why, since he is not concerned about that?”</p> + +<p>“But I am, sire, and I count on Your Majesty to help me repay an +obligation.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian was quick at clemency, but no one likes to have his weaknesses +played upon.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle, who is this man? What has he done?”</p> + +<p>“An American, sire.” Maximilian frowned. “A Confederate, I +believe.” The frown vanished. “And Colonel Dupin believes him to be +an accomplice of Rodrigo Galán. But he is not. He fought Rodrigo Galán, +in–in my behalf.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian frowned again. “And so,” he said, trying to do it +lightly, “I have this unknown American to thank for the pleasure of seeing +you, mademoiselle? Otherwise, I should not have known that you were here, +and––”</p> + +<p>He stopped. The gray eyes were laughing at him. Was his jealousy then so +apparent? And was it jealousy? Evidently, since she had discovered it. And that +vexed him, because he had supposed that he was hiding his pique under a great +self control. Angrily he stepped toward her, but the saucy eyes only grew +merrier. Then his mood changed. He resolved grimly on open fighting. He meant to +have either decisive honors or a decisive repulse. For it was his tantalizing +doubts of her that made her laugh at him. Yet, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_144'></a>144</span>when he spoke, he could not help the quaver of +entreaty in his voice.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle, tell me, <i>why</i> have you returned?”</p> + +<p>The question was so abrupt and so stern, she thought in a flash that he must +have penetrated that Napoleonic intrigue which had flung her back upon the +Western shores. But Maximilian believed he knew another reason for her pallor, +and was encouraged.</p> + +<p>“You have already given one answer, mademoiselle,” he hurried on, +“and in too great a humility to dare hope it otherwise, I took you at your +word. But now that you mock me–ah, you shall confess, you are back in +Mexico on <i>my</i> account!”</p> + +<p>“And would that merit this august displeasure, sire?”</p> + +<p>Her words sprang from relief; he suspected nothing of her secret mission. So +the color might flood to her cheeks again, the mischief to her eyes, and with it +a most perilous daring.</p> + +<p>For the Hapsburg, it was coy surrender.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle–Jacqueline!”</p> + +<p>Her name! The old nickname fondly given her in childhood, when she was a +torment, and an anarchist to all law, and got innumerable scoldings, and basked +unperturbed in love and adoration! Her name, that only Mexico had tainted! For +the first time it passed his lips. But the sweet, quaint syllables had long been +in his thoughts, with something, too, of the early worship in their +bestowal.</p> + +<p>Curiously enough, a whimsical hardy figure in homespun gray took acute shape +in her mind’s eye. The features were oddly sharp and clear. There was even +the rough trooper’s disdain, which had been in his expression when first +he saw her, but which she had not noticed at the time. She brushed the vision +aside haughtily, as she would have done had the man himself intruded. But she +could not stem so easily the wave of self disgust that swept her back from this +other man, a prince of Europe. And when she smothered that self-abasement, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span>it was a matter of will. +She recalled her interview with the Sphinx in the Tuileries. She recalled her +country, and the empire she meant to win, a gift to France, worthy of Napoleon, +of the Great Napoleon. Then her will became as a master outside of self, and +horrid in its iron cruelty. She half lifted her hand, and allowed the royal +prince to possess it.</p> + +<p>The tapestry behind them parted and fell. A light step crossing the room was +suddenly arrested, and a low bewildered cry, half stifled in the utterance, +arrested them.</p> + +<p>“Fernando!”</p> + +<p>The Emperor straightened and wheeled. Turning round, Jacqueline placidly +surveyed a young girl, and her brows arched. She was not deceived. There was +recognition in the startled gaze of the newcomer, and of Maximilian too. Only +for Jacqueline did the situation hold aught that was amusing.</p> + +<p>She was Mexican, a beautiful Mexican. She might have been Spanish too, or +Moorish even, or perhaps to say that she seemed a gentle, drooping Egyptian +would give the better idea of her dark loveliness. Under her skin, under a +faintest tinge of brown, the rich blood drove its color through, and blending +with that other shade, made the cheeks a dusky ruby, and seemingly softer and +warmer. Her figure had prettily rounded curves, and her wine-red dress and the +filmy black shawl over her shoulders deepened the tender, trusting depths of two +large black eyes. The long lashes were wet with tears. She looked once at the +calm French woman, as though afraid of her, and then at Maximilian, and at +Maximilian alone. Her gaze was vacant, groping, non-comprehending, yet with a +something of heartbreak in the beginning of comprehension.</p> + +<p>To the Hapsburg came the dignity of proud generations, exalted above mere +human scrutiny. He turned to Jacqueline, “As you see, mademoiselle,” +he said coldly, “the stupid lackeys outside have admitted a second +visitor. If you will excuse us––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span>“But +Fernando––”</p> + +<p>This time the girl’s moan throbbed with questioning. She was as far +from understanding as before. But she noted unconsciously his princely bearing, +his European dress, and the luxury about him in the transformed hacienda sala. +Her eyes, in spite of grief and doubts, shone with timid, admiring love. +“Que elegante!” she breathed. “Oh, is he not, truly, a +caballero!”</p> + +<p>“Fernando?” murmured Jacqueline. “Bonté divine, this +<i>is</i> bucolic!”</p> + +<p>“But Fernando,” the girl persisted, “who is there +to–to admit me? I only come from my room.” With a tremulous gesture +she indicated a door which the imperial scene shifters had covered with +portières. Maximilian’s surprise at the existence of such a door was +genuine. “And I find,” she cried, “I find you here, you, +Fernando?”</p> + +<p>“There, there, señorita,” said Jacqueline kindly, “His +Majesty, I imagine, can explain––”</p> + +<p>“Majesty?” exclaimed the girl. “Don +Fernando–Majesty?” Yet a third time she repeated it, as by rote; +and, very slowly, understanding grew into the words, and with understanding, +terror. The dark innocent eyes went appealingly from one to the other, and the +lids began to flutter wildly in a kind of spasm. “Majesty? Majesty?” +Then, suddenly, she flung both hands to her face, and a piteous shivering racked +her body.</p> + +<p>“Catch her, stupid!” cried Jacqueline. “Don’t you +see, the child is fainting!”</p> + +<p>But it was into Jacqueline’s readier arms that she fell, and it was +Jacqueline who let her slip gently into the high-back chair that was the +imperial throne en voyage, under the claws of the oaken Hapsburg griffins.</p> + +<p>“Get water! quick–Majesty, you–your cologne +flasks!”</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_146'></a> +<img src='images/illus-146.jpg' id="img007" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“MARIA DE LA LUZ”<br />“The tapestry behind them parted and fell” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span>A mist was in +the prince’s eyes. “Pobrecita, pobrecita,” he muttered +helplessly.</p> + +<p>On Jacqueline depended what was next to be done. She ran to the door by which +the girl had entered. “See, there’s a corridor here,” she +cried, “and that must be her room, there at the end, where the door is +open. Help me carry her–unless,” and she deliberately punctuated her +scorn, “unless Your Majesty desires to call for aid?”</p> + +<p>But His Majesty was so far from desiring anything of the kind that he nodded +gratefully, impatiently. So to her own room they bore her between them, and laid +her on the bed there. A pewter waiter with napkin and coffee service was on a +little table. But the tiny loaf of pan de huevo lay untouched. Her thoughts +rather than appetite had possessed the girl when she awoke that morning, and +they had kept her until she emerged to stumble upon an emperor in her +father’s house.</p> + +<p>“Out of here,” ordered Jacqueline. “I am going to call the +servants.” She had no sympathy for his wistful, forlorn gazing.</p> + +<p>“It’s the end, the end of my idyl,” he murmured.</p> + +<p>“<i>Are</i> you going?”</p> + +<p>He came nearer instead, and looked in profound melancholy at the girl. The +ruby flush was no longer there, and the face was olive and waxen. The lips were +parted, baring teeth that were marvelously white. The shawl had fallen to the +floor, and an ivory cross on a chain about her neck caught his eye. He turned it +over in his hand, and on the gold, where the chain was attached, he saw an +inscription.</p> + +<p>“María de la Luz,” he read. “So, that is her name. But I +never asked it. Identity would have blighted the idyl.”</p> + +<p>“Sire,” Jacqueline protested angrily, “this poor child +needs help. I shall––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span>“One +moment, mademoiselle, I wish to say that I still do not know who she +is.”</p> + +<p>Then, with a last sorrowful look, he turned back to his apartment of +state.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s lip curled as she watched him go.</p> + +<p>“And you wish me to find out who she is?” she apostrophized his +back. “But I shall not tell you. And she–no, she is not the kind +that would, knowing who <i>you</i> are.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span><a id='link_18'></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Little Monarchs, Big Mistakes</span></span></h2> + +<div class='wbox'> +<p>“How now, good fellow? wouldst thou speak with us?”<br /> +“Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Titus Andronicus.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>For the moment, Colonel Dupin had established headquarters in the granary, +which was a long, low adobe among the stables, with a pasture between it and the +House. The pasture opened on the highway through a wide gap in the hacienda +wall, and the coaches and steeds of the imperial party which had passed in that +morning gave the old cow lot a gala air. The colonel was seated before a box, +improvised into a desk, and his rusty jacketed Cossacks lounged everywhere. +Tiburcio and other scouts were reporting on the dead and wounded of +yesterday’s raid. A maimed enemy brought a chuckle deep in the +Tiger’s throat, but any mishap to one of his own darlings got the +recognition of a low-growled oath. He was busy over this inventory of profit and +loss when Jacqueline appeared with the Emperor.</p> + +<p>Dupin arose and saluted after the grim manner of an old soldier. The +half-dozen of obsequious courtiers he did not see at all, but to Jacqueline he +bent from the waist with a duellist’s punctilio. His countrywoman was the +one adversary whom he never thought of cursing.</p> + +<p>There was an opening innuendo. “No, Colonel Dupin,” Maximilian +reproved him sternly, “I have not come to interfere with justice. I merely +desire to see what prisoners you have here.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span>Driscoll and +Murguía were brought in. Maximilian stared dumfounded at his new magistrate in +the rôle of criminal. Don Anastasio looked apologetic. They had locked him up in +his own stable, bronze medal and all. Dupin explained. This Murguía, like many +another hacendado, had long been suspected of aiding the guerrillas, and +yesterday morning he had actually set him, Dupin, on a false trail. The Contras +were tracking one of Rodrigo Galán’s accomplices in the abduction of +Mademoiselle d’Aumerle. The accomplice was the other prisoner, the American, +whom they had found at last taking refuge at Murguía’s own hacienda. Here +he had had the effrontery to welcome them as mademoiselle’s rightful +escort, had even seemed surprised when a dozen Contras pounced upon him from +behind and disarmed him. Dupin added that mademoiselle herself was deceived by +the American’s cunning, and he did not doubt but that she still persisted +in his innocence. He might speak further of the fellow’s part in the +ambush and murder of Captain Maurel near Tampico, but he confessed that that +required further investigation.</p> + +<p>No one could say that Maximilian had so much as listened. Such tangles had +long since become irksome, though he never ceased plunging into the mesh. To +unravel details, and incidentally confuse them more, was a notorious mania with +the poet-prince. But his thoughts now were all for a girl who had fainted. +Murguía he would leave to a court martial. If guilty, the medal should be torn +from his breast. Don Anastasio’s terrors, however, ran on the other +penalties of court martial.</p> + +<p>“Now you,” Maximilian turned to the American, “I understand +that you wish to see me. But you must know that law prevails in Mexico at last, +and that even the Emperor may not keep a man from trial.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s chin lifted eagerly. “Certainly not, but my business +with you, sir––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span>“Not +‘sir,’” whispered Jacqueline. “You must call him +‘sire.’” Little she cared for etiquette, but she did not propose +that Driscoll should broach his errand.</p> + +<p>Maximilian overheard and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “one tiny +letter added, and you change a man into a sovereign.”</p> + +<p>Now Jacqueline, for her purposes, had thought to disconcert the man unused to +courts. But it struck her at once that nothing of the kind would happen. His +easy naturalness was too much a part of him, was the man himself. And she was +glad of it. She was glad of the something distinguished which his earnestness +gave to the clean-cut stamp of jaw and forehead. He had stopped and looked at +them inquiringly, as an eager speaker will when interrupted. Then his brown eyes +deepened, and there was a tugging at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to +comprehend. If this was their humor, he would play to it. A diplomat must be all +things to the people he is after.</p> + +<p>“‘Sire?’ W’y,” and his drawl was exquisite, +“that’s what we call the daddy of a horse.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline turned quickly, clapping her hand over her mouth. Maximilian was +always uneasy when Jacqueline did that.</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” he observed affably, “our American friend is +not so far wrong. Listen, am I not the father of my people?”</p> + +<p>The entourage buzzed admiringly at the imperial cleverness; all except +Jacqueline, who now that she should laugh and relieve the situation, obstinately +pulled a long, blank face.</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s tone changed. He meant to wound now, and did. +“So,” he added, with chilling stress, “it’s +‘sire,’ if you will be so good as to remember.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll flushed as though struck. He became aware that it was all some +patronizing rebuke.</p> + +<p>“There is one,” he answered gently, “who taught me manners +at her knee, or tried to, and <i>she</i> never hurt a mortal human being by a +word in her life, but that, that, sir, seems <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_152'></a>152</span> to be where <i>you</i> have missed it. Now look +here,” he went on, kindling in spite of himself, “I respect any man +who has grounds–discoverable grounds–for respecting himself, and if +you are a man, then ‘sir’ won’t overtop you any.”</p> + +<p>Colonel Lopez of the Dragoons nudged him anxiously. “Don’t say +‘you’; say ‘Your Majesty.’”</p> + +<p>“Better let him alone,” Maximilian interposed wearily. “He +recognizes in me a man, and–it’s not unpleasant. But which,” +he added, “gives me leave to hope that as a man himself he will not cringe +before the drum-head.”</p> + +<p>“May I,” said Driscoll quietly, “have one minute with you +alone? It’s not about myself, I promise you that. But for you, sir, +it’s of the very greatest importance.”</p> + +<p>Instantly all stirred with curiosity, except Maximilian. All there were +keenly affected by the stranger’s mysterious business with the Emperor, +except the Emperor himself. And each man’s wits were straightway alert, +according to the hates and ambitions of each. Even Miguel Lopez, dense of +understanding, had his suspicions. Murguía’s yellow features darkened +malevolently. The hacienda priest whispered to M. Éloin, and M. Éloin, brushing +the man of God aside as though he had been thinking of the very same thing +himself, tried to get a word with Maximilian. But Jacqueline spoke first to the +Emperor. She knew the susceptibility of the royal ear. Maximilian nodded at what +she said, and Éloin bit his lip. Maximilian glanced at the American’s +clothes. Homespun did not correspond with pressing business of state, to his +mind.</p> + +<p>“My good man,” he said, caressing his beard, “it’s +not regular, you know. Another time, perhaps, when you can have yourself +inscribed by Our Grand Chamberlain and when your application for an +audience––”</p> + +<p>“But if these señores shoot me before then?”</p> + +<p>Maximilian shrugged his shoulders. In any case, the Ritual would suffer no +outrage.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span>“But I +tell you,” cried the exasperated Missourian, “this thing is serious. +And it can’t wait either, not if it’s to help you any. I may be too +late now. I don’t know what’s happened since I started down here +three weeks ago. Richmond was in danger then. And the Army of Northern +Virginia–General Lee––”</p> + +<p>“Have surrendered,” calmly interposed the Emperor.</p> + +<p>Driscoll stiffened as he stood, his lips parted as his last word had left +them. He wondered why these foreign, unsympathetic beings of Austria and France +and Belgium and Germany and Mexico looked so blurred to him. He never imagined +that there were tears in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“It is really true,” continued Maximilian, addressing them all. +“A courier brought me the news this morning. Yes, my friends, the North is +free at last to attack our Empire. But,” he added blandly, “let us +not fear, not while we are sustained by the unconquered legions of +France.”</p> + +<p>“How he remembers us now!” thought Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>She thought too of him who had sent the legions. The entire fabric of +Napoleon’s dream of Mexican empire was builded on the dismemberment of the +American Union. But, as the Southerners began so well by themselves, Napoleon +had left them to do his work alone. He just failed of genius.</p> + +<p>“Oh, mon petit, <i>bien</i> petit Napoleon,” she cried in her +soul, “how terribly you have miscalculated!”</p> + +<p>The room had filled with murmurs, with awed whispering, with frightened +questioning looks at one’s neighbor, with ambitions and hates gone +panic-stricken. Driscoll came forward. The fellow of homespun held the Empire in +his hand, if they but knew it. “Now let me deliver my message,” he +said earnestly. “And, afterward, on with the drum-head, I’ll not +complain.”</p> + +<p>“There, there,” spoke the unseeing monarch, though affected <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span>by the dignity of sorrow, +“you shall have no cause. I came here, meaning to pardon.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon?” came the Tiger’s growl. “Your Majesty saves +so many enemies, does he fear that soon he will have none left?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, Colonel Dupin, since my imperial brother, Napoleon, sends me +so efficient a bloodhound. But I thought the prisoners were already tried and +condemned. That must come first, of course. Yet We are constrained to find +another judge, one without preconceived notions of guilt, to hold the court +martial. Ah yes, as Monsieur Éloin here suggests, I name Colonel +Lopez.–Colonel Lopez, you will stay behind with a company of your own men. +Finish the trial to-night, if you can, and overtake me before I reach the +city.–Colonel Dupin, I have to request yourself and men as escort, to +replace the Dragoons left with Colonel Lopez. And you, Mademoiselle d’Aumerle, +shall have a carriage. We start this afternoon. You will be ready, +mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“Is Your Majesty quite resolved,” Jacqueline asked in French, +“that the American must be tried? He can easily be found guilty, I warn +Your Majesty.”</p> + +<p>“And is that not reason enough?”</p> + +<p>“Reason enough that he should not be tried, since he is not guilty. But +perhaps Your Majesty has thought of sending him under guard to the frontier, +back to his own country, where he would not longer be an annoyance?”</p> + +<p>“My dear young lady,” returned the Emperor, “it seems that +you expect me to blot out the processes of law simply because even I cannot make +them infallible. But you do not answer my question. I offer you protection to +the City?”</p> + +<p>“He must stand trial then?”</p> + +<p>“Yes–but will you be ready to start this afternoon?”</p> + +<p>“Your Majesty should know that I cannot accept.”</p> + +<p>“Does this trial interest you so much, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span>“Thanking +Your Majesty,” said Jacqueline coldly, “I should rather not +accompany him.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian swung on his heel and called Lopez aside. “Mi +coronel,” he said, “when you follow to-morrow, you will offer to +bring the Señorita d’Aumerle, if she desires it.–And Lopez, you remember +the young Mexican girl we used to meet near here, during the last few +evenings?”</p> + +<p>“When you and I, sire, would ride over from Las Palmas +incognito?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. She was able to–to tell me much about the peon life, and I +should like to reward her in–in some way. Do you know, Miguel, I suspect +she lives on this very ranch. It was at the church here that we would meet her, +you know? And now, since I must leave, I wish you to find her. Induce her to +come with mademoiselle to the City under your escort. Assure her that she shall +have an honored place at court.–Jove, there’s my new order of San +Carlos for women! She shall have that for–for aiding my researches among +the peons. Now, Miguel mio, do your best!”</p> + +<p>With which words Maximilian turned back alone, and as he went, he thought how +as a simple man he had won a maiden’s heart. He had been learning that a +prince may miss one or two very dear things in life. “It’s ended, +the little ranchero idyl,” he murmured. “But there’s been no +harm. She shall not regret it.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span><a id='link_19'></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Tartar <i>and</i> a Tartar</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>AsYou Like It.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>As Maximilian crossed the pasture, he suddenly had to jump aside with +considerable sprightliness. A brace of horsemen came swerving through the +gateway from the highroad and tore down upon him as though the Day of Judgment +galloped behind. They were abreast, ten feet apart, but the oddest thing was a +lariat that dangled between them, from saddle-horn to saddle-horn.</p> + +<p>The thunder of hoofs brought Dragoons and Cossacks and Dignitaries, and +emptied the granary. Even insane horsemen could see that the Empire was encamped +over that cow lot. And as nearer they rushed, the two maniacs seemed to +recognize the fact. One was straightway more anxious to arrive; a directly +opposite effect was apparent in the other. And there was the rope between them, +from saddle-horn to saddle-horn. Their opinions on destination, unexpectedly +diverging, promised something. And since one wanted to stop and the other to +hasten, the something was not long in happening.</p> + +<p>One of the horsemen–he wore a sombrero–leaned back frantically. +The other–who wore a battered soldier cap–passed ahead like the +wind. The lariat twanged, but held. Sombrero’s horse got its feet planted. +The horse of Soldier Cap slowed to a standstill, and panted. Sombrero flung out +his pistol, Soldier Cap his. They aimed at each other, the triggers snapped, no +report. They looked amazed, embarrassed; <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_157'></a>157</span>and tried again. Same result. “Por +Dios!” “Sacré nom!” They hurled the pistols, each at the +other’s head. Both ducked. Sombrero wheeled, drove home the spurs, and +headed for retreat. Soldier Cap and horse braced themselves against the shock. +The spectators, running nearer, now perceived that the lariat was tied round +each man’s waist as well as wrapped over his pommel. Soldier Cap weathered +the jolt, next plunged suddenly closer, and in the instant of the slack, unwound +the rope from his saddle and leaped to the ground. In two leaps more he had +Sombrero about the neck. They fell together, rolling and fighting, while +Sombrero’s horse reared and plowed the soil with them. Dragoons and +Cossacks heaped themselves on all three. It was quite an energetic mystery +altogether.</p> + +<p>Under the soldier cap, under dust and blood and scratches, Jacqueline caught +glimpses of a happy face.</p> + +<p>“Oh lá-lá, it’s–it’s Michel!”</p> + +<p>“Rodrigo Galán!” roared the Tiger, in his turn recognizing +Sombrero. “Here, up with him! Six of you, quick there, in line, shoot +him!”</p> + +<p>It was near the sweetest moment of the old warrior’s life.</p> + +<p>“One moment, colonel!” someone spoke quietly. “Is it a +Huastecan custom, by the way, to shoot a cavalier the instant +he–ah–dismounts?”</p> + +<p>“But this scoundrel is Rodrigo Galán, Your Majesty. And that black +horse, sacré tonnerre, that is Maurel’s horse. Captain Maurel, sire, whom +he murdered!”</p> + +<p>Don Rodrigo straightened pompously. “Your Most Opportune +Majesty–” he began.</p> + +<p>“Also, Colonel Dupin,” Maximilian continued, “he waylaid +the Belgian ambassador, sent by Leopold, brother to Our August +Spouse.”</p> + +<p>“The more reason to shoot him, pardi!”</p> + +<p>“Without doubt, monsieur. But his execution must have <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span>éclat. Europe must know +that Mexican outlaws do not go unpunished.–Colonel Lopez, you will take +charge of Our prisoner. Guard him well, and bring him with you to the City. He +shall be tried there, with every ceremony.”</p> + +<p>Colonel Dupin, that policeman of the backwoods forced upon Mexico by +Napoleon, could only grind his teeth, which he did.</p> + +<p>“Now then,” said His Majesty, “let Us see this +brigand-catcher who excels the redoubtable Contra Guerrillas.–As I live, +the young man is a Chasseur d’Afrique! Step nearer, sir, and tell Us who you +are.”</p> + +<p>“Michel Ney, at Your Majesty’s service.”</p> + +<p>“The Prince of Moskowa!” exclaimed the Emperor. In his court, he +was grateful for even a Napoleonic prince.</p> + +<p>“Sergeant, Your Majesty.” It looked as though Ney were hinting to +be made something else.</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Maximilian. “And so Our Empire of romance is +to hold a baton for another of the family of Ney. But to start more modestly, +how would a lieutenancy suit, do you think?”</p> + +<p>“Your pardon, sire, but I report to His Excellency, Marshal +Bazaine.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s white brow clouded. The French occupation was ever a thorn +in his side. He could never quite be Emperor in fact. He could not even promote +a likely young man. He had to “recommend” to one Bazaine, who had +carried a knapsack.</p> + +<p>“Quite so,” he answered coldly. “I shall inform Our dear +Marshal how well you deserve.”</p> + +<p>“The fact is, Your Majesty,” said Ney in some confusion, “I +did not–exactly–capture him. It was, uh, sort of mutual.”</p> + +<p>Everybody stared curiously. There was the rope, the unloaded pistols. It was +a queer puzzle. How did it happen? Ney began with an apology. Would Mademoiselle +d’Aumerle <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span>forgive +him? But he had worried though! He should not have left her, day before +yesterday!</p> + +<p>“Because of a greater attraction?” the young woman suggested.</p> + +<p>Ney demurred so earnestly that Jacqueline laughed outright. +“Don’t make it worse, Michel,” said she. “I know how you +regretted the death of the terrible Rodrigo. Then you learned that he was alive. +Oh no, I couldn’t have held you.–But go on. Did he prove +interesting?”</p> + +<p>The Frenchman told his story. It appeared that, on deserting mademoiselle two +days before, he went at the best speed of his horse up the ravine she had so +graciously indicated. He hoped to overtake the fugitive bandit, and after an +hour, at a turn in the arroyo, did meet him, face to face. Both were equally +astounded. Rodrigo was retracing his steps, having been blocked by a dried +waterfall. Either man drew and covered the other. The Mexican did not fire. +Seeing Ney, he supposed the Contras at no great distance, and a shot would bring +them on his heels. But after a time the thing commenced to grow ridiculous, and +Ney laughed.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Rodrigue,” he said, “I hope you will come along +quietly.”</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo mistook the Gallic humor for an assurance of armed backing near +at hand. “Where to?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“The devil take me if <i>I</i> know! Where would you suggest?”</p> + +<p>It dawned then on the puzzled brigand that the other knew nothing of the +country, and accordingly they struck up an armistice; which, for the rest, the +alert revolver of each made imperative. Their protocol’s chief clause +required the prisoner to conduct his captor to some neutral point. Rodrigo +suggested Anastasio Murguía’s ranch, and Ney agreed. But as to what might +happen on arriving, they left in blank. Michel had a duel in mind, if honest +seconds were to be had. The craftier <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_160'></a>160</span>Rodrigo hoped to find some of his own men lurking +about the hacienda.</p> + +<p>A cessation of hostile moves was further stipulated, though treachery of +course warranted the instant drawing of weapons. Should the prisoner try to +betray the captor to guerrillas, this was to constitute treachery. Ney for his +part insisted on his rights as captor. That is, he could call for help if he got +the chance. Rodrigo assented willingly. He knew the neighborhood. He would avoid +the Cossacks, and the Frenchman might shout to his heart’s ease. To do him +justice, the outlaw had no desire to kill Ney, even if Ney gave him leave. A +duke and prince in one was too valuable. A pretty ransom loomed brightly. Ney +suspected as much, but not being ingenuous enough to obviate the risks, took a +huge delight in them.</p> + +<p>Conforming to the terms of the truce, each man, simultaneously, put his gun +in his holster. Then, good company enough one for the other, though with eyes +ever on the watch, they proceeded along tortuous bridle paths until twilight, +meeting no one. They camped in the same forest which that same moment held +Murguía, Driscoll, and the two girls. They tethered their horses together and +made a bed of leaves for themselves. Each laid his pistol a comfortable distance +away, so that if either tried to arm himself while the other slept, there would +be much snapping of twigs under his feet. Again simultaneously, they sat down +and talked, and smoked cigarettes in lieu of supper. Ney progressed in his +Spanish that evening. Fra Diavolo wished to impress on the companionable +Frenchman that he, Rodrigo Galán, was a more terrible person than Colonel Dupin. +He seemed envious, even of the compliment implied in the Tiger’s +nickname.</p> + +<p>During a pause the brigand said, “Now don’t jump, caballero, +because I’m only getting out my flask.”</p> + +<p>“The beautiful idea!” returned Ney. “I’ll do the +same.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span>But each stopped +with the liquor at his mouth. It was consolation for lack of food, but if one +refrained and the other partook–well, there would be a light sleeper and a +heavy sleeper. With the tempting fumes in their nostrils, they waited, each for +the other, to quaff first. And neither did. Finally Rodrigo proposed that they +equalize the perils of indulgence. Accordingly each lowered the contents of his +flask by three swallows, after which they compared the extent of the ebb tide in +either bottle.</p> + +<p>“But, voyons,” Ney objected, “you haven’t taken as +much as I have!”</p> + +<p>Rodrigo admitted the impeachment, and amiably took another draught. But the +swallow proved too large, and Ney in his turn tried to balance that one, only to +fail likewise. This entailed another effort from Rodrigo, which resulted in +still another exaggeration.</p> + +<p>“Now you’ve had <i>more</i> than I have,” Michel complained, +growing vague on the real point at issue.</p> + +<p>“Bien, señor, suppose you try a little of this. It’s catalan, +genuine, too, smuggled at Tampico.”</p> + +<p>“Mine’s cognac,” said Ney. “Have some?”</p> + +<p>They exchanged flasks, and that night in the forest their snores were +discordant and loud. Ney half awoke once, and remembered that he seemed to have +heard the tramp of many horses. Toward morning, when it was not yet light, he +was aroused for good by a savage tightening around his waist and a tremendous +pull. He sat up, and heard his prisoner scuffling and swearing near him.</p> + +<p>“You’ve tied me, you sneaking animal without shame!”</p> + +<p>“It’s you that’s tied me, tête de voleur!”</p> + +<p>But as Rodrigo wrested in the dark, Ney found that the brigand’s +stumblings corresponded with the tightening about himself. He clutched at his +waist, and discovered a rope.</p> + +<p>Both men groped vengefully forward with the line, and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span>lurched into one another’s arms. +Each had thought to come on a tree, only to discover himself tied to the other. +In the first start of suspicion, and in no good humor from splitting headaches, +one reached for his knife, the other for his sabre. But the knife was gone, the +sabre was gone. Forthwith they grappled and strained and breathed by jerks and +tumbled and rolled and wound themselves in the lariat, until at last they lay +exhausted on their backs and blinked up at the beautiful innocent morn peeping +through the trees.</p> + +<p>“Now don’t you untie yourself till I get untied,” ordered +Ney.</p> + +<p>“Or you yourself,” retorted the other.</p> + +<p>“Let us both untie at the same time.”</p> + +<p>“But one might finish first,” objected Rodrigo. The brigand had +grown amiable again. He saw advantages in the rope. It was well to have his +prospective ransom never more than a few feet away.</p> + +<p>They discussed the problem at length, but were not equal to it. So the modus +vivendi was stretched a rope’s length, and the treachery clause expanded +to include any untying or attempted untying before their arrival at +Murguía’s. Scrupulously simultaneous, they arose, found their pistols, and +mounted their horses. To guard against any sudden varying in rapidity of travel +and its consequences, each wrapped the lariat once about his saddle-horn. Where +necessary, the brigand rode in front, since Ney insisted that the other way +would reverse their rôles of prisoner and captor. Rodrigo got some tortillas +from a charcoal burner, and they lunched and rested within the forest’s +edge till dark. But they traveled all that night in the open country, and +approached Murguía’s before noon of the next day. Hoping to find friends +about the hacienda’s stables, Rodrigo suggested that they race up the +highway into the pasture. He was thinking that then the Frenchmen might be +overpowered the more easily. Ney fell into the trap. He <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span>accepted the challenge and was keen for +the sport. Thus it happened that they all but ran down the Emperor of Mexico +himself, and instead of guerrillas, Rodrigo saw Cossacks and Dragoons. But the +mystery of the rope, added to that of the unloaded pistols, rested +unexplained.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline was delighted. “If it were just conventional heroism,” +she exclaimed, “one might talk of lieutenancies. But sire, +this––”</p> + +<p>“Never fear,” replied Maximilian. “I cannot make him +captain, but he shall have his reward.–Monsieur le Prince, I will leave +you a half company of my Austrians, if, though a Chasseur, you will deign to +command them. In a word, I desire you to have the honor of escorting +mademoiselle to the City.”</p> + +<p>“And I thank you, sire. Parbleu, the sergeant is happier with such an +order than–than the captain without it.”</p> + +<p>“Michel,” cried Jacqueline, “and where in the world now did +you get that?”</p> + +<p>“Why–out of my own head. Really, mademoiselle.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span><a id='link_20'></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>In the Wake of Princely Cavalcades</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“... Now swell out, and with stiff necks<br /> +Pass on, ye sons of Eve! vale not your looks,<br /> +Lest they descry the evil of your path.”</p> +<p class= 'ar'>–<i>Dante</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>The Grand Equerry was again the Dignitary of the hour. He held the +Emperor’s stirrup, while the Emperor, fittingly attired, swung gracefully +astride a curvetting charger. Behind was his coach, ready for him when he should +tire of the saddle. It was already late in the afternoon, and he meant to travel +all night. Flatterers begged him to consider the importance of his health, which +but made him unyielding. Some slight martyrdom for his country appealed to +Maximilian. No, he said, grave affairs might be afoot since the +Confederacy’s surrender. The capital needed his presence, and he reminded +them that the State came first, as always.</p> + +<p>The retinue climbed into carriages. The escort, Dragoons, Austrians and +Contra Guerrillas, formed in hollow square about their prince. Colonel Dupin +scowled because he was going. Colonel Lopez, when unobserved, scowled because he +was left behind. And Monsieur Éloin, at the Emperor’s side, thought well +of himself in substituting for a rival favorite one so distant from favoritism +as the Tiger. The Dragoons and Austrians who were to remain presented arms on +the hacienda porch, and Lopez gave them the cue for a parting viva. The +emancipated peons, still wet from spiritual grace, swelled the din gratefully +and stridently, lured to it by their thoughtful pastor, the hacienda curate.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span>But Maximilian +still lingered. He looked from window to window under the colonnade, and seemed +expectant. But Lopez signaled to the buglers, and the trumpet call and the +redoubled huzzas of a people thrilled him out of his melancholy. With a sigh he +gave over his private loves and poesy. He breathed deep and his eyes flashed. +And as the grand monarch and good, he departed with the acclaim of posterity in +his ears, conscious that the superb figure he made was for History’s +contemplation.</p> + +<p>At this time the Marquise d’Aumerle was half way up a ladder in the garden. +She was picking the fragrant china blossoms, tossing them down to Berthe’s +apron, and humming “Mironton, mironton, mirontaine” in blissful +indifference to many things, to princes among them.</p> + +<p>Nor was the other girl behind the hacienda shutters. Yet she, at least, saw +him ride away. High up in the chapel tower, between the bell and the masonry, +crouched a sobbing little figure. She gazed and gazed, with straining eyes. Over +there below, in front of her father’s house, were glittering swords and +dazzling helmets, and the sheen of gilded escutcheons on coach doors. And as the +beautiful pageant wound its way along the highroad, she watched in fawn-like +curiosity. The sobs were only involuntary. She was not thinking, then, that this +was matter for grief. Her dark eyes, that had been weeping, and were now so dry, +held to a certain one among the cavaliers, to the very tall and splendid one +with the slender waist, and they kept him jealously fixed among the others, and +were ever more impatient of the blurring distance. But when finally he was lost +for an instant in the general bright haze of the company, and she could not be +quite sure after that which was he, then indeed the eyelids fluttered in a kind +of despair. Yet only after the last carriage had vanished under the giant banana +leaves of the hill beyond, did the tears come and tremble upon her lashes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span>“He is +married, the Emperor,” she told herself, as though the fact were that +second written across the burning sky. At last, full, grim comprehension was +hers.</p> + +<p>The stones of the tower glowed like a brazier in the sun, but the girl, with +her head on her arm against the parapet, shivered as with cold; and a numbness +at her heart grew heavier and heavier, like weighted ice.</p> + +<p>Below her the barren knoll, where an hour before swarthy stolid hundreds had +crowded awaiting baptism, was lonely as the grave. The peons were dispersing to +their village down by the river junction, or to their huts near the hacienda +store, and on the air floated the falsetto nasal of their holiday songs, +breaking ludicrously above the mumbling bass of loosely strung harps. Nearer by, +the only life was an old man with a fife and a boy with a drum, who marched +round and round the chapel, playing monotonously, while a second urchin every +five minutes touched off a small cannon at the door. They did these things with +solemn earnestness. It was to achieve an end, for San Felipe’s day would +come soon, and meantime each and every lurking devil had to be driven off the +sacred precincts. But there was one hideous fiend who grinned, and pinched, and +shrieked. His abode was the girl’s heart, and he shrieked to her +gleefully, that she could never, never in life, wed the man she loved. The fife +and drum and the stupid little cannon simply made him the merrier.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>The imps were left in peace for the night, and all about the chapel was dark +and silent and desolate. But a man was working stealthily at one of the rear +windows. It was a square, barred window, near the ground. The man chipped away +at the granite sill with short, quick blows. The butt of his chisel was padded +in flannel, so that even a chuckling that escaped him now and again made more +sound than the steel. Soon he dropped his tools, and wrapping either hand around +a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span>window bar, he +braced both feet together against the wall, and pulled. The two bars scraped +slowly toward him across the stone. Then, with a sharp, downward jerk he tore +them out. Quickly he climbed inside and cut the ropes of a man who lay bound on +the floor. Both men emerged noiselessly through the window.</p> + +<p>“Have a care how you step,” whispered the rescuer. “Your +faithful guards are busy sleeping and don’t want any +disturbance.”</p> + +<p>“That candle-stinking sacristy!” grumbled the rescued.</p> + +<p>“But it’s the only stone calaboose on the ranch. In fact, +<i>I</i> suggested it, since Don Rodrigo should be kept tight and safe. +That’s why Dupin left me behind.” The rescuer chuckled as before. +“Careful, hombre, there’s a guard there, lying right in front of +you!”</p> + +<p>Rodrigo made out the prostrate form, and lifted a boot heel over the upturned +face. But his liberator jerked him aside.</p> + +<p>“Fool, you’ll wake the fat padre, and he doesn’t like my +jests, says they’re inspired of the Evil One.”</p> + +<p>“Thinking of the Bishop of Sonora’s waiting maid, was +he?”</p> + +<p>“Well, what of it? Didn’t he elope here with her?”</p> + +<p>“And you, Don Tiburcio?”</p> + +<p>“Of course; she naturally wanted to correct her first bad +taste.”</p> + +<p>“By running away with you? If you call that good +taste––”</p> + +<p>“I call that a good joke on the padrecito.”</p> + +<p>Having by this time come safely to the front of the church, Rodrigo was for +making certain his escape at once. But Tiburcio interposed. “There’s +some talk still due between you and me,” he said. “Sit down, here in +the doorway.”</p> + +<p>“Well?” said the brigand uneasily.</p> + +<p>“Well?” repeated his jocular friend.</p> + +<p>“Well, there isn’t even a moon and we can’t deal monte, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span>as if that +weren’t the same as giving you what you want, anyway.”</p> + +<p>“I risk my hide saving you for money, then?” Don Tiburcio’s +tone was aggrieved.</p> + +<p>“Oh no, for friendship,” the sardonic Rodrigo corrected himself, +“and I think as much of you in my turn, amigo mio. Not half an hour ago I +was wrapped in anxiety, imagining you trying to collect blackmail, and I not +near to keep my patriots from your throat. Oh, the sorrow of it!”</p> + +<p>“God be praised that a dear friend came and eased your worries! But you +are not an ingrate. Since the Confederate Gringo took all my money the other +morning––”</p> + +<p>“Tiburcio, on oath, I haven’t had money either, not since our +last game at cards. There was Murguía, I know, but I let him off for bringing me +that French girl. She was good for a big ransom, only your same +Gringo–curse the intruder! If ever the Imperialists catch him, and Murguía +is there to testify against him––”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio moved nearer on the church step. “And then?”</p> + +<p>“That’s our secret, Murguía’s and mine.”</p> + +<p>“But Rodrigo, he <i>is</i> caught. They are trying him and Murguía both +this very minute. And do you know what for? For being your +accomplices.”</p> + +<p>The outlaw started exultantly. “Then, if you want him +shot––”</p> + +<p>“Well?–Oh don’t be afraid, maybe I can help.”</p> + +<p>“Were you with Captain Maurel when we ambushed them near +Tampico?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t remember,” said Tiburcio tentatively.</p> + +<p>“If you will hurry down to this court martial, perhaps you will +remember better. Go, and I’ll leave you.”</p> + +<p>“Not quite so fast, Rodrigo. You forget that your devoted rescuer is +penniless.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span>“So am I, +I tell you. We’ll both have to go to work, Don Tiburcio.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the lay? Tell me.” The humorist’s tone was +unmistakable.</p> + +<p>Rodrigo looked about him in the dark. “Listen,” he whispered, +“there’s a bullion convoy out of San Luis before long, but–you +shall hear no more unless it is agreed that I am to meet them first.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, hombre! How else could I threaten to expose them for +contributing to the rebels?”</p> + +<p>“Bien, it’s next week. You will meet them this side of Valles, +some time Thursday or Friday.–Now I’m off. Adios.”</p> + +<p>“Stay. You’ll find your horse down by the river. The +administrator is waiting with it. And Rodrigo, don’t you want your pistol? +Be more careful another time, and keep it loaded.”</p> + +<p>Something in his tone nettled the brigand. “What do you mean? Give me +my pistol.”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio pointed it at him instead. “When you cool a little, yes. But +it takes a good marksman to hit a Frenchman with an empty +pistol–especially when one wakes up and finds himself tied.”</p> + +<p>Rodrigo stiffened. This was menacing to his dignity.</p> + +<p>“Both lassoed,” Tiburcio went on, “and no telling which was +heifer and which vaquero, stampeding down on poor Max.–Ai de mi, I never +thought it could be so funny!”</p> + +<p>“Give me my pistol!”</p> + +<p>“Slumbering like two babes in the wood, and your sweet innocent breaths +perfuming the woody forest. I’d have covered you with leaves, like the +little robins, only––”</p> + +<p>“Was it you tied us, you––”</p> + +<p>“Just like two babes, but,” and Tiburcio pointed his thumb to his +mouth and shook his head sorrowfully, “that’s bad, very <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span>bad. Why didn’t you +leave me some? Of the cognac, especially?”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t explain––”</p> + +<p>“Softly there, amigo. Yes, I tied you.”</p> + +<p>“Another of your jokes––”</p> + +<p>“Inspired of the Evil One? Oh no, it was–precaution. Yes, that +was it, come to think; just precaution. You see, I and Dupin had scattered your +guerrillas, and I was scouting ahead, to stir up any ambush waiting for +us–which I did later, when we chased them, and burned Culebra. But going +along, I heard snoring, and found you two, like two––Now sit +still!”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you wake me? Then we could have roped the +Frenchman.”</p> + +<p>“And have him identify me after we’d gotten the ransom? Oh, no, +I’m a loyal Imperialist. Now listen a minute, will you?–Our Contras +were following me not a half mile behind. That meant I had to work quick. You +see, I wanted to find you both there when I could come back alone. And meantime, +I didn’t want you to hurt each other. If either got killed, there’d +be no ransom. So I took your knife and his sabre. Then I tied you both with my +lariat. I was going to get your lariat too, and tether the pair of you to a +tree, hoping you’d hold each other there till I got back. <i>You</i> would +do it, for I meant to pin a note on your sleeve, explaining. But just that +minute the Frenchman stirred, for the Cossacks were getting into his ears, so I +had to run back and turn them into another path.”</p> + +<p>“So long as it wasn’t any of your infernal farces?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it <i>was</i> worth a ransom, the way it turned out.–Sit +still, will you? You <i>know</i> I take you too seriously ever to think of any +joke with <i>you</i>! Here’s your artillery and cutlery. Quick now, clear +out!”</p> + +<p>Both rose to go, each to his respective deviltry, but not six <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span>steps ahead in the black +night Tiburcio stumbled over a soft, inert mass. He recovered himself, half +cursing, half laughing.</p> + +<p>“One of your guards, Rodrigo,” he muttered. “He must have +got this far before the drug worked into his vitals.”</p> + +<p>“Your mescal probably killed him,” said Rodrigo indifferently. +“But a little knife slit will look more plausible in the morning, for you +it will.”</p> + +<p>Getting to his knees on the stone walk the outlaw groped over the body for a +place to strike, holding his knife ready. But all at once he stopped and got up +hastily, without a word. He only rubbed his left hand mechanically on his +jacket.</p> + +<p>“Well, what ails you?” asked Tiburcio.</p> + +<p>Rodrigo gave a short, apologetic laugh. “It–it’s a +woman!” He quit rubbing his hand, seeming to realize. “There’s +blood,” he added.</p> + +<p>“Here,” said Tiburcio, “you keep back, and run if anybody +comes. I’m going to strike a match.”</p> + +<p>By the flare they saw that it was a girl and that her head was crushed. +Kneeling on either side, they peered questioningly, horrified, at each other. +Their great sombreros almost touched. Their hard faces were yellow in the +flickering light between, and the face looking up with its quiet eyes and dark +purplish cleft in the brow was white, white like milk. With one accord the two +men turned and gazed upward at the tower, whose black outline lost itself far +above in the blacker shadows of the universe. They understood.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio shrugged his shoulders, a silent comment on the tragedy from its +beginning to this, its end. He threw the match away and arose, but Rodrigo still +knelt, leaning over her, holding the poor battered head in his hands, half +lifting it, and trying to look again into those eyes through the darkness. He +would touch the matted hair, as if to caress, not knowing what he did, and each +time he would jerk back his hand at the uncanny, sticky feeling. Roving thus, +his fingers touched an <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_172'></a>172</span>ivory cross, and closed over it. With no present +consciousness of his act, he placed the symbol in his jacket, over his +breast.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio touched him on the shoulder. “I’ll go now, and bring her +father,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the other vaguely, stumbling to his feet.</p> + +<p>“It’s going to kill the old man,” murmured Tiburcio, +“or–God, if it should <i>not</i> kill him! He is a coward, but once +he slapped you, Rodrigo, for so much as looking at her. And now, the Virgin +help–may the Virgin help whoever’s concerned in this!–But +here, you must go, do you hear?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Then go, go!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Rodrigo again, moving slowly away.</p> + +<p>“By the river, remember. You’ll find your horse there.”</p> + +<p>“Captain Maurel’s, the fine black one?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I slipped it out of the stables for you.”</p> + +<p>“The fine black one?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, hombre!”</p> + +<p>“And–and she never–she never saw–how magnifico I look +on–on that fine black horse.”</p> + +<p>He was still muttering as he reeled and staggered down the hill.</p> + +<p>When he was gone, and no alarm of sentinels rang out, Tiburcio took off his +serape and laid it over the dark blot on the stones. Then he too stole away, to +tell her father.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span><a id='link_21'></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Red Mongrel</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Be this the whetstone of your sword; let grief<br /> +Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Macbeth</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Where,” inquired Din Driscoll, with a benevolent interest in +their doing the thing right, “is the judge advocate?”</p> + +<p>Colonel Miguel Lopez resented what he took for a patronizing concern. It +festered his complacency, for his was the code of the bowed neck to those above +and the boot-tip for those below. Luckily for him, he did not strike the +helpless prisoner. He turned to his judge’s bench instead, which was none +other than the frayed and stately sofa of honor from the hacienda sala, deemed +requisite to his dignity. The satin upholstery contrasted grotesquely with the +adobe walls. Pungent tallow dips lighted the granary to a dull yellow, and mid +the sluggish tobacco clouds were a shrinking prisoner in clerical black, and the +mildly interested prisoner in gray, and red uniforms surrounding.</p> + +<p>Lopez flung his sword across the empty box that was to serve as desk, and +filled the crimson seat with pompous menace. Lopez was a Mexican, but did not +look it. He had red hair and a florid skin, and he was large, with great feet +and coarse hands. Yet the high cheek bones of an Indian were his. The contrast +of coloring and features unpleasantly suggested a mongrel breed. The eyes had +red lids, out of which the lashes struck like rusted needles, and the eyes +themselves, of a faded blue, seemed to fawn an excuse for Nature’s +maladjusting. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span>But +he had a goodly frame on which to hang the livery of a king’s guardsman. +And as the cross of the Legion of Honor ticketed his breast, he must have been a +goodly man too, and his Maker’s insignia only a libel. Once Maximilian had +said, “What, Bebello, and art thou a better judge of men than I, thy +master and the master of men?” For it seemed that Bebello, the simple +hound, had read Nature’s voucher instead of Napoleon’s, and being +thus deceived, would ever snarl at the Colonel of Dragoons. Maximilian of course +knew better. What looked like toadying was only profound deference for himself. +The royal favorite could discriminate. He could also be the thick-headed, +intolerable martinet. The sandy lashes bristled as the American inquired a +second time if he were to have counsel.</p> + +<p>“Being president of this court,” Lopez announced, “I am +judge advocate.”</p> + +<p>In the tone of congratulation Driscoll blandly said, “Well, then, I +challenge the president.”</p> + +<p>“Challenge?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, Your Honor. It’s my right, either on the ground of +inexperience, malice, or–but I reckon the first two will do.”</p> + +<p>“This is insolence!” cried the president, and glaring angrily, he +maintained that it was a regular court martial for the field, and that as he was +the ranking officer at hand, there could be no appeal beyond himself.</p> + +<p>“A regular drum-head,” Driscoll observed. “Well, let it go +at that. I’m in a hurry.”</p> + +<p>Lopez called a lieutenant of Austrian cavalry to his right upon the sofa, and +the Dragoon color sergeant to his left, and the three of them sat thenceforth in +judgment. The charges were read, and next a deposition, gathered that day from +Michel Ney. Therein appeared the American, reinforcing Rodrigo Galán at Tampico, +and in so far aiding the abduction of Mademoiselle d’Aumerle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span>“The +complicity is evident,” stated Lopez, and his colleagues, blinking at the +candles on the box, nodded wisely.</p> + +<p>“It’s straight so far,” Driscoll agreed, “but the +story goes a little further. Does the ma’am’selle herself happen to have +left any deposition?”</p> + +<p>She had, admitted the president, but it merely corroborated the foregoing. +Driscoll, in sole charge of his own defence, insisted that her deposition be +read, but Lopez would permit no such waste of time. He was brooding on Monsieur +Éloin usurping his own place near the Emperor, and he wanted to finish the +present business so as to overtake them both.</p> + +<p>Dupin’s written evidence provided the rest of the abduction story, +seemingly, and there remained only the other charge, that of assisting at the +ambush of the murdered Captain Maurel. For this there was no evidence, and the +accused himself was examined.</p> + +<p>“Your name?” asked the court.</p> + +<p>“Driscoll.”</p> + +<p>“Your full name, hombre?”</p> + +<p>“John Dinwiddie Driscoll, Your Honor.”</p> + +<p>“Din–whatever it is–that’s not a Christian +name?”</p> + +<p>“It was, when I got it. Maybe I’ve paganized it since.”</p> + +<p>“Devil take you, this is solemn!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, this is solemn.”</p> + +<p>Lopez cracked his long nails irritably against each other.</p> + +<p>“You came here via Tampico,” he began anew. “What days were +you in Tampico?”</p> + +<p>“From about the twenty-third or twenty-fourth, till we left a few days +ago.”</p> + +<p>All three judges bent over a memorandum which the president pointed out among +his notes. Captain Maurel was killed about April 26th.</p> + +<p>“How did you occupy yourself while in Tampico?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span>“Mostly +trying to persuade Murgie here that it was his move.”</p> + +<p>“But your horse needed exercise. Did you at any time ride across the +river?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t notice. Have you anyone who saw me cross?”</p> + +<p>“Goot!” blurted out the Austrian who was one of the judges, so +suddenly that everybody half jumped. “Ya, das iss die cosa, sabe! Who has +him seen cross?”</p> + +<p>The court floundered. The witness demanded by the accused was lacking. +Murguía, a restless, huddled form on a straw-bottomed chair, was watching +hungrily every step in the examination. Now he shifted excitedly, and his sharp +jaws worked with a grinding motion. Then his voice came, a raucous outburst.</p> + +<p>“Search him, Your Mercy!”</p> + +<p>Lopez browbeat the meddler, and–took his advice. Driscoll submitted +tolerantly to their fumbling over him, and all the while Murguía looked on as a +famished dog, especially when they pulled out the whiskey flask. But when they +tossed the thing aside, he sank deep into his black coat and gave vent to +mumblings.</p> + +<p>“Of course we find nothing,” Lopez complained, “since his +accomplice recommended the search.”</p> + +<p>It seemed, too, that the state’s case must fall.</p> + +<p>“The Captain Maurel charge cannot hold,” announced the court.</p> + +<p>“Ya, goot–mucha bueno!” exclaimed the Austrian with +enthusiasm, while the color sergeant, who had a red nose, wet his lips +hopefully. He believed that an acquitted outlaw, if a gentleman, would stand a +bottle.</p> + +<p>“And as to the first charge,” continued the president, +“here is the deposition of the Señorita d’Aumerle, which I have held till +now for this purpose. Read it, and you will note that though the marquesa bears +out the Señor Ney, she further <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_177'></a>177</span>testifies to the prisoner having later saved her +from this very Rodrigo Galán at peril to himself. Bien, señores, have you any +further questions?”</p> + +<p>The Austrian crinkled his brow, and after a momentous pause, shook his head +till his cheeks rattled. The Dragoon promptly replied, “No, mi +coronel.” Then the three withdrew, and when they came back, the Dragoon +wiping his lips, they informed the accused that he was not guilty.</p> + +<p>“Which isn’t news,” said Driscoll as he thanked them.</p> + +<p>Murguía’s turn came next. The proof of the old man’s guilt +blossomed almost of itself. Jacqueline, to clear her protector, had been forced +to depose how Murguía had willingly betrayed her into Rodrigo’s hands. But +she described the old man’s reluctance. He would have saved her, except +for his terror of the outlaw. The sole case for the defence was Murguía’s +character for stinginess; such a miser could not be accused of aiding the +guerrillas. But this very point seemed to heighten Lopez’s prejudice +against him. Driscoll, being held to testify, only talked sociably, and told +nothing, and when under the quizzing he finally lost patience, he said, +“Oh, let him go! What’s the use?”</p> + +<p>But they were so far from any such thing that they condemned him to be +shot.</p> + +<p>Then a voice was heard at the door. The sentinel there stumbled back, and Don +Tiburcio brushed by him into the room.</p> + +<p>“Old man,” he called, “come with me! Your +daughter––”</p> + +<p>Murguía started up, weakly swaying. The senile eyeballs, so lately parched by +fear, swam in a moisture not of avarice. Someone was speaking to him of his +daughter. He had not seen her yet. They would not let him. And now he must think +of her in this new connection, which was his death. And her misery to learn it, +and her misery, afterward! On the morrow they would be taking him to the +capital, his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_178'></a>178</span>sentence would be confirmed, he would be shot. +Nothing of this he doubted. And he would never see her again.</p> + +<p>Murguía stretched out his arms toward the president of the court, “You +will let me go to her, señor? Your Mercy will let me go to her?” He +murmured her name over and over, “María de la Luz! María–Luzita +mia!” until the words became a kind of crooning. Then he would break forth +again, entreating, commanding, “Your Mercy will let me see her? Señor, you +<i>will</i> let me see her!”</p> + +<p>At the first note of intrusion Lopez had brought the pommel of his sword down +upon the box in front of him. But the syllables of the girl’s name seemed +to get into his memory, and he began to stare with a puzzled frown at the +half-crazed old man. Lifting his eyes, he met Tiburcio’s, and Tiburcio +himself nodded in some deep hidden significance. Lopez straightened abruptly, as +at an astounding revelation.</p> + +<p>“Tell me, Señor Murguía,” he said, “your +daughter–Yes, yes, man, you shall see her!–But listen, what is she +like? Has she large black eyes? Does she wear red sometimes? Come, señor, +answer!”</p> + +<p>The father gazed, wonderingly, jealously. How should an elegant officer from +the City and the Court know aught of María de la Luz?</p> + +<p>Tiburcio crept behind the sofa, and bending to Lopez’s ear, he +whispered, “Si, si, mi coronel, she is the one you have in mind, and she +is his daughter.”</p> + +<p>Lopez swung round and searched the blackmailer’s face. “And +now––”</p> + +<p>“You will let him come,” said Tiburcio. “But bring two +guards. And have four others with–well, with a stretcher.”</p> + +<p>Again Lopez searched the dark crescent that was Tiburcio’s eye, and +again Tiburcio nodded with deep significance. “Bring him,” he +repeated, “but tell him nothing. Seeing will be enough.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span>Murguía went, +unknowing. He would see her, thanks to some freakish kindness in Don Tiburcio. +He was torn between the joy of the meeting and the sharp grief of the parting +that must follow. At the time he never noticed that they led him up the chapel +walk instead of toward the hacienda house. Tiburcio was ahead with a lantern, +but when near the top of the hill he turned back to them, yet not before the +expectant Lopez had seen a black something on the pavement under the swinging +light.</p> + +<p>“You first, mi coronel,” said Tiburcio.</p> + +<p>“I, you mean!” cried Murguía, “I, señor!”</p> + +<p>“But we wish to see first if she is here,” said Lopez. “Don +Tiburcio thought she might be at vespers.”</p> + +<p>“Vespers? There are no vespers to-night. Yet we come here! Why? Why do +we come here?”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio motioned to the guards. “Hold him until we return,” he +ordered.</p> + +<p>A Dragoon reached out a hand indifferently to Murguía’s collar, and +that second the old man’s ten fingers were at his throat. They overpowered +him at last, but they would have fared better with a wildcat.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio and Lopez went alone. They stopped before the covered thing near the +church door.</p> + +<p>“So,” mused the colonel, “she ended it +<i>this</i> way.”</p> + +<p>“From the tower,” Tiburcio grimly added.</p> + +<p>“His––”</p> + +<p>“Well, say it. You mean His Majesty?”</p> + +<p>“His Majesty need know nothing of the–of the finale.”</p> + +<p>“Who is there to tell him, por Dios? I won’t. You +won’t.”</p> + +<p>“But you forget a third, Don Tiburcio. I mean the man who was with you +several evenings ago, when you––”</p> + +<p>“When I was carrying off the padre’s sweetheart?”</p> + +<p>“When somehow you two happened in this desolate neighborhood. Since you +took his name out of my mouth just <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_180'></a>180</span>now, you must have recognized that it was His +Majesty whom you saw talking to her almost where she now lies. I was near by, +guarding his privacy, but you both escaped before I could stop you. Now then, +who was that other intruder?”</p> + +<p>The other was Rodrigo Galán, but Tiburcio replied, “The other will not +have much to say. Poor Captain Maurel!”</p> + +<p>“Bueno, bueno!”</p> + +<p>“Not yet, mi coronel. Only we two know of Maximilian’s part in +this, but we must keep it from her father above all others. I am a loyal +Imperialist, Don Miguel.”</p> + +<p>“What difference does that make?”</p> + +<p>“The Empire faces a crisis.”</p> + +<p>The royal favorite started guiltily. Since the news of the +Confederacy’s surrender, Lopez’s ambitions were clouded by a growing +fear of the fugitive Mexican republic. The Republic would have a good memory for +royal favorites, and he had been thinking on it. “Will Lee’s +surrender make such–such a difference?” he faltered.</p> + +<p>“So much,” retorted Tiburcio, “that to-morrow we will have +more rebels yet. So much, that what with freeing peons and confiscating +nationalized church lands and giving them back to the church–well, a very +little more might decide between Empire and Republic.”</p> + +<p>“A little more? What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“I mean money for the rebels. Luz’s father is rich. If he knew +that Maximilian––”</p> + +<p>“Hombre, hombre, he’s a miser!”</p> + +<p>“Just the same, I’m a loyal Imperialist, and if you are, too, you +will take good care to tell nothing to Don Anastasio.”</p> + +<p>“You forget, señor, that I am the one to say that to you.”</p> + +<p>“Then don’t forget, Colonel Lopez. Do not forget that she fell, +that it was a simple accident.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, a simple accident. Wait here, I am going to bring her +father.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span>On returning +Lopez sent the guards away, and he and Murguía were alone together. The old man +stood dazed, unresisting.</p> + +<p>“One minute more,” said Lopez. “First, I must tell you +something. And afterward, you will remember. Yes, you will +remember–afterward. You know who I am, that I command the Dragoons of the +Empress.–Are you listening? But do you know that, in a way, I am +Maximilian’s confidant? Whenever he walks or rides, incognito, dressed as +a ranchero, I alone go with him, as I did during the past ten days while we +stopped at Las Palmas, three leagues from here. The very first evening there, we +two rode out, with our cloaks about us. He likes to commune with nature, and +gather curious flowers which he pastes in a book and labels with Latin names. +But this time he was interested in peons, yet as he had a delicacy about prying +into his host’s business, we rode until we left Las Palmas behind us. His +Majesty would gaze on the hills and look at the sunset, and he talked to me of a +poetic calm about them which made him long for he knew not what. And +Murguía––”</p> + +<p>Here the speaker paused abruptly, and his faded eyes shifted and +hardened.</p> + +<p>“And Murguía, we came here, and–he met your child. He met her +here, at this chapel, where she had been to pray for her aunt. Old man, do you +hear me, the Emperor met your daughter! Then, next day, instead of going on with +his journey, he complained of a cough, and stayed at Las Palmas. But every +evening he rode here, he and I. Once I found a chance to ask her her name, but +she would only tell her given name.–There, you will remember? Yes, you +will–after you have seen her. Come, she is not far away.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span><a id='link_22'></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /><span class='h2fs'>“<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Equidad en la Justicia</span>”</span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“... and I think I shall begin to take pleasure in being at home +and minding my business. I pray God I may, for I finde a great need thereof.” –</p> +<p class='ar'><i>Pepys’s Diary</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>An hour later the candles were still guttering in the court room, and here +Colonel Lopez assembled his minions of justice a second time. In his manner now +there was nothing of the uncertainty, nor the feigning of penetration, which had +before marked his handling of the trials. He pounded the box with his sword.</p> + +<p>“In the light of new evidence,” he announced shortly, “the +two cases of a while ago are reopened.”</p> + +<p>Din Driscoll strolled in. “I’ve come for my belt and pistols. +Dupin took them,” he said.</p> + +<p>Lopez signed to the Dragoons to close round him. Then he gave vent. Did the +Señor Gringo laugh so much at Mexican justice, since instead of escaping while +he had the chance, he came back, coolly demanding his property? It was +insolence!</p> + +<p>“<i>Gra</i>-cious,” exclaimed Driscoll in his counterfeit of a +startled old lady, “what’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>But Lopez put on a mien of dark cunning, and replied that he would find out +later.</p> + +<p>Murguía’s case came first. The stricken father was there, dragged from +his dead by the petty concerns of this world which cannot bide for grief. He was +as a sleep-walker. He had come into another universe. The hacienda sala, where +his child lay mid tapers, where mumbled prayers arose, or this <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span>adobe, where uniformed +men fouled the air with cigarettes and looked after the Empire’s +business–the one or the other, both places were of that other universe, +dark and silent, in which his dazed being groped alone.</p> + +<p>The new element in the court martial was Tiburcio, and Tiburcio had in mind +one golden goose to save and one meddling Gringo to lose. He riddled the +foregoing evidence with refreshing originality. He testified to the brigand +attack for possession of the marquise. Had he not found Don Anastasio stretched +upon the ground? Had not the dauntless anciano, the self-same Don Anastasio, +fallen in defence of the two French señoritas? And yet, did he not keep Rodrigo +at bay? Si, señores, he had indeed, until Colonel Dupin and the Contras arrived. +He, the witness, was with them. He had seen these things. Now, let anyone say +that the loyal Señor Murguía was an accomplice of that cut-throat without shame, +Rodrigo Galán; whom he, the witness, loathed from the innermost recesses of his +being; whom he, the witness, should be greatly pleased to strike dead. But let +anyone again besmirch the character of Don Anastasio!</p> + +<p>“No, no,” vociferously growled the Austrian.</p> + +<p>Lopez opposed nothing. He had a clear notion this time as to what he wanted. +Driscoll marveled, and enjoyed it. Pigheadedness had made Don Anastasio guilty, +why shouldn’t perjury make him innocent? And it did. The mountain of +suspicion and some few pebbles of evidence melted away as lard in a skillet. The +verdict was acquittal.</p> + +<p>Driscoll knew well enough that the presence of the loyal Imperialist with the +baleful eye meant a reversal in his own case too. But the recent and very +definite animus of Lopez against him he could in no way fathom. The blackmailer +testified again. The prisoner, this Americano, had waylaid him in the wood two +days before, and had robbed him of his last cent.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span>“Which you +stole from Murgie,” suggested the prisoner.</p> + +<p>“I? I steal from Murguía?” cried Tiburcio indignantly. “Ask +him! Ask him!”</p> + +<p>Murguía was asked. Had the witness ever, on any occasion, robbed him? They +repeated the question several times, and at last the rusty black wig, which was +bowed over a chair, slowly shook in the negative. Perhaps he had settled a debt +with the witness? The wig changed to an affirmative.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio gleamed triumphantly. “An audacious defence!” he +exclaimed. “But luckily for me, Don Anastasio is here.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, hurry up!” protested Driscoll.</p> + +<p>Asked if he knew anything more of the prisoner, witness could not swear for +certain, except that he recognized in the American one of the guerrillas who had +ambushed and slain Captain Maurel near Tampico. Yes, witness was scouting for +the murdered captain at the time. Naturally, witness was present.</p> + +<p>“You wanted proof, Señor Americano, that you crossed the river?” +said Lopez. “Well, are you content now?”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” Driscoll returned. He was bored. “Some people on +earth are alive yet, but while Tibby is on the stand maybe I killed them too. I +wouldn’t swear I didn’t.”</p> + +<p>Murguía was called next, but he did not seem to hear. His body was bent over +his knees, silently trembling. A Dragoon pressed a hand on his shoulder, but a +sobbing groan racked his frame, as of a very sick man who will not be awakened +to his pain. The pause that followed was uncanny–a syncope in the affairs +of men like a gaping grave under midnight clouds. Lopez spoke again. He +regretted that they must intrude on a fresh and poignant sorrow, but the case in +hand was a matter of state, before which the individual had to give way. It was +very logical and convincing. But the feeble old shoulders made no sign.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio leaned over and shook him gently, and whispered <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span>in his ear. Still Murguía did not move. +Tiburcio gripped his arm. “You and Rodrigo,” he said, so low that +none could hear, “there was something arranged between you. What was it? +Tell me! Tell me, I say, if you want the Gringo shot!”</p> + +<p>He bent nearer, and against his ear came a muffled sound of lips. When he +straightened, it was to address the court.</p> + +<p>If he might ask a question, had they searched the prisoner? They had. But +thoroughly? Thoroughly. But not enough to find anything? No. Then he would +suggest that they had not searched thoroughly. The court seemed impressed, and +Driscoll was fumbled over again. Still they found nothing.</p> + +<p>“Whose flask is that?” Tiburcio demanded, pointing to where it +had been tossed and forgotten. The prisoner’s. “Look that over +again,” Tiburcio insisted. A guard handed it to Lopez, who squinted +inside. “There is nothing,” he said. It was only an old canteen +whose leather covering was dropping apart from rot.</p> + +<p>Murguía’s head raised, and his eyes fixed themselves on the judge, and +in their intense fixity glittered a quick, keen lust. It was hideous, loathsome, +fascinating. The eyes were swimming in tears, but their hungered, metal-like +sheen made the sorrow monstrous, and was the more foul and ghastly because it +distorted so pure a thing as sorrow. Driscoll felt queerly that he must, must +remove from the world this decrepit old man who bemoaned a dead child. The itch +for murder terrified him, and he turned away angrily from the horrid face that +aroused it. But Murguía’s stare never relaxed while Lopez toyed with the +canteen. And when Lopez, as though accidentally, thrust a finger under the torn +leather and brought out a folded paper, the bright points of Murguía’s +eyes leaped to flame. But the head went down again, as once more his grief swept +over him, and another sob caught at the heartstrings of every man there.</p> + +<p>Lopez spread out the paper, and as he read, he started <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span>violently. He passed it on to the +Austrian and the color sergeant, and they also started. But the most amazed was +Driscoll, when he too had a chance to read.</p> + +<p>“Ha, you recognize it?” exclaimed the president.</p> + +<p>“Sure I do. It’s an order from Colonel Dupin to Captain Maurel. +Rodrigo had it in Tampico, making people think that <i>he</i> was Captain +Maurel.”</p> + +<p>But the court was not so simple. “How came you by it?” demanded +Lopez. “Have occasion to be Maurel yourself sometime, eh?”</p> + +<p>With wrath, with admiration, Driscoll faced round on Don Anastasio. “Oh +you pesky, shriveled-up gorilla!” he breathed. He was no longer amazed. +This accounted for Murguía’s borrowing his flask the night they were in +the forest. It accounted for Murguía and Rodrigo plotting together in Tampico. +But why tell such things to the court? The Missourian was not a fool like King +Canute, who ordered back the waves. “Hurry up,” he said wearily to +the waves instead. Since he could not hold the tide, anticipation chilled more +than the drowning bath itself.</p> + +<p>The tide assuredly did not wait. It rolled right on, nearer and nearer. +Murguía was lifted to his feet. He was remembering already what Lopez had told +him, about his daughter and Maximilian, as Lopez had said he would. The +American’s easy, stalwart form in gray filled his blurred eyes. Here was a +Confederate emissary come with an offer of aid for that same Maximilian. Such +had been Murguía’s suspicion from the first, and now it moved him with +venomous hate. Yes, he would testify. Yes, yes, the prisoner had ridden out +alone at Tampico. Yes, yes, yes, the prisoner was with Rodrigo there.</p> + +<p>“But why, Don Anastasio,” asked Tiburcio purely in fantastic +mischief, “did you bring such a disturbing man to our happy +country?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span>“That will +do,” Lopez interposed. “The Señor Murguía could not know at the time +that this fellow was Rodrigo’s agent.”</p> + +<p>“And,” Murguía added eagerly, “I was helpless, there at +Mobile. The Confederates could have sunk my boat, and he held an order from +Jefferson Davis.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” cried Tiburcio, his humor suddenly vanished. +“What’s that, an order from Jefferson Davis?”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio’s was a new interest, now. He possessed a mind as crooked as +his vision, and being crooked, it followed unerringly the devious paths of other +minds. So, they had made a tool of him! Rodrigo and Murguía wanted the Gringo +shot to help the rebel cause. And he, Tiburcio of the cunning wits, had just +sworn away, not only the Gringo’s life, but the possible salvation of the +Empire. Coming from Jefferson Davis, the Gringo with his mission could mean +nothing else. Then there was Lopez. Tiburcio did not love this changeling +Mexican who had red hair. But what could be the mongrel’s game? Why had he +freed Murguía, if not to unleash a small terrier at Maximilian’s heel? Why +was he trying the American over again, if not to poison a friendly mastiff? And +why either, if Don Miguel Lopez were not seeking to make friends with the +Republic? Or perhaps he was at heart a Republican. Thus Don Tiburcio, a loyal +Imperialist, read the finger posts as he ambled down the crooked path.</p> + +<p>Yes, and here was Lopez putting on the final touch. Here he was, the traitor, +pronouncing the death sentence, and poor impotent Don Tiburcio gnawing his +baffled rage, as one would say of a villain. The execution was to take place the +very next morning. His Majesty the Emperor would be asked to approve, +afterward.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span><a id='link_23'></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Curious Pagan Rite</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“È un peccato che se ne va con l’acqua benedetta.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Machiavelli</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>The Storm Centre looked round, about and above. He was as a fly in a bottle. +A massive rough-hewn door, jammed tight, sealed him within adobe walls two feet +thick. There was one window, cross-barred, as high as his chin, and only large +enough to frame his head. They had brought him to the carcel, or dungeon, of the +hacienda, where peons were constrained to docility. A wide masonry bench against +the wall approximated a couch, but it was as blocked ice. By the flickering of a +lone tallow dip, Din Driscoll noted these things with every sense delicately +attuned to strategy. But his verdict was unpromising.</p> + +<p>“Tough luck!” he observed.</p> + +<p>The adobe was built among the stables that bordered on the pasture, and when +not needed as a calabozo, it served snugly for the administrador’s best +horse. From the one stall came a tentative whinny. Driscoll jumped with delight. +“Demijohn! W’y, you good old scoundrel, you!” The night +before, he remembered, he had seen the horse bedded here. “Say howdy as +loud as you want,” he cried, slapping him fondly on the flank, +“you’ll not betray us. <i>That’s</i> been done +already.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll was cavalryman to the bone, and it heartened him unaccountably to +find his horse. If, only, he could have his pistols too! Ever since the Federals +had cut him off from his furloughs home, those black ugly navies were next to +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span>nearest in his +affections. The nearest was the buckskin charger. And now, only the buckskin was +left, which simply made the dilemma more poignant. The condemned man gazed +critically at the walls, the rafters, the ground, and shook his head. Supposing +a chance for escape, could he bring himself to leave Demijohn behind? He got his +pipe to going, sat down, and frowned ruefully at the candle.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to be shot!” he burst out suddenly, with a +plaintive twang. Then he grinned. The boy still in him had prompted the +absurdity. And the rough warrior had laughed at it. Boy and warrior faced each +other, either surprised that the other existed. The boy flushed resentfully at +the veteran’s contemptuous grunt. His eyes still had the boy’s +naïvely inquisitive greeting to the world before him. Next, quite abruptly, the +warrior knew a bitterness against himself. If he could, but once, whimper as the +lad about to be soundly strapped! He took no pride in his irony, nor in his +hardened indifference to the visage of death. How far, how very far, had the few +past years of strife carried him from the youngster who used to gaze so eagerly, +so expectantly, out on life!</p> + +<p>First, he was home from the University, from the pretty, shady little +Missouri town of Columbia. But the vacation following he spent in bloodily +helping to drive the Jayhawkers back across the Kansas line. And soon after, +when the fighting opened up officially, and his State, at the start, had more of +it than any other battle ground, how many hundreds of times did his life bide by +the next throw of Fate? During one cruel winter month he had lain with other +wounded in a hospital dug-out in the river’s cliff, and there, wanting +both quinine and food, he would peep through the reeds, only to see the +merciless Red Legs prying about in search of his hiding place.</p> + +<p>And then there was the wild, busily dangerous life with Old Joe’s +Brigade, with that brigade of Missouri’s young firebrands. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span>Once, stretched on the +prairie, where he had dropped from exhaustion and hunger and loss of blood, the +Storm Centre awoke to find a Pin Indian stooping over him for his scalp. On that +occasion, the deft turning of the wrist from the waist outward, with the +stripping of the pistol’s hammer simultaneously, had enabled him later to +restore to relatives certain other scalps already dangling from the +savage’s girdle.</p> + +<p>And now here he was in an adobe with walls two feet thick, and numerous +saddle-colored Greasers proposing to shoot him first thing in the morning!</p> + +<p>“I’ll be blessedly damned,” he drawled querulously, +“I object!”</p> + +<p>It was the warrior who spoke now, and with him the boy joined hands. They +became as one and the same person. The common foe was without. They would see +this through together, with grim stoicism, with young-blooded daredeviltry.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and one of the common foe, bearing a tray, came within.</p> + +<p>“Well, Don Erastus, how goes it?” With a pang of homesickness the +Missourian thought of darkies who carried trays.</p> + +<p>“Juan Bautista, at Y’r Mercy’s orders,” the Dragoon +corrected him.</p> + +<p>“Don John the Baptist then, como le whack?”</p> + +<p>“Bien, señor, bien.”</p> + +<p>“Any theory as to what you’ve got there?”</p> + +<p>“Y’r Mercy’s supper. The Señor Coronel Lopez does not desire that +Y’r Mercy should have any complaint.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, none whatever, Johnny, except what I’m to die of. Set it +down, here on the feather bed.”</p> + +<p>There were a few native dishes, with a botellon of water and a jar of wine. +Driscoll tipped the botellon to his lips. His whiskey flask had contained +poison, though the poison of ink, and as he drank, he pondered on why water +should not be an antidote for the poisons that lurk in whiskey flasks. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span>Then he wondered why such +foolish conceits at such times persist in shouldering death itself out of a +man’s thoughts. And meanwhile, there stood the precursor of his end, in +the emblematic person of a very brown John the Baptist. The fellow’s +gorgeous red jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a sordid dirty shirt. He was +officer of the guard, and had a curiosity as to how a Gringo about to be shot +would act. He waited clumsily, lantern in hand. But he was disappointed. There +seemed to be nothing out of the commonplace. Some condemned Mexican, though a +monotonously familiar spectacle, would yet have been more entertaining.</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked at him over the botellon. That earthen bottle had not left +the prisoner’s lips. It had stopped there, poised aloft by an idea.</p> + +<p>“See here,” Driscoll complained, “where’s the rest of +the water I’m to have?”</p> + +<p>“Of what water, señor?”</p> + +<p>“For my bath, of course. Don’t I die to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but––”</p> + +<p>“Here, this wine is too new for me. Drink it yourself, if you +want.”</p> + +<p>“Many thanks, señor, with pleasure. But a bath? I don’t +understand.”</p> + +<p>“No? Don’t you Mexicans ever bathe before you die?”</p> + +<p>“We send for the padre.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s it! And he spiritually washes your sins away? But +suppose you couldn’t get your padre?”</p> + +<p>The Indian shuddered. “Ai, María purísima, one’s soul would go to +everlasting torment!”</p> + +<p>“There! Now you can understand why I count so much on ablution. +It’s absolution.”</p> + +<p>The native readily believed. Like others of his class, he thought all +Protestants pagans, and none Catholic but a Mexican. “Must be something +like John the Baptist’s day, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_192'></a>192</span>verdad, señor?” he said. “On that holy +day, once a year, we must all take a bath.”</p> + +<p>“Quite right too,” Driscoll returned soberly. “A man should +go through most anything for his religion.–Haven’t noticed my horse +there, have you, Johnny?” The guard pricked up his ears. “Of course +not,” Driscoll went on, “you’re worrying about my soul +instead. Well, so am I. We Americans, you know, save our yearly baths for one +big solemn final one, just before we die. And if I don’t get mine +to-night, I’ll be associating with you unshrived Mexicans hereafter, and +that would be pretty bad, wouldn’t it? It’s what made me think of my +horse there. That horse, Johnny, is heavy on my soul. He’s most too heavy +to wash away. Now, I’m not going to tell you that I actually stole him; +but just the same, if a good man like you would take him, after I’m +gone–why, I’d feel that he was washed off pretty well.”</p> + +<p>The Mexican’s sympathy grew more keen.</p> + +<p>“But the other sins,” Driscoll added, “they’ll need +water, and a great plenty, too.”</p> + +<p>Juan Bautista was feeling the buckskin’s knees. Driscoll longed to +choke him, but instead, he drove again at the wedge. “Another thing, +I’ll have to leave my money behind.” He mentioned it casually, but +his breath stopped while he waited for the effect. The guard straightened. +Demijohn’s knees seemed to be all right. He took up the tray, and opened +the door, yet without a word. Driscoll’s fist doubled, to strike and run +for it. Then the fellow spoke.</p> + +<p>“Does Y’r Mercy want soap too?”</p> + +<p>The fist unclenched. “No,” came the reply, almost in a joyful +gasp, “this is for, for godliness only.”</p> + +<p>“One jar, señor?”</p> + +<p>“Bless me, no! Two big ones, bigger’n a barrel.”</p> + +<p>With a parting glance at Demijohn, the guard stole forth to gratify the +heathen’s whim.</p> + +<p>“I’ll give him enough to <i>buy</i> a horse,” Driscoll +resolved.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span><a id='link_24'></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Man Who Did Not Want to Be Shot</span></span></h2> + +<div class='nbox'> +<p>“A horse and a man<br /> +Is more than one,<br /> +And yet not many.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Taming of the Shrew</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>“Now Berthe–why, what in the world––” Jacqueline +began.</p> + +<p>It was her second morning to awake in the hacienda house, and the little +Bretonne tripped into her room under a starchy mountain heaped high. +“Clothes, madame,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“Hé mais––”</p> + +<p>“They were made yesterday by some of the ranchero women. Madame will +look?”</p> + +<p>“Calico! Grands dieux!”</p> + +<p>There were two dresses, one for each girl. The native seamstresses had slyly +taken stock of mademoiselle the day before, only to discover that a +“simple” frock from Paris was a formidable thing to duplicate. The +marchioness smiled, and the maid also.</p> + +<p>“But, for example, Berthe, who inspired this?”</p> + +<p>“He did.”</p> + +<p>“He?”</p> + +<p>“The American monsieur, of course.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the American monsieur, of course! So, monsieur permits himself to +observe that I need a wardrobe? But you, Berthe, you surely did +not––”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, madame! I knew nothing, till just now, when the woman brought +them. The monsieur ordered them yesterday, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_194'></a>194</span>she said. And naturally, madame, if he could have +found better material, I do not doubt––”</p> + +<p>“There, child, I’ll not be reproached by your even thinking it +necessary to defend––”</p> + +<p>“And madame will see, too, that they will do nicely.” She spread +the frocks on the bed, and began snipping here and there with the scissors and +taking stitches everywhere. “By letting it out this way–voilà, if +madame will kindly slip it on?”</p> + +<p>“Berthe, you can’t mean–Oh nonsense!”</p> + +<p>None the less the skirt passed over her head, and the maid’s deft +fingers kept on busily. “And why not?” she talked as she worked, +“unless one likes rags better. And who will see? Only men. Poof, those +citizens do not know percale from a Parisian toilette.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline began to wax angry with the quiet tyranny of it. She looked at the +horror and shuddered, then with both hands pushed the calico to the floor, +gathering up her own lawn skirt instead. It was rather a woebegone lawn skirt. +She gazed ruefully at the garment, then down at the blue flowering heaped about +her ankles. Berthe, kneeling over the dress, raised her eyes. The puckered brow +of her mistress spelled fury, and the maid tried not to laugh, at which +Jacqueline stamped her foot. “Berthe,” she cried, “shall I +slap you?”</p> + +<p>“Mais oui, madame. And madame, I was thinking, what will he say if you +do not wear it?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline gave her a keen look. “Child, child,” she exclaimed, +“you seem to imagine that whatever <i>he</i> wants––”</p> + +<p>“Oui, madame.–I think you can try it on again now.”</p> + +<p>And madame submitted petulantly. But to herself she had to confess the magic +in Berthe’s fingers. Though she pouted over the fresh, rustic effect, yet +on her slender figure there was witchery in it.</p> + +<p>An orderly knocked. He was one of her Austrian escorts come to say that +everything was ready for departure. She <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_195'></a>195</span>gladly hailed the chance to escape this house of +mourning. All night long old women in the death chamber had mumbled +incantations, and the droning was in her ears as she slept. It was not nice. +Because she could not blot out the inartistic shock of ugly mortality, in very +self-hate she yearned to get away. The evening before, even while she loaned +common sense to the crazed household, even while she pressed down the icy +eyelids, she wondered–obstinately wondered, despite herself, what the dead +girl could have thought, what she could have felt, during that one horrid, +thrilling second of flight downward, and what, in anticipation of the second +after. It was gruesome, this being always and always the spectator. Yet +Jacqueline knew that, had it been she herself plunging from the tower, she still +would have been that spectator. Too well she knew that she would have analyzed +what she thought and felt. She would have rated even the second before eternity +in its degree as a frisson; and, no doubt, would have been aware of a voluptuous +satiety, while anticipating the second after. She hated herself, and she hated +too the smart, ultra-refined life that had brought her to it. How many of those +past years, or of the years to come would she not give to shed a few tears +without interrogating them!</p> + +<p>Ney met the two girls under the colonnade. At the steps was the coach and +eight mules left by Maximilian for their use, and drawn up in stately line were +Messieurs the Feathers and Furs, as Jacqueline called His Majesty’s +Austrian Imperial Guards. When she appeared, out flashed their curved blades. +The queenly little lady in blue-flowered calico and a rakish Leghorn hat +returned the salute with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Where are the Dragoons, Michel?” she asked.</p> + +<p>Ney did not know. But a Mexican with a crossed eye approached, doffing a +silver-lettered sombrero. He had been waiting for her, he said. There was time. +Otherwise he would have forced his way to wherever she was.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span>“Indeed, +Seigneur Farceur?” said Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>She recognized that most sinister of jokers, Don Tiburcio. He was eyeing her +narrowly, and there was a vigilance in the baleful gleam, as though of late he +might have been deceived by his fellowmen.</p> + +<p>“But,” he coolly proceeded, “only a few minutes are left +now.”</p> + +<p>“My good man, whatever are you talking about?”</p> + +<p>“And after the few minutes, we’ll have the shooting. I came to +invite Your Mercy.”</p> + +<p>“Shoot whom?”</p> + +<p>“There is but one prisoner.”</p> + +<p>“You mean Señor Murguía? The American was acquitted, I +believe.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the other way, señorita. They were both tried over again, +and then, the American was condemned.”</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” ejaculated Ney, “you are +deathly––”</p> + +<p>“I am not!” Jacqueline protested furiously. “It’s the +powder.”</p> + +<p>But Berthe knew better. Her mistress used it not, for all the roguish freckle +on her nose-tip. Tiburcio, too, was satisfied as to her sudden pallor. She would +save him the American, he decided. “Your Mercy had best hasten,” he +urged her frankly.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline ran to the end of the portico, from were she could see the +pasture. Within, a platoon of red jackets were filing toward the carcel.</p> + +<p>“That scoundrel Lopez!” exclaimed Tiburcio, “he has +advanced the time on us!”</p> + +<p>Only for an instant did Jacqueline wring her hands.</p> + +<p>“Michel, your horse!” she cried. “Quick, quick! Now hold +the stirrup!”</p> + +<p>But Tiburcio was the quicker. He bent his knee, on it she stepped, and up she +jumped, and kicked her heel as a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_197'></a>197</span>spur. The charger leaped, and down the road +clattered girl and horse, she swaying perilously.</p> + +<p>It was a hundred yards to the pasture gate, and as much again to the adobe +inside. When her horse rose in his gallop, she caught glimpses over the wall. +The Dragoons were drawing up before the carcel. Sentinels tugged at the huge +wooden door, and Lopez goaded them on. He saw her coming, and would have it over +with before she could interfere. He bellowed an order, and the shooting squad +threw up their guns at aim. They would not wait. They would fire on their victim +the second the door opened. The heavy oak began to give. But that moment +swinging in through the gate, Jacqueline could see only the carcel’s blank +adobe wall. Yet she pictured the man just behind. She pictured the door opening. +And–too late! Dieu, the muskets had volleyed already!</p> + +<p>But–what made the shots scatter so? Scattered and flurried, they +sounded. And no wonder! She saw a miracle in the doing. It was the most +astounding sight of all her life long. Straight through the blank adobe wall, +for all its two feet of thickness, she beheld a man on a great-boned yellow +horse, both man and horse plunge mid a sudden cloud of dust, plunge squarely +into the light of day.</p> + +<p>The dumfounded shooting squad had blazed crazily against the half-open door; +and for the critical quarter minute following, their weapons were harmless. +Other Dragoons ran wildly out into the pasture, and as wildly fired at the +horseman. Only one of the sentinels had happened to be on the side of the magic +exit, but as the solid wall dissolved into a powdered cloud and the apparition +hurtled past him, down upon his head crashed a gigantic water jar filled with +earth. He who had sympathized with pagan ablutions the night before stood now +with mouth agape. Some heathen god was having a hand in this, he knew.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline wheeled to Driscoll’s side as he dashed toward <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span>her. He was coatless. His +woolen shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. His +slouch hat sat upon the back of his head. The short cropped curls, gray with +dust, fluttered against the brim. She had never seen a face so buoyantly +happy.</p> + +<p>“Morning, Miss Jack-leen! Race you to the river?”</p> + +<p>They galloped through the gate together. He was for turning down the road, +but she blocked his horse with her own. During a second the flight was +stopped.</p> + +<p>“I’m in a hurry just now,” he panted, but made no effort to +get by her.</p> + +<p>“Up that way!” she cried. “Up that way, past the +House!”</p> + +<p>“But those pretty boys––”</p> + +<p>“The Austrians? They’ll not stop you, I promise.”</p> + +<p>“Then it’s our move. Careful, little girl, don’t +fall!”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline, waving her arm, signaled the Feathers and Furs to make room, and +Tiburcio and Ney saw to it that they did. Man and girl raced through them.</p> + +<p>“Wait here, Michel!” called Jacqueline, leaving Ney still with +thumb to cap at salute. Tiburcio gazed after them.</p> + +<p>Lopez ran across the pasture to the colonnade. His red face was redder than +ever before. Tiburcio sardonically regarded him. Lopez glared at Ney.</p> + +<p>“Why aren’t you in pursuit?” he demanded hotly.</p> + +<p>“And you, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“And I, and I! Who are you to question me, señor? Every girth has been +cut!”</p> + +<p>“Caramba, mi coronel,” cried Tiburcio in dismay, “you +don’t say so!”</p> + +<p>“And it will take ten minutes to tie up the cords, while you, you, +Señor Frenchman, you stand there, your men mounted and ready! Obey me, I tell +you!”</p> + +<p>“Can’t,” said Ney doggedly. “Against +orders.”</p> + +<p>“Orders? Whose orders?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span>“Of +Mademoiselle la Marquise, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Who runs away with a convict. A fit commander, por Dios!”</p> + +<p>Off came the Frenchman’s gauntlet, but he paused in the gesture of +striking. Too quick at this, and not enough at wits, he might ruin her +plans.</p> + +<p>“As fit,” he retorted instead, “as another who lets +prisoners escape. I advise Monsieur the Colonel to look to his +girths.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span><a id='link_25'></a>CHAPTER XXV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Person on the Other Horse</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Yet am I sure of one pleasùre,<br /> +And shortly, it is this:<br /> +That, where ye be, me seemeth, pardè,<br /> +I could not fare amiss.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Ballad of the Nut Brown Maid.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Din Driscoll had never remotely imagined that there could be such +intoxication in a horseback ride. The person on the other horse made for the +difference. How the joy of her filled him that instant of his bursting through +the black prison wall into the bright morning of the world! She, the splendid +first thing to gladden his eyes! Could liberty be really so glorious? Ravishing +horsewoman, she was coming to save him. He had supposed her on her way to +Mexico, and ’twas she whom he saw first of all.</p> + +<p>And now, she rode beside him. They two, they were riding together, alone. The +smell of the wild free air of the universe thrilled them both with an exquisite +recklessness. Vague, limitless, subtle in mystery, the seduction of it was +ineffable. Out of the corner of his eye he peeped at her. But wasn’t she +perched entrancingly on that dragoon saddle, wasn’t she, though? The +richly heavy coils of burnished copper had loosened, and they were very +disconcerting in their suggestion of flowing wealth. If they <i>would</i> but +fall about her shoulders! And the lace from the slanting hat brim, and the +velvet patch near the dimple–the velvet patch called an assassin. +And–what dress was that? Flowered calico? Yes, and light blue. His cheeks +burned as of one surprised in crime, but the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_201'></a>201</span> self-possessed young woman herself was oblivious. +So was it this, a blue flowered gown, that made her so suddenly tangible, so +tangible and maddening? The haughty Parisienne of imperial courts was gone. In +fact, she had become so distractingly tangible that–well, he didn’t +know. But a lump got into his throat. She might be a Missouri girl, this moment. +And there came to him the vision of one, of a Missouri girl molding biscuits, +patting them, and her arms were bared, in a simple piquancy just like +Jacqueline’s now. He even saw the pickaninnies in the shade of the porch +outside, worshiping the real Missouri girl from the very whites of their eyes. +How he had loved to tease her! He could not help it; she was so daintily prim. +That he should thus think of his sister, the while gazing on the one-time gilded +butterfly–to say the least, it was a pertinent comment on the transmuting +magic that lurks in blue flowered percale.</p> + +<p>They slowed to a trot.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur is my prisoner, yes,” said she in her wonderful +English.</p> + +<p>He took the other meaning. “I don’t know–<i>yet</i>,” +he returned soberly.</p> + +<p>She laughed, and he realized that he had spoken aloud.</p> + +<p>He turned on himself in dismay. “What’s the matter with +me?” he muttered.</p> + +<p>“I think, monsieur,” said Jacqueline demurely, “that I have +the guess.”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t–you can’t guess either! I don’t +know myself.”</p> + +<p>“Just the same, I wish I knew so well my chances for heaven.”</p> + +<p>“But you’re mistaken, I tell you. I’m not!”</p> + +<p>“Not what, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“In, in–w’y, in love.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s laughter was the merriest peal. In the end <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span>he half grinned. Little +use trying to convince the little witch! He had much to do convincing +himself.</p> + +<p>On the farther slope of a hill where coffee grew and the giant sheltering +banana hid the road, they paused at a trail that crossed the highway and wound +on down toward the Pánuco river, where tropical stuff for Tampico was +transferred from burros to dugout barges. Jacqueline listened. There were no +sounds of pursuit as yet, nor was there any one in sight. Making up her mind, +she changed to the path. Driscoll followed, with a delight in this new +leadership over him.</p> + +<p>When they gained the river, she stopped again, and he did too.</p> + +<p>“But you must go, on, on!” she protested. “They may not be +deceived, no. They may have you to overtake here.” She held out her hand. +“There, this path, you follow it to Tampico. Good bye. Yes, yes, you have +not one minute!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll took the little gauntleted hand readily enough. He saw that the +lines of her face were drawn, but her manner was inexorable.</p> + +<p>“How do you like your dress?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>Had she been on her feet, she would have stamped one of them. +“Monsieur,” she cried, “here is no time to observe the +replenishment of a lady’s wardrobe. Do you go? I insist. I wish you bon +voyage to your own country, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s so far away. I reckon I’d better rest a spell +first. A month or so, prob’bly.”</p> + +<p>She watched him clamber down and tie Demijohn to the low branch of a live oak +on the river’s bank.</p> + +<p>“There you are, getting stubborn again,” she said. But the lines +in her face had vanished.</p> + +<p>“Of course I mean to see you back to your friends,” he +explained.</p> + +<p>“Merci bien. But you will not. You will have this river straight to +Tampico. I say yes!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span>She turned her +horse as she spoke, whereat he started to remount his own.</p> + +<p>“I think, sir––” she began haughtily.</p> + +<p>“The road is free.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, why have you to be so, so quarrelsome?”</p> + +<p>“The temptation, I reckon.”</p> + +<p>“You really will go back with me?”</p> + +<p>“I might be going back along about the same time. It’s a public +trail.”</p> + +<p>“Then <i>I</i> will stay, and you <i>must</i>! I will not permit you to +go back there now. I will see that you do wait here so long until Lopez has the +time to start to Mexico after you. Then you will be behind him. Have the +goodness to hold my bridle. I think I shall take me a rest a little +also.”</p> + +<p>Together they sat on a huge live-oak root and watched the sluggish Pánuco +flow by.</p> + +<p>“No hurry now,” Driscoll observed comfortably. “Our scarlet +upholstered colonel won’t get away for years yet.”</p> + +<p>Years, at least, were in his wishes, years in which to provoke her quaintly +inflected English, and its quaint little slips. She had learned it in London +long before, playing with wee Honorable toddlers while her father played +France’s diplomacy with grown-ups. That accent of hers, then, was as broad +as Mayfair, and to the Missourian doubly foreign, and doubly alluring.</p> + +<p>“I cannot understand,” she said, “why it is the Dragoons +have not followed you immediately?”</p> + +<p>“Tibby’s the reason, I reckon. That Tibby is a deep +one.”</p> + +<p>She made him explain, and he told her. The blackmailing humorist, Tiburcio, +had paid him a visit at his dungeon window during the night. Being chief witness +for the prosecution, Tiburcio could pass the sentry unchallenged.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span>“Come for +your money?” Driscoll had inquired, and Tiburcio seemed hurt.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter,” Tiburcio demanded, “with pointing a +revolver at the Señor Americano right now, and making him deliver?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll had not figured out what the objections might be, but he reckoned +some would materialize.</p> + +<p>“But,” said Tiburcio, “I’m not doing it, and why? +Simply because I want to know if you care to escape?”</p> + +<p>“W’y,” returned Driscoll, “I’ll think it over, +and let you know in the morning,” at which lack of confidence Tiburcio was +more hurt than ever.</p> + +<p>“What’s the use,” Driscoll objected, “they’d +catch me again?”</p> + +<p>“Not if I fixed their horses, and if I do, will you promise to get +out?”</p> + +<p>And thus the bargain had stood, and thus it was fulfilled, though at the last +the anxious Tiburcio had called in Jacqueline to help.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said the marchioness, settling herself for a treat, +“I <i>must</i> know. Tame for me the miracle, explain it. I cannot longer +hold my curiosity. But it was fine–exquis–however you have done +it!”</p> + +<p>“Weren’t they a surprised lot, though?”</p> + +<p>“But the miracle, monsieur! The miracle!”</p> + +<p>“Well, it was this way. Being on the yawning brink–as old Meagre +Shanks, friend of mine, would say–I figured it out that lacking in +godliness, I’d try to get the next best thing.”</p> + +<p>“Please, monsieur!”</p> + +<p>“That I’d try to get a bath.”</p> + +<p>“Of dust and mud, for example?”</p> + +<p>At that Driscoll ceased all miracle taming and brushed himself off. But, +putting him back into his dungeon, one will recall how he plotted to obtain two +jars of water. This water <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_205'></a>205</span>he used simply to soften the hard, sun-baked adobes. +First he hung his coat over the window. A suspicious guard naturally wanted to +know why, and Driscoll appeared at the bars stripped to the waist. To keep out +the cold air while he bathed, he said, and his teeth chattered. Then he went +back to work. He handled his precious water with desperate economy. He began at +the exposed end of one adobe brick, soaking it as needed and digging it out with +a chip of earthenware knocked off one of the jars. The wall was two adobe +lengths in thickness, but after he had gotten out his first brick, it was easy, +by tugging and kicking, to tear out the others of the inside tier, since luckily +they did not dovetail in with the outer ones. Soon he had an arch-shaped niche +in the wall almost as high as his head when mounted on Demijohn. The really +tedious part remained, and it was an all night job.</p> + +<p>To deepen the niche without breaking through, he had to scrape it out +piecemeal, wetting the dried mud as he toiled. He measured carefully just how +much of the thickness to leave, because the weed stalks in the adobe could not +be trusted to hold too thin a crust, and also he had to take care that the water +did not soak entirely through and make a tell-tale blot on the outside when +daylight should come. It was an infinitely laborious task, and even with +completion at last, there was yet the question–which would break first, +bone or masonry?</p> + +<p>But he would learn when he should dash his horse’s skull and his own +against the shell that remained. He saddled Demijohn, filled an empty jar with +the soft earth of his excavations, and waited. His dramatic appearance at the +instant of the door’s opening was not a coincidence. It was minute +calculation. Already mounted, he faced the wall, with the heavy jar poised over +his head in both hands, his spurs drawn back to strike. He waited until +sentinels and shooting squad had gathered at the door. He waited to draw their +fire, to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span>empty +their muskets. But he did not wait until the door should open enough to give +them unimpeded aim. In the second of its opening he drove back the spurs, hurled +the jar against the wall, and–crashed through his dungeon as easily as +breaking a sucked egg.</p> + +<p>“But,” demanded Jacqueline eagerly, “how is it you did +feel?” She was disappointed that the personal equation had had so little +prominence.</p> + +<p>“I don’t recollect,” said Driscoll, puzzled, “there +was nothing hurting especially.”</p> + +<p>“No, no! Your sensations facing death, then escaping?”</p> + +<p>He brightened. “W’y yes,” he replied, happy to catch her +meaning. “I felt toler’ble busy.”</p> + +<p>She sighed despairingly. Yet there was plenty left her for wonderment, and in +it she revelled.</p> + +<p>“Ingenuity!” she mused. “I declare, I believe the first +human being to stand up on his hind legs must have been an American. It simply +occurred to him one day that he didn’t need all fours for walking, and +that he might as well use his before-feet for something else.”</p> + +<p>“And a Frenchman, Miss Jack-leen?”</p> + +<p>She flung up her hands.</p> + +<p>“<i>He!</i>” she exclaimed. “If ever a compatriot of mine +had gotten that idea into his–how you say?–pate, would he not carry +it out to the idiotic limit, yes? He? <i>He</i> would try to walk without any +feet whatever, and use <i>all</i> of them for other things. Already you have +seen him doing the, the pugilat–the box–with every one of his fours. +Voilà!”</p> + +<p>But time was passing. Lopez had certainly repaired his girths by this time. +Driscoll arose. “There’s a shorter way back,” he announced. +“The river junction can’t be far down stream, and I’ll wait +for you there, Miss Jack-leen, while you scout on ahead to the hacienda house. +If all’s clear, you signal and I will advance with the heavy +cavalry.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span>“C’est +bien, mon colonel.”</p> + +<p>“Whatever that means, I hope it ain’t mutiny.”</p> + +<p>At best it was only mock compliance. Jacqueline also knew that time was +passing, but she had not mentioned the fact. Now the reason transpired. She +harked back on their separation, with a grave earnestness and a saddened air of +finality. He was to leave her here, she said. He was to go back to his own +country. How badly had his reception fared so far? Why not, then, leave Mexico +to ingratitude, and have done? The romantic land of roses was notoriously a +blight to hopes. Why should he seek to thrive despite the mysterious curse that +seemed to hover over all things like a deadly miasma?</p> + +<p>Driscoll shook his head. “You know I have come to see +Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>“But you are under sentence. You will lose your life.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Jack-leen, you said a while back that I was your prisoner. You +have the Austrian escort. All right. You will deliver me to the Emperor,” +and he waved his hand as though the matter was arranged.</p> + +<p>“But monsieur,” she cried, “may not others have plans as +vital as yours? And, perhaps–yes, you interfere.”</p> + +<p>He did interfere, in grimmest truth. Leaving the Sphinx of the Tuileries, she +had come with her mission, and with an idea, too, of the obstacles that must be +vanquished. But here, almost at landing, she encountered a barrier left out of +her calculations, and which alone, unaided, she had to surmount. It was the +surrender of the Confederacy, and what this upsetting complication meant against +her own errand was embodied in the man before her. For in him lay the results of +the Surrender as affecting the Mexican empire. In a word, he brought aid for +Maximilian at the moment when Maximilian might be discouraged enough to give way +to France; when the forgetful prince might gladly leave all to the generous +nation which had placed him on his throne and which by him <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span>was cheated of the reward of its costly +empire building. Should the French threaten to withdraw, should they in reality +withdraw, still he would not abdicate, not with Confederate veterans to replace +the pantalons rouges. Like the dog of the fable, Maximilian would cling to the +manger.</p> + +<p>“Oui, oui, monsieur,” she repeated sharply, “you +interfere!”</p> + +<p>“In that case,” said Driscoll quietly, “I will leave you at +the river junction. When I see that you are safely at the +hacienda––”</p> + +<p>“You will go back to America?”</p> + +<p>“That need not worry you.”</p> + +<p>“Then you are <i>not</i> going back, back to your own country?” He +would keep on to the City alone. She would have no chance to intercept him. +After all Fate had been good to her–no, cruel!–to cast him in her +path. “You might find the Austrian escort safer than going alone,” +she said enticingly.</p> + +<p>He hesitated. What all this was about, he could not imagine. He knew nothing, +naturally, of the dark intrigues of an enigmatical adventurer far away in the +Tuileries, nor how they could affect him. And so he put away as absurd the fancy +that she in her turn might interfere with him. Besides, he was tempted.</p> + +<p>“It’s a go!” he said.</p> + +<p>She for her part was thinking, hoping, rather, that perhaps she was mistaken. +Perhaps he only bore the offer of a paltry few hundred, a handful of homeseekers +from his regiment. She hoped so. She would have prayed for it, had praying +occurred to her.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span><a id='link_26'></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Strangest Avowal of Love</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Nae living man I’ll love again,<br /> +Since that my lovely knight is slain.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Lament of the Border Widow.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Back once more at the hacienda, Driscoll recovered his coat still hanging +over the dungeon window. Lopez would have called it insolence, had he been there +instead of scouring the country toward Mexico. Jacqueline and Berthe settled +themselves in the traveling coach left for their comfort by Maximilian. +Driscoll’s effects, including his gray cape-coat and the bundle he had +carried behind his saddle, were found in his room at the House. Jacqueline took +them into the carriage with her, along with that absurd little valise that she +had brought from the ship for an hour’s jaunt on shore. Driscoll rode with +Ney and the Austrians, and was once again headed toward the capital, still sixty +fair Mexican leagues southward.</p> + +<p>For six days it was an uneventful journey, seemingly. By day there were +sierras, and valleys, and wayside crosses marking violent deaths. By night they +accepted either ranchero hospitality or put up at some village mesón. But within +himself, adventures were continuous and varying for the Storm Centre. He could +not account for the strange, curious elation that possessed him, especially when +Jacqueline would take Ney’s horse and ride at his side, perhaps for an +hour, when the sun was not too hot. Driscoll never knew how long these occasions +lasted. He did not know that they were long <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_210'></a>210</span>at all. As a matter of fact, he had ceased using +ordinary standards of measurement. The universe, and sordid accessories such as +time, radiated entirely about one little velvet patch near a dimple +satellite.</p> + +<p>There came to be long silences between them as they rode, either boy or girl +content to have it so, and neither the least bit lonesome. And they talked too, +naturally, though this was not so significant. She would slyly provoke him. To +her mind, there was never anyone quite so satisfying at a quarrel. She would +pause in delighted expectancy to see his eyes grow big when she thrust, and then +to see his mouth twitch at the corners as he caught her blade on his own keen +wit. She had forgotten that he was rustic, except for the added zest it gave. +Nor was there a false note in him, so happily and totally unconscious was he of +self. And as for a certain gaucherie, that was the spice to his whole +manner.</p> + +<p>They talked of many things; rather, she made him talk. She learned that his +name was John, as hers was Jeanne, and she wanted to know why the horse was +Demijohn.</p> + +<p>“Because, Miss Jack-leen,” he answered, “he’s my +other half, and sometimes the better one, too.” He remembered that once, +when he had drooped limp over the saddle, the buckskin had carried him out of +the fighting to the rear. “You see,” he added, “we were both +colts when our little shindy up there broke loose.”</p> + +<p>“And you both went? Ah, Monsieur the Patriot, you did go, you did +affront the tyrant? Yes!” She had the explorer’s eagerness. Perhaps +she might discover in him her own especial demon of self-introspection.</p> + +<p>“N-o,” he replied, “I reckon we went mostly for the fun of +the thing.”</p> + +<p>“Fi donc!” she cried. “But wait till you are old. Oh yes, +we have them too, those blessed, over-petted veterans of the Grande Armée. They +are in the Hôtel des Invalides, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_211'></a>211</span>with medals to diagnose their glory. Oh, là, là, but +there’s a pleasant fashion! The people, the politicians, they forget the +hot blood that fought simply because there were pretty blows to strike. They see +only the gray hairs. ‘Honneur aux patriotes!’ You wait, monsieur. You, +too, will be made into the hero, ex post facto, and you will believe it +yourself. Yes, with the wolves, one learns to howl.”</p> + +<p>“N-o,” said the young Confederate, “we–we got +licked.”</p> + +<p>They talked–he rather–of Missouri. He was not reluctant to have +stirred the memories of his home, not with one who could listen as she did. In +his heart settled a warmth that was good, and the glow of it shone on his face. +He became aware that the gray eyes were upon him, taking conscious note of his +hair, his mouth, his chin, as though she were really seeing him for the first +time. What made a girl do that way? He felt queerly, it being thus brought to +him that he had awakened interest in a woman, but the tribute she paid him was +ennobling, and a deep thankfulness, though to whom or for what he had not the +least idea, made more kindly and good the cheery warmth around his heart. The +gray eyes had never sparkled on him in coquetry as they sometimes did on other +men, and now they were grave and sweet. It was a phase of Jacqueline that only +her maid had known.</p> + +<p>The marquise gathered that Missour-<i>i</i>, as she called it, was an +exceedingly strange and fascinating region. She learned that it was a state, +like a department in France, like her own Bourbonnais for instance. But there +the comparison ended. The rest was all startling versatility. For the +inhabitants had not only taken both sides during the Civil War, but through +their governor had proclaimed themselves an independent republic into the +bargain. They must be unusual citizens, those Missourians.</p> + +<p>But they were strangest because they did not seem to be actors. They did not +refine living into a cult, with every <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_212'></a>212</span>pleasure and pain classified and weighed out and +valued. No, they actually lived. It was hard to realize this, but in the end she +did, and with ever increasing wonder, with also a beginning of envy and hunger. +But there was still another thing even more indefinable. It centered in the word +“home,” which she knew neither in French nor Spanish, but which she +came to know now, as its meaning grew upon her. It was more than a +“maison” or a “casa,” or a “chez nous.” It +was a manner of temple. And the high priest there was a grim lord. How very +grim, indeed! There was no compromise, no blinking, no midway gilded dais +between the marriage altar and the basest filth. As grim, this was, as that +original Puritanism which has become a synonym of American backbone. Grim, yes; +but the woman there, where the high priest blinked not, was a divinity. She was +a divinity in the tenderest and most devoted sense of the word. And the +Puritanism was purity enshrined, as a simple matter of course. The longing, if +only to know more of this odd country, rose in her mysteriously, and stronger +and stronger.</p> + +<p>When on one occasion she went back to the coach, she found that Berthe also +was enjoying the change to horseback. Jacqueline was glad of it. Now she could +be alone, and she believed that she wanted to think. But she could not pin down +what she wanted to think about; because, no doubt, there was so very much. +Instead, she looked vacantly at the Storm Centre’s cartridge belt and +pistols on the seat in front of her. They were grim, too, these playthings of a +boy.</p> + +<p>Dupin had left the weapons with Ney, back at the hacienda, and Ney had turned +them over to Jacqueline as to the real strategic chief of the expedition. And +Jacqueline had kept them, perhaps to look at, perhaps because of a whim that a +prisoner should not be armed. She liked to hear Driscoll mourn for them, not +knowing where they were, and she held back the surprise as one lingers before an +anticipated pleasure. She <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_213'></a>213</span>picked up the great, black revolvers with a +woman’s fascinated respect for the harsh, eternal male of her species, who +is primeval and barbaric yet, and ever will be, to hold his mate his very own. +Her touch was gingerly, but there was a caress in her fingers on the ugly +things.</p> + +<p>She lifted the belt. How heavy of metal it was! Idly, she thought she would +count the leaden missiles. When finally she laid the belt aside, a bullet +remained in her lap. It had fallen there out of its shell. Starting to fit the +bullet in again, she suddenly dropped both bullet and cartridge. Her hands +trembled. This particular shell contained no powder. But it contained a tightly +rolled slip of oiled paper. The cartridge was a dummy, a wee strong box for some +vital document.</p> + +<p>It was not for scruples against looking that she paused. On the contrary, it +was that she must look, absolutely, in sacred, patriotic duty bound, that +finally decided–nay, compelled her to look. Still she hesitated before +drawing out the paper. She dreaded what it might tell her. Concealed thus, and +revealed only by a hazard, the paper held, she felt certain, the secret and the +significance of the American’s errand to Mexico. And she did not want to +know. She reviled bitterly the cruel chance that had thrust it on her.</p> + +<p>She read. The paper was a communication addressed to the Emperor Maximilian +by the Confederate generals of the Trans-Mississippi department. Foreseeing +Lee’s surrender, they had gathered from Louisiana, Arkansas, and Texas, at +a place in the latter state named Marshall, and there they had decided that they +would not surrender. They would seek homes and a country elsewhere, swords in +hand. At this meeting, which had been inspired by Gen. Joe Shelby, they had +deposed the cautious general commanding, Kirby Smith, and they had put in his +stead Simon Bolivar Buckner. The Trans-Mississippi department numbered fifty +thousand men. There would also be fugitives from Lee’s and Johnson’s +corps, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span>besides +Jefferson Davis in person, should he contrive to pass the Federal lines. Many +thousands of veterans would shortly be marching across the Rio Grande. In Texas, +at the Confederate arsenals and depositories, they would seize what they needed: +guns, ammunition, horses, provisions, money. In Mexico they would become +citizens, and they would defend their new homes against outlawry, rebellion, or +invasion. The signatory generals prayed the Emperor Maximilian to consider this, +and “to do it quick.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline put the letter back in the cartridge, and everything looked as +before. But no genii, once out, can ever quite be bottled up again. That stray +bullet had wounded her to the heart.</p> + +<p>“As bad as fifty thousand!” she cried half aloud. “And they +will become citizens, too–Mon Dieu, <i>that</i> is a nation!”</p> + +<p>With them Maximilian would have a people behind him, and his throne would be +as a rock. He could, and most certainly would, disdain the French army of +occupation with its thirty thousand bayonets. The French might go back home. He +would speed them cheerfully, and henceforth be Emperor in fact.</p> + +<p>“But our treasure and our dead,” sighed Jacqueline bitterly, +“we cannot take <i>them</i> back. No, nor our hopes, though they weigh +little enough now, for that matter. Oh dear, and <i>I</i> am one of those +hopes!–Help me Heaven, else I shall hate my own country. Oh, I must be +true!–Now, <i>why</i> couldn’t those Missourians have +sent–someone else?”</p> + +<p>That evening she held a pen, but it would not move, not while her thoughts +were upon it. So, by sheer will, she nerved herself not to think, and wrote +mechanically. She wrote a message to Lopez, and another to Dupin, and yet a +third. The third brought the tears long before it was finished. An Austrian took +the first two, and rode all that night. She kept the other one herself.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span>This was the +fifth day of their journey since leaving Murguía’s hacienda. They had +taken pains to keep behind Lopez. Their pursuer, ahead of them, had not made +twenty miles the first day, for he had delayed in order to search here and +there. But the second day, he had evidently accepted failure, and hastened on to +overtake the Emperor. The Emperor himself, after traveling constantly for a +night and a day, had rested a night and half a day to reflect on his late +energy, and thereafter he was proceeding as roadside ovations would permit. +Accordingly on this, the fifth night, Lopez was close behind the Emperor, and +both were within a day of the capital, and less than a day ahead of Driscoll, +Jacqueline and Ney.</p> + +<p>All the next day Jacqueline kept to her coach. She was cross or nervously +excited or melancholy, and by erratic turns in every mood that was hopelessly +downcast, until her maid became well nigh frantic. At first Ney would hover near +in helpless concern, but she ordered him away angrily. However, the storm broke +at last when Driscoll reined in and waited at the roadside. She could see him +through the little front pane of glass as the carriage drew nearer, and she +watched with a fierce hunger in her eyes. All the time she stirred in greater +agitation, and her breath came more and more quickly. At the very last moment, +when a second later he might have seen her, she sprang to the window, looked +once again, then in a fury snatched at the shade and jerked it down. Driscoll +paused uncertain, but wheeled and galloped back to the head of the column. +Berthe turned to her mistress. She was lying weakly against the cushions, +staring at nothing and panting for air.</p> + +<p>Toward dusk they reached Tuxtla, a little pueblo on the highroad set mid +maguey farms that made the rolling hill slopes of Anahuac look like a +giant’s cabbage patch. In the distance, under two snow-capped peaks +beyond, the mosaic domes and sandstone towers and painted walls of the capital +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span>glittered in the +setting sun like some picture of an Arabian city vaguely known to memory. The +travelers were not a dozen miles from their destination, but Berthe announced +that madame her mistress would rest at Tuxtla for the night.</p> + +<p>The Austrians were quartered in the village, and Ney and Driscoll found +accommodations for the two girls and themselves farther down the road, at the +house of a maguey grower whom they persuaded to vacate. While it was still light +Driscoll amused himself strolling alone between the rows of the great century +plants. Under their leaves, curving high above his head, he watched peons with +gourds suck out the honey water from the onion-like bulbs into goatskin bags. +After a time he wandered through the hacendado’s primitive distillery and +on back to the house, with a feeling for supper.</p> + +<p>As he entered, he heard the clanking of a sabre in the dark room. He thought +nothing of it, but almost at once something cut through the air and a noose fell +over him. He swung round, but the rope jerked tight about his knees, and he +lurched and swayed as an oak before the axe. He struck with his fist and had a +groan for reward, but a second lariat circled his shoulders and bound his arms +to his body. As he went down under the weight of men, the shutters were thrown +open, and he looked up into the red-lidded eyes of Colonel Lopez. A troop of +cavalry was passing on the road outside, and he caught the sound of wheels +departing.</p> + +<p>“You hear?” said Lopez. “The marquesa is going to the City, +having decided not to wait for you. But she leaves a note, pour prendre congé, +eh? You will perhaps have time to read it before the shooting.”</p> + +<p>Once more Driscoll found himself in an adobe with a sputtering candle for +company. But he also had her note. It was the third of the messages which she +had written the night before.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_217'></a>217</span>“Monsieur,” it began, “I cannot +let you die without telling you that it was I who betrayed––”</p> + +<p>He jumped to his feet. “Oh–the pythoness!” he breathed +fervently.</p> + +<p>“––who betrayed you,” the letter read. “That you know +this, monsieur, that your last thought shall be a curse at me, such will be my +punishment. It is a self inflicted one, because you need not have known what I +have done. The telling of this to you is my scourge, but it is not penitence. +Worse and more unbearable is my sorrow that the penitence will never come, that +I can feel no remorse, no more than if some inevitable thing, like the fever, +had taken you. I would always do again what I have just done; as pitiless as I +must be for you, Fate is for me. Your life, monsieur, is but added to the +hundreds already snuffed out in this country for France’s sake. Those +hundreds are my countrymen, and you, if you lived till to-morrow, would make +<i>their</i> offering useless. I have tried to save you, monsieur, but you would +not permit. You would not return to your own country, and–there was no +other way. But do not think there will come emissaries in your place. Do not +believe that I would so send you to death needlessly. There will be no +emissaries after you. Your Confederates shall know that Maximilian’s court +martial executed you, and is it that your compatriotes will then desire to help +Maximilian? Believe–only believe, monsieur–that it is a cruel duty +not permitting that I shall listen to my heart. If you but knew, if you but +knew–and you shall know. Monsieur Driscoll–oh, mon chevalier, it is +that I love you. There, know then, dear heart cheri, the enormity of my +sacrifice. Know the necessity of it. Know that I envy you, for you are going, +and I must stay, all alone, without you. Mon bien aimé, <i>without you</i>, +through all my long life!”</p> + +<p>She had signed it simply, “Jacqueline.”</p> + +<p>Again Driscoll was on his feet. He paced up and down the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span>room. “There’s one +thing,” he muttered, “and that is, there’s nothing between her +and Maximilian, not when she’s keeping help from him.” And on he +paced, his fists opening and clenching. Suddenly he came to a dead halt.</p> + +<p>“By God,” he cried, “I’m not going to be shot, no +sir, not now, not after–not after this letter!”</p> + +<p>Here was neither boy nor warrior. It was very much in the way of a lover.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span><a id='link_27'></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Berthe</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Il y a deux êtres en nous: l’acteur et le spectateur.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Sienkiewicz.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The same evening, though two hours later, a public hack entered an outlying +quarter of the City of Mexico called San Cosme, and drew up before a white +mansion with beautiful gardens. A young girl with soft brown hair and gentle +eyes got out, ran to the door, and brought down the ponderous knocker so +terrifically that it abashed her, for all her present agitation. To the flunkey, +who noted the public hack and was reproachful, she said, “I must see His +Excellency. Here, I have written my name on Mademoiselle d’Aumerle’s card. +I am her maid. Say to Monsieur le Maréchal that he will regret it, if I do not +see him at once. Quick now, you!”</p> + +<p>If possessed of guile, Berthe could not have done better. With +Jacqueline’s card, used only because it had a blank side, her admittance +was certain and immediate.</p> + +<p>She passed the lackey into a luxurious apartment, Marshal Bazaine’s +private cabinet. At one end there was a Japanese screen with a lamp behind, and +at intervals came the sound of someone turning the leaves of a book. But Berthe +thought solely of her errand. The marshal, thick necked, heavy cheeked and +stocky, was standing, waiting for her.</p> + +<p>“So,” he exclaimed, “milady is arrived, eh, and you bring +me her commands?”</p> + +<p>“No, Your Excellency, my mistress does not know that I am here. When +she learns, she will dismiss me. I––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span>The marshal of +France grew cold. “It was a decoy then, the card you used?” he +interrupted. “And was that one also, young woman, when you threatened that +I should regret––”</p> + +<p>“You will indeed regret, monsieur, if you do not let me speak. +There’s a mistake to correct if–if it’s not too +late.”</p> + +<p>The chief of the Army of Occupation shrugged his shoulders until the back of +his neck folded over itself. He had been correcting mistakes ever since +Maximilian’s landing. But he was a child of the people himself, and the +distress in her eyes made him patient. “Well, what is it?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>“It is an American. They will shoot him, monsieur!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, one who interests the young person now before me, eh?”</p> + +<p>“And I want you to stop them, monsieur! I want––”</p> + +<p>“Child, child, whom am I to stop?”</p> + +<p>“Colonel Lopez, monsieur. The American escaped once, but mademoiselle +gave him up again. He’d saved mademoiselle’s life, too. And +mine.”</p> + +<p>The veteran soldier rubbed his finger tips on his bald, bullet-like head. +“He saves her, and she gives him to Lopez. He must be an important species +of American!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“There, don’t worry. His Majesty will pardon your friend +to-morrow–if,” he added to himself, “only from +habit.”</p> + +<p>“But Lopez will shoot him before the Emperor knows.”</p> + +<p>The marshal had shrewd eyes, and now they opened wide. “Getting more +important, our American!” he grumbled uneasily. “Berthe, did your +mistress know that Lopez would shoot him before he could be pardoned?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, monsieur.”</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> + <a id='ill_220'></a> +<img src='images/illus-220.jpg' id="img008" alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“BERTHE”<br />“... Brought down the ponderous knocker so terrifically that it<br />abashed her, for all her present agitation” +</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span>“Name of a +name, what does she want him killed for? Why is this drôle of a Lopez in such a +hurry?–See here, child, you know something more. What did you mean by my +regretting––”</p> + +<p>“Because, because everybody seemed to think that the poor brave +American had come with an offer of aid for Maximilian, and as you need more +troops, I thought––”</p> + +<p>“Who, in all mercy, is this American?”</p> + +<p>“A Confederate officer, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>Not one man, but two, paced the floor because of Jacqueline that evening. The +second was the marshal of France, and he went at it now, on hearing of the first +man. “A Confederate officer?” There were twin creases over his +straight nose, furrows of vexed and intense thinking. The lone Southerner was +linked intimately in his reflections with the parliament of a great nation. The +people of France had never warmed to the Mexican dream, and the Chambers already +were clamoring for the return of the troops. And now, for every Confederate +enlisted, a pantalon rouge could be sent back home. But why–name of a +name–should Jacqueline try to prevent?</p> + +<p>“Did she,” he asked, but not very hopefully, “did she have +any cause to dislike this American?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, monsieur!” The cry was pained surprise. That her mistress +could or would pay a grudge! “On the contrary,” she protested +vehemently, “I have never seen her so moved, never, and if <i>you</i> had +seen her, monsieur, as we left Tuxtla! I thought she must surely lose her mind. +One cannot imagine her terror. She cried to the driver, to the outriders, to +lash the mules, harder, faster, till it’s a miracle we did not crash over +a cliff. And all the time she would look back, and at every sound she would clap +her hands over her ears and cry out to know if that was shooting. And then she +would pound at the window to them to go faster. She wanted to get out of +hearing, monsieur. It was only when we were really here in the City that she +quieted, but that was worse. She lay and moaned. I cried, I could not help it, +hearing her. She would <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_222'></a>222</span> mutter things, too. ‘France, France!’ she +said once, and it made me shudder. One almost thought she had a dagger in her +hand––”</p> + +<p>“Never mind, what else did she say?”</p> + +<p>“She said, ‘Oh, I hate thee, my country!’ but she wasn’t in +her mind, oh no, monsieur. Then she grew very still, and that frightened me more +yet. Once I even thought she was dead, and I put my arm about her. But her heart +was beating, and her eyes were open, wide open and dry. I could see, for we were +passing between the Paseo lights. I laid her head on my breast, and after a +while I heard her lips move. ‘God bless him! God–Oh, I hope there +<i>is</i> a God, just for this, to bless him, and keep him!’”</p> + +<p>“H’m’m,” said the marshal, and went back and forth +again, more perplexed than ever.</p> + +<p>Berthe watched him anxiously, jealous of each moment lost. Once she started +to speak, but his gesture for silence was such that she did not dare a second +time. There was no other sound in the room except the tramp, tramp on the soft +carpet. Even the occasional turning of a leaf behind the screen had ceased. +Bazaine was groping cautiously in the mystery. A state reason, and no personal +one, had compelled Jacqueline; that much was certain. Direct from the Tuileries, +she was weighted under some grievous responsibility, and this night, back there +at Tuxtla, she had been true to it. And whatever it was, it exacted imperatively +that no Confederate aid should reach Maximilian. Such was Napoleon’s wish, +however contradictory to official instructions. But the marshal was sufficiently +a disciple of the little Napoleonic statecraft to beware of meddling. He fretted +under methods whereby the whisper of the Sphinx reached him through private and +unofficial agents, but it was a great deal to catch the Sphinx’s whisper +at all. Besides, he owed his elevation to this enigma of Europe, and he meant to +be loyal.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_223'></a>223</span>“Berthe,” he said at last, +“there’s just one man who can interfere where Mademoiselle d’Aumerle +disposes, but he is rather far away. I mean the Emperor of France.”</p> + +<p>The little Bretonne looked, comprehended, and burst into tears. “My +dear mistress!” she sobbed.</p> + +<p>There was the sound of a book dropped on a table, and the screen was brushed +aside.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” came a softly ironical voice, “a woman might so +much as veto our mighty Jacqueline. At any rate, suppose we try it, Don +Pancho.”</p> + +<p>Bazaine had forgotten his wife, his bride, who, to be near him, often retired +behind the screen when he was busy with others. Hers was the loving ambition of +a Lady Macbeth, in that a husband’s secret was never one for her.</p> + +<p>“Step into this little room,” she said to Berthe, opening a door. +“It will not take long,” she added, an assured light in her dark +Spanish eyes.</p> + +<p>“You will save him, madame? You––”</p> + +<p>“Against all the marshals of France, child. Go, wait in +there.”</p> + +<p>The marshal of France present smiled on his bride indulgently, admiringly, as +she closed the door and faced him.</p> + +<p>She was less than half his age, the girl wife of a gray-haired veteran, and +as his wife she was second lady of the land. A Mexican aristocrat, small and +slender, of a subtle, winsome beauty, with the prettiest mouth and the most +pyramidal of crinolines, she had reminded Bazaine of his first wife, and he had +courted her. At the wedding Maximilian had stood padrino for the groom, and +Charlotte madrina for the bride. The imperial gift to groom and bride was Buena +Vista, as the white mansion and gardens in San Cosme were called. Naturally, +then, Madame la Maréchale approved of Napoleon’s +<i>official</i> instructions, which directed that Monsieur le Maréchal was to +establish the Mexican empire solidly and for all time.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span>Now her manner +of calling the marshal Pancho was considerable of an argument, especially when, +archly formal, she made it Don Pancho. What if this Confederate aid were to go +to the Mexican rebels, as it surely would if the emissary at Tuxtla were shot? +And, without either French or Confederates, the Empire would fall, the rebels +would win; and then, she wanted to know, what would become of their beautiful +home, of their high position? Moreover, the United States was threatening to +drive the French from Mexico, and Madame la Maréchale believed it a very good +thing for the French to have at their side some of the very men who had held +those Yankees back for four long years.</p> + +<p>Bazaine wavered. Then he smiled. This Mexican bride of his was Mexican all +the time; and French, sometimes not at all. She had not the big trust in the +pantalons rouges when it came to those Yankees.</p> + +<p>“But, Pancho mio,” she went on softly, “now for the real +reason, the one that holds you back. It is your Emperor Napoleon, verdad? You +think that he does not want this offer to reach Maximilian. Bien, have you had +any intimation of what he wants? Any orders? Of course you haven’t. Then +save this American. Look at me–Don Pancho, I say-if––”</p> + +<p>“Sapristi, call the girl in! No, first I must have––”</p> + +<p>When madame could free herself from what he must have, she opened the door +and triumphantly called to Jacqueline’s maid.</p> + +<p>A half-hour later, in one of the marshal’s own carriages, Berthe +returned to the castle of Chapultepec. At once she hastened to her +mistress’s apartments, and confessed what she had done. Still in the blue +flowered calico, with the dust of their frantic ride still on her, Jacqueline +was seated before a little desk. Her head was buried in her arms, and her +loosened hair fell like a shower of copper over her shoulders. She did <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span>not move as Berthe +entered, nor give any sign. But when in a word the story was told, she got to +her feet and stared blankly at the girl. Berthe expected dismissal, but the next +instant two arms were about her, and lips were pressed to hers, and hot tears, +not her own, wetted her cheek.</p> + +<p>“Berthe, you little addle-pated goose! You–oh you little ninny, +you, you––” Her phrases were broken by laughter, then by an +uncontrollable peal that was near a shriek, “Little, little fool, dost +thou know, thou hast this night lost to France fifteen thousand leagues of +empire? Thou–thou––” Yet kisses were again the portion of the +thief of fifteen thousand leagues.</p> + +<p>“But do you think they will be in time, Berthe? Yes, yes, you’ve +answered that once. And Michel leads them, you say?”</p> + +<p>“Oui, madame, Monsieur Ney was most eager to go, above all when His +Excellency gave him Frenchmen to command. They are the cuirassiers. They will +surely save the American monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“But will they be in time? Yes, yes, I think I’ve asked that +already.”</p> + +<p>Her hysteric glee, changing to anxiety, now changed as quickly to something +else. Her face went deathly white, the pretty jaws set hard, and there was the +glint of resolution in the gray eyes. She seized a cloak and threw it about +her.</p> + +<p>“Come,” she said to the maid.</p> + +<p>“Madame is going––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, to <i>undo</i> your mischief. Bazaine must send to overtake Ney, +must command him <i>not</i> to interfere with the execution. Bazaine will do +this, when I see him.”</p> + +<p>“But you will not find His Excellency to-night. Madame la Maréchale +ordered the carriage for them both, as I was leaving there.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span>“Indeed? +Then she knew you were coming here to me? Then she did not mention where they +were going?”</p> + +<p>“No, madame.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. Oh, she is cunning, your Madame la +Maréchale!”</p> + +<p>Alas for Jacqueline! She might conquer herself, but add to herself a second +woman against her, and she was beaten. She confessed defeat by throwing off the +cloak.</p> + +<p>“Tuxtla is far, you think they will–will––”</p> + +<p>“Oh I think they will, madame!”</p> + +<p>“Say you <i>know</i> they will! Say it, Berthe, say it!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I hope so, madame. Monsieur the American is lucky.”</p> + +<p>The American? Somehow the blood swept hotly into Jacqueline’s cheeks. +“Say they will <i>not</i> save him, Berthe. Say no, no, no!” she +commanded, and imperiously stamped her foot, but stamp as she would, her furious +shame was there still, flaunting its glorious color. She was thinking of her +letter, of her avowal to a doomed man. After that, <i>any</i> man was under +obligations to get himself shot. Only, this one was of a contrary fibre.</p> + +<p>In such an April mood, Jacqueline was capable of yet another caprice. +“Berthe,” she cried, even as the whim came, “one is tired +after playing the goose, n’est-ce pas? Do you, then, rest–yes, yes, while +I comb your hair.”</p> + +<p>“Madame!” Berthe protested with what breath astonishment left +her.</p> + +<p>“Do ye call me chief?” demanded the mistress. “Then, de +grace, sit still! And why shouldn’t I, parbleu? If it took our big French +Revolution to throw me up an ancestor out of the common kettle, there has just +now been another revolution here”–she pressed a hand against her +breast–“to stir me back among the people again. Do you know, dear, +that your hair is beautiful!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span>And so they were +two girls, girl-like, passing the evening together.</p> + +<p>Of a sudden Jacqueline stopped, the braiding arrested by a most startling +thought.</p> + +<p>“Grands dieux,” she told herself slowly, for it had to be +believed, however improbable, “until this very moment I’ve never +once stopped to think of all the emotions I have been having this day. +I’ve never once examined them, and such emotions–Oh, là, là, +they’re a collection, a veritable museum of creeps! And here I’ve +hurried through that museum, till I’ve even forgotten my umbrella at the +check stand!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span><a id='link_28'></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Mike</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Quand on est aimé d’une belle femme, on se tire toujours d’affaire.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Zoroaster, vide Voltaire</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The Storm Centre chafed under a mad desire to verify his name, which was not +unusual. But it was the first time he had ever craved active danger as an +antidote for his thoughts. The sound of bars lifting came as a relief, and he +shook off the dark mood and was himself. Before the door opened, he thrust her +letter into the candle flame. He had kept it till the last minute, but now he +burned it, as she knew he would.</p> + +<p>Instead of executioners, he beheld a tray, gripped by chocolate hands. +Involuntarily he looked up to the face above the tray.</p> + +<p>“Johnny the Baptist!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, how goes +it itself to Your Mercy this evening?”</p> + +<p>“Pues bien, señor,” returned the Baptist, grinning sheepishly. +“Would, would Y’r Mercy like another bath?” The grimace was not +unamiable. It betokened that this time he, and not the prisoner, might have a +game to play.</p> + +<p>“A thousand thanks,” replied Driscoll, “but I’ll try +to make that other bath answer.”</p> + +<p>“But señor, you wasted it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, perhaps so. You see, Johnny, it was this way. I had only one +bath coming, and on the other hand there were two things to save. Do you know, +Johnny, I’ve been mortified ever since, to think how I squandered my one +bath in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span>saving just +my life, and how I left my soul to bustle along for itself.”</p> + +<p>The Baptist drew nearer. “But suppose, señor,” he whispered, +“suppose the need of absolution was again postponed, even now?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s fork stopped half way to his mouth. There was no +superstition in the affair this time. The once gullible Dragoon, moreover, was +playing all the leads. “Of course,” Driscoll agreed heartily, +“I’d certainly like it right well,” and he went on eating. But +his wits were in a receptive state, alert for the meaning when it should come. +The opening innuendoes exasperated him, for the guard was a clumsy agent. The +man must needs feign a great dread of discovery, and tremble lest his colonel, +Don Miguel Lopez, should find him out. As though supper, instead of a shooting +squad, did not belie it all?</p> + +<p>“Still your move, Johnny,” Driscoll had to remind him.</p> + +<p>In the end it was to be gathered that Don Benito Juarez, the fugitive Señor +Presidente of the fugitive Republic, might welcome an offer of Confederate aid, +and ’twas a pity that the condemned señor should have no chance to escape. +But if he did escape, he might find his way to the Señor Presidente far off in +the state of Chihuahua.</p> + +<p>So, the cards were dealt at last. Driscoll looked over his hand. He +recognized a crooked game, a game of treachery and dark dealing; but even so he +perceived that a trump or two had fallen to him, perhaps unwittingly, and he +decided to “sit in for a spell.”</p> + +<p>He began, with coy hesitancy, to beat his scruples around the bush, which was +not a bad lead. Supposing he turned his offer from Maximilian to President +Juarez, wouldn’t it, well, look as though he did so to save his hide? +Brown Johnny opened his eyes as at something unfamiliar. Driscoll went on. If he +were shot, how was he to go to Juarez? But if he, uh, happened to get loose, he +might just possibly be influenced <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_230'></a>230</span>to think of the Juarez proposal. But actually buying +his way out would look dishonorable. “Now,” he concluded abruptly, +“run along, and put it that way to whoever sent you.”</p> + +<p>The man protested, and in some genuine alarm, that he had no employers.</p> + +<p>“Oh all right,” said Driscoll easily, “then you’re +bound to help me. Because if you don’t, I’ll sure tell Lopez what +you’ve just been trying to hatch up here.”</p> + +<p>The trap worked beautifully, for the guard tried hard to quake. But his +fright was not spontaneous enough. Driscoll smiled. Now he knew the real player +in the game.</p> + +<p>“Cheer up, Johnny,” he spoke soothingly, “I’d not +tell on you. But hadn’t you better go and think it over by yourself a +little?”</p> + +<p>The Baptist would hasten straight to Lopez, and Lopez, Driscoll foresaw, +would interpret his scruples into a disguised acceptance. The crookedness of the +game left the American no other trump, and he played it–against immediate +death. Lopez, of course, would send him under guard to Juarez, but Driscoll +thought he could trust that staunch old Roman, when once informed, to call for a +new deck and an honest deal.</p> + +<p>Juan Bautista “thought it over” outside, and directly returned +with an answer. But when he again left Driscoll, he did not bar the door behind +him. Within ten minutes thereafter Driscoll was creeping past a sleeping +sentinel, on between rows of maguey, toward the road. Around him hovered five or +six shadows. They were to be his escort and take him to Juarez. They would join +him openly a safe distance away, at a place where their horses waited. But as he +emerged upon the road, for the moment alone, a voice in French challenged +sharply. “Halte-là!”</p> + +<p>The shadows hesitated an instant, then showed themselves with energy. They +sprang out and closed on their “escaped” prisoner. They handled him +more roughly than did the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_231'></a>231</span>Contra Guerrillas, who had first cried +“Halt,” and who were now appearing as by magic. The blended anger +and gratification of the shadows over the escape and recapture was vociferously +sincere.</p> + +<p>“Take them all, mes enfants,” a huge tone of command filled the +darkness. It was Colonel Dupin. He had that moment arrived. Jacqueline’s +message had reached him in the City not an hour before. The American had +escaped, it said; he was at Tuxtla. The Tiger, knowing nothing of Lopez lying in +wait for the same American at the same place, had dismounted his men, surrounded +town and farms, and was closing in, when Driscoll himself fell among them.</p> + +<p>The interview between Dupin and Lopez brewed stormy at first. The latter +turned gray under his ruddy skin when Dupin walked in upon him in the front room +of the farmhouse. But seeing that his own men were holding Driscoll, he +nervously congratulated them upon the capture.</p> + +<p>“How did he escape this second time?” demanded the Frenchman. +“It seems to me, mon colonel, that the question would occur to you +too.”</p> + +<p>Lopez was sufficiently alive to his peril. He quickly sent two Dragoons to +the temporary guard house to investigate. Dupin curtly ordered two Cossacks to +accompany them. Soon they brought back the sentinel who had been conveniently +asleep when Driscoll slipped past. The sentinel rubbed his eyes as he faced +Lopez. So far everything had passed according to arrangement, and he looked for +a severe mock examination. But the Tiger had been left out of the calculations, +and the Tiger forthwith shouldered himself into the inquisition.</p> + +<p>“Do you understand, Colonel Lopez, that your guard here was asleep? Si, +señor, asleep! What now, mon colonel, is the little custom as to guards who +sleep?”</p> + +<p>Lopez glared at the sentinel. It was a fine simulation of outraged +discipline, and so life-like that when he spoke of a <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span>court martial, the culprit weakened. He +opened his mouth. At that Lopez’s stern anger became real. He feared the +sentinel would tell all he knew.</p> + +<p>“Si señor,” cried Lopez, “we don’t have to be taught, +we Mexicans. We shoot them. Here, six of you, out with him! Quick, before he can +whine!”</p> + +<p>“Go with them,” added Dupin quietly to six of his Cossacks.</p> + +<p>The sentinel was dragged out. His cries, whether for mercy or not, were +smothered first by a sabre belt, and then for all time by musketry. The Cossacks +returned and assured their chief that the execution was bona fide. This allayed +Dupin’s suspicions.</p> + +<p>“Permit me to suggest, Colonel Lopez,” he said courteously, +“that you likewise honor our friend the American. I came from the City to +do it myself, but it is a pleasure to give way before your superior +vigilance.”</p> + +<p>It had already occurred to Lopez that Driscoll also might talk. “You +are very amiable, Señor Dupin,” he replied. “My court martial found +him guilty, and as a matter of fact, he would have paid the penalty by now had +Your Mercy not arrived. Between us, Colonel Dupin, he will hardly escape a third +time.”</p> + +<p>At his command six of the crack Dragoons stood forth. They were brown, and +Mexicans. Lopez bowed to Dupin, who called forth as many Contras. The Contras +were of variously hued races, but they were all the Tiger’s whelps. The +file of Dragoons was jaunty crimson, the other corroded red. Driscoll fell in +meekly between them.</p> + +<p>“Sacred name of a dog, you are honored, señor!” Dupin exclaimed +reprovingly. It angered him when a victim quailed. The present one ought to +appreciate, too, that he was answering for two besides himself, for Murguía and +Rodrigo, whose escape had wrenched the old warrior’s bowels.</p> + +<p>The Storm Centre glanced at the picked hussars, at the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span>famously infamous Cossacks, and assented +modestly. So plain in gray, he did indeed look colorless among them. The Contra +at his elbow was an American, whose brutish, swaggering scowl meant the world to +know what a bad man he was. The type gives the decent citizen a mad desire to be +bad himself just once, only long enough to prove the tough a contemptible sham. +Driscoll’s neighbor leered ferociously, that the prisoner flanked by +sabres and muskets might respect him and be cowed. Driscoll kept him in mind, +and in the tail of his eye.</p> + +<p>There was one anxiety for the Storm Centre. If they should bind him! But they +had not, he was so docile. And as they marched out the door, he exulted, and +could hardly wait. Wouldn’t it be a lovely row, though! Just one good, +last good time! He did not feel hard toward them, not when they had left off the +ropes. He felt that he was to have value received, and all the while he figured +out his desperate campaign.</p> + +<p>As they passed outside beyond the window’s sphere of light, docility +changed to whirlwind. A blow with his left, a jerk with his right, and he had +the tough’s carbine. He swung it between the two files, a grazing circle. +He got blows in return, but not a man fired. That was because of the darkness, +and a first shot would inspire a wild, general fusillade, endangering them all. +As it was, the blows were impartial, except one, which came down with pointed +favoritism on the tough’s cranium. After that Driscoll helped one side or +another, and when they were nicely mixed, he ran. He got as far as the road, but +to find a troop of cavalry charging down upon him. Changing ends with the +carbine, he fired from the waist at the leader of the new arrivals. This leader +dropped his sabre, plunged heavily, and was dragged by the stirrup. Driscoll had +not the time to change back to club musket, he used the barrel as such. But +being for the instant alone, he was marked <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_234'></a>234</span>out, and Cossacks and Dragoons threw themselves upon +him and brought him down.</p> + +<p>“It <i>was</i> lovely,” he muttered under the heap.</p> + +<p>They brought him back to the house, swathed in a mesh of lariats. Lopez +awaited them, frothing oaths. Dupin was there too, and he looked an +epicure’s satisfaction as they stood his victim against the wall. He did +not regret the incident, since it had turned porridge into so choice a +morsel.</p> + +<p>“’Tis you, monsieur,” he confessed with rugged grace, “who +have honored us.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, your grandmother!” said Driscoll.</p> + +<p>“Well, be patient. It will be all over in a minute more.”</p> + +<p>The Tiger was, in fact, ordering the shooting squad, when through the open +door glittering helmets and excited French and clanking sabres flooded the room. +It was still another wondrous uniform for Driscoll, this of the cuirassiers, +with so much of brass, and a queue of horse’s hair, and loose pantaloons +that merged into gigantic black boots. In they strode, an agitated host of +bristling moustaches, while outside was the restless sound of many hard breathed +horses. The cuirassiers bore their wounded leader, and laid him on the iron bed +in the room. But the man struggled to his feet. He called loudly for +“Monsieur le Colonel,” and only by force, though gentle, could they +hold him quiet.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” responded both Dupin and Lopez.</p> + +<p>“I, I mean the American Colonel. He–he––”</p> + +<p>“Hello, Mike!” cried Driscoll.</p> + +<p>He could not see for the others, nor move, but he recognized the voice of +Michel Ney. He knew, too, that Michel must be the cavalry leader he had just +shot. “Darn it, Mike!” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry! But +weren’t there enough of ’em without you?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Ney,” the Tiger interrupted, “let your men tend +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span>you here, and we +will be back at once to see what can be done for your hurt. But just +now––”</p> + +<p>He signed to Lopez, and Cossacks and Dragoons caught up the prisoner and +started for the door.</p> + +<p>“Wait!” Ney moaned feebly.</p> + +<p>“Tonnerre, mon prince, your wound must be paid for, first. Hurry there, +Messieurs les Imbeciles!”</p> + +<p>“Wait!” Ney gasped. He half raised himself, but sank back with +closing eyes. He made a gesture to his breast. All halted as in the presence of +death.</p> + +<p>“Help him, you there!” cried Driscoll. “Open his +coat!”</p> + +<p>The cuirassiers, eager, awkward nurses, fluttered round the bed, and tore +away the sky-blue jacket, thinking to find the wound beneath. Instead, they drew +out a paper. One of them read the address on it.</p> + +<p>“Al Señor Coronel Don Miguel Lopez.”</p> + +<p>Lopez broke the seal, frowned, and put the message in his pocket. +“Nothing–oh, nothing important,” he volunteered. “Now, +once for all, let us finish our work.”</p> + +<p>“Wait!” a faint whisper came from the bed.</p> + +<p>“He says to wait,” doggedly repeated a cuirassier.</p> + +<p>“Yes, wait,” Driscoll pleaded suddenly. “Just a minute, +before I go, before we both go, perhaps,”–he thought in a flash that +it might be a last word from Jacqueline–“perhaps, gentlemen, he, he +has something to tell me.”</p> + +<p>But Ney’s head, moving weakly on the pillow, was a negative.</p> + +<p>The prisoner’s voice grew firm again.</p> + +<p>“Then hurry up!” he ordered in the old querulous drawl. +“Don’t you know I’m in a hurry?”</p> + +<p>Ney opened his eyes as he heard the shuffling of feet. Men were carrying out +the prisoner. With feeble anger he brushed aside the hand of a cuirassier who +was trying to staunch the blood at his groin.</p> + +<p>“I–I––” His lips barely moved.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span>The cuirassier +sprang to his feet. He looked to his fellows, spoke to them. Puzzled, mystified, +they rushed to the door and barred the way.</p> + +<p>“We don’t know why we came,” stammered one, “and he +can’t speak. But his signs are enough for us. It’s, +it’s––”</p> + +<p>“It’s something to do with the American,” declared a second +cuirassier.</p> + +<p>Dupin pounded back his half unsheathed blade. Brusquely he wheeled and faced +the colonel of Dragoons. “Lopez,” he roared, “what was that +message?”</p> + +<p>“N-nothing, mi coronel, absolutely.”</p> + +<p>“If it was from Maximilian, I’d know it to be a pardon, and not +blame you. But I recognized the marshal’s seal, and that’s +different.”</p> + +<p>Lopez blanched, yet insisted again that the message was nothing. +“Besides, señor,” he added, “I do not take orders from His +Excellency, the marshal.”</p> + +<p>“But <i>I</i> do,” thundered Dupin. “And I see them obeyed +too. Oh, you can protest to your Emperor afterwards, my royal guardsman, if you +want to, but a marshal of France is the law when I am near.”</p> + +<p>Grunting contemptuously, Dupin turned to the bedside. The cuirassiers had +gathered cobwebs from the rafters, and were dressing the wound. Michel tossed +and groaned in the beginning of delirium. Dupin muttered with vexation, but he +took hold of the lad’s wrist, and firmly closed his hand over it.</p> + +<p>“Listen,” he said, very distinctly, putting into his tones every +timbre of quiet, compelling will. “Listen, hear me!”</p> + +<p>Slowly the feverish man grew still.</p> + +<p>“Hear me,” said Dupin. “There are two questions–two, +only two. You are to answer them.–You will shake your head, ‘Yes,’ +or ‘No’–do you hear me?”</p> + +<p>The Chasseur’s eyes opened wide, and they were calm.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span>“Good, +that’s the brave gentleman! Now then, steady. The first question: Shall we +shoot this American?”</p> + +<p>Slowly, painfully, the head rocked on the pillow, from one side to the +other.</p> + +<p>“It’s ‘No’!” cried a score of men.</p> + +<p>“Silence!” roared the Tiger. “Now, the second question: +Does this order come from Marshal Bazaine?”</p> + +<p>Michel’s chin sank to his breast. He groaned, he could not lift it +again.</p> + +<p>“Yes, thank––” Ney himself, his voice!</p> + +<p>Dupin swung round. “Colonel Lopez,” he ordered savagely, +“you will turn your prisoner over to Sergeant Ney, at once, sir! Open your +mouth, you dog, and every Dragooning dandy of a Mexican among +you––”</p> + +<p>The Tiger’s pistols were drawn. His whelps looked hopeful. The +cuirassiers bristled in sympathy.</p> + +<p>Cracking his finger nails, fawning to the marrow, Lopez agreed.</p> + +<p>“Unbind the prisoner,” ordered Dupin.</p> + +<p>“Thank God!” came faintly from the bed.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span><a id='link_29'></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Whisper of the Sphinx</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“La politique, première des sciences inexactes.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Emile Augier.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Jacqueline had divined in Bazaine another obstacle to her mission. And yet it +seemed preposterous that he should not be her staunchest ally, since Napoleon +had found a marshal’s baton for him in his knapsack, just as he had +transformed his own policeman’s club into a sceptre. Nevertheless +Jacqueline had her doubts, and they were homage to her sex. In other words, she +returned to Mexico to find that His Excellency had married again.</p> + +<p>The very day after her arrival she called to see her dear friend, now Madame +la Maréchale. The two women were hardly more than girls, but who shall fathom +the depth of their guile? They kissed each other affectionately on the cheek, +and while the marshal was in the other room, reading the packet Jacqueline had +brought him from Napoleon, they expressed earnestly their joy at meeting +again.</p> + +<p>When Bazaine returned, madame rose to leave them to their “stupid state +affairs.” The marshal smiled, knowing how ravenous was his bride for the +same stupid affairs of state, but Jacqueline agreed that indeed they were +wearisome. Of course she might tell His Excellency much about Paris, but as to +politics–and her little shrug bespoke a Sahara of ignorance.</p> + +<p>In the packet delivered by Jacqueline, the Sphinx had by no means turned +oracle, and Bazaine wished to know what <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_239'></a>239</span>his crafty master would have said between the lines. +But the first topic of their conference was Driscoll.</p> + +<p>“Your prisoner is incommunicado then?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Have no fears, he is comfortable, here in this very house?”</p> + +<p>“He has sent no word to Maximilian of his arrival?”</p> + +<p>“Not as yet, mademoiselle.”</p> + +<p>“And why not, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Because I anticipated the honor of seeing you before permitting him so +much. I must know the campaign better. A plain soldier is dense at guessing, +mademoiselle, while you–you have talked with Napoleon. +If––”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t be tedious. You alone hold the knight that means +royalty triumphant or checkmated, and you know that you do.”</p> + +<p>“But you who are inspired, tell me how I shall play.”</p> + +<p>“You forget that I left this man to be shot?”</p> + +<p>“Then I am to destroy him?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline shuddered. “That was my only way, but you, monsieur, you can +lift him off the board entirely.”</p> + +<p>Bazaine rose from his chair and stood before her. “I am no poet,” +he said, “and these flowers of speech hide the trenches. My American means +that I may have thousands more like him, and he is a good one to be multiplied +even tenfold. Mademoiselle, <i>what</i> am I to understand?”</p> + +<p>“Does Napoleon’s letter satisfy none of your doubts?”</p> + +<p>Without a word he handed her the packet. It was from Napoleon’s +minister of finance, and it exuded woe. The French loans were exhausted by +Maximilian’s luxury and mismanagement, and therefore Bazaine was +instructed not to advance a cent further. He was, moreover, to take charge of +the Mexican ports, and administer the customs. Here, then, was the annihilation +of Maximilian’s sway. Here was the whispering of the Sphinx. France +herself would take over the Empire.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_240'></a>240</span>“Hardly,” returned the marshal, +“but we will frighten His Majesty into bettering his finances,” and +he handed her a confidential missive that had accompanied the other. Bazaine was +therein authorized, when the security of the Mexican Empire absolutely demanded +it, to advance ten millions of francs.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline sank back disheartened. Not even Napoleon would help her. The +Sphinx had not the courage of his own designs, and she contemptuously flung him +out of her way. She would strive alone, and against him, Napoleon, among the +rest. First of all, there was his captain general, the man before her.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur le Maréchal,” she began, as impersonally as though +quoting a dry paragraph of history, “there is a party among the Mexicans +who fear the republicans and what the Republic would do. Yet their hope for the +Empire is gone, and they want no more of it. These, monsieur, are the moderate +liberals, and strange to say, they are the clericals too; in a word, the great +landowners. They are for what is good in Mexico. They demand order. But they +would not take it from the United States. They look to France–to France, +which is Catholic, and liberal.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” said the marshal. “They have already hinted at +annexation.”</p> + +<p>“Annexation to France, of course. Now then, monsieur, if we stay at +all, we shall have to fight the United States. But do you imagine that we would +undertake such a fight for Maximilian? Parbleu, the French people would mob +Napoleon over night. But, supposing we were to do it for ourselves, and not for +an impecunious archduke––”</p> + +<p>His Excellency’s eyes blazed. “Ah, it would be a fight +superb!”</p> + +<p>“And you commanding, Monsieur le Maréchal. And behind you, with our own +pantalons rouges, those Confederates against <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_241'></a>241</span>their old enemies. <i>Then</i> would be the moment +to set your knight on the chess board. And,” she added insidiously, +“France would need a viceroy over here.”</p> + +<p>The plain soldier started as though shot.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” he gasped, “you–<i>you</i> are +Napoleon! The <i>great</i> Napoleon, I salute you, mademoiselle!”</p> + +<p>“Hélas, monsieur, that I am not in a position to credit Napoleon III. +with what I have said!”</p> + +<p>“Yet you wish me to believe that you are only inspired by him? Pardon +me, mademoiselle, but <i>he</i> is the inspired one, and–mon Dieu, I do not +blame him!”</p> + +<p>“But it’s very simple,” said Jacqueline, “and +honorable too. Maximilian’s bad faith nullifies our treaty with him. Très +bien, we are free, free to withdraw our troops. At least we may threaten as +much. Then he will, he must abdicate, unless–well, unless he first sees +Your Excellency’s prisoner.”</p> + +<p>She arose, feeling that she was leaving a good Frenchman behind her. But +Madame la Maréchale appeared to bid her adieu, and Madame la Maréchale looked +sharply from one to another, noting especially Bazaine’s flush of +enthusiasm. The good Frenchman straightway became uneasy. And Jacqueline, riding +back to Chapultepec in her carriage with its coronet and arms and footmen, did +not know that Driscoll had not been incommunicado against Madame la Maréchale. +Who could be? And Madame la Maréchale betimes had paid her respects to a third +woman, who also was but little more than a girl. She and the Empress Charlotte +had discussed both the prisoner and Jacqueline.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span><a id='link_30'></a>CHAPTER XXX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Ambassador</span></span></h2> + +<div class='wbox'> +<p>“Receive then this young hero with all becoming state;<br /> +’Twere ill advis’d to merit so fierce a champion’s hate.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Nibelungenlied.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>In his bedroom at Buena Vista, the marshal’s residence, Driscoll the +next day received a personage, and offered him a cigar. Declined, with bow from +shoulder. Hoped he would have a nip of peach brandy? Declined, with sweep from +hips. He <i>was</i> a personage. Driscoll noted regalia, medals, cordon; and +apologized for the temerity of Missouri hospitality.</p> + +<p>“Especially,” he said, “as you’re a Grand +Divinity.”</p> + +<p>“Dignity, señor,” the hidalgo corrected him, “Grand +Dignity.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to pardon me again,” said Driscoll, “but +I really didn’t intend any short measure at all.”</p> + +<p>It was the Imperial Grand Chamberlain himself. There were no incomunicado +doors before <i>him</i>; he came from the Emperor. The Empress had spoken to His +Majesty, having just had her discussion aforementioned with Madame la Maréchale, +so that Monsieur le Maréchal had had to lift from his prisoner the ban of the +incomunicado. But monsieur had been extremely reluctant about it.</p> + +<p>The Chamberlain’s name went well with his exalted fourth degree of +proximity to the throne. It was Velasquez de Leon, a very bristling of Castilian +pride. He looked over the battered American in homespun gray, and wondered where +the mistake <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span>was. +For, as arbiter of precedence, appraiser of inequality between men, and +supervisor over court functions generally, he had been sent in the way of +business. Driscoll felt sorry for him.</p> + +<p>“Just tell them to let me out of here,” said the prisoner, +“then I’ll call in on the Emperor whenever it’s convenient for +him.”</p> + +<p>“But, señor,” the don objected testily, “with what status, +pray? Has your country a representative here? You must obtain a letter from your +ambassador, or have him present you.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll shook his head. “Can’t,” he said, +“haven’t any country.”</p> + +<p>The minion of etiquette despaired.</p> + +<p>“But,” Driscoll added, “I’ve got as good as +credentials from what used to be my country.”</p> + +<p>Velasquez de Leon grasped at the straw. “Then,” he cried, +“we can register you as an ambassador.”</p> + +<p>“Bringing my country with me,” Driscoll suggested.</p> + +<p>So it was all straightened out pleasantly, and quite in the orthodox manner, +too. The American’s status was defined. His reception would fall under the +rubric: “Private Audience.” There remained only one grave drawback. +The protocol allowed no hints as to the un-protocol aspect of an +ambassador’s wardrobe. The hidalgo could only finger nervously the +Imperial Crown in his Grand Uniform, and with stiff dignity take his leave.</p> + +<p>The ambassador who was his own country rode in the marshal’s landau to +court, with a retinue of Lancers that was also his guard. Soon they entered the +Paseo, which Maximilian was making beautiful at inordinate cost as a link +between the City and his summer palace, the alcázar of Chapultepec. Turning into +the wide, stately boulevard, Driscoll was that moment plunged into an eddying +splendor of Europe transplanted, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_244'></a>244</span>and he blinked his eyes, half humorously. There were +mettlesome steeds, and coaches with a high polish, and silver weighted harness, +and the insolence of livery, and armorial bearings, and the gilt of coronets on +carriage panels. There were silk hats and peaked sombreros, lace mantillas and +Parisian bonnets. A lavish use of French money was doing these things, and the +Mexicans, believing in their aristocracy since the revival of titles never heard +of in Gotha, believed also that such brilliancy of display made their capital +the peer of Vienna, or of the Quartier St. Germain. The Mexicans were very happy +and arrogant over it.</p> + +<p>“I wonder how they can fight and yet keep their clothes so +pretty,” thought the Missourian.</p> + +<p>The gallant carpet-knighthood of uniforms was bothering him again. They were +dashing, militant, these paladins, a bal masqué of luxurious oddity and color. +They twisted waxed moustaches, and their coursers cantered to and fro in the gay +parade, and among them only the charro cavaliers with a glitter of spangle let +one guess that this could be Mexico. There was the Austrian dragoon with his +Tyrolean feather, and the Polish uhlan, fur fringed, and the Hungarian hussar, +whose pelisse dangled romantically, and there were some fellows in low boots and +tights and high busbies, who were cross-braided on the chest and +scroll-embroidered on the front of the leg, and looked exactly like Tzigane +bandmasters or lion tamers. The Slav, the Magyar, the Czech, and yet others of +the Emperor’s score of native races, all were here out of the nearer +Orient, with curved swords and ferocious bearing. There were the countrymen of +the Empress, too; the Belgians, who were as bedecked of sleeve as a drum corps. +And as to the French, there they were in green and silver, in sky blue, in +cuirassier helmets, in the zouave fez, or in any of the other ways in which they +bore <i>their</i> chips on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>Shelby’s ragged Missourians had tossed on straw for the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span>lack of quinine, and yet +were presuming to save this gorgeous empire of golden spurred gentlemen. The +thought of his mission gave Driscoll an ironic twinge.</p> + +<p>But there was the pantalon rouge, the little soldier boy of France who did +the work, and the sight of him put the American into a friendly humor. He was +everywhere, the little pantalon rouge, streaming the walks, dotting the cafés +with red, and every wee piou-piou under the great big epaulettes of a great big +comic opera generalissimo. His huge military coat fitted him awkwardly, and the +crimson pompon cocked on his little fighting képi was more often awry, and he +could not by any effort achieve a strut. He was only bon enfant, this +unconquered soldier lad; so he gave over trying to be martial, and left to his +officers the rôle of the Gallic rooster, taking it all as a droll joke on +himself, while his vivacious eyes danced with fun.</p> + +<p>The ambassador’s coach passed under the cypresses and wound round the +Aztec hill of the Grasshopper, and came at last to the castle on the summit. And +as Guatemotzin had once ventured to this place to plead with Moctezuma to save +his empire, and to show him how to do it, so Driscoll now entered the portals of +Chapultepec on a very similar errand.</p> + +<p>The superb Indian lord was never so hedged in with barbaric ceremony as was +his Teuton successor of three centuries later. But Driscoll was patient. He +advanced as the red tape gave way, humming under his breath “Green Grows +the Grass,” a schottische which the American invaders of ’48 had sung in +taking this same fortress, which also had given all Americans the name of +“Gringo.”</p> + +<p>Guardias Palatinas saluted the Missourian at the entrance. Two Secretaries of +Ceremony, Grand Uniform, with cordon and the Imperial eagle, bowed before him in +the Gran Patio. One stepped to his right, the other to his left, with all the +ceremony of which they were secretaries, and the three walked abreast the length +of the Galería de Iturbide, where they were <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_246'></a>246</span>joined by the Lesser Service of Honor. Thus, +swelling by cumulative degrees of impressiveness, Trooper Driscoll came at last +into the Sala de Audiencias, and gazed with admiration at its beautiful Gobelin +suite.</p> + +<p>The Emperor was there, tall, white browed, refined. He bowed. Driscoll bowed, +and started toward him, for they were scarcely in speaking distance. But His +Imperial Highness bowed again. He was absent-minded, evidently, but Driscoll +bowed also, and pretended not to notice. Then yet a third time the monarch +bowed. And with true courtesy the American overlooked what was growing +ridiculous, and did likewise. Thus the ritualistic three obeisances were +accomplished.</p> + +<p>Maximilian dismissed the Lesser Service, and he and his guest were alone. Now +Driscoll supposed, considering the discommoding interest his mission had +awakened in everybody except in the Emperor, that the Emperor himself would this +time be concerned enough to “get down to business.” But not so. +There were yet the formalities.</p> + +<p>“I understand, Señor Embajador,” Maximilian began in the language +of his court, “that Your Excellency––”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, sir, but my name is Driscoll.”</p> + +<p>“That Your Excellency comes accredited from a government that no longer +exists. But We will waive that, since the said power existed at the moment of +Your Excellency’s departure.”</p> + +<p>This was to harmonize the absurdity with the Ritual. Maximilian liked to play +at receiving an American representative. It grieved him sorely that the United +States had never recognized his dignity, but that it had consistently rated him +as merely “the Prince Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s first words cut short the make-believe.</p> + +<p>“You’d hardly call them credentials,” he said. “Our +president, it is true, helped me on my way, but I have nothing from <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span>him to you. And yet I +bring more than Mr. Jefferson Davis could send. Here,” and he produced the +memorandum from the Confederate generals of the Trans-Mississippi department, +which in his belt Jacqueline had had restored to him with his other effects.</p> + +<p>Maximilian took the note handed him, but stared at the emissary. Charlotte +had induced the monarch to grant the audience. She had hinted at its importance, +but not until now did Maximilian recognize his guest. Driscoll was attired in +the full uniform of a lieutenant colonel of cavalry, which, by the way, was what +he had carried so jealously in the bundle behind his saddle. From the dignified +young officer in gray back to the desperado young giant in homespun proved +considerable of a reach for the Hapsburg; but at last, by virtue of much +caressing of his silky beard with delicate finger tips, he arrived.</p> + +<p>“So, it was you the marshal saved!” he exclaimed. “Yes, +yes, I should have remembered sooner. Colonel Lopez told me. A capable, faithful +officer, is Lopez! I could not but approve the finding of his court martial. And +yet, against his urgent advice, I have decided to pardon you.”</p> + +<p>“To apologize, you mean?”</p> + +<p>The Emperor looked hurt. As a foil for his royal clemency, there should be +humble gratitude. Maximilian often mistook fawning for such.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it a bit odd,” Driscoll queried whimsically, +“that an ambassador should be arrested?”</p> + +<p>“Jove, that’s a fact! I hadn’t thought.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. But if it don’t occur again, we’ll just let the +apology go.”</p> + +<p>“No, no,” protested the monarch. “You must have your +apology. You will receive it from the Grand Chamberlain to-morrow, and it will +appear in the Journal Officiel.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right,” said Driscoll, “anything to clear the +way.” Whereupon he plunged and stated his business.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span>With debonair +Prince Max it was not a question of even who talked best. It was who talked +last. And Driscoll, being for the moment an exhorter of both descriptions, drove +home conviction as a sabre point. He spoke bluntly, earnestly; and, at the scent +of opposition, he spoke fiercely. The South was defeated, he said, and the North +would now make good its threat to drive out the French. And the French would go, +too. Suppose they were even willing to undertake a great war for Maximilian, yet +they would go just the same. And why? Because they had fought the Russians. They +had fought the Austrians. And they were keeping the Italians out of Rome to help +the Pope. So they had not a friend left, not one, to help them against the enemy +they must soon fight, which was Prussia. Consequently they would draw every +bayonet out of Mexico, and Maximilian would be left alone to face his rebels. +But Maximilian could not face the rebels alone. They had been dominant before +the French came. To replace thirty thousand French, Driscoll offered fifty +thousand Southerners, fifty thousand well-equipped, splendid veterans. +Twenty-five thousand were already on the frontier, he meaning those under +General Slaughter at Brownsville, and Shelby and the others were not far +behind.</p> + +<p>“But,” said Maximilian, smiling bitterly, “you forget that +the United States would still object to my poor Empire.”</p> + +<p>“Not when the French leave, they wouldn’t. We would become +citizens. We would not be a foreign intervention. You would be backed up by +Mexicans against Mexicans, and the North could not interfere. But, suppose that +the French remain, wouldn’t they have to fight? And they would need our +aid to do it, too. Don’t you see, sir, that in any case you should make us +very welcome?”</p> + +<p>“There is assuredly no other way to look at it!” admitted the +prince uneasily.</p> + +<p>Dreaming himself a monarch of chivalry days, Maximilian <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_249'></a>249</span>was subtly enthralled by the idea of a +band of heroes flocking to his standard, their swords on high. Stouter than +those warriors who had helped Siegfried to his bride, they would hold for him a +treasure greater than that under the Rhine. Themselves and their children +forever, they would be the real mainstay of the dynasty founded by Maximilian +the Great. They were Anglo-Saxons, Germanic, his own kindred, and to him they +came for new homes and a new country. They would be his landed gentry, his +barons, his hidalgos. It was a prospect for an emperor; above all, for a poet +emperor. As he looked now on the young Confederate officer, on him who had +seemed a desperado, Maximilian thought that here stood one who was the +instrument of Destiny.</p> + +<p>“Can–can they really come?” he demanded breathlessly.</p> + +<p>Driscoll smiled. “Of course, there’s no time to lose,” he +replied. “For instance, if I’d had your answer there at +Murguía’s ranch, I’d have gotten back in time to head off whole +regiments who’ve probably given up their arms since then. But you can +still count on an army west of the Mississippi that hasn’t surrendered +yet. At least <i>my</i> general hasn’t, not Old Joe, and he won’t +either. But you must say ‘yes’ pretty quick. We’re restless, and +might conclude to run the French out of here. We haven’t forgotten how +Napoleon forgot to help us.”</p> + +<p>It was a cunning stroke. Maximilian would have asked nothing better than +independence from his “dear imperial brother,” and just this was the +bribe so temptingly held out by the instrument of Destiny. But the Hapsburg of +the heavy, trembling underlip credited wavering as statesmanlike prudence.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow,” he said, “no, the day after, you shall have my +decision.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline witnessed the ambassador’s departure. Hidden among the roses +of the fortress rock, where she sat with a book, she peeped out as he came down +the steps to the marshal’s <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_250'></a>250</span>landau. The glacial Secretaries of Ceremony flanked +him on either side, and the statuesque Palatine Guards saluted. She could not be +mistaken, the corners of his mouth were twitching. It was such an inimitable +commentary on the Ritual that she had much to do not to dart out and laugh with +him in gleeful mischief.</p> + +<p>Then, she noted his uniform. After the ornate regimentals of all Europe, what +a relief was the simple gray! There was the long coat, the belt, the dragoon +sabre, the unobtrusive insignia on the collar, and she murmured her verdict +advisedly. It was beautiful! Next she noted the man–as though she had not +in the first place. His easy frame still had that charm of gaucherie, and the +rollicking daredeviltry lurked quiescent in the brown eyes, but enough to recall +the rider of fury, her chevalier de Missour-<i>i</i>, plunging through a wall +and cloud of dust on a big-boned yellow charger. And though now he was in this +beautiful simplicity of gray, she looked in vain for some hint of martial stride +or pompous chest.</p> + +<p>She wondered for a moment why he had worn the uniform. It signified nothing, +since the Confederacy had fallen. Then she understood. <i>He</i> had not +surrendered. Nor had those he represented. The gray, for him, still had its +reason, and was a power yet; the power to decide an empire’s fate. It was +the grave dignity of a lost cause; striving, before being doffed forever, to +leave behind a new cause. Or, if failing, to accept the lot of surrender. In +either case, her chevalier de Missour-<i>i</i> was wearing the dear uniform for +the last time. With her keenness for intuition and sympathy, Jacqueline +<i>knew</i>. She knew what it must mean. And he looked so strong, so splendid! +Her eyes unexpectedly dimmed in tenderness for him.</p> + +<p>Driscoll, being now a free man, established himself at a hotel near the +diligencia office in the busy Plateros street. He drilled through the following +day with tedious waiting for the day after, when he was to have the promised +reply. Used to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span>men +who knew their own minds, he hoped for strength in this emperor fellow. Then, +his mission successful, he would be in the saddle by the next night, perhaps by +noon, and hastening toward the border with tidings of homes and more fighting +for his comrades of the Old Brigade. But the next morning, even as he was +mounting Demijohn to go to Chapultepec, a thin man in riding breeches entered +the hotel patio and accosted him.</p> + +<p>“I am Monsieur Éloin,” the stranger announced in English that +could be understood, “of Her Majesty’s household. Also aide and +secretary in private to the Emperor. I see, you go to horse. It is well, sir. +Mine is outside.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the answer?” asked Driscoll. “I’m not +up on conundrums.”</p> + +<p>“It is that we go to Cuernavaca.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t say! Now where’s that, and what for?”</p> + +<p>“Cuernavaca is His Majesty’s country sit-down, about a douzaine +of leagues from here. You have not read of this morning the Journal Officiel? +Here it is. The court went there yesterday. His Majesty has to need +rest.”</p> + +<p>“But he was to see me to-day! What’s the matter with +him?”</p> + +<p>M. Éloin’s brow contracted narrowly, and he shrugged his shoulders. +“His Imperial Highness is much worked. He is worse of good health. Her +Majesty sought at having him stay, to give you that same-self answer he had +promised already. And the Marshal Bazaine, sensible this once, did talk +yesterday night before last, after you were there, and beseeched him to accept +your offer. And they all beseeched, Her Majesty and Madame la Maréchale, and +I.–But, what would you?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I don’t know. What the devil––”</p> + +<p>“No, not him! But her, sir, her!”</p> + +<p>“Her, who?”</p> + +<p>“Why, her. We all talk, argue, beseech; and she, in one <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span>little whisper, she only +tell His Majesty he has to need that rest–and, poof! off they all go to +Cuernavaca, and I know nothing. Her Majesty leave me a note. I bring you it +here.”</p> + +<p>“But who is the ‘she?’ You don’t mean––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, we others call her Jacqueline. She did it, against everybody who +beseech. But we–how you say?–we fool her, you and me. Come, we are +there to-night, at Cuernavaca.”</p> + +<p>“Just that little girl––” Driscoll murmured +wonderingly.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253'></a>253</span><a id='link_31'></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Carlota</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Der sicherste Weg nicht sehr unglücklich zu sein ist das Glück nicht erwarten.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Schopenhauer.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Everybody he met seemed to twist Driscoll’s business into a vital +personal issue, and it did not take him long to place M. Éloin. The supercilious +Belgian of the rancid brow, as Driscoll mentally described him, wanted the +perpetuation of the empire, and he wanted it for the very simple reason that the +favorite of a realmless prince does not amount to much. Hence he intrigued for +the acceptance of Driscoll’s offer and for the confusion of +Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>A small escort of Belgians joined him and Driscoll at the garita, or little +customs house, on the edge of the City. Accompanying them was a burly priest +with a head shaped like a pear. The padre had very small eyes for so large a +man, but they were exceedingly bright and roved adventurously. They would settle +with crafty calculation on Éloin time and again, though his manner toward the +favorite was always a thing of humble deference.</p> + +<p>“His Dutch Holiness from Murgie’s!” Driscoll observed to +himself.</p> + +<p>But there might be an ecclesiastical college along, for all the Missourian +cared. His own thoughts were battalions. “When it’s over, one way or +another,” he kept deciding, “I’ll speak to her, yes I will! +What’s there to be afraid of? W’y, she’s–only a +girl.” It might be an unfair advantage, his not dying after the confession +in her farewell letter to him, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_254'></a>254</span>but he would have her, he would have her! The Lord +be good to him, he <i>had</i> to have her!</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon they arrived at the quaint old Aztec village of +Cuernavaca, which had been the country seat of Cortez, and was now that of a +second fair god and a second Hernando. After dismounting at the hotel near the +conquistador’s palace, Éloin hurried Driscoll across the plaza into the +beautiful Italian gardens where Maximilian made his home. At the villa, +Charlotte’s own residence in the gardens, Éloin had himself announced to +Her Majesty. The American reflected that women seemed to have a great deal to do +with the reigning business. In the drawing room, the Empress received them.</p> + +<p>She was a slender young woman whose lips were thin and proud, whose eyes were +dark and lustrous. Her hair was black and very heavy, coiled in the old +fashioned style away from a high forehead that was beautifully white. She could +not be older than twenty-five, and there was even a girlishness in her bearing. +But she had a steadiness of gaze–one eye seemed the least heavy +lidded–and there was a firmness to the slightly large mouth, which gave an +impression of strong lines to what was really a soft, oval face. Yet the +temperament could not be mistaken. She was a woman of acute nerves. She was +tensely strung, inordinately sensitive.</p> + +<p>Driscoll believed now what he had heard, that the Empire fared better when +Charlotte was regent and her lord on a journey. Maximilian dreamed, while she +realized. The Hapsburg cadet, gazing over the Adriatic from the marble steps of +Miramar, had brooded fondly on what Destiny must hold for him. He would be king +of a Poland born again among the nations. Then Louis Napoleon whispered of +another throne in the building. Whereupon <i>she</i> began the study of Spanish; +<i>she</i> decided her half hesitating spouse to accept, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span> however loftily they both scorned the +adventurer who helped them to it.</p> + +<p>Carlota, for so the natives called her, amiably greeted the Missourian. She +was a woman of tact, and though one Din Driscoll was for her as impersonal a +thing as some opportune event, yet events must be neatly turned to account.</p> + +<p>“His Majesty and I have discussed your presence in our country, +sir,” she began in English, “and feeling that he desires to see you +again, I requested M. Éloin to bring you to Cuernavaca.”</p> + +<p>“Why, thank you, ma’am,” said Driscoll.</p> + +<p>She all but reproved the form of address. But, for her at least, common sense +was beginning to prevail. The rigid court punctilio, largely of her own +enthusiastic designing, had gone hard with her. Her husband had proved no more +than consistent to the medieval revival. He was but true to that old chivalry +which distinguished between the divinely fair damsel to be won and the mere +woman won already. He was the monarch, she his consort. Classifying others, the +Empress found herself classified. He was her liege, and she might not even enter +his presence unannounced. But how much happier was she in the blithe sailor +prince who came a-wooing, who wooed for love, in accordance with that same +ancient chivalry!</p> + +<p>A princess of the Blood, of the House of Orleans, Charlotte had had that +nicest poise of good breeding, the kind that is unconscious. But here among the +Mexicans, she had to proclaim a superiority not taken for granted, and the nice +poise was gone. In her the generations–Henry IV., the Grand Monarch, and +all of that stately line–in her they stooped. And an element of sheerest +vulgarity, as plebeian as a Jew’s diamond, crept in perforce. Poor +tarnished escutcheon of Orleans! Poor princess of the Blood, become menial with +scouring it! She was weary. Over this New World there floated too much of +obscuring democratic dust. So she <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_256'></a>256</span>allowed “ma’am,” like a homely +fleck, to settle unreproved on the ancestral doorplate.</p> + +<p>Driven to expediency for her very Empire’s sake, she herself trampled +on the Ritual. Waiving all formalities, they would go and seek out His Majesty. +He must be somewhere in the gardens, perhaps beside the pond with its fringe of +deep shadows from the trees. There they expected to find him, breathing the air +of orange blossoms, gazing enraptured into the water, and on the gold fish and +the swans and the fountains. He would be teasing Nature for a sonnet’s +inspiration.</p> + +<p>Driscoll went ahead, since Carlota and Éloin talked earnestly in French, +intent on their plot for the persuasion of the Emperor. But as the American +parted a clump of oleanders and laden rosebushes that hid the little lake, he +stopped, his eyes wide on something just beyond. In the instant he fell back, +and confronted the other two with such a look on his face that both started in +vague alarm. They saw the sickened look of one who turns from a revolting sight. +A wretch stricken suddenly blind may know at once the fact of a terrible grief, +yet he cannot quite at first gather to himself the fullness of the horror. He is +only aware that, afterward, the meaning will slowly take shape, like a gradually +darkening despair.</p> + +<p>Driscoll gazed uncertainly at the Empress, as though she had somehow arrested +his thoughts. Then, as a strong man rushing from danger, he comprehended that +here was a frail woman near the same peril.</p> + +<p>“You will not go, ma’am,” he ordered in a kind of terror +for her.</p> + +<p>Éloin had already hastened on to the screen of roses. Being a fellow of the +arras and closets, he scented a royal secret. The Empress lifted her shoulders +and would have followed, but Driscoll did not hesitate. He took her by the elbow +and gently turned her the other way.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span>“You must +not!” he said again, with that same scared manner on him.</p> + +<p>She bridled indignantly, but when she saw how white he was, and how earnest, +something there awed her. In a flash she understood. Her lip curled, baring +teeth of the purest pearl, and a sneer quivered on the highbred nostrils. But +suddenly, in piteous tumult, her breast heaved once, and betrayed the wound. It +gave him to know the knighthood which covets blows in a woman’s behalf. +But she, with a will that held him in admiration and reverence for her, spoke to +him, and her tone was even, was unbroken.</p> + +<p>“I dare say you are right,” she said, and turned to retrace her +steps. But, as if to drink deeper of the bitter cup, she paused, and forced +herself to a last word.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I should thank you,” she went on, and her eyes, still +dry of tears, were lustrous as they lifted to his, “but a +gentleman–and I have never known one more than you, sir, this minute +past–will understand that I cannot–There, I am going now. And +after–after this that you have just beheld, I shall never see you again, +sir. Alas, it’s the more pity. Such as you are rare, even in–in my +world.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll watched her blankly as she left him, her head poised high, her step +as slow as dignity itself. His own face was cruelly drawn, with the first +sickened ghastliness still on him. He stumbled to a bench, and sat down. But +there was nothing to think about, nothing he could think about, just then. Yet +his brain was full to throbbing, and he had no consciousness of where he was, +nor of the passage of time.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span><a id='link_32'></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Woman Who Did Not Hesitate</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“The soul of man is infinite in what it covets.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Ben Jonson.</i></p></div> + +<p>Stealthily Éloin drew aside the bushes, and peered through. The tiny pond +with its crystal surface sunk deep in foliage, its flowering island in the +centre, looked not unlike a mirror on a dining table luxuriantly wreathed by +garlands. The Belgian stared greedily. He did not see quite what Driscoll had +seen, yet he saw enough to draw his brow to a narrowing fold of keenest +interest. Jacqueline was seated on the raised edge of the basin, pensively +dipping a hand into the water. Her plump wrist showed rosy, like coral, and +glancing sideways now and again at a poor agitated prince striding up and down, +she looked as she did that day in the small boat, while tempting a shark. As she +leaned over, the line of her waist and neck was stately and beautiful; and there +were the maddening baby tendrils of soft, glowing copper. Maximilian had +evidently found her there, in a reverie perhaps, and was at sight of her lured +to some act bold and desirous; for just as evidently, if his flushed face and +the way he bit his lip were tokens, he had that moment been repelled. Éloin +watched them avidly, the tall archduke pacing up and down, the demure lady +seated on the basin’s edge.</p> + +<p>“It was but the lowly homage of a prince,” Maximilian cried out +peevishly. Such was his apology.</p> + +<p>“Homage of a play-king,” she corrected him with exasperating +sweetness.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span>He turned on her +angrily. “Why do you say that–a play-king?”</p> + +<p>“Whose embassies,” she proceeded calmly, “cringe for +recognition. Like beggars they prowl about that White House at Washington, yet +never cross the threshold.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian was too amazed for denial. “How do you know?” he +exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“While at the same time,” she went on, “the same neighbor +receives the minister of the Mexican republic, and sends one in turn. But no +matter. The marionettes of empire can dance, so long as Napoleon holds the +strings. Was the princely homage a make-believe, too?”</p> + +<p>“But–but, if I should convince you, mademoiselle, that the +majesty which only asks to kneel is genuine?”</p> + +<p>Her eyelids narrowed, and she looked at him with the oddest smile.</p> + +<p>“You know–sire–that I only ask to be convinced. Where will +Your Imperial Highness begin?”</p> + +<p>“Know then that the American peasant named Lincoln, who would not +recognize a Hapsburg, is dead. He has been assassinated. He will no longer +encourage our rebels in Mexico.”</p> + +<p>“That poor gentleman whom you call a peasant,” she returned with +galling frankness, “was greater than any Hapsburg. He was fifty million +people, and one million are still under arms. Your rebels know it. They still +cry, ‘Viva la Intervención del Norte!’ But go on, <i>sire</i>.”</p> + +<p>He chafed under her mockery in the title. But sitting there, goading an +imaginary shark, she was no less inciting than when he had ventured his +caress.</p> + +<p>“They are of no consequence,” he burst forth, “neither the +Americans, nor the dissidents. Your own countrymen, mademoiselle, will, and +must, assure my empire.”</p> + +<p>“H’m’n,” she ejaculated, with a quick shrug. “Even +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span>marshal, +greatly against his will, has had to inform Your Majesty that we will shortly +withdraw.”</p> + +<p>“Then I shall depend on my subjects alone!”</p> + +<p>She contented herself with repeating, “Viva la Intervención del +Norte!” That too, was ample comment as to the loyalty of his subjects. The +Emperor paused in his walk. “Alas,” he sighed wearily, “a +Hapsburg sacrifices himself to regenerate a people, and–they do not +appreciate it.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline bent her head to hide a smile. She dreamily made rings in the +water, and seemed to fall into his mood of poetic melancholy. “A +comedietta of an empire,” she mused sympathetically, “a +harlequinade, nothing more. Grands dieux, I do not wonder that Your Highness +finds it unworthy!”</p> + +<p>There is no such incense to a man as when he imagines himself understood by a +pretty woman.</p> + +<p>Yet the temptress now found herself the harder to master. It was the thought +of what she must yet do. But she gave her head an impatient toss, and the tears +that had come were gone. The lines of her mouth tightened, and the dangerous +glint shone in her eyes. “So,” she added, almost in a whisper, +“you did not mean it, sire, when you offered only a play-empire–to +me.”</p> + +<p>She knew that he started violently, and was looking down at her. But she kept +her gaze averted, that he might not see the hard expression there that was +merciless for them both. He did see, though, the long lashes, and the warm pink +of her forearm, so tantalizing for shark or man.</p> + +<p>“These imperial gardens, they are beautiful,” she went on softly, +“but, hélas, they are not the Schönbrunn. Nor is Chapultepec more than a +feeble miniature of the Hofburg. Oh, the wretched farce! The wretched farce, +sire, in your pretension to–to honor me! A wooer from the throne, indeed? +A straw throne–no, no, I do not like it!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span>Then she let him +see her eyes. Half raised, half veiled; they held the daring suggestion hidden +in her words.</p> + +<p>“And if,” he cried, “and if we <i>were</i> in the +Schönbrunn––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes,” and she clapped her hands with delight, “yes, +where the heroic figures on the crest of the hill are silhouetted against the +sky, where––”</p> + +<p>“Never mind the heroic figures! But where I shall be really an emperor, +<i>the</i> Emperor over Austria, over Hungary. Then, what then? +Jeanne–Jacqueline, tell me!”</p> + +<p>She had brought him to it. Yet her face clouded pitifully, as that day in the +small boat, when she told Ney that a woman might only give. Such a woman too, +would be lost for the reason that she would <i>not</i> hesitate. Here was the +errand of the Sphinx, and achievement at her hand. Dainty flower of France, yes! +But in truth, what was she?</p> + +<p>“And then?” she repeated, and the maddening promise in her voice +thrilled him. “Why, sire, I suppose that I could not help but listen to +you. Yet first,” she hastened to add with subtle emphasis, “first, +you would have to give up your play kingdom here.”</p> + +<p>His blue eyes flashed. “I will!” he cried. “It shall be +mine, the Roman empire of Charles V. They are tired of my brother Franz. Already +they cry out for me. Our mother made an uncle abdicate for him, I will do as +much for myself. I will, Jeanne, I will!”</p> + +<p>Éloin behind his screen moved uneasily.</p> + +<p>“The devil go with her!” the eavesdropper muttered. +“She’ll have him abdicating himself in another minute. She must be +stopped, she must!”</p> + +<p>He tiptoed back, and once out of hearing, he ran. He found Driscoll on a +bench, slowly passing his fingers through his hair, and staring fixedly at the +ground.</p> + +<p>“Coom,” said Éloin, “coom quick! He is alone. You find your +chance. He is that happy, he say yes to anything.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span>Driscoll got +heavily to his feet. There was his mission. For the sake of that, for the sake +of comrades depending on him, he would go and once more offer succor to this +libertine princelet.</p> + +<p>“No, not that way,” the Belgian directed. “The path here, +it leads the more direct at the pond, so. Quick!” He knew that foliage +would hide the couple until Driscoll should turn the corner of the hedge and +burst on them squarely. The American hastened down the walk. “A nice +surprise, mutual.” Éloin chuckled to himself.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline did not falter before her victory. She knew that Maximilian rated +the Mexican throne as a stepping-stone to another in Europe. She knew of a +certain family pact among the Hapsburgs and how it rankled in Maximilian’s +breast. Therein he had, on accepting the Mexican throne, solemnly renounced all +right of inheritance to that of Austro-Hungary. But she knew also that he +considered his oath as void, since Franz Josef had forced it on him. Craftily +she pictured the Mexican enterprise, how instead of enhancing his prestige at +home, it but turned him into a sorry and ridiculous figure. And so she won the +child of Destiny. Yet, when in a sudden fervent outburst he came and sat beside +her, and would have taken her hand, she still did not falter. Napoleon would +have the glory, and she a shame unexplained, but for all that her country would +have Mexico. Her country would have Mexico! Would have a vast expanse of empire, +greater and more enduring than any won for her by Bonaparte himself.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, she brushed away the gallant’s arm with more vigor than +her coy rôle demanded. “No, no,” she moaned faintly, “not +yet!”</p> + +<p>“But, <i>cruelle</i>––”</p> + +<p>“Not yet, not until I know that you will try to win in Austria, not +until–you abdicate here!”</p> + +<p>“But, I shall sail this very month, I––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span>“And never +return, never to Mexico?”</p> + +<p>“Never!”</p> + +<p>Frankly, then, she placed her hands in his.</p> + +<p>That moment Driscoll turned the corner of the hedge, and was before them. He +fell back, and reddened as though himself caught in wrongdoing. It was strange +how he noted, at such a time, that she was clothed in light blue, in the very +dress he had given her. But no, he perceived at once that it was of some +delicate silk from Japan. Yet the pattern was so nearly the same. She must have +selected it–she had selected it!–with him in mind. And now, against +a girl’s love so quaintly, shyly revealed, to behold this contrast, her +hands there, wantonly surrendered!</p> + +<p>Instantly she tore herself free and confronted him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, why, <i>why</i>,” she cried fiercely, “did you not let +them kill you?”</p> + +<p>Suddenly her hands flew up to her hot face. “Then,” she moaned, +“then you would not have lived to see!”</p> + +<p>The Emperor stepped between them. Tall, severe, he was cold in anger.</p> + +<p>“It’s the intrusion of a rowdy, mademoiselle.” To Driscoll +he said, “Now, go!”</p> + +<p>Utterly confused, the trooper turned to obey. But at the first step he swung +round, looking as he had never looked in the bloodiest of cavalry charges.</p> + +<p>“I am here for your answer, sir,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Answer? What answer, fellow?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll breathed once, he breathed twice, and yet again. It may be he +counted them. Then he spoke.</p> + +<p>“You understand, of course, that I might call you a puppy? Or break you +over my knee? But I’ve got something harder on hand. It’s to make +you honor your promise. I’ve ridden forty miles for what you were to give +me six hours ago at Chapultepec. Now then, shall I bring the men to save your +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span>empire? Think well. +You need not take the question from me. Take it from them, from an army of fifty +thousand men. Now, answer! And remember, you can save your empire.”</p> + +<p>“Save my empire?” Maximilian repeated the words.</p> + +<p>There was a reluctant note in the query. Jacqueline heard. And the bravest +act of her life was when she raised her head and faced her shame, with +<i>him</i> to see. She must begin her fight all over again.</p> + +<p>“Yes, your play empire, sire,” she said, wielding two weapons, +the mockery in her voice, the seduction of her eyes.</p> + +<p>Driscoll saw his cause forlorn against eyes like those.</p> + +<p>“It’s unfair!” he protested involuntarily.</p> + +<p>She turned on him in defiance. “It is <i>not</i> unfair! And you, +monsieur, of all men, know that it is not. You, and you alone, know what I, what +I would give–what I tried to give–that I might win in +this!”</p> + +<p>He could not help a thrill of admiration. She was battling against all men +and women to change the destinies of two continents.</p> + +<p>“W’y, I take it back then,” he said.</p> + +<p>She stared at him in wonder, and drew farther away. It was his tone, altered +as she could never have thought possible, nor had she known that aught on earth +might hurt her so. She heard a decent man addressing some unavoidable word to a +strumpet. All vestige of respect was gone, gone unconsciously, except that +respect for himself which would not allow that the word be coarse or an insult. +She looked in vain, too, for a trace of anger. Once she had sought to kill him, +but that had not changed his big heart. While now! How much–oh, how much +easier–was that other sacrifice of hers than this!</p> + +<p>“Perhaps, sir,” she found the strength to say, “perhaps I +have even, in my humble opinion, favored the acceptance <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span>of your offer. But His Majesty knows far +better than I under what conditions he might accept.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll turned to Maximilian direct. “Name them.”</p> + +<p>“There is but one. We cannot give refuge to the enemies of the United +States––”</p> + +<p>“The conditions?”</p> + +<p>“Therefore, to avoid complications, your men must lay down their arms +on entering Mexico. Then we would deliver the arms to the United States on their +recognizing Our Empire––”</p> + +<p>“Trade us off, you mean?”</p> + +<p>“Or, in case the United States still held aloof, then, as citizens of +Mexico, you could take up your arms again.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked at Jacqueline. She, the inspiration of such a condition, knew +quite well beforehand that he would not submit.</p> + +<p>“This is final, is it?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“It is, because We cannot provoke war with the United States, +but,” Maximilian urged querulously, “you have only to surrender your +swords.”</p> + +<p>“After refusing them to the Federals, to the men who <i>fought</i> for +them? And now we are to give them up to a pack of––” Driscoll +stopped short and took another breath. “By God, sir, no sir!” he +cried.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span><a id='link_33'></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Sponsor for the Fat Padre</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Every man is as heaven made him, and sometimes a great deal worse.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Cervantes.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>When Driscoll had gone, Jacqueline would not linger. Maximilian sought to +detain her, but something had happened that he could not fathom. She was no more +the same person.</p> + +<p>“Not even a token to bid me be brave so far away in Austria?” he +pleaded.</p> + +<p>“There have been tokens enough,” she returned shortly. “I +ask Your Majesty’s leave. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>She gained her room, and worked till late on a cipher dispatch to Napoleon. +Its purport was, that now, if ever, Maximilian must be discouraged absolutely. +Following on what she herself had done, such would bring his abdication. She +implored, above all things, that Bazaine be kept from meddling, from extending +false hopes. Poor girl, after what it had cost, she was passionately bent on +success. A courier took her packet to the City the next day, whence the message +was to be sped to Paris.</p> + +<p>“That foolish Prince Max,” she thought, “if he does give it +up and go, I am really saving him from terrible sorrow. But, who will save me +from mine, I wonder? Mine, that is come already! God in Heaven +cannot.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian had watched her as she left him, till her stately girlish figure +was lost in the dusk under the trees. Then with a sigh he turned away. At the +villa he found his wife. She was seated apart from her maids, and Éloin was +talking to her, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span>in +tones low and swift. Charlotte only half listened. Her agitation was nearly +hysterical. Her eyes gleamed wildly, and sometimes they would close, as though +they ached for the soothing that tears might bring.</p> + +<p>“Who,” demanded Maximilian, “has had the presumption to +introduce a spy on these grounds?”</p> + +<p>Éloin glanced quickly at the Empress. “A spy, sire?” he said +uneasily.</p> + +<p>“I mean that American, sir. But shall I ask the sentinels at the +gate?”</p> + +<p>“That, Ferdinand,” Charlotte interposed icily, “is not +necessary. Monsieur Éloin, at my command, brought the American here. You should +know why.”</p> + +<p>“To save my play-empire, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“An empire,” she cried, catching up the word the more hotly +because she knew it to be Jacqueline’s own gage of battle, “an +empire, August Sire, to be gained by fighting, as your forefathers, as mine, won +theirs. And that is nobler, <i>I</i> suppose, than puny inheritance. I do not +know what the Hapsburg may be fallen to, but a daughter of Orleans still has the +right to expect a crown from her husband. If not, she is unworthily +mated.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian thought of that other empire, which that other temptress exacted +of him. It seemed that he had many realms to conquer. But the grimmest humor of +all was that he blithely imagined himself capable of satisfying the whims, not +of one woman, but of two. Deluded Prince Max!</p> + +<p>But the Emperor was not there to discuss empire building, much less to face +the tigerish light in his lady’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Éloin,” he said, “this is my first personal +complaint against you, but there have been others, long, insistent ones, from +French and Mexicans alike. You lose me my friends, sir, however I assure them +that you have not the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_268'></a>268</span>slightest influence over my policy. So, after the +awkward intrusion of to-day, I am resolved that you had best leave +us.”</p> + +<p>“Your Majesty desires––”</p> + +<p>“That you leave the country at once, Monsieur Éloin.”</p> + +<p>“But,” protested Charlotte, “that is open disgrace. At +least cover it with the pretext of some mission.”</p> + +<p>The downcast courtier took heart. Watching his master with narrowed sycophant +eyes, he said, “But it need not be a pretext, sire. Since I must leave +Your Highness, permit me, then, to find my mission, and one in which I can still +serve my sovereign, though in spite of himself.”</p> + +<p>Imperceptibly Maximilian fell under the spell of the old fawning.</p> + +<p>“And what mission could that be, my good friend?”</p> + +<p>“To feel the Austrian pulse, sire. To know when the time is ripe, to +hasten the time––”</p> + +<p>“The time for what?”</p> + +<p>“For Your Majesty’s return. Even now the unpopularity of His +Imperial Highness, Franz––”</p> + +<p>“Éloin!” Maximilian stopped him sharply. But he could not hide +the flash of his own blue eyes.</p> + +<p>“What would Your Majesty? In Vienna, in Budapest, in your own Venetia, +sire, they long for you; at least as regent till the crown prince shall come of +age. Would you rebuke them also, as you do me?”</p> + +<p>Charlotte stared at the Belgian in amazement and distrust. He had only just +warned her how Jacqueline had kindled Maximilian’s Austrian hopes in order +to get him out of Mexico, and here he was borrowing that woman’s guile. +And here was Maximilian, too, softening under the enervating blandishment, +softening behind his frowns for the officious meddler.</p> + +<p>“There, there, Éloin,” he said, “you know that I must be +inexorable. But in the Journal Officiel it will appear that you <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span>are gone on a secret +mission, though you have no mission at all. None at all, do you understand, +sir?”</p> + +<p>Éloin protested that he understood.</p> + +<p>“None,” repeated the Emperor, “except to win back my +confidence. When you have taken leave of Her Majesty, you may come to my cabinet +to bid me farewell.”</p> + +<p>As Maximilian left them, Charlotte turned on the favorite. “Indeed, +Monsieur Éloin?” she said in utter scorn.</p> + +<p>“But, Your Majesty––”</p> + +<p>“Is Napoleon, then, so liberal a paymaster?”</p> + +<p>“Your Majesty!” and in genuine distress the courtier hurried on. +“If you would listen, Madame! ’Tis true that Jeanne d’Aumerle has found +the surest lever to pry His Highness out of Mexico––”</p> + +<p>“So good a lever, that you would use it too, to topple over my +throne.”</p> + +<p>“Not so, Madame. It’s a cunning lever, yes; but <i>I</i> shall use +another fulcrum.”</p> + +<p>“Really, monsieur, if I were in the mood for riddles and such pretty +trifles, I’d ask you to favor Us with a chansonnette.”</p> + +<p>“But this is as plain as day. First, our little intrigante knows that +if His Majesty tries for the Austrian throne, he must leave Mexico. +<i>That</i> is her lever to move him. But suppose we shift it to my fulcrum. +Then, whatever encourages his hopes for Austria, will make him but the more +determined to cling to Mexico. For to succeed in Austria, he must triumph first +in Mexico. He must prove to Europe that he can reign brilliantly. But if he +abandons Mexico, as Jacqueline would persuade him, what of his prestige then? +What of his glory to dazzle the Austrians? If Your Majesty would suggest to him +this phase––”</p> + +<p>“And you, meanwhile in Europe?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I shall find his chances good over there, but conditional on his +success here.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270'></a>270</span>“Monsieur +Éloin, I find that I must congratulate you. More, I even regret that you are +going, for I dread that some other will replace you in favor with the Emperor +who––”</p> + +<p>“Who may not be in accord with our views, Your Majesty would say? But +if you will permit, Madame, I believe I know quite a different man. Moreover, he +has already made an impression on His Highness, during our brief stay at an +hacienda in the Huasteca. Now he is here. I brought him to commend as a future +loyal follower.”</p> + +<p>“Pray, who is the paragon?”</p> + +<p>“A priest, Madame, a German priest, who perhaps would not refuse the +Bishopric of Durango. The hope of that rich see would insure his devotion. His +name is Fischer. He is a clerical, he is an imperialist, he is resourceful. Our +Jacqueline will have much to do to outwit him. This corpulent padre, Madame, +would wheedle the sulky pope himself into a good humor with us. If I might +venture so far as to present him before––”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose so,” said Charlotte wearily.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<h1>PART SECOND<br /><span style='font-size:smaller;'>THE ROSE THAT WAS A THORN<br />IN THE LAND OF ROSES</span></h1> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“The rugged battle of fate, where strength is born.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–Emerson.</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273'></a>273</span><a id='link_34'></a>CHAPTER I<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Meagre Shanks</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“... and should a man full of talk be justified?”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Book of Job</i>.</p></div> + +<p>At the hotel in the City of Mexico where Driscoll stopped, the entrance was +big enough for a stage coach to drive through. But as to height, it did not seem +any too great for the attenuation of Mr. Daniel Boone, who therein had propped +himself at his ease, delightfully suggesting a tropical gentleman lounging on a +veranda under the live oaks. One shoulder was impinged on the casing of the +archway, from which contact his spare frame drifted out and downward, to the +supporting base of one boot sole. The other boot crossed it over, and the edge +of the toe rested on the pavement of the Calle de los Plateros, familiarly +so-called.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone hailed from Boonville, but in Missouri, with Kentucky for ancestral +State, such was not a strained coincidence by any means. An individual there of +the name of Boone, and a bit of geography likewise distinguished, are bound to +fall together occasionally. For instance, a flea’s hop over the map, and +Mr. Boone and Boonville both might have claimed the county of Boone. Under the +circumstances, Daniel’s Christian name was the most obviously Christian +thing his parents could do, and followed (to precede thereafter) as a matter of +course.</p> + +<p>Now, Missouri, in the beginning of the Civil War, was a very Flanders for +battles, and this sort of thing had ended by disturbing Mr. Boone considerably +in the manipulation of an <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_274'></a>274</span>old hand-press, dubbed his Gutenberg, which worked +with a lever and required some dozen processes for each impression of the +<i>Boonville Semi-Weekly Javelin</i>. Finally, when Joe Shelby and his pack of +fire-eaters were raiding Missouri for the second time, Daniel plaintively laid +down his stick in the middle of an editorial on Black Republicans, and what +should be done to them. The shooting outside had gotten on his nerves at last. +That blazing away of Missourians back home made him homesick. He was like the +repressed boy called out by the gang to go coasting. And he went. An editorial +by example, he went to do unto the Black Republicans somewhat personally. The +Javelinier was a young man yet.</p> + +<p>“There’s been rumors hitherto about the pen and the sword,” +he mused, “but type, now–that’s <i>hot</i>!” Wherewith +he emptied his cases into a sack, took down a squirrel rifle, chased off his +devil, locked in the Gutenberg, and joined the raiders. Flinging his burden of +metal at General Shelby’s feet, he said, “There sir, is <i>The +Javelin</i> in embryo for months to come. Now it’s pi, which we’ll +sho’ly feed out by the bullet weight, sir.”</p> + +<p>From then on the newspaper man followed his proclivities and turned scout, +and it was a vigilant foe that could scoop him on the least of their movements, +whether in the field or in their very stronghold, St. Louis itself.</p> + +<p>At the present moment Mr. Boone was retrieving a lost familiarity with good +cigars. There was a black one of the Valle Nacional in his mouth, and also in +his mouth there was a wisp of straw. The steel-blue smoke floated out lazily, +which his steel-blue eyes regarded with appreciation. It was an Elysium of +indolence. The cigar, the not having to kill anybody for a few minutes, and a +place to lean against, these were content. Troubadour phrases droned soothingly +in his brain. Of course he had to apostrophize the snow-clads:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span>“Popo, out +there, grand, towering, whose frosty nose sniffs the vault of heaven, whose +mantle of fleecy cloud wraps him as the hoary locks of a giant, +whose–Sho’, if I had some copy paper now, I’d get you fixed +<i>right</i>, you slippery old codger!”</p> + +<p>The wisp of straw hardly tallied with poesy of soul, nor did the lank figure +and lean face, nor the cavalry uniform, badly worn, though lately new, nor yet +the sagging belt with dragoon pistols. But the eyes did. Those eyes held the +eloquence of the youth of a race. They were gentle, or they flashed, according +to what passed within. It did not matter necessarily what might be going on +without. They would as likely dart sparks during prayer meeting, or soften as a +lover’s mid the charge on a battery. Shaggy moustached Daniel, not yet +thirty, was a scholar too, of the true old school, where dead languages lived to +consort familiarly with men, and neither had to be buried out of the world +because of the comradeship. Once, in Pompeii, Daniel blundered suddenly on that +mosaic doormat which bears the warning, “Cave canem”; and before he +thought, he glanced anxiously around, half expecting a dog that could have +barked at Saint Peter himself. From which it appears that the editor had +traveled, and it would not be long in also appearing that he had gathered enough +of polite and variegated learning to fill a warehouse, in which junk-shop he was +constantly rummaging, and bringing forth queer specimens of speech wherewith to +flower his inspirations.</p> + +<p>Streaming back and forth before the shops in lively Plateros street were +elegance and fashion and display, the languishing beauty of Spain, the +brilliancy of the Second Empire, the Teuton’s martial strutting, the +Mexican’s elation that Europe had come to him and with the money to pay +for it. The toughened Boone gazed on the bright morning parade of ravishing +shoppers and ogling cavaliers with the unterrified innocence of a child, or of +an American. He had the air of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_276'></a>276</span>doing nothing, such as only a newspaper man can have +when really at work. He did not look as though he were waiting for some one. But +only a half-hour before he had gotten from the saddle. He had just ridden four +hundred and fifty miles for the express purpose of waiting for someone now.</p> + +<p>Finally the keen, lazy eyes singled out an immense yellow horse and rider +from among the luxurious turnouts. “Jack!” he exclaimed gladly. +“The Storm Centre,” he improvised, as the new comer approached, +“straight as Tecumseh, a great bronzed Ajax, mighty thewed, as strong of +hand as of digestion–w’y, bless my soul, the boy looks pow’ful +dejected, knocked plum’ galley-west! I never saw him look like that +before.”</p> + +<p>Man and horse had come all night from Cuernavaca. But Din Driscoll never +tired, wherefore Boone knew that <i>something</i> was the matter. At the doorway +Driscoll flung himself from the saddle, gave the bridle to a porter of the +hotel, and was following, his face the picture of gloom, when he heard the +words, “How’ yuh, Jack?” His brow cleared in the instant. +“Shanks!” he cried, gripping the other’s hand.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone untwined his boots and for the first time during a half-hour stood +in them. As he shook Driscoll’s hand, he shook his own head, and at last +observed, in the way of continuing a conversation, “It was the almightiest +soaking rain, Din, for the land’s sake!” And he shook his head +again, quite mournfully.</p> + +<p>Driscoll had not seen Mr. Boone since leaving Shelby’s camp back in +Arkansas. He naturally wished to know what was being talked about. But his +woeful friend only kept on, “It wet all Texas, heavier’n a sponge, +and,” he added, “they ain’t coming.”</p> + +<p>“Shanks! You don’t mean––”</p> + +<p>“Don’t I? But I do. They’re a surrendered army. The <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span>whole Trans-Mississippi +Department of ’em, pretty near. But not quite, bear that +in––”</p> + +<p>“But the rain? What in––”</p> + +<p>“What did you come down here for, I’d like to know? To say how +the Trans-Mississippi wouldn’t surrender, didn’t you? +Well?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, go on!”</p> + +<p>“Well, it rained, I tell you. Didn’t it rain before Waterloo? +Didn’t it now?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone believed in trouble as an antidote for trouble. When he had stirred +Driscoll out of his dejection enough to make him want to fight, he deigned to +clear the atmosphere of that befogging downpour in Texas.</p> + +<p>“You rec’lect, Din, that there war god we put up in Kirby Smith’s +place, who so dashingly would lead us on to Mexico?”</p> + +<p>“Buckner, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Him, Simon Bolivar B., whose gold lace glittered as though washed by +the dew and wiped with the sunshine––”</p> + +<p>“Now, Shanks, drop it!” Driscoll was referring to the editorial +pen which Mr. Boone would clutch and get firmly in hand with the least rise of +emotion. Against his other conversation, the clutching always became at once +apparent.</p> + +<p>“Anyhow,” said Daniel meekly, “he wilted, did our Simon of +B. B. calibre, and he gave back the command to Smith. And Smith’s first +order, his very first order, sir, was that the Department, the whole fifty +thousand, should march into Shrevepoht and–and <i>surrender</i>, by +thunder!”</p> + +<p>“Dan, you’re not going to tell me––”</p> + +<p>“That <i>we</i> surrendered, we, the Missourians, the flower of +’em all? Now s’pose you just wait till Joe Shelby gets back to us in +Arkansas, after that conference with the other generals? Then you’ll see +what <i>he</i> does. He proclaims things, on wall paper. The Missouri Cavalry +Division will march to Shrevepoht, will depose Smith for good, will head off the +surrender, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278'></a>278</span> will +lead the other divisions on to Mexico. And we started to do it too. And then, +and then–it rained. Rained, sir, till our trains and guns were mired, and +we couldn’t budge! And all the time we knew that regiment after regiment +was stacking arms off there at Shrevepoht. Did Little Joe rave? Opened Job his +mouth? He did. His fluency gave the rain pointers. I sho’ly absorbed some +myself, me, that have language tanks of my own. Well, I reckon all our hearts +pretty near broke. But we had our Missouri general and our Missouri governor, +and the Old Brigade just decided to come along anyhow. And we’re a coming, +Din, we’re a coming!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s face went blank. He thought of the scant welcome his +homeless comrades would get. But Mr. Boone did not notice. He had only stretched +his canvas, a big one, and there was a picture to paint. His long body began to +straighten out, and his eyes glowed. From Xenophon to Irving’s Astoria, +from Hannibal crossing the Alps to Marching Through Georgia, he ransacked both +romance and the classics for adequate tints, but in vain. The colors would have +to be of his own mixing.</p> + +<p>“Din Driscoll,” he began solemnly, “<i>you</i> know that +devil breed? Of coh’se, you’re one of ’em. You’re a chunk of +brimstone, yourself. And you’ll maybe rec’lect they did some fighting off +and on. There was that raw company, f’r instance–boys, hardly a one broke +in his yoke of oxen yet–and they hadn’t even gotten their firearms, +but they took a battery with their naked hands, and got themselves all tangled +up in the fiery woof of death. But you’ll not be rec’lecting that that +there Brigade ever <i>lost</i> a gun. And those raids, Din, back into Missouri, +a handful back into the Federal country, when men dozed and dropped from their +saddles and still did not wake up, and some went clean daft for want of sleep, +and fighting steady all around the clock too, fair and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_279'></a>279</span> square over into Kansas! And there was +the night they buried eight hundred!”</p> + +<p>In all this Daniel might have said “We,” but reportorial modesty +forbade.</p> + +<p>“And,” he went on, gaining momentum, “I don’t reckon +you’ll be forgetting Arkansas, and the ague and rattlesnakes? And how the +small-pox swooped down on that camp of cane shacks? And how the quinine gave +out, and–and the <i>tobacco</i>? Lawd!–And how those boys forgot how +to sew patches, their rags being so far gone! And how they made bridles out of +bark, and coffee out of corn! And how they kneaded dough in old rubber blankets +and cooked it on rocks! Well, Jack, there they were, in Arkansas like that, and +the War was over at last, and Missouri was just a waiting for ’em. And +then, to think that they had to face square around another way entirely! Din, +you’ll just try to imagine that there devil breed facing any other way +except to’ds home!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t, Shanks, you––”</p> + +<p>“Devils? They were the wildest things that are. It’s a mighty +good thing they didn’t go back. Think of their neighbors across the Kansas +line, getting ready for ’em with every sort of legal persecution under the +sun, and carpet-bag judges to help! Outlaw decrees? Well, I reckon those decrees +will make a few outlaws, all right, and there’ll be unsurrendered Johnny +Rebs ten years from now. Shelby’s boys had the look of it. Your own +Jackson county regiment would have flared into desperadoes at sight of a United +States marshal. They were all in just that sort o’ mood, as they turned +their backs on Missouri. And after four years, too! But there, it’s a +stiff wind that has no turning, so cheer up! <i>They</i> did, as soon as that +deluge got done with and they were headed for Mexico, one thousand of ’em. +Soldiers mus’n’t repine, you know. For them, Fate arrays herself in +April’s capricious sunshine.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280'></a>280</span>Driscoll had to +smile. “Careful, there, Dan, don’t stampede.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t, but if now ‘I hold my tongue I shall give up the +ghost,’ and I want to tell you first that Texas is a handsome state. +We–they–were considerable interested all the way through +it.”</p> + +<p>“But, Meagre Shanks, where’d you leave ’em?”</p> + +<p>“Back in Monterey, drinking champagne with Fat Jenny. Alas, ‘who can +stay the bottles of heaven?’”</p> + +<p>“Fat–who’s she?”</p> + +<p>“Now you wait. They’ve got heaps to do in Texas yet, before they +get to Fat Jenny. First, they helped themselves out of their own commissary +departments, horses, provisions trains, cannon, everything. Decently uniformed +for the first time, and the War over! You should of seen ’em, a forest of +Sharpe’s carbines, a regular circulating library of Beecher Bibles. There +were four Colts and a dragoon sabre and thousands of rounds of ammunition to +each man. They had fighting tools to spare, and they cached a lot of the stuff +up in the state of Coahuila. And they fed, and got sleek. This ain’t +editorial, my boy. It’s God’s own truth. Adventures every step of +the way only did ’em good. They saved whole towns from renegade looters by +just mentioning Shelby’s name. They fought all day and danced all night. +San Antone was the best. There they gathered in generals, governors, senators, +and even Kirby Smith, all yearning to join Old Joe–our Old Joe, who +ain’t thirty-four yet.”</p> + +<p>The speaker paused, and when he began again, there was a light ominous of +inspiration in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“At the Rio Grande,” he said, solemnly, “they crossed out +of the Confederacy forever, so it was meet and right that there, in midstream, +they should consign their old battle-flag to the past. They had not surrendered +it, but as a standard it existed for those gallant hearts no more. Woman’s +loyal <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span>hand had +bestowed it. Coy victory had caressed its folds mid the powder pall and horror +of ten score desperate fields. And now it floated over the last of its +followers, ere the waves should close over it forevermore. With bowed heads, +they gathered sadly about––”</p> + +<p>“Lay it down, Shanks, lay it down,” Driscoll pleaded. He was +referring again to the pen in hand.</p> + +<p>“All right, Din,” Boone answered hastily. “Yes, I know, we +all got kind of weepy too. No wonder Colonel Slayback wrote some verses. Reckon +you can stand just one? This one?</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>‘And that group of Missouri’s valiant +throng,<br />Who had fought for the weak against the +strong–<br /> + Who had charged and +bled<br /> Where +Shelby led,<br /> Were the last who held above the +wave<br /> The glorious flag of the vanquished +brave,<br /> No more to rise from its watery +grave!’</p> +</div> + +<p>“And,” he added savagely, “just let any parlor critic smile +at the sacred feet of those same lines!”</p> + +<p>“Let him once!” said Driscoll. His eyes were moist.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone faithfully traversed the rest of the way with the “Iron +Brigade,” and no company of errant knights, perhaps, ever had such a +junketing as those same lusty troopers. No sooner did they set foot in the +enchanted land of roses than a damsel in distress, the República Mexicana +herself, came to them for succor. Or more literally, a dissident governor, +backed by the authority of President Juarez, offered Shelby military control of +the three northern states and grants in the fabulously rich Sonora mines, if he +would hang high his shield and recruit his countrymen in the republican cause. +There is little doubt that General Shelby could have raised an army and become +henceforth a power in Mexico, for Washington would have smiled on the +undertaking and all Texas would have afforded a base of supplies. But the +Missourian’s Round Table voted it down. They awaited Maximilian’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span>reply which +Driscoll was to bring. Perhaps, too, they would have a chance to wage war +against the United States again, and that was better than being smiled on.</p> + +<p>Henceforth they fought the forlorn damsel herself, fought every foot of the +way through desert mesquite thick enough to daunt a tarantula. There were +guerrillas, robbers, spies, deserters, and Indian tribes. It was one eternal +ambush, incessantly a skirmish, often a pitched battle. They saved a French +garrison. They rescued a real maiden by a night attack on an hacienda +stronghold, and did it with strictly de rigueur dash and chivalry. Once or twice +they were even stung, by some “langourous dusky-eyed scorpion of a +saynorita” to fight among themselves, cavalryman’s code. Daniel was +never one to spoil a romance by mentioning that a tropical maid was faced like a +waffle-iron, though more than likely she was. Finally, as a last stroke, Fat +Jenny promised to shoot Shelby and hang the rest.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been derogatory about this lady before,” Driscoll +interposed, “and I want to know who she is.”</p> + +<p>“She is the English for Jeanningros, the French general at Monterey, +who’d heard about those negotiations with the República. But Shelby formed +in battle line, to storm his old city, and at the same time sent word explaining +that he hadn’t accepted any offer from the República. So, instead of +shooting and hanging, Jenny asked us around for supper. That’s where I +left ’em.”</p> + +<p>“What for?”</p> + +<p>“W’y,” said Boone in surprise, “to see if you’d +gotten here, and to take back Maximilian’s answer.”</p> + +<p>“But what’s the use? The Trans-Mississippi went and +surrendered.”</p> + +<p>“Gra-cious, but you’re in a vicious humor! Now, here’s the +use. Instead of fifty thousand, we’re only one thousand, I know. But there +are hundreds and hundreds of Americans <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_283'></a>283</span>down here like us, and all of ’em wanting +service. There’s that colony just starting at Córdova near Vera Cruz. But +they’d fight, if there was an American to lead them, and more yet ’ud come +from the States. Quicker’n that, Old Joe will have a division.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll ruefully shook his head. “Maximilian wants us,” he said, +“if we’ll give up our arms first.”</p> + +<p>“If we––”</p> + +<p>“If we will surrender, Dan.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone’s jaw fell. The phrase that would measure the depth of the +proposed ignominy would not come. Finally, he dug from his pocket a bright new +gold coin, twenty pesos, and contemplated reflectively the side that bore +Maximilian’s effigy.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got the cub repohter’s superstition,” he said +at last. “You get your cards printed,” here he tapped the coin +significantly, “and you’re sure to lose your job–still we +might of helped him.”</p> + +<p>There was nothing, though, for Daniel but to turn back and meet the Brigade. +Learning Maximilian’s decision, the Missourians would probably join the +Córdova colony. Boone reckoned that <i>he</i> would. He discovered that he was +tired of fighting. Perhaps the new citizens at Córdova would want an organ, a +weekly at least; and already his nostrils were sniffing the pungent, fascinating +aroma of printer’s ink. Then he asked Driscoll what he thought of doing, +now that he was free.</p> + +<p>“Don’t know,” came the reply lonesomely. “Stir +around, I guess. There’s a flying column leaving this week to capture +Juarez. Maybe that’ll do me.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span><a id='link_35'></a>CHAPTER II<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Black Decree</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“So may heaven’s grace clear whatso’er of foam<br /> +Floats turbid on the conscience.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Dante.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>That unleashed hawk which was the flying column failed to clutch its prey. +From the City of Mexico across the far northwestern desert the Chasseurs and +cuirassiers rode their swift Arabian steeds, and into the town of Chihuahua at +last. But the old Indian for whom they came was not there. Benito Juarez had +fled. He must have known. Yet how, no one might conjecture. It was as though +some watchful Republican fairy had marked the sturdy, squat patriot as the one +hope of the Empire’s overthrow, and did not propose to have him taken. +Scouts, spies, the entire French secret service, delved, gestured, and sweated. +But they laid bare next to nothing. At the Palacio Munícipal a number of +functionaries told of a peon in breech clout, a wretch coated with alkali dust +till the muscles of his legs looked like grayish ropes, who had emerged from the +cacti plain ten days before and come running into Chihuahua. The peon had made +direct for the Palacio, where, in some way, he had contrived a secret word with +Don Benito; and that very day Don Benito with his one minister, Lerdo, had set +out toward the north.</p> + +<p>Afterward the functionaries had questioned the messenger, but he knew next to +nothing. A señor chaparro had sent him, was all he said. It was a ridiculous +anti-climax. A señor chaparro, “El Chaparrito,” +“Shorty,” such a one to be the omniscient guardian of the Republic! +But for all that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_285'></a>285</span>“El Chaparrito” was to be heard of again +and many times, and always as an enigma to both sides alike, until the absurd +word became freighted on the lips of men with superstitious awe. There was an +inscrutable, long-fingered providence at work in the blood-strife of the nation. +The warning to Juarez at Chihuahua was its first manifestation.</p> + +<p>Their quarry had escaped, but Driscoll was not sorry. More than once he had +felt a vague shame for the unsportsmanlike chase after one lone, indomitable old +man. Driscoll held a commission, which Michel Ney, happily recovering, had +procured for him from the marshal. But as the American’s healthy spirits, +like cleansing by vigorous blood, swept the gloom from his mind, he began to +wonder at the craving for bustle and forgetfulness which had made him snatch at +such an offer. The corners of his mouth twisted in whimsical self-scorn. He, one +of your drooping, unrequited lovers! “Shucks!” that is what he +thought. And he persuaded himself that it was all over. Quite, quite persuaded +himself. But as a matter of fact, he hoped that he might never have to see her +again.</p> + +<p>It was not until October of the same year that Driscoll saw actual battle in +his new service. With the Fifth Lancers under Colonel Mendez, the best of the +few native regiments in the field, he had been assisting at a manner of +pacification. That is, they marched from town to town, and received allegiance. +Guerrillas of course punished the towns later, but Maximilian would not be +induced to organize a native army, and thirty thousand French could not garrison +fifteen thousand leagues. They could only promenade, through sand storms, +through cacti. Then the battle took place. It was the last vestige of Liberal +resistance to the Empire. A few hundred men near Uruapan in Michoacan flaunted +their defiance. Driscoll noticed an expectant and wolfish look in his +colonel’s eyes. Mendez was a strikingly handsome and gallant Indian, but +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286'></a>286</span>his expectancy now +was not for battle. It was for the battle’s sequel. Michel Ney and a squad +of Chasseurs had just brought him an Imperial packet from the City, and the +packet contained general orders very much to his Indian taste.</p> + +<p>The fight was a rousing one, and Driscoll enjoyed himself for the first time +in many days. His Mexicans behaved as he could have wished, better than he had +hoped. At the start in the familiar uproarious hell, he missed the hard set, +exultant faces of his old Jackson county troop, and seeing only tawny visages +through the smoke and hearing only foreign yells, he felt a queer twinge of +homesickness. But he was at once ashamed, for the humble little chocolate +centaurs whom he had been set to train were dying about him with lethargic +cynicism, just as they were bidden. Wearing a charm, either the Virgin’s +picture in a tin frame, or the cross, they might have worn the crescent. They +were as effective as Moslems. They were ruthless fatalists.</p> + +<p>Michel Ney also spent a diverting half-hour. He had lingered for the fray. +Waving a broken sabre snapped off at the hilt, he charged with Gallic verve and +got himself knocked under his kicking and wounded horse, and pummeled by Liberal +muskets on every side. Driscoll saw, and straightened out matters. Handing the +Frenchman a whole sabre, he reproved him soberly, as a carpenter might an +apprentice caught using a plane for a ripsaw.</p> + +<p>After it was over, the living of the enemy were prisoners. The victors +marched them to Uruapan near by, because it was charged that at this place two +of the captured Liberals, Generals Arteaga and Salazar, had lately shot two +Imperialists. Here, in their turn, they were promptly executed.</p> + +<p>Driscoll heard the volleys, ran to the spot, and saw the last horrid +spasms.</p> + +<p>“What–what––”</p> + +<p>Ney turned on him a sickened look.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_287'></a>287</span>“Don’t you know, it’s the new +decree.”</p> + +<p>“What new decree? These dead men were prisoners of war. If murderers, +they weren’t tried.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the decree I brought from Maximilian, the decree of general +amnesty.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll glared fiercely at such a jest, but to his utter amazement Ney was +quite in earnest.</p> + +<p>He who had commanded the shooting squad stooped over the corpses, a smoking +pistol in his hand. Now he glanced up at Driscoll. “Pues, si +señores,” he said, “of amnesty, yes,” and chuckling, he +indicated the bodies with his pistol. “But wait––” He thought +he saw a form quiver, one he had overlooked. Remedying this with a belated coup +de grace through the brain, he shoved back his white gold-bordered sombrero and +mopped his forehead as a laborer whose labor is done.</p> + +<p>“Under which general amnesty, caballeros,” he went on merrily, +“you have just witnessed the first act. My loyalty to the Emperor grows. +His Majesty has a sense of humor.”</p> + +<p>It was Don Tiburcio. He had deserted the Contras to waylay the rich bullion +convoy of which Rodrigo Galán had told him. But the convoy never came. Rodrigo, +the “sin vergüenza,” had not levied toll at all. He had swallowed it +whole, a luscious morsel of several millions in silver and gold. The coup was of +a humor the less appreciated by Don Tiburcio because he had figured on doing the +very same thing himself. At present he was chief of scouts under Mendez, and +commanded the Exploradores, audacious barbarians who were invaluable for their +knowledge of the country.</p> + +<p>From Tiburcio and Ney Driscoll finally gathered the meaning of the decree. It +was the keynote to the Imperialist hopes. Its cause was the flight of Juarez +across the border. Maximilian was surcharged anew with enthusiasm. Even the +United States must now recognize his empire, he believed. <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span>And confounding flurry with activity, as +usual, he fervently proclaimed the courage and constancy of Don Benito Juarez, +but added that the Republican hegira finally and definitely stamped all further +resistance to the Empire as useless. Then, august and Cæsar-like, he allowed +amnesty for those who submitted immediately; he prescribed death for all others. +Rebels taken in battle were not even to have trial. Maximilian believed that +ink, thus sagaciously besmeared by a statesman’s fingers, would blot out +further revolution. But it was so fatuous, so stupidly unnecessary! The court +martials, or French gardens of acclimatization, as the dissidents called them, +were already doing the work of the decree. The poet prince merely lifted the +odium of it to his own shoulders. His amnesty became infamy, and was called the +Bando Negro, a nefast Decree to blacken his gentleness and well-meaning for all +time.</p> + +<p>Driscoll left his informants, and walked up and down, up and down, alone. It +did not occur to him to fill the cob pipe between his teeth. A scowl settled +between his eyes, and it deepened and grew ugly. The desperado was forming in +the man–desperado, as contrast to polite conventions. Desperado, as +primitive man, who hews straight, cutting whom or what he might, cutting first +of all through the veneered bark of civilization. For this reason, in this +sense, he might be termed outlaw. And walking up and down, up and down, he hewed +till he had laid bare the core of the matter. And he saw it naked, without the +polish. Thereupon he knew what he was going to do.</p> + +<p>He saddled Demijohn, and Demijohn followed at his shoulder to the jefetura. +Here, at the entrance, under the brick-red portales, Driscoll left the horse, +untied, and opened the door and passed within.</p> + +<p>The jefetura, or prefecture, was at present the headquarters of the command, +and in the long front room were assembled a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_289'></a>289</span>number of officers, including Ney and Tiburcio, +besides the jefe of the place and several town magistrates, all chatting with +Colonel Mendez about the recent victory. They greeted the American cordially, +and poured out tequila for him. He had done as much as any to win the fight. +Michel laid a hand on his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” he said with mock formality, “to-day, when you +permitted yourself to save my skin, you called me a fool. But I would have you +observe, monsieur, that only my patron divinity, the god of fools, is permitted +to know so much.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll loosed himself from the affectionate grip, and turned to Mendez.</p> + +<p>“Colonel,” he said, “I’m going to get out of +this.”</p> + +<p>“<i>What?</i> Oh come, mi capitan, find a better one!”</p> + +<p>“It’s not a joke, sir. Profiting by a commission that does not +bind me, I am here to tell you good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“Jean, mon ami!” Ney cried in protest.</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio waited with keen appreciation, as he always did when the +unexpectedness of this Gringo was unfolding. The others stared agape at the man +between them and the door. Mendez saw too that he was in earnest, and he began +to argue, almost to entreat. The Mexican leader had lost the quality of mercy in +civil wars that had touched him cruelly, that had exacted many near to him, but +there was sincerity in the man, and men were won by the stirring sound of his +voice.</p> + +<p>“You would retire now,” he exclaimed, “now, when every soul +here may look for promotion, and none of them more than you, Señor +Dreescol?”</p> + +<p>But he did not stop there. He conjured up a tempting vista of long and +honored life under an empire that was now supreme. Even the scum of rebellion +yet left on the calm surface was that day swept away, and naught remained but to +enjoy the favors of his grateful Majesty.</p> + +<p>“Which only makes it,” said Driscoll, “a good time to quit. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290'></a>290</span>I should mention, +too, that I intend to join the Republic, that is,” he added, “if +there’s any of the Republic left.”</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio was not disappointed.</p> + +<p>Mendez sprang to his feet and his voice was stentorian, as when he rallied +his men by the magnet of fury and hatred.</p> + +<p>“It’s desertion!” he roared.</p> + +<p>“Or simple honesty,” Driscoll corrected him. “But it +doesn’t matter. The penalty is no worse for a deserter, if you catch +him.”</p> + +<p>Mendez curbed his rage. He did not wish to lose this man. That is, he would +regret deeply having to kill him.</p> + +<p>“<i>Why</i> do you mean to change?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“Because I can’t feel <i>right</i>! It’s like–somehow +it’s like being an accomplice of murderers.”</p> + +<p>“Dios mio, I suppose Your Mercy and his tender heart refers to the +Decree?”</p> + +<p>“Partly. That thing is a blanket warrant of death. Just because your +enemy can’t fight any longer––”</p> + +<p>“But you forget, señor, the mines that exploded in the highways. You +forget the poisoned springs, the ambuscades, the massacres. Would they not shoot +prisoners too, your new friends?”</p> + +<p>“Si señor, as you and others may some day experience +personally.”</p> + +<p>“Then, mighty judge, condemn them also.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t I? But I can’t blame them. They are punishing +crime.”</p> + +<p>“But not of murder, as we did to-day.”</p> + +<p>“That too, for that was murder to-day. But I was thinking of a worse +crime. I was thinking of theft, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Theft? How can that be worse?”</p> + +<p>“Theft of their country, I mean, and as your accomplice I owe +restitution. Leaving after a victory ain’t so bad, but if I’d known +that I was fighting for that Black Decree, I’d of <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span>dropped out before the fight. But look +at it anyway you please. <i>How</i> it looks be damned!”</p> + +<p>“Señor, lay down your pistols and sabre, there, on that table, because, +by Heaven, I shall stop you! But if you are armed, I–I shall have to shoot +you, too.”</p> + +<p>“Hang it, Mendez, you’re a good fellow! But–I can’t +help it.”</p> + +<p>“Lay them down, you renegade!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll removed his sabre and gravely placed it on the table.</p> + +<p>“The guns are my own,” he said. “Dupin had them returned to +me. <i>He</i> took them. Suppose <i>you</i> take them, Colonel Mendez!”</p> + +<p>He was in the doorway, and from there he faced them. The day was hot, and +Mendez had taken off his belt with his weapons. But the others were armed. Yet +they hesitated. They were brave enough for death, but before the certainty of +death for at least one among them and the uncertainty of which one, they paused. +Driscoll had not touched the black six-shooters under his ribs. That would have +snapped the psychological fetter. As he expected, Mendez sprang first. This put +an unarmed man between himself and the others. In the instant he wheeled, was in +the saddle, and clattering down the street.</p> + +<p>Back in the room Mendez saw his blunder and made way. Ney passed him first, +reached the door, aimed and fired. But someone behind him touched his arm, and +the ball sped high. Ney turned, and saw Tiburcio filling the door against the +others, and regarding him with evil challenge in his eye.</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t think that I hold it against you,” Ney cried +gratefully.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio half laughed.</p> + +<p>“A man who don’t want prisoners shot is better with the enemy +than dead,” he said.</p> + +<p>Tiburcio’s chuckle was prophetic. The enemy invariably <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292'></a>292</span>executed Exploradores, +and would certainly do as much for Don Tiburcio if they caught him.</p> + +<p>Ney heard the hoof beats, already far away.</p> + +<p>“May the god of fools look after him too,” he murmured +heavily.</p> + +<p>The fugitive swept round the first corner of the street and on through the +town. None thought to stop him. Soldiers and townsmen supposed him on the +Empire’s urgent business, and when they knew better, there was no longer +hope for their ponies against the great Missouri buckskin, now a diminishing +dusty speck mid cacti and maguey.</p> + +<p>“The devil of it is,” Driscoll muttered ruefully, “I +don’t know where there’s anybody to desert <i>to</i>!”</p> + +<p>However, he was feeling much better.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span><a id='link_36'></a>CHAPTER III<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>As Between Women</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Lamb.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Jacqueline had wrought close to success during that May twilight on the edge +of the Cuernavaca pond. She had won a promise of abdication. Yet in the end it +was not the Emperor that left Mexico, but the Empress. And Jacqueline was to +accompany her, to leave despite herself the scene of her labors. Such was the +case precisely, and it all came to pass in this wise.</p> + +<p>Maddened by the distance which his temptress kept, also goaded to it by the +sorry state of his empire, Maximilian thought only of abdication. Napoleon +responded to Jacqueline’s cipher dispatch with orders to Bazaine. But +Bazaine, urged thereto by Empress and maréchale, ignored the orders, and +advanced Maximilian more money. And Maximilian, having no longer his excuse to +quit, stayed on to spend the money. Jacqueline sighed, and–began all over +again. Consequently Bazaine, hearing once more from Napoleon, found himself a +defaulter, and virtually recalled. Consequently, Napoleon set dates for +evacuation. Consequently the rebellion sprang into new life, and the Empire lost +armies and cities, and thousands of men by desertion. But the darkest cloud was +formed by one hundred thousand Yankees massed along the Rio Grande. Napoleon +took heed. He ordered that the French troops should leave at once, unless half +the Mexican customs were turned over to the French administrator. This <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span>was during the summer of +1866, only six months after the bright hopes embodied in the Black Decree of +general amnesty. Utterly appalled, Maximilian took up his pen again to sign his +abdication.</p> + +<p>But there was Charlotte. Even yet she pettishly clung to her crown. The +Mexican agents in Paris had availed nothing with Napoleon. Bien, she would +herself go to Paris. She would get the ultimatum recalled, and Bazaine as well, +because Bazaine no longer advanced money. The imperial favorites, among them the +sleek-jowled padre recommended by Éloin, seconded her intention. And as they all +talked so well, Maximilian quaffed of hope. With a spite hardly noble though +entirely royal, he predicted that soon the marshal would find himself in a +sadder fix than himself, the Emperor.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, secretly, a little after midnight, Charlotte left the capital. +Maximilian bade her good-bye with a solemn promise to rejoin her in Europe if +she failed. Three days later Dupin and his Contra Guerrillas met her in the +Tierra Caliente, and offered to join her French cavalry escort. The Empress took +his presence as an affront. Of late small things excited her to a feverish +agitation which she was unable to control. The Tiger bowed over his saddle, and +kept his gray hair bared to a torrential downpour while her carriage passed on. +It was the tropical rainy season. The clouds hung low around the mountain base +and truncated the more distant peaks, while the valley below was a bright +contrast in wet, tender green. The wheels sank deep, and mired in the black, +soggy earth. Men tugged constantly at the spokes, and the steaming mules reared +and plunged under the angry crack of whips.</p> + +<p>The Tiger of the Tropics waited as carriage after carriage toiled past him +and creaked and was forced on its way. Behind the dripping windowpane of the +very last he saw a face he knew, a beautiful, saddened face, puckered just now +by some <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span>immediate +ill-humor. She frowned on recognizing the French barbarian, but unlike +Charlotte, she did not jerk down the shutter. Instead, she lowered the glass by +the length of her pretty nose.</p> + +<p>“Is it dotage already, monsieur? Then put on your hat!”</p> + +<p>“Name of a name, yet another petulant grande dame!” But the +Frenchman turned his horse and rode beside her coach.</p> + +<p>“Did Her Majesty pout, then?” inquired the lady within.</p> + +<p>“Almost as superbly as Mademoiselle la Marquise.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you well, but I have a superb reason for it.”</p> + +<p>“Because you return to Paris, surely not? Yet, if that is the reason, +you need not quite despair.”</p> + +<p>“Why, what–what do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“Only brigands, mademoiselle. When everyone is looking for abdication, +a cortège mysteriously leaving the City must be the Emperor who goes back to +Austria. The news travels like wildfire. The Indito runners go as fast as when +they brought Moctezuma fresh fish from the Gulf. I rather think they have +carried the news to an old friend of ours. It’s my chance to catch +him.”</p> + +<p>“Not my Fra Diavolo–Rodrigo Galán?”</p> + +<p>“None other. But Rodrigo is stirred by more than patriotism these days. +Upon it he has grafted a deep wrong, and he swears lofty vengeance by a little +ivory cross such as these Mexican girls wear. The conceited cut-throat imagines +there is a blood feud between himself and His Majesty. So if he hears that +Prince Max comes this way––”</p> + +<p>“He will find Charlotte instead? But he must not detain her.”</p> + +<p>“Tonnerre!” exclaimed the Cossack chief. “Why not? She goes +to Europe to sustain the Empire, while we French––”</p> + +<p>“All the same, let her go. She will gain nothing there. Listen to me, +monsieur. She leaves that he may <i>not</i> abdicate, while if I stay, she fears +that––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296'></a>296</span>“He +<i>will</i> abdicate?”</p> + +<p>“Your wits, mon colonel, are entirely satisfactory. And so she invited +me to go with her, and as first lady of her household, I could not refuse. I +wonder, now, if Fra Diavolo would deign to capture just me, alone!”</p> + +<p>The sharp look which Dupin gave her from behind the streams tumbling off his +sombrero was the sixth of a half-dozen. But it was this last one that seemed to +satisfy him.</p> + +<p>“Put up the window, mademoiselle,” he said, “you’re +getting wet.”</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later Jacqueline felt the coach lurch heavily and sink to the hub +on one side.</p> + +<p>“Go on with your nap, Berthe,” she said to her one companion. +“They’ll pull us out, as usual.”</p> + +<p>The customary yelling and straining began, and men grunted as they heaved +against an axle. After a long séance of such effort there came a sharp +exclamation, like an oath, and the confusion fell to a murmur of dismay. Someone +jerked open the door, and Dupin’s grizzled head appeared.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle, I regret to have to announce that a wheel is dished +in.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s gray eyes regarded him quizzically. The sardonic old face +spread to a grin, but deftly readjusted itself to the requisite despair.</p> + +<p>Not a carriage except the wrecked one was in sight. Only the Tiger’s +whelps, by the hundred, surrounded her.</p> + +<p>“And the others? Her Majesty?”</p> + +<p>“The others did the sensible thing. They know that you will catch up +with them when they themselves are mired. Her Majesty, being ahead, is probably +still in ignorance of your accident.”</p> + +<p>“But the wheel?”</p> + +<p>“If mademoiselle wishes it mended?”</p> + +<p>“Is it so bad?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span>Dupin caught her +expression. “It will take six hours,” he said mercilessly.</p> + +<p>“Oh dear!” said Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>“There’s a settler’s cabin a mile from here. If you will +accept my horse, and Mademoiselle Berthe can mount behind––”</p> + +<p>“Poor Berthe,” sighed Jacqueline. But she nodded eagerly.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298'></a>298</span><a id='link_37'></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Lacking Coincidence</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Achilles absent was Achilles still.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>The Iliad.</i></p></div> + +<p>Colonel Dupin helped first one and then the other of his charges upon the +same horse and wrapped them about in the same gaudy serape till only two pair of +pretty eyes peeped forth at the rain. The Vera Cruz highway clung to the +mountain side, but the Contra Guerrillas took a venturesome little bridle path +which dropped abruptly down into the rich valley of a thousand or more feet +below. Emerging from the dense tropical growth of the highland, they beheld a +vast emerald checkerboard of cultivation, field after field of sugar cane, and +set in each bright square a little house of bamboo with a roof of red piping. +After the dreary black gorges behind them, the light of the sun seemed boxed in +here under a leaden cover of cloud. Coming suddenly out of the chill and mist, +the two girls felt the very rain gratefully warm and the fragrant smells of the +wet earth a thing of comfort. As the beauty and the cheer of it subtly gladdened +her mood, Jacqueline thought that here at any rate was an adequate mise-en-scène +for whatever tremors might befall.</p> + +<p>There was one circumstance that already seemed a portent, and got on a +person’s nerves like the stillness of nature just before a Kansas cyclone. +This was the curious absence of all human life. Except for the grimly expectant +troop around her, and the clanking of metal as the Contras rode, she had no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299'></a>299</span>token of a fellow +creature. The first of the plantations was deserted, and likewise the next. But +the house doors were open. Nothing showed preparation for departure. The riddle +was uncanny. At the third Jacqueline stated that she would go no farther. She +hated to tramp down a man’s field when the man himself was not about to +express an opinion, and the ruthless swath made by her escort through the cane +gave her shame. Besides, it was too much like wading, the way her skirts brushed +the long leaves and knocked off glistening drops by myriads.</p> + +<p>The third cabin was abandoned too, but there were inducements within for any +houseless creature. A hammock was hanging from corner to corner in the front +room, probably to thwart the fauna of tropical stingers, and there was that +comfort unfamiliar to French women, a rocking chair, before a most inviting +fireplace, itself a luxury rare in Mexico. The two girls removed their cloaks, +and settled themselves to dry their shoes before a roaring fire which the men +lighted for them. Then the Cossacks, including their colonel, left on some +stealthy business without, and Jacqueline and Berthe were alone.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline tried the rocker, found it good, and smoothed her skirts over her +knees to the warmth of the blaze. “We’ve only to yawn at the flies, +eh, ma chérie?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Not a thing else, madame,” came a cheery voice from the +hammock.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline was at once suspicious. “You absurd little mouse,” she +cried, “don’t I understand that gaiety of yours! And all the while +you are really trembling in fear of terrible bandits. For months now you grieve +because you imagine that I–well, that I am sad. But you’ll not make +me hilarious, you won’t, Berthe, as long as it’s ‘madame.’ +Child, child, will you not let me have my friend in you, I who have none, nor a +mother or sister! There now, if I’m not to +be–ah–pensive–remember <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_300'></a>300</span>there’s no ‘madame’ between thee and me, +dear!”</p> + +<p>The Bretonne’s gentle eyes filled suddenly. Jacqueline had before +sought to change their relations, ever since Berthe’s part in +Driscoll’s rescue from execution, but she had always tried to bring it +about by playful bantering. Now, however, Berthe was given to see the utter +loneliness of an orphaned girl in one who for all the rest of the world was the +disdainfully independent little aristocrat, who had met the proffered intimacy +of the French empress with a sneer, who was the cold princess when among +princesses of the Blood. The loyal child of simple Breton folk sprang +impulsively to the arm of the rocker, and was herself clasped no less +impulsively.</p> + +<p>“But there,” said Jacqueline, laughing rather brokenly, +“we’re forgetting the flies.”</p> + +<p>A belt over the fireplace caught her eye, and she unexpectedly discovered +that her breath had quickened. She stared fascinated at the letters on the +buckle. “C. S. A.,” she murmured. Then her startled gaze roved +hurriedly over the walls. It became even frightened before a faded gray +cape-coat of the Confederate cavalry and a battered white gauntlet sticking from +the pocket. Involuntarily, trembling foolishly, she looked to see if there might +not be an old cob pipe also. There was not, but the other familiar objects made +her imagination leap fearfully to what might be. Both hope and dread will always +override common sense, and convoy imagination perforce. If <i>he</i> did live +here–if they should meet! Could such a coincidence happen, could it, +outside the neat ordering of a book or play?</p> + +<p>She sprang to her feet and began investigating. She went awesomely as one +would tiptoe over a haunted house. In the next room she came upon what was an +odd treasure trove for an isolated bamboo cabin tucked far away under the Tropic +of Cancer. It was a printer’s shop, after a fashion. The <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301'></a>301</span>case was a block of +stone, in whose surface the little compartments had been chiseled. They were +sparsely accoutred with type and plentifully with cigar ashes. As for a press, +there was none. But a form had been made up on a slab of marble, and near by +were a tiny hillock of ink, a roller and a mallet. The mysterious printer could +at least take proofs. There was one now on a file. Jacqueline pulled it off, and +contemplated a miniature American newspaper, of one sheet, printed on one side +only, and no larger than a magazine cover. At the top she read the legend, in +German caps: “<i>The Córdova Colonist</i>–<i>Weekly +Independent</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Is that a pun?” she wondered.</p> + +<p>But now at least she could identify the ghostly company of the valley, though +not its scribe. That word “Córdova” gave the clue. A year ago one +thousand hardy men had ridden into the capital from the north. Their leader was +a fiery, black-whiskered little man with a plume in his hat and the buff sash of +a brigadier general around his waist. They were the Missourians, defamed as +“Shelby’s horse thieves and judges of whiskey,” honored as +“The Old Brigade,” and so feared and respected under any name that +the City fairly buzzed and stared goggle-eyed. But Maximilian again refused +their offers to enlist under his standard, and they could only disband. Some +took ship to hunt for Kidd’s treasure in the Pacific, others went to Japan +and the Sandwich Islands, and a number joined a congenial regiment of veterans, +the Zouaves. But the majority, she remembered now, had been settlers, persuaded +thereto by their countryman, Commodore Maury, who was Imperial Commissioner of +Immigration. Maury had secured a grant of land near the town of Córdova, within +a hundred miles of Vera Cruz. There were one-half million acres of rich land, +suitable for the three Big C’s of southern countries, cotton, cane and +coffee. But until now the strip had not been cultivated. The Church had held it +fallow. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302'></a>302</span>Then the +Republic had nationalized it; and the Empire was selling it to the Americans at +$1.25 an acre. The hopeful settlement bore the name of Carlota.</p> + +<p>So the cape-coat and those other things were explained. She was denied her +coincidence. But as there was so much of a plot forward anyway, she ought to +have been satisfied–as an artist, she ought. She craved an ecstasy of +peril or of terror, not as the former dilettante of emotions, but as the lotus +eater who exacts forgetfulness.</p> + +<p>Meantime she read editorials, and got interested. The <i>Colonist</i> never +advanced beyond the proof-sheet stage, but as such it circulated with avidity +over the valley. Eloquence flowed serene under mashed type and variegated fonts. +The editor persisted in viewing the Empire and Republic as political parties, +and the horrors of civil warfare as incidents of an electoral campaign. He had +congenial scope for his unpartisan and independent pen, advising with owl-like +sagacity or abusing with peppery virulence, and either, for either side, with +blithe impartiality. At times, though, the strained analogy between ballots and +bullets evidently cracked, and rather floored the editor. For instance, in a +pot-pourri of long primer and pica with a dash of Old English lower-case was the +following:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>As we wen<b>t</b> to press last week we paused to entertain a torchlight +procession of the Young Imperialists’ Flambeau <b>C</b>lub, which was +collecting a campaign contribution in the semblance of our alfalfa stack. The +spectacle of citizens taking an active <b>p</b>art in the issues before their +country ne’er fails to rouse in us a spirit of collaboration, so <b>w</b>hat +could we do but join heartily in the celebration, so that a most excellent time +was had. Later our editorial staff, a score who in our canefields teach the +tender sprouts <b>h</b>ow to shoot, knowing t<b>h</b>e same so well themselves, +gently laid to rest a score and one Cossacks, past members of the +<b>F</b>lambeau Club, wh<b>o</b> had lingered behind for the reason that they +<i>were</i> past. But, we ask, <i>ad quod damnum</i>?–i.e., isn’t it +as futile as cauterizing a wooden leg? How much longer, O Jove, must we let our +public-opinion moulds cool off while we chase enthusiastic young patriots away +from our alfal<b>f</b>a!!!... In conclusion, with a cool brow, we are +constrained to say that if the party in power cannot discourage the depredations +above ci<b>t</b>ed, we shall have to fortify ourselves to the contemplation of a +c<b>h</b>ange of administration.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_303'></a>303</span>“Why,” cried Jacqueline, “what an +<i>animal disputans</i> it is!” She perceived an ink bottle, and exclaimed, +“Ah, more milk from the black cow!” Taking up a wad of copy paper, +on which a future editorial was already begun, she read, and quickly her +amusement changed to a livelier interest.</p> + +<p>“Rumor goes,” she read under the caption, <i>Ardentia Verba</i>, +“that Father Augustine, political manager for the administration, vice +Éloin, is soon to leave for Europe. He goes to have a pourparler with the Pope. +He will concede everything, since the Empire no longer hopes to win over the +moderate Mexicans. But the obstinate though Holy Father will negotiate a +concordat on one basis only, and that is the return to the Mexican church of all +nationalized church lands.</p> + +<p>“Men of the colony, attention now! We each own something like three +hundred acres apiece of these lands. And we are paying for them, we are +cultivating them, and we have to defend them against both guerrillas and +contra-guerrillas. And now they are to be confiscated! Our new homes are to be +taken from us!! Alas, we who are peaceful settlers, to think that we were +Trojans on a time!!! Fellow citizens, with us it’s a severe case of <i>e +pluribus unum</i>. Oh, for a leader! But our incomparable chief of yore will not +stir. Yet there <i>was</i> one, gallant cavalier of the South, peerless captain, +just the dauntless heart for any forlorn hope under the starry vault of heaven, +if he were only here! If he, John D. Driscoll, were only––”</p> + +<p>The matter stopped abruptly. More than that, by force of habit the scribe had +ringed the figures “30” underneath. They meant “finis.” +The editor had known, then, that he would not return to end his harangue.</p> + +<p>“A flea bite,” mused Jacqueline, “would interrupt the +penning of an Alexandrian line. Now, I wonder who or what the flea could have +been, and what––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304'></a>304</span>But there, she +would ask herself no question concerning the editorially mentioned “John +D. Driscoll.”</p> + +<p>It was mid afternoon when Colonel Dupin, like a shaggy, dripping bear, +returned to the house and begged leave to dry himself. Standing before the fire, +he reloaded his holster pistols. They were tremendous, elegant utensils of +French make, with a nine-chambered cylinder, and a second barrel underneath that +carried a rifle ball. Where no prisoners were taken on either side, the owner of +such a weapon usually reserved the murderous slug for himself, and the loading +of that lower barrel became a sort of ghastly rite. Jacqueline shuddered as she +watched him fix on the cap.</p> + +<p>“How do you explain your desertion of Her Majesty?” she asked. +“Our Fra Diavolo should thank me for drawing you off.”</p> + +<p>The Tiger adjusted the double hammer so that it would play on the cylinder +first. A rumbling chuckle came from the depths of his throat.</p> + +<p>“I should be honored with mademoiselle’s approval,” he +said, “for at court mademoiselle is a guileful warrior. The casualties +there may not be so sanguinary, but the strategic principle is the same. Know, +then, that Rodrigo Galán employs a spy whom I own, body and soul. By now Rodrigo +has learned from this spy that the Imperial coach broke down, and that to-night +Her Majesty rests–here. So you see that she is not likely to be +attacked––”</p> + +<p>“But I see that <i>we</i> are, parbleu!”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” and the Tiger unctuously rubbed his hands in the +blaze. “It’s my chance to trap him. He has only three hundred +men.”</p> + +<p>“And you, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Our mutual spy has told him that I have less than two hundred men. The +brigand knows that I was forced to leave a garrison at Tampico.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305'></a>305</span>“But how +many have you, really?”</p> + +<p>Dupin motioned her to the window. But she saw not a man, not a musket. She +saw only the wet fields of cane, and the black mist-shrouded mountains +beyond.</p> + +<p>“Just the same,” the Frenchman assured her pleasantly, +“they are there, full five hundred of my little tribe. Does mademoiselle +approve?”</p> + +<p>“It looks like the curtain on ‘Fra Diavolo,’” she replied, +shuddering.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306'></a>306</span><a id='link_38'></a>CHAPTER V<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Missourians</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Men sententious of speech and quick of pistol practice.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Major John N. Edwards.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>An hour before nightfall the guerrillas attacked. Jacqueline was standing at +the window, when she heard a jubilant din and saw a tawny troop charging through +the fields toward the house. They yelled as they came, waving machetes and +carbines. It was the usual theatrical dash of Mexicans. Like savages, they +thought first to frighten their adversaries.</p> + +<p>“Won’t you come and see, Berthe? It’s like a +hippodrome.”</p> + +<p>She felt sorry for them. The dulcet cane grew thorns. Under the leaves the +black soil was become clay red with leather jackets. The Cossacks had fixed +sword-bayonets to their muskets, and were waiting on their knees.</p> + +<p>Stung by the hidden barbs, the first horses reared in air, pawing and +screeching frantically. Many sank down again, and they were limp as the life +ebbed. Others crashed backward, their riders underneath, and those behind +plunged over them, unable to stop. Soon it was a fearful jumble; men and beasts, +hoofs and steel, curses and shrill neighing. Then the firing began, a woof of +fine red threads through the warp of pale-green reeds. The guerrillas yet +fought. The myth of their own heavier numbers kept them from panic. Ragged +fellows with feet bare in the stirrups leaned over to slash at heads between the +tasselled stalks. They squirmed like snakes from under kicking horses, and +fainting, got a carbine to the shoulder at aim, and someway, pulled the trigger. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307'></a>307</span>Then they were +taken in the rear. One-half of the Contra forces, mounted, had waited under the +sapling growth of the nearest foothill. Now they sprang from cover, bloodthirsty +whelps trailing the Tiger. The guerrillas could not turn back. To retreat they +must cleave the way in front, and they did, by sheer desperation. Falling in the +mesh at every step, they at last gained the large open space around the +cabin.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Jacqueline got a near view of Don Rodrigo. He was superbly +mounted, and his long body made a heroic figure on the curveting charger. He +frowned, and his mustachios bristled fiercely, and his shouts of command were +heavily ominous. The wind turned the folds of his black cloak. It was faced with +scarlet silk; and the charro elegance beneath was black and resplendent. All +told, he was a very outburst of glitter; breeches, jacket, sombrero, saddle, +stirrups, and bridle; not of silver, but of gold. Good carbines for his vagabond +Inditos, magnificence for himself, these had come from that fabulous theft of +the bullion convoy. And he had arrayed himself this rainy day to dazzle a +princess of the Blood. So now he wielded his sword with a conscious flourish, +glancing toward the window to see if he were seen.</p> + +<p>“The poseur, never out of his rôle,” murmured his audience there. +“How will he enjoy running, I wonder?”</p> + +<p>But to her astonishment he did not run, though Dupin was cutting closer and +closer through tangled bodies, eager to grapple with his old-time slippery foe. +Don Rodrigo raised in his saddle, and looked anxiously in all directions. +Suddenly his dark face lighted, and wheeling round, he called to his men, and in +his turn strove as furiously to reach the Tiger as the Tiger had striven to +reach him. Jacqueline could not now tell which side to feel sorry for. But she +exulted in the thrill of it, even as she wrung her hands at sight of the red +agony.</p> + +<p>Then something happened, which even the Tiger, who knew his warfare so well, +had never known; which got into even his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_308'></a>308</span>dried and toughened marrow. It was the Rebel yell. +It rose over a sudden thunderous rush of hoof beats. And next, as a puff of air, +a herd of horsemen, a wild mud-spattering streak, surged past the house. On +across the open, and straight upon the fray, they merged everywhere, and made +bigger and livelier the blotch of mad swarming. Some wore slouch hats, others +straw sombreros, and all were ruddily burned. They fought with revolvers, and +often one would pause between shots to spit tobacco. They brought to the battle +one thing above all else, and that was vim, vim unbounded, vim that simply had +to have vent.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline caught her breath. What race of men were these? Exalted, +quivering, she watched them doing as workmen what fell to their hands, yet ever +with that whirlwind of vim.</p> + +<p>“The Missourians–of course!” she cried.</p> + +<p>Through powder smoke and misty rain the figure of one horseman slowly grew +familiar. She caught fleeting glimpses of him, as he darted into a mêlée, as he +spurred round to find a hotter field. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she pressed +a hand hard against her breast.</p> + +<p>“The coincidence!” she gasped, trembling from head to foot. +“It is the coincidence!”</p> + +<p>Her nose flattened against the wet pane. She remembered how that general of +the Missourians had told Charlotte about this man, for the Empress had asked. +And the general had related how the troop had dubbed him the Storm Centre.</p> + +<p>“And no wonder!” she breathed. “Mon Dieu, how he +<i>enjoys</i> it!–But, oh–he will be killed–oh!”</p> + +<p>Yet nothing of the kind happened. When she uncovered her eyes, his assailants +were in flight. Every Cossack survivor was in flight. The Storm Centre wheeled +and confronted Don Rodrigo, who raised his sombrero effusively.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309'></a>309</span>“Rebellion +makes strange comrades,” thought Jacqueline. “But no, +my–the–chevalier–does not take his hand.”</p> + +<p>Indeed Driscoll was looking the guerrilla over with little favor. +“So,” he exclaimed, “it was you I was to help here!”</p> + +<p>“And what better patriot, señor––”</p> + +<p>“Never mind that. Why didn’t you wait till dark to attack? +Weren’t those the orders, or–that is, the suggestion?”</p> + +<p>“But whose suggestion? Perhaps, señor, <i>you</i> know who El Chaparrito +is?”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t the least idea, nor anyone else. But it’s certain, +Rod, that this is your first experience of Shorty. Another time, and +you’ll have sense enough to take his hints. Now then, where’s the +emperor we were to catch?”</p> + +<p>Fra Diavolo’s smile was Satanic. “Your Chaparrito was either +mistaken about the Emperor, or,” and he glanced toward the window, +“or he deceived you into helping me capture a beautiful young +woman.”</p> + +<p>“How? What––”</p> + +<p>“I mean that His Cautious Majesty did not come, however much El +Chaparrito seems to want him. But–” and Rodrigo’s tone lowered +heavily, “but his August Spouse came instead. She is in that cabin now. It +is well, señor, for vengeance in kind is just. It is righteous, it is biblical. +Since fate has thrown––”</p> + +<p>“E-a-s-y! Eas-y, boy. Of course, if we’ve gone and netted an +empress, we’ll ask ’em to please take her back. This ain’t a +woman’s game.”</p> + +<p>“Give up a queen’s ransom?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll nodded cheerfully.</p> + +<p>“I believe, caballero,” said the brigand with awful dignity, +“that I command here.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked at his Missourians returning from the chase. +“Well,” he laughed, “you might try it on, and see how they +take it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310'></a>310</span>Behind +Jacqueline the door opened. She almost jumped. Of the hundreds likely to enter +there, her startled fancy pictured only one. But the new comer was a +stranger.</p> + +<p>“Oh-ho, come a-visiting, eh?”</p> + +<p>The voice was cordial, robust, Western.</p> + +<p>“Missour-<i>i</i>!” she exclaimed involuntarily.</p> + +<p>“Yes’m, Cooper county.”</p> + +<p>She turned, won to friendliness, and beheld a man who, to use her mental +ejaculation, was “of a leanness!”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur––” and she paused.</p> + +<p>“Boone, ma’am. Daniel, your most obedient servant. If I’d +known–Sho’, we might of had things spruced up a bit. Are you the +queen, maybe?”</p> + +<p>The lady’s laugh rang as clear as a bell. Taken aback, Boone sought to +correct his mistake. He saw that Berthe was seated in the hammock. She, then, +must be the Empress.</p> + +<p>“I’m downright sorry we went and captured Your Majesty,” he +began.</p> + +<p>“Her Imperial Highness does not understand English,” Jacqueline +explained.</p> + +<p>Then to her surprise the man proceeded in French. He was evidently greatly +disturbed because Missouri hospitality did not harmonize with war. “It was +a blunder,” he apologized earnestly, “come of our deciding just this +morning to make you Europeans vacate our continent. But don’t let that +worry Your Majesty. Here, under my roof, the decision doesn’t hold, +<i>at</i> all!”</p> + +<p>Berthe lifted her head quickly. It was her second promotion in the social +scale that day. She had trembled when the door opened, for she knew that +Rodrigo’s side had triumphed. But this tall stranger brought relief to +one’s nerves, and somehow she had watched him trustingly. He was of the +same race as Monsieur Driscoll, to whom also she had once turned instinctively +for help. But when the tremendous young fellow <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_311'></a>311</span>addressed her with reverence due a queen, she felt +only the respectful admiration due a pretty young woman. It unexpectedly +awakened in her the knowledge that she was a pretty young woman; and with a +winsomeness that amazed and delighted Jacqueline, to say nothing of its effect +on Daniel, she gently put him right as to her identity.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter,” Boone protested stoutly, “you +ought to be one!”</p> + +<p>The door opened again. It struck the wall with an insolent bang, and in +strode Don Rodrigo. Jacqueline noted who it was and indifferently seated herself +in the rocking chair, with her back toward him. The Mexican advanced to the +centre of the room. The brief twilight had fallen, and the place was in half +light except for the blazing logs. He stopped rigid and flung his scarlet-lined +cloak back over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Where,” he demanded in the huge tones of a victorious general, +“is the tyrant’s empress?”</p> + +<p>No one volunteered as to where the tyrant’s empress might be. The toe +of Jacqueline’s boot was indolently busy with the embers on the hearth. +The heads of both girls were in shadow.</p> + +<p>Rodrigo’s furrowed brow creased more deeply. “Which of you is +she?” The heavy syllables dropped one by one. He stepped tentatively +toward Berthe. So did Boone.</p> + +<p>“Stand aside, señor!”</p> + +<p>“Can’t, dear brigand,” said Daniel.</p> + +<p>Then Berthe spoke. “Please, messieurs,” she began, “Her +Majesty is not––”</p> + +<p>“It’s only a maidservant,” Rodrigo exclaimed in +chagrin.</p> + +<p>“Don’t make any difference,” said Boone, “she’s +come a-visiting.”</p> + +<p>“If, Seigneur Brigand,” spoke a clear voice, “you had not +interrupted Mademoiselle Berthe, you would stand informed by now that Her +Majesty is not here. Will you deign to close the door?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312'></a>312</span>Rodrigo knew +well those bell-like tones. Forgetting the question of an empress, he drew +nearer to the lady of the rocker. She gave him no heed, but her profile against +the red glow was very soft and beautiful. His chagrin vanished. Here was a more +ravishing triumph.</p> + +<p>“A vengeance in kind,” he muttered, wetting his lips. “Ha, +he took nobody’s wife, as to that; and his wife may go. But in the matter +of sweethearts–ah!”</p> + +<p>Bending, he laid a hand caressingly on her neck, against the tendrils.</p> + +<p>At the touch she sprang to her feet, and Boone leaped forward with fist drawn +back. But both stopped. Her face changed from fury to pallor. Boone’s +expressed approval.</p> + +<p>The room had filled through the open door with men and torches, but the first +man among them had come as far as Rodrigo’s shoulder even as the insult +occurred. From behind, the man’s arm had straightened under +Rodrigo’s chin, and twisting to a lever, was gradually forcing back his +head. Rodrigo groped for a knife, but half way to his waist the fingers clutched +vainly in a sharp spasm, and all involuntarily flew up and gripped at the vise +under his chin. Yet another ounce of pressure, and it seemed his neck must snap +like a dry twig. Suddenly his spine bent limp. Muscles relaxed. The whole body +capitulated. Then the man behind stooped a little, and Rodrigo began to rise. +Slowly at first, and next, as from a catapult, the brigand shot backward over +the man’s shoulder and struck his length on the floor.</p> + +<p>“No, not that, boys,” said the man. “Don’t kick him. +Laugh at him, it hurts more.”</p> + +<p>He spoke more particularly to one “Tall Mose” Bledsoe of Pike +county who was purple with indignation that a “saddle-colored Greaser +should dare lay hands on a white woman.”</p> + +<p>But there were also “Rube” Marmaduke of Platte, “Mac” +Crittenden of Nodaway, the “Doc” of Benton, “Cal” +Grinders <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313'></a>313</span>from the +Ozarks, Clay of Carroll, and Carroll of Clay, besides a ruddy sprinkling from +the county of Jackson. Among the latter was “Old Brothers and +Sisters,” a plump little young man with cherubic eyes behind round brass +spectacles. Clem Douglas had been ordained in the M. E. Church (South), and +became thereupon the Rev. Mr. Douglas. “Old Brothers and Sisters” +was a theological degree of later acquirement, lovingly bestowed by the Iron +Brigade. But in his more recent gospel of pistol practice, Clem Douglas was not +a backslider. He was simply all things Southern to all men. Like the others in +the cabin, his hat was off, his muddy boots scraped; and like the others, he was +not unaware of the two girls.</p> + +<p>“Rather showery out,” he observed genially, wiping the mist off +his glasses, and imagining weather a livelier topic than battle.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline did not hear. Her eyes were still on the man who had disdained to +strike Rodrigo from behind, who had flung him away instead, as one would a dog. +She stood motionless, and her face was very white. She saw that he wore loose +leather “chaps,” a woolen shirt, and an old coat, with only stained +shoulder straps, green braid on dark blue, to indicate a uniform. His wet black +hair was curly. His brown eyes flashed whimsical contempt on the resplendent +guerrilla at his feet. He was the Coincidence; he was the Storm Centre. He +turned, expecting to see the Empress, and he met her eyes. His own darkened with +a new anger, and involuntarily, he swung round, himself to kick the Mexican who +had insulted her. But a flood of memory swept over him, the memory of what he +had seen at Cuernavaca. Not for her could he touch a fallen man.</p> + +<p>“Take him into the back room, two of you.”</p> + +<p>Red, red to the neck, he was turning to follow, when he saw Berthe.</p> + +<p>“Miss Burt!” he exclaimed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314'></a>314</span>Heartily he +shook hands with her. “It’s my first chance, you know, to mention +what you did for me over a year ago. But I sure appreciate having my life saved, +you know that. There now, you’re not to worry over this present mess. +We’ll have it straightened out, just in no time.”</p> + +<p>He stammered as he spoke, and when he turned and left the room, his bearing +was constrained. Jacqueline’s eyes followed him until the inner door +closed behind him. Then, with a half shrug, she sat down and pensively resumed +the building of fiery mounds on the hearth.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315'></a>315</span><a id='link_39'></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>If a Kiss Were All</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“A man, a woman, a passion–what else matters?”</p><p class='ar'>–<i>Sardou.</i></p></div> + +<p>“Tall Mose” Bledsoe and the Rev. Mr. Douglas conveyed Don Rodrigo +to the back room, and here Driscoll and Boone joined them. They did not disarm +the Mexican. It did not occur to them that any man would risk drawing a weapon +in such company. And as to Fra Diavolo they surmised correctly. He sulked a +little at first, for there were sore tendons that ached. But in the end he grew +reasonable, and his white teeth gleamed acquiescence to all that the señores +were pleased to say. He agreed to bivouac his men apart from the Missourians and +go his own way at daybreak. The Contras were routed. The Tiger had barely +escaped. There was no further need of combined forces. Indeed, Don Rodrigo +feared a night attack so little that he meant to reward his men with many +copitas of aguardiente. Might he send a barrel over to his esteemed allies?</p> + +<p>Mose Bledsoe turned a pleading look on the parson, and to his surprise the +Rev. Mr. Douglas beamed tolerant benevolence. “Why yes, my friend,” +he himself said to Don Rodrigo, “good liquor is always acceptable, +especially when soldiers must sleep on the wet ground.”</p> + +<p>The brigand was then allowed to depart, and Old Brothers and Sisters +explained. It was best to let Rodrigo send the brandy, for then one knew what to +expect. Otherwise the Christian brother and rascal would hatch up some other +plot, and any other plot might take them off their guard.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316'></a>316</span>When an hour +later, Rodrigo did in fact attack the presumably somnolent Americans, more +happened than either he or they expected. A third was also waiting to strike for +the sake of a woman. He was Dupin, who wanted nothing better than the allies at +each other’s throat. Crouching warily near, the Tiger sprang at both of +them. In the rain and the black night, the three-cornered fight raged like +firecrackers under a tin bucket. The guerrillas, repulsed by the Americans, fled +upon the Contras, whereat the Americans swept them both back indiscriminately. +Instead of a lady, the Tiger carried off Don Rodrigo, and was quite glad to +carry himself off. But Boone, scouting near, reported that Rodrigo was held a +prisoner instead of being executed at once. This meant something. It meant +beyond any doubt that the Mexican and the Frenchman would combine, Rodrigo for +his life, Dupin to rescue Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>The Missourians held council in Daniel’s sanctum. To restore the +captives to Dupin had been Driscoll’s intention from the first. But now it +was a question of trading them against Rodrigo. Dupin must know the American +offer before he and Rodrigo should attack. Driscoll proposed for himself alone +the errand to the Tiger’s camp. Rising to his feet, he left his protesting +friends without a word further. But he had to pass through the front room first, +to get the cape coat hanging there. It was, in fact, his own. The two girls were +seated before the fire, Jacqueline still in revery, Berthe nervously agitated +from the late racket of battle. Daniel Boone had laid before them a +ranchman’s supper with tropical garnishing, but it was untouched. Driscoll +nodded, crossed the room, took the coat from its nail, and started for the outer +door as he drew it on.</p> + +<p>“Snubbing–an acquaintance,” spoke an impersonal little +voice, “is cheap.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, waited.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_317'></a>317</span>“Of a +gentleman, I reckon you’d say,” he interrupted uneasily. +“Maybe not, but a ruffian’s got his instincts too. When he’s +afraid of hurting someone, he hides himself.”</p> + +<p>“I was mistaken,” she said gravely, with that quaintest +inflection of the English he had ever heard, “yes, mistaken. Hé +mais–but it is just that the complaint. You hurt more by +<i>not</i> speaking.”</p> + +<p>“But there’s nothing to say,” he faltered. “I’m +just going to Old Tige’s–to Dupin’s camp, and get him to come +here for you.”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur, monsieur, you fight for your captives only–only to +give them up?”</p> + +<p>“That’s not the question. You can overtake the Empress yet. Dupin +will––”</p> + +<p>“But it is not that I want to overtake empresses at all. +I–Berthe, would you mind carrying back these supper +things?–I,” she continued, when they were alone, “have no wish +to go back to Paris. I shall return to the City.”</p> + +<p>Again the liaison with Maximilian, he thought bitterly. And Charlotte away! +It was infamous. However, he had no right to be concerned.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” he said, “then Dupin can take you to the City, +or wherever you wish.”</p> + +<p>“Ma foi, what trouble to be rid of your prisoners, monsieur, and after +two battles too!”</p> + +<p>“That’s got nothing to do with it.”</p> + +<p>She meant, though, to have him confess that she had had a great deal to do +with it. She was taken with the self-cruel fancy to lay bare and contemplate his +love for her, that she might feel more poignantly the happiness she had lost. +But he abruptly turned again to leave, and all else was forgotten in terror.</p> + +<p>“You go to that Tiger!” she cried. “Do you not know <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_318'></a>318</span>that––” She +darted between him and the door–“that he recognizes no rules of war? +He will shoot you, he will, he will!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll laughed.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll be safe enough all right, thank you. Dupin holds +Rodrigo, we hold you. So it’s simply an exchange of prisoners. And +he’ll not do anything to me, for fear of what might happen to you here. +You’re not a hostage, sure not, but as long as he thinks so, I’ll +profit by it.”</p> + +<p>“You are right,” she admitted, yet not heeding his anxiety to +pass. “Dupin will not even detain you. He will judge you Missou-riens by +himself. So, voilá, he frees Diavolo. He comes for me. And–and you, +monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Me? W’y, I’ll wait for the boys at Dupin’s camp, +after he takes charge here. Then we’ll march.”</p> + +<p>“And–you do not come back?”</p> + +<p>“No need to. Now will you please get away from that door?”</p> + +<p>“Not coming back!” she repeated. Could the Coincidence be for +naught after all? Could not real life be for once as complacent as art? He was +going, and when, where, in the wide world, in all time, might they ever meet +again? And he was going, like that! Except for her, he would not even have +spoken.</p> + +<p>But–if he were the man to hold her, despite herself? If he were primal +man of primal nature, the demigod raptor who seizes his mate? Yes, she would +forgive him–if only he were that man. If, as such, he would but hold her +from her duty, from her sacrifice, despite herself, +if–if–if––And so her daring fancy raced, raced as desire and +hope to outrun sorrow. And why not? She could look him in the eye with that +honesty which pertains to woman, for she knew that the shame he thought of her +was only in the evidence of what he had seen, of what he had heard the world +say, and not–no, not in fact. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_319'></a>319</span>And for the kindness of that fact she thanked +Providence. Then, daring to the end, her insane hope for happiness gave her to +remember that there was a clergyman among these Americans, and to see in that +the ordering of fate.</p> + +<p>But Reality was still there, grim and greater than either Providence or Art. +The man was waiting for her to step aside, and when she did, he would pass +through the door and out of her life. She gazed, as for the last time, on his +stalwart shoulders, on his splendid head, the head of a young Greek, on his +flushed face, his mouth, and those obstinate little waves of his hair. How good +he was to look upon–for her, that is! No, no, she could not let him +go.</p> + +<p>And she tempted him. With all her woman’s beauty she tempted him. If +beauty were aught, it must win her now what she held dear. Afterward, when she +should tell him why, he would forgive her the unmaidenly strategy. She had noted +with a passionate joy that the lines of his face were tightly drawn, were even +haggard, that his breath came short; in a word, that he suffered. It told her +that his gruff manner was not indifference, but the rugged front of +self-control. What a will the man had! Knowing that strength, she must have been +an odd young woman indeed not to try to break it.</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” she said, lowering her head and shaking it in demure +resignation, “no, I suppose a captive has not the littlest thing to say of +her disposal? But if the poor child has curiosity, monsieur? If, for the +instant, she wonders why a monsieur fights for her, and then why he hazards his +life to be rid of her?” With which she raised her eyes inquiringly. It was +disconcerting.</p> + +<p>“We’ll not talk of that any more,” he grumbled. “Are +you going to let me pass?”</p> + +<p>Frail creature between him and the door, how easy to remove her! But he +feared the warmth of her hand, should he but <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_320'></a>320</span>touch it, or the faint odor from her hair, should a +stray lock no more than brush his cheek.</p> + +<p>“Even a captive will wonder why she is so little prized,” +observed the perverse maid.</p> + +<p>She considered with glee that the window was too small, and with yet keener +delight that his wits for strategy had left him. He did not once think of exit +by the inner door.</p> + +<p>“Why do you keep me?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>His tone was harsh command, and for the moment it frightened her. She all but +gave way, when she perceived that the menacing growl was really a plea. The poor +fellow was at bay. She very nearly laughed. Then, too, he would not meet her eye +again.</p> + +<p>“Oh, am <i>I</i> keeping you?” she exclaimed in innocent +dismay.</p> + +<p>It provoked him to what she wanted. He came toward her angrily, while she +stepped back against the door and spread her arms across it. Her pose was a +dare; and the trouble was, he had to look. He had to see the girlish, the +wonderful line of head and shoulder, the color flooding cheek and neck, and most +dangerous of all, the challenging gray eyes. His teeth snapped to, and his hand +closed over her wrist. He pulled, she yielded. He felt her other hand laid on +his. The touch seemed to sear his flesh.</p> + +<p>“You must not go,” she whispered, “must not!”</p> + +<p>He drew her farther from the door, toward himself.</p> + +<p>“Must not!” she repeated. He could feel the breath of her +whisper.</p> + +<p>“Don’t–Jack-leen!”</p> + +<p>She barely heard the words, but she knew the agony there. And he, as he +gripped her wrist, sensed the throbbing that passed through her whole body. For +pity, he was powerless to thrust aside a lass who pitied him.</p> + +<p>“It is that common, yes. It is not the instinct of––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321'></a>321</span>Yet, all the +while, like another Brunhilde, she was praying in her heart that she had not +taunted him in vain. A very eerie Valkyrie, she had taunted him to be the +stronger, stronger than his will, stronger than herself, to strive with her, to +master her. And now she saw a fury of love and hate aroused in him, a fury +against herself for making him love her more than his great will could bear. In +her lust for seeing this anger of his, she forgot her mission absolutely, forgot +why she had come to Mexico, forgot all but the prayer in her heart.</p> + +<p>Nothing was left her but to learn the answer, and this she did, by tugging +firmly, coyly, to free her wrist. The answer was rapture; his grip had +tightened. She pulled harder, and felt herself being drawn toward him. Yes, yes, +her triumph was a fact. Slowly an arm of iron, a tremulous, masterful vandal, +circled her waist.</p> + +<p>She pushed at him with her fists, and panting, tried to fight him off, +however the blood stung in her veins and coursed hot as in his. The matter had +gone far enough. It was time for explanations, for an adjustment. But he did not +seem to think so. He was relentless. Barbarian Siegfried with the warrior virgin +was not more so. The tendons in that arm of his suddenly went rigid, and crushed +her body against him. It was then that a sudden horror took her, and she +struggled like a tigress. She gasped out a cry for help, but the scream had no +volume. Before she could try again, his hand covered her mouth.</p> + +<p>And then, and then–oh, the words he was whispering! Even as he +smothered her shriek, she heard them.</p> + +<p>“Well–we’ll just have in Clem Douglas. You’ve seen +Clem, little girl? He’s our parson.”</p> + +<p>His life long, Driscoll had never dreamed of heaven as he saw it then in her +eyes. Never, his whole life long, as she raised those eyes to his. And the sweet +relaxing of herself, the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_322'></a>322</span>trustful pillowing of her head on his breast, the +soulful content as she softly breathed there, instead of that wild panting of a +moment before! Blinded to the world, he fervently thanked God that he had been +made.</p> + +<p>He touched her white brow lovingly, and gently tilted back her chin. Again +her eyes lifted, confidingly. His head bent. She waited. His lips drew nearer to +hers, very slowly. He was held in a deep reverence, in an awe of something +sacred. It was a rite of adoration before a shrine. And she, seeing that look in +his eyes, wanted him to know that the shrine was truly as pure as in his +oblivion to the world he for the moment believed. For later memory would come to +him, and that she could not bear. He must know now, before their lips met. Yet a +good woman may not brazenly avow that rumor and evidence speak what is false. +But for all that he still must know, in some way. With a playful gesture she +intercepted his lips against the soft palm of her hand, her eyes the while +holding his in their communion of soul. And thus she spoke, prettily, saucily, +and blushing the while,</p> + +<p>“And are you so sure, sir, that you are the first?”</p> + +<p>She had looked for protestation, and she would have answered. And he would +have believed. He must have believed. But instead the spell of faith broke +sharply. Poisoned memory rushed in before it could be belied. She could see the +tragedy of it in his changed look, in his ashen face, cold and gray. He thought +her question a gloating over his weakness, and it revolted him. He was, then, +but a caprice for her. He remembered that after all he had only happened by, and +that she was returning to Maximilian. But still she was hardly less tempting. He +had a moment of cruel conflict with himself, which left him with a sullen rage +against the princelet in Mexico, against the order of princelets, that thus fell +a deathly pall between an honest man and a true love kiss. Yet, she was there in +his arms, dear and fearfully clinging and–no less tempting.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_323'></a>323</span>“Take this +woman to my mother?” the question rose.</p> + +<p>As one might close the eyes of his dead wife, he loosed the arms about his +neck, and let them fall at her side. Once free, he leaped to the door, flung it +open, and was gone.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_324'></a>324</span><a id='link_40'></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Crop of Colonels</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“And thus they led a quiet life<br /> +During their princely raine.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Ballad of King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid.</i></p> </div> + +<p>Some years after the events recorded here, there appeared in the Boonville +Javelin (post-bellum and revived) a serial of reminiscences, which, behind an +opalescent gossamer of romance, pictured the Missourians and the chivalrous rôle +they played around that forlornly chastened and be-chased damsel, la República +Mexicana.</p> + +<p>Quite aside from the prodigious deeds set forth therein, the journalistic +epic is of itself naïvely prodigious, as anyone knowing Mr. Boone with pen in +hand will at once suspect. All the little Trojan band–call them Gascons if +you will, but own that if they boasted they were ever keen to substantiate the +bluff–all of them, then, strove and blazed away invariably as heroes and +were just as peerless as could be. You wouldn’t look for anything else +from Mr. Boone. He must, however, be credited with one peculiarity, that he +never hinted at himself as one of the glorious company. Daniel knew his +newspaper ethics. He knew that the newspaper man is <i>not</i> the story, however +they may regard it in France, for instance, where the reporter is ever the +bright particular cynosure of any interview that bears his signature.</p> + +<p>A few strokes of the Meagre Shanks brush in the way of excerpts from his +narrative, with plenty of extenuating dots in between, should make an +impression, even though impressionistic, and serve perhaps as a sketch of what +befell after Din <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_325'></a>325</span>Driscoll had bearded the Tiger, freed Don Rodrigo, +and surrendered his own two captives. To begin:</p> + +<p>A retreat was had [Daniel always got under way slowly, as though +fore-resolved not to stampede.] Echo demands, “Retreat?–The Iron +Brigade in retreat?” ’Twas true. Rallied once again, but under another +flag than the Bars, the Missourians rode all that dank, wet night lest they meet +and have to fight their new friends, the guerrillas under Rodrigo Galán. It was +a weird predicament. Two days before, they were peaceful settlers in the +land–<i>omne solum forti patria</i>–their blood-flecked swords as +ploughshares fleshed in earth’s warm bosom.... But tyrannical confiscation +of the soil they tilled loomed foreboding.... Pestered nigh unto forceful +phrases with shooing robbers of both sides out of their melon patches, and fired +at last by the sentiment that it behooved them to sally forth and regulate +things themselves.... They only lacked a Cincinnatus. Their old general would +not lead them. Wearing his bright chaplet of renown, Joe Shelby now drove mules, +a captain over long wagon trains....</p> + +<p>Then gallant Din Driscoll appeared among them, the dry-humored, reckless Jack +Driscoll of other days, attired now in the brave, dashing regimentals of the +Republic[!] From out the wilds of distant Michoacan he came with the long gallop +that never would tire, and pausing at cabin after cabin in the Colony’s +broad acres, summoned his old comrades to arms ... to arms against the +invader.... Who, now, will argue bucolic content? Those lusty young planters +smelled the battle from afar. What now were waving tassels to the glory of +deeds?–<i>a cuspide corona</i>–to a wreath of powder-burned laurel? +That very day the Iron Brigade rallied again, gathered once again at the oft +remembered bugle’s full, resonant blare.</p> + +<p>Fighting came sooner than the Missourians hoped. Even as they started for +Michoacan, a ragged Indito, whose village <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_326'></a>326</span>had been razed by the Cossacks, met the command and +asked for the Señor Coronel Gringo. Driscoll heard what he had to tell, and was +greatly concerned, though the others laughed at first and scoffed. For it seemed +that the Indito did not know who sent him, except that it was a señor +chaparrito, a short little señor. “Then you must be a Shorter Yet?” +said Driscoll. “Well, what do you bring?” The Indito produced from +his ragged shirt a bit of parchment, whereon Colonel Driscoll was urged to join +with his new recruits in an attack on Maximilian’s escort, for Maximilian +was on his way to Vera Cruz. The parchment was signed, “El +Chaparrito.”</p> + +<p>“Shorty! That word means ‘Shorty’,” the troopers guffawed. +But Driscoll showed them another handwriting at the bottom. The parchment had +been countersigned in blank, thus: “Benito Juarez, Libertad y +Reforma.” The Missourians were respectful after that. Many thought that +the mysterious guardian angel of the Republic’s battles must be the +Presidente himself, though the Presidente was thousands of miles away.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>After the victory won against Dupin’s Contra Guerrillas [so the +chronicle goes on], the Missourians found their ally to be none other than that +picturesque buccaneer of the Sierras, Don Rodrigo, wild as a prairie wolf, +handsome as Lucifer; and their captives to be not the Emperor and suite but two +beautiful women....</p> + +<p>When the prisoners had been exchanged–i. e., the two fair girls +restored to Dupin, and Rodrigo freed–and Rodrigo had hurried away to +gather his scattered vagabonds from among the foothills, the Missourians +realized their predicament. That day they had fought the Empire. Then they had +turned and fought the Republic in the person of the guerrilla chief, Rodrigo +Galán. They had rebelled against the rebels, so were doubly rebel, doubly +outlawed. Ye gods, it <i>was</i> bizarre! And as morning dawned on them trailing +along a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_327'></a>327</span> dreary +inferno gorge of the Sierra Gorda, they blinked at each other ruefully. Poor +waifs, they had lost their native country. And now, one rainy morning, they +found they had lost an adopted one. But each man looked into a face likewise so +rueful that his own broke into a grin.</p> + +<p>“We’ll just start a <i>new</i> country,” cried Driscoll +abruptly.</p> + +<p>His voice sounded strange and very unlike him, but the inspiration was +characteristic of the man, and true to the old irrepressible Storm Centre they +had known. Hunted outlaws, they too were in the mood for any desperate venture. +Spontaneous as wildfire, they seconded this one ere they had asked a question. +They never did ask “How?”</p> + +<p>“A new country,” roared Tall Mose, “but where?”</p> + +<p>“And when?” Old Brothers and Sisters inquired gently.</p> + +<p>“We’ll start right after breakfast,” their intrepid leader +replied. “And right here in Mexico. It’s anybody’s country +yet, and we might as well slice off a little private republic for +ourselves.”</p> + +<p>“And won’t we fight, by Jiminy!” drawled Cal Grinders, with +Ozarkian deliberation.</p> + +<p>“And it don’t matter whom we fight,” Marmaduke added. +“Let ’em show themselves, Slim Max or Don Benito. We’ll meet +all comers.”</p> + +<p>That was the mood they were in, and they were in it to the chin. Submit a +wholesale fighting order, and they bid for it like neither bulls nor bears, but +like wolves.</p> + +<p>“About taxation?” asked Clay of Carroll dubiously.</p> + +<p>But as a good general, or as another Romulus, Driscoll had figured it all +out. His answer brought comfort.</p> + +<p>“We’ll not have any. We will levy on commerce, as republics have +the right to do.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said Carroll of Clay, “we’ll need a +seaport?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. Ain’t Tampico simply waiting for us? The French +aren’t there now. They are concentrating in Mexico <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_328'></a>328</span>City for evacuation. There’s no +more of a garrison than what Old Tige left, a few hundred Cossacks. If we get +there before the Liberals––” ...</p> + +<p>... And why not? They were nearly five hundred and greater than Romulus. They +were Missourians, sir. They were from that State which gave the best fighters to +both sides; which, population considered, gave more to the North than any other +Northern state, more to the South than any other Southern state, and yet as a +state would be a Republic unto herself. What, then, might not be possible to +these her sons on a foreign shore? Intrepid youngsters, they were of royal State +lineage, Missourians from Kentucky, Kentuckians from Virginia, which was in the +beginning. Dauntless cavaliers of the Blood, if they chose to carve themselves a +kingdom, why not?</p> + +<p>But they themselves answered the questions, questions that had men’s +lives in them thicker than hard words in the Blue-back speller. The business was +as already done, and Mose Bledsoe could go back to his chant with an easy mind. +And once more Missouri’s revered saga echoed among the crags:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> <p>“I come from old Missouri,<br /> + Yes, all the way from Pike.<br /> I’ll tell you why +I left there,<br /> And why I came to roam<br /> And leave +my poor old mammy,<br /> So far away from home.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Then, the bard leading in a fashion vociferous, the whole command helped +out:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“Says she to me, ‘Joe +Bowers,<br /> You are the man to win;<br /> Here’s a +kiss to bind the bargain,’<br /> And she hove a +dozen in....”</p> +</div> + +<p>... Bivouacked under the black-lipped howitzers of Tampico’s sullen +heights.... Dismal fens ... where fever exhaled its dread gray breath thick over +swamp and lagoon ... above, the vast ægis of the firmament, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_329'></a>329</span>wrought in a diamond dust of stars ... a +sickly, jaundiced, moon tilted drunkenly.... Through ooze and fetid slime the +Americans crept stealthily out of the reeds; and on, over cypress roots, +silently in the silent night; on, up the hill under the low walls of Fort +Iturbide. Gently and fleeting as a dark beauty’s sigh in old Castile, they +were come in canister range.</p> + +<p>“Steady, men,” their leader whispered.</p> + +<p>“Unto death,” came the low-breathed response.</p> + +<p>[No such words were uttered, as Daniel knew perfectly well, but he knew that +they should be–in the telling.].... A sharp cry ... fearful alarums from +the crest of the hill ... next a belching fury of grape.... But Tall Mose was +happier for it. The seal was off his lips at last, and out thundered his +stentorian war-song:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“O Sally! dearest Sally!<br />O Sally! for your sake....”</p> +</div> + +<p>... still upward, until the cannon fumes broke as a dun-colored wave over +pennant and plume ... and grimy troops fell as spring blossoms in a balmy south +breeze.... Dying as they loved to die, game to the last ... they stumbled back +to the river, which swept over the gallant stranger slain....</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“... It’s enough to make me swear!–<br />That Sally had a baby,<br /> And the baby had red hair....”</p> +</div> + +<p>... Then piercing and wildly plaintive, the clarions rang out, clamoring for +victory and <i>væ victis</i>... and Din Driscoll’s hoarse voice.... +“We are the last of the race, let us be the best as well.”... +“Back at ’em, fellows!” Bledsoe bellows.... And the parson +murmurs, “He prays best who fights best, both great and small” ... +his soft voice tremulous enough for Glory, his superb <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_330'></a>330</span> trigger finger disturbing enough for +Chaos.... At last, the supreme command “like volley’d +lightning”–“Give ’em the revolver. +<i>Charge!</i>”...</p> + +<p>Not until the story is told shall ... for over the battered masonry, in +through the splintered doors, felling shadowy foes on every hand.... When well +within-side ... the prowess of each unto himself ... tempest of pistol cracking +... bleeding deathfully ... ah, the killing is fast and desperate ... and not a +candle over the pitiless fray.... Huddled together for a brief last stand, the +Cossacks ... panic, flight.... <i>The fort is taken!</i></p> + +<p>When the incarnadine embers of sunrise glowed in the east, the Missourians +stood on the battlements and surveyed their domain. “You are the man to +win, Joe Bowers,” Mose hummed with an I-told-you-so air, but softly, for +many of his comrades were wounded, though he was not, as usual, for all his +seven feet of perpendicular target. But “the Doc,” of Benton, was, +of course. Getting wounded was the greatest trouble with Doc. If he attacked a +hornet’s nest, he would contrive some way to get a leg shot off. But with +him such things had become to be a matter of course, so now he crated himself +together enough to move around and attend to the others. Driscoll was most +innumerably barked, with a perforated humerus as climax. [The modest Boone might +have catalogued similarly his own casualties.] Old Brothers and Sisters, that +cool Christian, had lost a lens out of his spectacles, and was now replacing it +from a supply he always carried. What, though, were fractured arms and busted +specs to becoming a republic over night?</p> + +<p>But eternal vigilance is ever ... and menace was not long in coming. Three +French gunboats, like sluggish water beetles, crossed the bar and steamed up the +river.... Promptly the howitzers on the ramparts were trained.... <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_331'></a>331</span>But there was no need ... +a white flag ... a naval lieutenant at the fortress gate.... The gunboats had +not come to fight. Bazaine had sent them to carry off the endangered garrison, +it being expected that a Liberal army under a General Pavon would shortly +besiege the place. The Frenchman was astounded to find that the Liberals, as he +imagined the Missourians, had already arrived. Driscoll allowed him to embark +the dislodged garrison, as well as the defenders of the other fort, Casa Mata; +that is, all except those who might want to change sides. And nearly every +Mexican among the Cossacks did change. It was a sign of the panic that had +spread throughout the Empire. Driscoll also insisted on the burial of certain +guerrilla corpses which Dupin had left hanging to the town’s lamp posts. +After which the gunboats took themselves out of republican waters.</p> + +<p>Yet they left behind expectancy. So, a Liberal army two thousand strong was +approaching? The Missourians provisioned themselves from the town and rested on +their arms. The Liberal host appeared, variegated of costume, piratical of +aspect.... Again a flag of truce.... “If the señores Imperialistas desired +to surrender?”... “We are not Imperialists,” came the reply +from the fort, “and we’re blessedly d-n-d if we desire to +surrender.”... “Then, the saints bless us, <i>who</i> are +you?”... “The Republic of Tampico, de facto and +determined.”</p> + +<p>The dumfounded Liberals scratched their heads. They were Republicans, and +here was a republic, and naturally it bothered them. But when they had gotten it +tangled unmistakably enough, they decided that they wanted surrender anyhow, if +the señores Tampicoistas would have the kindness ... and on refusal from the +fort, they withdrew to load their siege guns.</p> + +<p>They had sent a shot or two and received a dozen, when an Indito, emaciated +and loathsome from scales of dirt, dashed <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_332'></a>332</span>from nowhere through the cross-fire and pounded at +the fortress door. Driscoll ordered him admitted. The first President of the +Tampico Republic seemed extraordinarily anxious about this ragged vagabond, +especially as he had perceived a second one, likewise from nowhere, dash into +the Liberal camp. Ten minutes later the enemy ceased firing. “Now come, +all of you,” Driscoll then said to his little army, “and hear what +he’s got to tell. I reckon he’s a Shorter Yet.”... “From +Shorty, then!” exclaimed his men. And so it proved, for the Indito +produced the usual bit of parchment, signed El Chaparrito and countersigned +Benito Juarez, Libertad y Reforma. The message thereon demanded why the Coronel +Driscoll and his new recruits for the cause had turned against it.... +“’Cause we don’t hanker after hanging,” Cal Grinders +interposed.... Was it, Driscoll continued to read, because they thought they had +lost favor by fighting Rodrigo Galán? If so, there was naught against them, +nothing, because President Juarez had outlawed Galán for robbing a bullion +convoy. It was true that the writer of the parchment had used the said Rodrigo, +in the hope of capturing Maximilian, but the bandit was not for that reason a +Republican officer.... “In other words,” lisped Crittenden of +Nodaway, “we’re in-lawed because the good patriot Don Rodrigo is +away outlawed.”... “Therefore,” the parchment went on, +“His Excellency the Presidente through the writer has herewith sent a +message to General Pavon of the besieging camp to comply with whatever Their +Mercies the Americans may deem fit to require. Further, knowing the temper of +Their Mercies, General Pavon is ordered to at once cease operations and leave +Their Mercies in possession.”</p> + +<p>The Missourians looked at one another and were reluctant. They hated to +forego a battle. But it takes two sides to make one. Not outlawed, not even +threatened, they had no excuse to hold against the Liberals.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_333'></a>333</span>“But,” said Crittenden, “as an +ally of this sister Republic, we’ll still have our fighting.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” demanded Driscoll, “what will you ask +for?”</p> + +<p>“Our Córdova lands back, after we’ve won them from the +Empire.”</p> + +<p>“And,” put in Grinders, “equality. We want republican +equality.”</p> + +<p>“Then we’ll all be privates?”</p> + +<p>“No sir-ee, by cracken! Equality high up, that’s what! +We’ll be colonels, breveted colonels, every last one of us–Colonel +Driscoll, Colonel Grinders, Colonel Brothers and Sisters, +Colonel––”</p> + +<p>“That’s easy,” said Driscoll smiling. “Now I’ll +go and fix it up with General Pavon, before he gets away.”</p> + +<p>... To conclude this chapter on the Missourians’ Republic, there is yet +a word, which perhaps is also explanation of the saddened change that had come +over Din Driscoll since that night after the battle with Don Rodrigo. It must be +remembered that the peerless lad had just won his old comrades to the Mexican +Republican cause. While yet rejoicing that here he more than made good the three +hundred Liberals he had helped to capture when a captain under the Empire, he +found that he had only cast his recruits out of the pale of law, first against +the Empire, and then against the Republic.... Then he proposed their own +republic, and for themselves they took Tampico from the French. But why? What +was the real object in Driscoll’s innermost thought? The suspicion arises: +Was it to win a peace-offering wherewith to make friends again with the +Liberals? Such an explanation of his otherwise wild scheme is but a theory, but +the theory fits, for John D. Driscoll, though as reckless as any and quick for +any forlorn hope, was, when a leader, scrupulously practical.</p> + +<p>The above suggestion, moreover, is apropos in these later <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_334'></a>334</span>days, when the Tampico +Republic has become to be folklore throughout Missouri, and when our cousins, +the Kentuckians, even those proud colonels by acclamation, cannot rank beside +these five hundred colonels scattered over the sister state; so that, when a +stranger questions, a Missourian answers: “He a colonel? W’y yes, of +course, sir. And, by God sir, a Tampico colonel, too! Yes, one of the five +hundred!” and the stranger’s eyes bulge as he takes off his hat.</p> + +<p>[The deposition of Meagre Shanks ends here.]</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_335'></a>335</span><a id='link_41'></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Royal Resolution</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“... O restless fate of pride,<br /> +That strives to learn what Heaven resolves to hide.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>The Iliad.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>On returning to the capital, Jacqueline did not once set foot in any Imperial +palace, but she established her own salon of a grande dame, and there installed +herself mid a simple elegance. What was left of the mortgaged château in the +Bourbonnais went to pay for it. Jacqueline would accept not a louis out of +Napoleon’s Black Chest. A French gentlewoman, she impoverished herself to +work for France. And when, a little later, Napoleon dishonored his own name and +that of France in his dealings with Maximilian, she thanked the instinct that +had kept her free. Puddles muddied one’s skirt so! The valiant maid broke +her sword. She would serve no longer. At least, she was quite certain that she +would not.</p> + +<p>Napoleon’s shame lay in this. Maximilian had accepted his harsh +ultimatum regarding the Mexican customs, and in return for such humiliation he +depended on the presence of the French troops for yet another year. But the +United States threatened war, and Napoleon cringed. He would withdraw the troops +immediately. He would abandon Maximilian, treaty or no treaty. Thus the quiet +forces in the American Legation at Paris battled against the proud House of +Orleans. The princess of that House failed. She could not save her +husband’s throne, and her own. Her mind gave way. She became a raving +maniac. So much for Charlotte’s mission.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_336'></a>336</span>With the news +Maximilian was a broken man. He seemed to remember his promise to rejoin her in +Europe, for he set out coastward and left the marshal a letter that was +virtually his abdication. Yet in the Hot Country he stopped for his health. An +Austrian frigate waited for him. But behind him was his capital. Would he +return? History will never know, perhaps, the soul-despairing network of +intrigue and counter-intrigue that wound and tightened about the young sapling +roots that would strike deep in an unnourishing soil and become a dynastic oak. +The rabid clericals, who were Maximilian’s ministers at the time, thought +their puppet gone, and in terror of an avenging Republic they resigned. But +Bazaine, urged to it by Padre Fischer, prevailed upon them to remain, and +Fischer gave his word that the puppet would not escape. So France lost another +chance to take back the Mexican Empire, and thereby pave a way out of her shame. +For while Maximilian recuperated, he reconsidered. Clerical generals assured him +of armies, the ministers talked eloquently of treasure from the Church coffers. +The fat padre manipulated generals and ministers and Emperor, He was supreme. +None might come near the royal ear except at his pleasure.</p> + +<p>It was at this time, about the first of the year, some six months after +Charlotte had sailed to Europe, and only a few weeks before the French would do +the same, that one evening Jacqueline’s footman brought her a plainly +sealed envelope, without crest, without writing. She tore it open, and started +as she looked at a simple autograph on the card inside.</p> + +<p>“His–this gentleman, Tobie, you admitted him?”</p> + +<p>The well-trained servant stood impassive. “What would madame +have?” he replied. “The man walked in like a lord, keeping his face +hid in a cloak. But if madame––”</p> + +<p>“Was there a carriage?”</p> + +<p>“No, madame, but I noticed a saddle horse at a little distance, held by +a mounted soldier with a carbine. But if madame––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_337'></a>337</span>“He is in +the drawing-room, then?”</p> + +<p>“Oui, madame, and without removing his Mexican sombrero. But if madame +desires that this citizen find himself–h’m–pressed to +go––”</p> + +<p>“Tobie! No, on the contrary, you will permit him to wait undisturbed, +until I come.”</p> + +<p>A few minutes later Jacqueline beheld a tall figure in elegant charro garb +striding the length of her salon. As she entered, her guest threw off sombrero +and Spanish cloak, and revealed the drawn and troubled features of the Emperor +of Mexico.</p> + +<p>“Your Majesty has returned to His capital!” she exclaimed. +“Then it is true––”</p> + +<p>“That I shall cling to my play-empire? But I do not know yet, +mademoiselle, I do not know yet. If I did, I should not be here, here in your +house for the first time, and against your wishes––”</p> + +<p>“Will Your Highness be seated?”</p> + +<p>Maximilian flung himself wearily into an armchair. The fire of the enthusiast +had died out of his eyes, and the fire of fever had left them faded. They +reminded one of the blue of old-fashioned china.</p> + +<p>“But why––” she began.</p> + +<p>“Why come to you, you mean? I don’t know; instinct, I +suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that rather vague? Your Imperial Highness returns to the +City, to his palace––”</p> + +<p>“Not to his palace, mademoiselle, not while it would seem a mockery of +my poor imperial state, but to an hacienda in the suburbs. If I enter my Mexican +palace again, it will be because I have decided to remain an emperor.”</p> + +<p>“And for the reason that you have <i>not</i> so decided, you do me the +honor––”</p> + +<p>“I do myself the service, mademoiselle. I can bear this torment of +indecision no longer, and you can help me, for you, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_338'></a>338</span>dear lady, see clearly where the vision +of others is distorted. The enthusiasm of the others is unsafe. Yes,” he +sighed, with a little superior air of resignation to all human foibles, +“those on whose loyalty I can depend are indeed few, but I am thankful +that among them are my ministers, and my faithful secretary, Father Augustin +Fischer––”</p> + +<p>“Then why, in heaven’s name, does Your Highness come to +me?”</p> + +<p>“Instinct, or–perhaps it’s mania. Something has forced me +to learn what <i>you</i> would say.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s foot–a small digression, at most–was slippered +in blue, and this she pillowed on a cushion of red. And on another cushion she +settled her elbow; and the sleeve of the chemisette, or blouse, or whatever the +high-necked filmy white garment was, fell away, revealing a rounded forearm +clasped in a band of gold. And resting her chin on her thumb, she regarded the +young prince thoughtfully. In her look there may have been a sedate twinkle of +amusement, but all was gently, pityingly sympathetic.</p> + +<p>“Let me know,” she said, “more of the doubts that trouble +Your Highness.”</p> + +<p>Unerringly she touched the right chord. Doubts, yes, doubts of a broken +dreamer. Illusions shattered as bubbles. A dweller in an ideal shadow, believing +that subjects needed only lofty phrases, Maximilian was finding himself +tragically maladjusted to the modern day in which he lived. But as the words +tumbled from his lips in the passionate relief of unburdening, it quickly +appeared that his misgivings arose only because he had fallen short of Dark Age +standards. He recalled bitterly how, unlike the illustrious among his ancestors, +he had not stirred until others had won his crown for him. But destiny was kind. +He had the chance for redemption. To hold his empire now depended on him alone. +He would mount his horse, give to the light a true Hapsburg blade, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_339'></a>339</span>and valiantly ride forth +to conquer or perish, and in any hazard be worthy of his House.</p> + +<p>Then, without abrupt change, he talked of Austria’s late woes. Had he +but commanded his country’s ships at Lissa! Could he but have risked his +life at Sadowa! And moreover, he was still needed over there. But in some quick +recollection a moisture dimmed the blue eyes. He drew from his vaquero jacket a +dispatch. It was from Franz Josef. If Maximilian returned to Austria, the +message ran, then he must leave behind the title of Emperor–leave behind +even the title!</p> + +<p>“And will that hurt so much?” asked Jacqueline.</p> + +<p>The Ritual again! For it a man withheld asylum from his brother.</p> + +<p>“Is there no mother,” cried the exasperated girl, “to spank +both your Majesties?”</p> + +<p>“’Tis of Her Serene Highness––” Maximilian began with +dignity.</p> + +<p>“Highness? Yes, I forgot, but not high enough to chide majesty, though +she be a mother.”</p> + +<p>“Yet she has only just warned me of her deep displeasure if–No, +her message shall wait. I wish to hear first what you think. Tell me, shall I +go, or shall I stay? Tell me, tell me, and why!”</p> + +<p>Feverishly the man craved one frank word. There was in his look the prayer of +a desperate gambler who watches a card poised between the dealer’s +fingers. Jacqueline had one answer only. But exactly how to express it, lest she +be wrongly taken, made her pause.</p> + +<p>“In the first place,” she began slowly, “there is only a +single consideration involved, and in that lies the solution of Your +Majesty’s doubts. I mean the consideration of honor. Now if Your Highness +is–<i>whipped</i> off his throne–<i>that</i> is ignominy–But +wait, wait, I am not through. I––”</p> + +<p>“Almost my mother’s words!” he cried triumphantly. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_340'></a>340</span>with a hand that +trembled, he got out the letter from that Archduchess Sophia who had given one +son a crown and loved this other as her darling.</p> + +<p>“‘Rather than suffer humiliation by a French policy’” he +read from her letter, “‘stay, stay, though you be buried under the walls +of Mexico!’”</p> + +<p>“But––” Jacqueline interposed. She had been taken amiss +after all.</p> + +<p>“You too bid me stay,” he insisted. “But I might have +known. I might have known. One who never errs said that this would be your +counsel. The Padre is wonderful–wonderful!”</p> + +<p>Father Fischer, of course! What else? How consummate was the snake in his +cunning! He counted on honesty and nobility in another, though having none +himself. He knew Jacqueline. He thought that, both good and frank, she must +advise the Emperor as his mother had done. Accordingly, when Maximilian became +afflicted with doubts, the priest allowed him to go to Jacqueline. She would be +an accomplice despite herself. Only his judgment did not go quite far enough. +Jacqueline had not spoken <i>all</i> her mind.</p> + +<p>Imperiously she compelled Maximilian’s attention. “I said +ignominy, yes,” she persisted, “but I would have added that +honor–the modern and the decent–and the only courage, lies in facing +this same ignominy. Listen. If the least of impure ambition enters in your +decision to remain, then for each death in the civil war that must result, Your +Highness may hold himself to account, and so be held by history. Now,” she +went on, unmoved by the fact that he had winced, “the question remains +with Your Highness–does aught besides honor hold you to stay?”</p> + +<p>To himself he answered as she spoke, and guilt confessed mounted his +brow.</p> + +<p>“But there,” she said, “Father Fischer will interpret the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_341'></a>341</span>will of the +Almighty. Before Your Imperial Highness retires to-night, my words will be +forgotten.”</p> + +<p>The lash fell on flesh already raw and smarting. To predict that he would +change yet again, when to change he branded himself a wilful murderer–no! +That was more than he could endure. She must not think that of him. He held out +his hand. “Jeanne!” he murmured imploringly.</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” she cried, “Don’t call me +that!”</p> + +<p>Then she bit her lip, and her fury turned against herself. +“Jeanne” was feminine and French for “John,” which was +masculine and–American. This important discovery she had made months ago +when riding beside a man whose horse was “Demijohn.” As a girl in +love, she had found a cozy joy in their names being the same. But for that very +reason any recollection of it, since then, was the less to be borne.</p> + +<p>Blushing indignantly, she saw that Maximilian was regarding her with a +puzzled expression. Manlike, he referred it to himself, and suddenly, he too +started. Only once before had he addressed her thus familiarly, which was during +that memorable afternoon beside the artificial lake at Cuernavaca. Here, +therefore, must lie the association that caused her agitation. Yet, since that +afternoon, she had permitted no reference to their interview, unless to raise +her brows quizzically at his continued presence in Mexico. But now, what of the +self-betrayal into which he had just surprised her? It could not but be +connected with that other time when he had murmured her name. There was, +however, no conscious vanity in the remarkable explanation. It was remorse. He +thought of Charlotte, his wife. And this other woman, had he wronged her also? +For during the past weeks of trouble he had forgotten that he had loved her, and +she had not forgotten. In two such facts, falling together, was the wrong, and +one that a woman scarcely ever forgives, as he had had reason to know.</p> + +<p>“I could not help supposing, mademoiselle,” he ventured <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_342'></a>342</span>diffidently, “that +what you said at Cuernavaca was inspired by–by no feeling toward myself. I +could suppose nothing else in the light of your utter indifference since then, +and–and your aversion for my very presence.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline laughed pleasantly. “In that Your Highness deceives himself. +I did then, as I do now, feel for Your Highness enough to wish him safely out of +Mexico.”</p> + +<p>“Charity, then?”</p> + +<p>She did not protest.</p> + +<p>“As I thought,” he said. “There was no feeling +in–in––”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline raised her eyes and met his frankly.</p> + +<p>“When a woman feels in the sense you mean, sire,” she said, +“then she does not make an empire, even the Austrian Empire, a condition. +If the man in question has no more than his horse, his pistols, even his pipe, +then the woman––” But she stopped abruptly.</p> + +<p>“With you,” he granted honestly, “it was not a matter of +personal ambition either. But if neither of these, then what–<i>Now</i> I +see!” he cried. “A state reason! A decoy, to tempt me out of Mexico! +Yes, yes, now I see!”</p> + +<p>“It is good to know,” said Jacqueline, not ungratefully, +“that Your Majesty at least, if no other, can see a high motive in my self +abasement.”</p> + +<p>“Now what can she mean by that?” he demanded of himself. +“What other, in particular, thinks hard of her that she should +care?”</p> + +<p>Éloin was the only other man who could have seen them, there at Cuernavaca. +No, little it mattered to her what Éloin thought. But–yes, there was +another. There was the American who had intruded and wanted to save his empire. +Maximilian recalled now her change to bitterness after the American had left +them, and a moment ago he had seen the identical pain of self-contempt tug at +her lips. And yet, once <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_343'></a>343</span>she had left the American to die. But Maximilian +answered even that objection. Leaving him to die was a necessity for her +country. And the sacrifice had gone farther. It had not faltered before the +self-degradation of which she had just spoken.</p> + +<p>The admiration in his eyes grew. The chivalry in his race awoke within him, +and exalted him. He felt himself become the true knight, in the purity of +devotion to a woman–a gentleman, as real chivalry would have the term. +Poor man and poet, he felt even the impulse to bend the knee and crave as a boon +some risk of life in her service, without thought of boon thereafter–a +knightly impulse nearly obsolete in chivalry, if ever customary. But he knew now +that the impulse was really possible, and the proof was this: that the +constraint between them had vanished, that soon he was talking with her easily +and naturally.</p> + +<p>For Jacqueline also the air had become blessedly pure, and deeply, +gratefully, she breathed of it. Because now she talked with one whose respect +was a fact, who <i>knew</i> her for what she was, and during a moment’s +space she was happy, with the happiness of delusion. It seemed that other men, +that one other man, might one day know her too, and give her his esteem. But the +phantasy passed. The knowledge must forever be restricted to the man before her, +and for him she did not care.</p> + +<p>Maximilian, very strangely, was thinking of the very self-same thing. Here +was a service in her behalf already offering. If he could cause that other man +to know? But it was out of the question. Men may convince one another of a +woman’s guilt, and only too easily. But of her innocence? No, it was +absurdly out of the question. Besides, next day the true knight would be +starting back for Europe. Had he not just decided?</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_344'></a>344</span><a id='link_42'></a>CHAPTER IX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Interpreter to the Almighty</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“... and could make the worse appear<br /> +The better reason.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Paradise Lost.</i></p> </div> + +<p>After half an hour’s sharp canter, Maximilian dismounted at La Teja, +his suburban hacienda. He had come quickly from Jacqueline’s, for his +heart was light. The stress and storm of wavering were ended at last. Soon now +he would be at Miramar, at beautiful Miramar, overlooking the sea, where +Charlotte awaited him, but knew it not. And by love and tender care he would +coax her back to sanity. Ah, no, the pure joy of living was not done for them +yet!</p> + +<p>“Desire Father Augustin to attend me in my private cabinet,” he +said to the first lackey.</p> + +<p>The huge priest came on the instant. He bore a candle in one fat, freckled +hand, and above its light the dull flesh of his face shone yellow. His head was +as ever pear-shaped with its heavy, flabby jowls, and in the apex the two little +beads of eyes leaped adventurously at sight of the prince.</p> + +<p>“I am here, sire,” he said purringly. “Your Majesty, then, +wishes me to prepare for his return to the imperial palace to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“No, father,” His Majesty answered stoutly, though not without an +uneasy glance. “To-morrow I set out for the coast. The <i>Dandolo</i> is +still there at anchor. You will give the necessary orders to my Hungarians, who +will be my escort.”</p> + +<p>Fischer opened his lips, to close them. The involuntary creasing of his brow +smoothed at once. Maximilian, who had <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_345'></a>345</span>dreaded argument from this man, breathed easier. But +of course any man would give way when a Hapsburg had irrevocably made up his +mind. The padre laid down the candle, and interlaced his bloated fingers over +his paunch in an attitude of sleek calmness. He was smiling and fawned meek +anxiety to second his patron’s least wish.</p> + +<p>“Your Imperial Majesty’s wisdom, I see, is not a thing to be +turned by the fräulein?”</p> + +<p>“On the contrary, Mademoiselle la Marquise d’Aumerle counseled my +departure, not my remaining.”</p> + +<p>The fingers tightened slightly over the bulge of the sutane. “She then +presumed to differ from Her Serene Highness, Your Majesty’s +mother?”</p> + +<p>“My mother would counsel the same, were she in Mexico. I thank you, +padre, that I went to see the only one who could so take my mother’s +place, because now, at last, I know what I must do.”</p> + +<p>The priest took a long breath, and drew back, mentally, to some vantage point +whence he could survey the field and plan his campaign anew. He nodded humble +acquiescence, but the small bright eyes seemed to gorge themselves on the +prince. Maximilian stirred restively. One has seen a lion watch the +trainer’s whip, as though he wondered that a creature with only a whip +should yet, in some way, compel him to do this or that. Before an obscure +adventurer the monarch hastened to justify his abdication. But it did not make +him easier because the padre listened so obsequiously, with never a quiver +before the horror and misery pictured. He only listened, this man of God, noting +it all deferentially, item by item, with a smiling gesture that he heard and +understood, and was quite ready for the next. Maximilian became aware at last of +his own low stooping. And that moment he stopped abruptly.</p> + +<p>“The Lord reward Your Majesty’s tender heart,” now <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_346'></a>346</span>spoke the priest, +“and may the reward be such as a ruler should expect from his +God!”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” demanded Maximilian in impatient anger. +“Have all the barbarities of civil war no power to move you? Do I not know +that the savagery has already begun?”</p> + +<p>The curate crossed himself. In humility he would bear the charge of hardness +of heart. “Power to stir me?” he repeated. “If Your Majesty +would think on his power to bring this same savagery to an end! That is his +reward offered by Heaven, the reward of bringing holy peace to a stricken +land.”</p> + +<p>“Did I not come for that? You only remind me how I have +failed.”</p> + +<p>“And why, sire? Because your instruments were not blessed. The French +oppressed the Church as well as the people. But now the French are leaving. It +is the hand of Providence.”</p> + +<p>“She <i>said</i> he would interpret the will of Heaven!” +Maximilian exclaimed.</p> + +<p>The priest heard, stammered, and went to wreck miserably, as a hypocrite +unmasked knows that his next word must sound like hypocrisy. How slyly she had +checkmated him! Forseeing his thrust, she had countered his every shift of +cunning through this feeble fencer before him. And the mistake he had made, in +sending Maximilian to her! For a moment the expression of the apostate Lutheran +was very ugly in its baffled rage. But he was too wise a trainer to lose +patience utterly. He realized instead that the struggle was harder than any he +had yet had with his royal dupe, since now his real antagonist was the young +Frenchwoman.</p> + +<p>“I? I interpret the word of God?” He said it very humbly, with +bowed head. “Alas, Your Majesty knows I am the last to presume to that. +But there are those who can. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_347'></a>347</span>There is the Holy Father in Rome, who is infallible. +I only know that <i>he</i> told Your Majesty’s servant, myself, that a +ruler blessed by the Church is an instrument of God. But if the ruler turns his +back ere his work is done––”</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s nostrils were dilating strangely, and the consummate +tempter hurried on. He exalted the grandeur of the Emperor’s task, yet +craftily made success appear simple and easy. The forces of “the +arch-rebel Benito Juarez” were concentrated in “a horde of impious +thieves calling themselves the Army of the North.” But Miramon, His +Majesty’s own general, was hastening to meet them. One decisive battle, +and there would be no more rebels. The nation must then recognize that the +Empire had sustained itself without French aid.</p> + +<p>“Of course a few lives will be lost,” he quietly sneered, +“and we who do not understand may grieve for them, but the ways of Heaven, +for its own ends, are inscrutable. Your Majesty knows that others before him, +his ancestors, have had to wade through the blood of God’s enemies. But +Your Majesty’s glorious ancestors were fulfilling their destiny. And why +should not you, also, sire, you who are the child of destiny?”</p> + +<p>It was a magic word. Fischer knew his man devilishly well.</p> + +<p>“But how can I tell,” Maximilian demanded petulantly, “that +my destiny really lies in Mexico?”</p> + +<p>“Then your destiny, sire, must lie in Europe, in Austria,” was +the priest’s astounding concession. “After all, a prince’s +intuitions, being given him by divine revelation, can alone be his +guide.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s eyes flashed.</p> + +<p>“Then I abdicate–herewith!”</p> + +<p>Fischer meekly assented.</p> + +<p>“There are rumors, nay, more than rumors,” he mused <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_348'></a>348</span>aloud, “that a +strong hand is needed in Austria. I repeat only what all Europe says boldly, +that Franz Josef cannot long hold his throne. Yes, yes, sire, but do not stare +so!–Yet the crown prince is a child. Who then shall be regent? Who +but––”</p> + +<p>“Enough, enough, I say! Now look to my orders. We start +to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>The secretary beamed unctious joy that his master had so decided, and was +bowing himself out, when abruptly he paused, “Oh, I forgot, a packet for +Your Majesty.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian took the missive. It was not heavy. It did not seem as heavy as +Fate, not as heavy as a coffin.</p> + +<p>“This is an old date,” he said in a puzzled way. “See, the +postmark, ‘Brussels, Sept. 17.’”</p> + +<p>“It just came by courier from Vera Cruz, being sent via New York no +doubt accounts for the delay.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian sighed. Even the post no longer considered royalty. Packets had +taken on leisurely habits since the Empire’s crumbling–or since the +secretary’s ascendancy. He broke the seal with tremulous fingers. The +thing must tell him of Charlotte.</p> + +<p>“From Monsieur Éloin,” he said.</p> + +<p>“But he–he does not send bad news, nothing, sire, of Her Imperial +Highness?”</p> + +<p>Well enough did that soul of mud know the letter’s contents. Well +enough he knew that Éloin and himself could waste no time on an insane woman. +Their chances of future position were in too critical a state. And the packet +was designed for just such a crisis as the present.</p> + +<p>Maximilian frowned, read excitedly. He was swept along as by a torrent. Fixed +on him were the small bead eyes of the priest, darting a light, like a flame on +oil. And when the Emperor gasped quickly and sprang to his feet with hands +clenched in the manner of a strong man, the priest was ready.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_349'></a>349</span>“Good +news, then?” he cried. “What fortune! Now Your Majesty will hurry +the faster to Vienna?”</p> + +<p>Maximilian gave him a glance, as though he were dense to think so.</p> + +<p>“Here, read, read it!”</p> + +<p>M. Éloin, sycophant, courtier, had never sung for his royal patron a +roundelay more pleasing than his prose of the moment. It caused to vibrate the +very heart chords of the susceptible prince. There were subtle appeals to spite +ungratified, to wounded pride, to ambition, to honor. The letter ran:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>... Nevertheless, I am convinced that to abandon the throne now, before the +return of the French army, would be interpreted as an act of weakness....</p> + +<p>If this appeal (to the Mexican people) is not heard, then Your Majesty, +having accomplished his noble mission to the end, will return to Europe with all +the prestige that accompanied his departure; and mid important events that are +certain to happen, he will be able to play the rôle that belongs to him in every +way....</p> +</div> + +<p>And then the supreme refrain:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>In passing through Austria, I was able to bear witness to the general +discontent that reigns there. Yet nothing is done yet. The Emperor is +discouraged; the people fret and publicly demand his abdication; the sympathies +for Your Majesty are spreading visibly throughout the entire Empire; in Venetia +a whole population wishes to acclaim its former governor....</p></div> + +<p>Thus it was that Éloin pilfered Jacqueline’s lever, and thus he used +another fulcrum, as he had promised Charlotte he would. By pandering to +Maximilian’s Austrian ambitions, he showed the weak prince how they could +yet never be realized if prestige were lost in Mexico. To keep this prestige, to +increase it, Maximilian must prove to Austria that he could hold the empire he +already had, and that without foreign bayonets. He had only to stay a short time +after the French should evacuate. And then, within a few months, a few weeks, he +might lay down the sceptre voluntarily, to take up the one awaiting him across +the ocean.</p> + +<p>“We will leave here in the morning,” cried +Maximilian–“no, to-night, at once!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_350'></a>350</span>“For Vera +Cruz, sire?” queried the padre.</p> + +<p>“No, for my capital, for my palace! And father, allow no one to mention +abdication to me again. My decision to stay is irrevocable.”</p> + +<p>The padre promised faithfully that he should not be disturbed, and this was +one promise that the good padre kept.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_351'></a>351</span><a id='link_43'></a>CHAPTER X<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Alone Among His Loving Subjects</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“And Jove himself shall guard a monarch’s right.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>The Iliad</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>Early one morning a month later, a solemn little group of uniformed men +climbed to the roof of Buena Vista, the imperial wedding gift to Marshal +Bazaine, and nerving themselves, pulled down the Tricolor. France, a Napoleon, +were again leaving the New World. It was Evacuation.</p> + +<p>The Army of the Expedition came tramping down the Paseo. There were heavy +Dragoons and Cuirassiers, on majestic chargers. There were light Chasseurs and +Lancers, on fleet Arabians that had often proved themselves against the Mexican +pony. There was the clanking of steel, and the flash of helmets through the +dust. The imperial eagles, gilded anew, were poised for flight back to their +native aeries. Lower in the earthly cloud bobbed the tasseled fez of the bronzed +Zouave, and the perky red pompon on the fighting cap of the little piou-piou. +With the steady beat of the march, the pantalons rouges crossed, spread, +crossed, spread, like regiments of bright, bloody shears. The bands played. And +yet it was not a martial scene. Feet, not hearts, lifted to the fife’s +thrilling note. Nor was the multitude that thronged the wide avenue a fiesta +populace. It looked on stolidly, without a huzza, yet without a hiss. Enthusiasm +in either sense would have been relief, but the Mexicans assisting at the bag +and baggage of an invader were as unmoved as those other spectators, the +colossal figures in the glorietas; as the two Aztec giants, leaning on <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_352'></a>352</span>their war clubs; as +Guatemotzin, with high feathered crest and spear aloft, foreboding as in life to +the European conqueror; as Columbus, who, having himself suffered, gave now no +sign of remorse for the blows which this new hemisphere gave the old; as Charles +IV. on his iron horse, who had bargained with a former Napoleon to be called +Emperor of America, and who, unlike Maximilian, had wisely surrendered such a +crown.</p> + +<p>Cavalry, infantry, cannon, wagons, on they came through the city and past the +Zócalo, under the Cathedral towers, under the lifeless, shuttered windows of the +Palacio. Here in the Zócalo, in the central plaza, the sometime first lady of +Her Imperial Majesty’s household sat in her barouche, and opposite her a +pretty girl, and she was talking with an officer of Chasseurs d’Afrique whose +horse was restive, and all the while there was the rumbling of wheels, the tread +of feet, and the ring of hoofs.</p> + +<p>The sometime first lady was saying good-bye to the officer, as she had +already to many another gallant chevalier pausing beside her carriage. But for +her it was farewell to all her countrymen there, to the little piou-pious most +of all, and her gray eyes were frankly moist.</p> + +<p>“And now they are going,” she mused aloud, “really going, +because, parbleau, a monsieur in Washington says they must.”</p> + +<p>“I wish to heaven,” swore the young officer gloomily, “some +monsieur would say as much to you! See here, we’d give you and +Mademoiselle Berthe enough room on the ship for a barracks, if you’d only +come. There’s a many less welcome,” and he jerked his head toward a +stream of vehicles straggling among the troops. They were filled with Mexican +aristocrats whose doubtful titles had been revived by the Empire, all eagerly +accepting French transport out of their native land.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline laughed. “They’re so afraid of the Liberals, they will +forget their escutcheons. So of course they’ve forgotten the bouquets. You +should have seen the garlands, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_353'></a>353</span>Michel, that heralded our grand entry here. Oh, +lá-lá! We paid for them ourselves. Thus arrived the Drapeau Civilizateur de la +France. And now behold the departure. Not the cost of a violet to spare from +Napoleon’s strong chest! Hé mais, hear that tune! It’s ‘Leaving for +Syria,’ the thing decreed into our national hymn. For once I’m glad, +glad it’s not the ‘Marseillaise.’”</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle–dear friend,” spoke the slow-thinking Michel, +“you do not wish to answer my question. Why do you stay behind, alone? +Why? Nothing good ever happens to anyone in this country, and who can tell what +might happen to you when the army is gone? Come now,” he went on, forcing +some bluff cheer into his words, “Jeanne d’Aumerle, your friends want you +out of it. Fall in with us, here, now. Let me give the order, ’Cocher, à +Paris!–Voilà, what more’s to be done?”</p> + +<p>Indeed, what more simple? Or more to be desired? Yet there was nothing she +desired less. She thought of what she had found in Mexico, and must leave +behind. It was a dead thing, true, and already buried. But–the grave was +too fresh as yet. However, the real reason for her staying involved something +else.</p> + +<p>She made no reply, for at the moment a strange voice, with a jagged Mexican +accent and a thin insidious inflection, broke in upon them, and startled them +all three.</p> + +<p>“Nay, Monsieur le Duc,” it began, rolling the title as a morsel +on the tongue. “Your Grace would deprive us of too much honor. Why, +indeed, should mademoiselle not remain among us?”</p> + +<p>Turning quickly, Jacqueline beheld the stranger’s black eyes upon +herself. He, too, wished to know why she stayed in Mexico, but in his sharp, +shifting look there was a penetration quite different from that of the guileless +Michel. He bestrode a magnificent horse that seemed made for armor, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_354'></a>354</span>whereas he himself would +surely have been crushed under so much as a Crusader’s buckler. Being so +very small, and perched so very high, he cut a ludicrously martial figure with +his plumed hat and epaulettes and gold buttons and braid and medals and +exquisitely mounted sabre. It was not a French uniform that he wore, but Mexican +Imperial, and stupendously ornate. And within the brave array, he was such a +little, little man!–insignificance glorified into caricature.</p> + +<p>But the pigmy was not altogether on parade. He had that morning been +receiving arsenals and fortresses from the French; in short, the keys of the +Empire. For he was Commander in Chief of the Imperial armies, was this species +of manikin. And ugly? He was a man of lifted upper lip under a bristling +moustache, a man of fangs, a wee, snarling, strutting, odious creature of a man. +A deep livid scar split his cheek and would not heal. Instead of arousing +sympathy, it proclaimed him rather for the scratches he gave to others. For he +was that Mexican of infamous name, the Leopard. Once he had looted the British +Legation. Another time he massacred young medical students attending the wounded +of both sides. There were stories of children speared and tossed in ditches. Yet +certain priests blessed his ardor as defender of the Church. Maximilian had sent +him on a mission to Palestine, since he was abhorrent to the moderates. But now +he was back again, to lead the clerical armies. The valley of Mexico shrank from +his brutal proclamation demanding submission. “Mexicans, you know +me!” so ended the snarl. He gathered forced loans. He drafted peons, +though they were exempt. He emptied the prisons, and convicts he sent in chains +as recruits for the Imperial garrisons. In such a fashion Leonardo Marquez began +his duties as generalísimo of the Empire.</p> + +<p>“Your Excellency is most kind,” said Jacqueline, for no other +reason than to annoy him by changing from French into his own language.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_355'></a>355</span>“On the +contrary,” returned Marquez, “I am flattered that you will be here +to observe how we, alone, shall crush the rebels. Your countrymen, señorita, +happily leave plenty of them. But I cannot believe that this is why you +remain.”</p> + +<p>“Make her tell you, then,” interposed the helpless Ney. He was +utterly at sea. There was a trial of strength on between these two, but how or +for what was quite beyond him.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline pushed back the Persian shawl she wore–this fifth day of +February was the Mexican springtime–and settled herself to the contest in +earnest. “I fear,” she began slowly, “that my motive in +staying can hardly be intelligible, unless, perhaps, Your Excellency knows why I +came to Mexico in the first place. No señor, that blank smile of yours will not +serve. Your Excellency cannot feign ignorance of public gossip.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, I have heard that––”</p> + +<p>“To be sure you have,” she returned dryly, “and you might +add that I failed, since Maximilian has not yet abdicated. But Your Excellency +is not one to imagine that the end can be long delayed.”</p> + +<p>She, too, was searching for a motive, his motive in the interview.</p> + +<p>“The Mexicans alone will sustain our patriotic ruler,” stoutly +declared the generalísimo. “But let us suppose, merely for pastime, that +His Majesty does abdicate. What then? What profit to France, since at this +moment, before our eyes, her army is leaving?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline smoothed the ruffled pleats on her full gray skirt. They looked +like an exaggerated railroad on a map, and doubtless needed smoothing.</p> + +<p>“And remotely supposing,” she said, “that our army +<i>might</i> come back again?”</p> + +<p>Then, in a flash, she raised her eyes, and surprised the start he gave. But +she laughed at once, and at him, for taking her nonsense as serious.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_356'></a>356</span>“No,” she exclaimed, “Your +Excellency can more easily recall Santa Anna from his island exile.”</p> + +<p>This, too, was nonsense, or so he was forced to consider it. But knowing that +the Empire could not endure, he was believed even then to be negotiating with +the rich former dictator. In his scowl Jacqueline discovered what she sought. He +wanted, in brief, to negotiate with Napoleon also, and he wanted to negotiate +through her. Napoleon could bid higher than Santa Anna. She saw, moreover, what +was worrying the traitor. If Napoleon did not mean to bid, why then was she +staying in Mexico?</p> + +<p>Marquez glanced fretfully at Ney and Berthe. If he might be honored in the +privilege of calling to pay his respects?––</p> + +<p>But Jacqueline regretted that she was to be too much occupied in preparations +for her own early departure. And that very evening she sent a note to +Maximilian, frankly warning him against the Leopard. But she warned His Majesty +farther, that if he did not heed, that when it should be too late to save him in +any case, and Marquez still had something to sell, that then she would advise +her own emperor, should her own emperor wish to buy. Hoping, though, for the +best, she sent by Ney a message to Bazaine at the head of the column, suggesting +that he delay embarkation as long as possible. She had in mind Maximilian +awakened to the faithlessness of his chief support and wishing to overtake the +French troops.</p> + +<p>For which it appears that Jacqueline still wielded a free lance, belonging to +her own country alone and owning no master other than her own conscience.</p> + +<p>As Bazaine at the army’s head rode through the Zócalo, he looked up to +find the palatial shutters closed. The Mexican Empire was sulking like a +spiteful child. The marshal wearily shrugged his shoulders, and thought on the +ingratitude of princes. But the silence of the Palace was only a pose, mean and +despicable. Maximilian himself was peeping through the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_357'></a>357</span>shutters down upon the gallant, moving +sea of color. It was a stream of gleaming bayonets, of champing horses, of +lumbering artillery. His eyes would single out and cling to this or that figure +till it was lost in the street beyond, and then he would try to realize that it +was lost to him forever. For the street beyond lay toward the coast, where many +ships awaited. The archducal petulance gave way to vague melancholy.</p> + +<p>Finally he looked upon the last swinging foot, then at the dust settling. +Below, in the Zócalo, what had been a fringe of mourning around the troops, +became a scurrying of human creatures. They were his subjects. Not a French +uniform remained, but the prince sighed heavily as he turned from his ignoble +peep-hole. Courtiers and counselors glanced at each other significantly. By +tacit consent one among them spoke.</p> + +<p>“Free at last, sire, free at last! Ah, see them, there below. They know +their shackles are broken, they know that the foreign invader who chilled their +allegiance is gone. Nay more, their loyalty has already borne fruit. In the +north, sire––”</p> + +<p>“How, father? You do not mean––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sire, yes, the mother of God be praised! I mean victory, and +death to many traitors. The news has just come. Miramon has won a decisive +battle and taken Zacatecas.”</p> + +<p>“Zacatecas! But Juarez was there?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sire, and Miramon entered so suddenly the arch rebel surely could +not have escaped.”</p> + +<p>“Juarez taken, that man taken!”</p> + +<p>“Even so, sire, And”–Fischer’s interlaced fingers +tightened until the veins grew large–“and, it only remains for Your +Majesty to dispose of him, according to the law.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian trembled with joy. He was master of the situation. His people had +made him master. Here was divine right vindicated. It was–Destiny! He had +but to follow whither the heavenly finger pointed. And in rapture, he seized his +pen.</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_358'></a>358</span><span +style='font-variant:small-caps'>Palace of Mexico</span>, Feb. 5th, 1867.</p> + +<p><i>My dear General Miramon</i>:</p> + +<p>I charge you particularly, in case you do capture Don Benito Juarez, Don +Sebastian Lerdo de Tejado, and others of his suite, to have them tried and +condemned by a council of war ... but the sentence is not to be executed before +receiving Our approbation....</p> + +<p>Your affectionate <span +style='font-variant:small-caps'>Maximiliano</span>.</p></div> + +<p>Bazaine and the French camped the first night, the next day, and yet another +night outside the City, waiting. They did not reach Puebla until the tenth. The +rear guard fell farther and farther behind, keeping the road open. At last there +was news. Juarez had escaped Miramon at Zacatecas, warned in time through some +mysterious agency. And farther, Miramon had encountered another Republican army, +by whom he was not only defeated, but routed completely. In panic he was fleeing +to Querétero.</p> + +<p>“Maximilian must surely abdicate now,” thought Bazaine, and he +sent back a message. “I can,” he wrote, “yet extend a hand to +His Majesty to help him retire.”</p> + +<p>In Vera Cruz the marshal waited for an answer. Day after day passed, and then +the answer came. Too late, was its refrain. Maximilian had left his capital with +what troops he could spare. He had left for Querétero, to join Miramon +there.</p> + +<p>Bazaine, the last to quit the shore, climbed aboard his ship, and taking one +final look for a chance horseman with word to wait yet longer, and seeing none, +gave the order to weigh anchor.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_359'></a>359</span><a id='link_44'></a>CHAPTER XI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Fatality and the Missourian</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Si debbe ai colpi della sua fortuna<br /> +Voltar il viso di lagrime asciutto.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Machiavelli.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>The mountain villages were arming. Bronzed men, savagely joyful, poured from +under roofs of thatch, strapping on great black lead-weighted belts. In the +corrals others lassoed horses. It looked like a sudden changing from peaceful +highland domesticity, as the clans of Scotland or the cantons of Helvetia might +gather. But these men were not rising to defend their homes. The hamlets +clustered among the crags were their barracks, nothing more. The wildest cañons +of the Sierra Madre del Sur, far away in the rocky southwestern corner of the +continent, were only their camping grounds, their refuge. To be armed was their +natural state. They were fighters by occupation. They were an army. Unceasing +hardship and constant peril had seasoned them, and their discipline was perfect, +unconscious, because it came from the herding instinct of wolves. During years +they had waged war against a ruthless foe, and they, too, were relentless. The +penalty of defeat was massacre.</p> + +<p>The foe of this army was a greater army, and between the two it was a duel of +chieftains, of General Régules in the Sierra, of General Mendez on the plain. +Deadlier antagonists might not be imagined. Mendez, he who had shot two +Republican generals under the Black Decree, was above all men the likeliest to +hold stubborn Michoacan for the Empire. But even he failed, because the man +against him was not less a man than <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_360'></a>360</span>he, because also the spark of resistance to sceptre +and crosier never dies out in Michoacan.</p> + +<p>The man as good as he was Régules. A Spaniard, Régules had fought with the +Catholic Don Carlos. And now, he was suffering for Mexican Liberals the most +that any general can suffer, defeat after defeat, and sometimes annihilation. +But he was a Marion, a Fabius. He knew the mountain recesses as no one else, +even better than Mendez, who was born among them, and here he would gather +fugitives, draft every straggler, until in time he sallied forth again to badger +his arch enemy. He hoped only to exist till that day when the French should +leave Empire and Republic face to face, on equal terms. It had taken tenacious +faith and gloomy years, but the day came at last. The news sifted through defile +and gorge. The invader had embarked for Toulon. Nearer at hand Mendez had +evacuated Morelia, and was marching to Querétero. And at Querétero was Miramon, +driven there from the north by Escobedo. At Querétero was the Emperor–was +the Empire, desperate, ferocious, an animal at bay. Out boldly upon the plain, +then! But no longer as a slinking guerrilla horde! As an army rather, with +thrilling bugles and the Mexican eagle aloft, and regiment numbers in gold on +pennons of brightest red! For the Empire was the hunted mad-dog now, and the +dignified host was the Republic. The barracks of the Sierra were arming.</p> + +<p>In one of the corrals an officer of cavalry was quelling insubordination with +soft words. But the mutineers, not knowing their man, did not fathom the +dangerous sweetness of his tone. They were deserters from Mendez, come that +morning, and as they had horses, were foisted on the officer’s splendid +troop. But like the native infantry, they insisted that their women, the +soldaderas, should go with them on what was to be a swift march to Querétero. +Having brought useful information concerning Mendez, they were insolent in their +demands.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_361'></a>361</span>“Now, +muchachos,” said the officer of cavalry, “you see how absurd it is, +so quiet down. The women can follow later.”</p> + +<p>“A Gringo to dictate to us, bless me the saints! Us, free Mexicans, and +Republicans!” And the ringleader drew his machete and rushed on the +officer.</p> + +<p>The Gringo smiled, in a way that a man rarely smiles. His eyes opened in mild +surprise, and as the mutineers looked to see his head roll from his shoulders, +he was still smiling in that poisonously sweet way. Perhaps there passed across +his face just the shadow of pity or of revulsion, but none might say for +certain, because of a pistol’s flash that came so quickly after. With the +report the assailant plunged headlong, and on the ground seemed to shrivel in +his rags. Behind the smoke the officer was carelessly holding a large black +revolver, no higher than his hip.</p> + +<p>“Because,” he added, “it’s not a woman’s +game.”</p> + +<p>Then he thrust the weapon back under his ribs and sauntered away. The +mutineers gaped in trembling at his back. When they picked up the ringleader, +they saw that his fingers had been neatly clipped at the hilt of the +machete.</p> + +<p>The cavalry officer was Driscoll–but changed! He was changed as bland +Mephisto would change a man, if the material were adaptable and Mephisto an +artist. Such exquisite gentleness in peril and in slaying could be no other than +the devil’s own, and in the most devilishly artistic mood of that suave +dilettante.</p> + +<p>It was natural that any man should color somewhat into a desperado, +considering such an existence among those Sierras, but Driscoll was a desperado +refined by cynicism. And yet there was still naught of self-consciousness in it +all. The change had not been abrupt, but gradual, as a growing into maturity. +The roughened native instincts of a gentleman had sobered from Quixotic impulses +into a diabolic calm. His bravery was turned to cool and almost supernatural +self <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_362'></a>362</span>possession, +mocked withal by gentleness. And yet he was not a villain. To the mutineers, to +those who beheld his smile, he seemed a fiend. But his horse knew no change in +him, which was significant. Something had gone wrong, that was all. The young +man who had looked out on the world, half challenging, half expectant, must have +seen too suddenly that part of life which is unlovely. However, the thing may +not be thus easily explained. The soul of a man, when bent or distorted under +stress, is a weird and fearful growth. One may contemplate it in awe; but +understand it, never.</p> + +<p>More than a year before, when Driscoll changed sides, he was embarrassed to +find a side to change to, so thoroughly had the Empire swept away all vestiges +of the Liberal strength. But on achieving that farewell of his to Mendez, he +rode happily southward, with some vague notion of tracking the Republic into +Michoacan. The first night he slept under the stars mid tunas and Spanish +daggers, and when he awoke it was to find a strange Indito squatting patiently +at his feet. He sat up and rubbed his eyes at what might have been a Hindoo +image, except that it doffed a straw sombrero.</p> + +<p>“Y’r Mercy is awake?” queried the idol.</p> + +<p>“N-o, but it will probably not be long now. Who in thunder are +you?”</p> + +<p>The Indito explained, and Driscoll covered his knees with his hands, and +stared and grew more astounded. The ragged fellow said that he had escaped from +Mendez’s camp by squirming on his belly through the cacti, and he had +followed the American señor, on foot. He was, he added, a Republican spy.</p> + +<p>Driscoll mechanically drew his pistol, but recalled that now he also was +Republican.</p> + +<p>“But why follow me?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“I was sent to watch only Y’r Mercy, Y’r Mercy’s thousand +pardons.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_363'></a>363</span>“The +devil!”</p> + +<p>“And with Y’r Mercy’s permission, I was to kill Y’r Mercy at the +first chance. But since Y’r Mercy has changed sides––”</p> + +<p>“Now look here, who–who put you up to this business, I want to +know?”</p> + +<p>The man shrugged his shoulders. He only knew that a señor chaparro had sent +him.</p> + +<p>“A short señor?” Driscoll repeated. “Then we might call you +a Shorter Yet, and maybe you know where this República is hiding out?”</p> + +<p>The Indito brightened. “That’s why I’m here, señor. +I’ll take Y’r Mercy to the Citizen General Régules.”</p> + +<p>At the name Driscoll frowned involuntarily, but laughed as he again +remembered that he no longer shared the Imperialist hates.</p> + +<p>“Régules?” he repeated. “But we all thought he was dead, +since the last time we scoured his mountains.”</p> + +<p>“That the Virgin would have let me kill Y’r Mercy before then!” +said the Indito regretfully. “But no matter, Y’r Mercy will discover that +the citizen general is still alive.”</p> + +<p>And so he was. They found him in the wildest of the wild region of the Sierra +Madre del Sur, far away beyond the Rio de las Balsas, beyond Michoacan, in the +impassable tierra caliente of the Pacific slope. The Indians here were the +Pintos, who knew naught of the world outside, and owned allegiance to none but a +grizzly old dictator, royally described as the Panther of the South. One thing +was certain, the Empire could never follow Régules to the fever and ambush of +the Panther’s marshy realm, and Régules was hard pressed indeed when he +sought such protection. But he was there now, in that last refuge of Liberalism, +alone, wounded, fever stricken, emaciated, but undaunted. Driscoll found him so, +and became his first recruit.</p> + +<p>For the moment Régules had no army, but armies were only <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_364'></a>364</span>weapons brandished by the real +principals in the duel. Over battle and rout and slaughter the two chiefs would +glare each at the other, blade in hand and panting, but either ever ready for +the stroke that should thrust through the army to the heart of its general. Such +a struggle needed only antiquity and a bard to be Homeric. No Greek could equal +either champion in cunning, nor Trojan in prowess, nor both in grim persistence +and rugged hate. It was truly a fight to have a hand in, and with big, lusty +zest, the Storm Centre bounded into the lists. He leaped backward into the age +of colossal, naked emotions, which strove as great veined giants with a rude +splendor that was barbaric. It was the grandeur of primeval man, of majesty +resting on him who fought best. After a thousand years of roof and tableware a +man may be no longer primeval, but he is no longer quite a man either if his +primeval state does not sometimes appeal to him. As for the young Missourian, he +was enthralled.</p> + +<p>During that winter, the Spaniard and the American were a recruiting squad of +two, picking up the seeds of rebellion among the fertile rocks. The vago, or +poor Indito, was drafted wherever caught. Guerrilla fugitives rejoined their +leader. The little band grew slowly, but in appearance merited Mendez’s +contemptuous epithet of brigand thieves. Fluttering yellow rags revealed only +leathery-hided bones. Sandals sloughed away. There were a few machetes, and one +or two venerable musketoons. But the commoner weapon was a heavy wooden staff, +used for trudging up the steep paths. Imagine a Mexican abandoning his horse! +But pursuers often tracked “the brigand thieves” by their mounts +dying here and there–a pitiful blazed trail. And their exhausted riders +often lay down as well, and would not rise, though Régules lashed them, though +the terrible Mendez followed close behind. If at this time the Republic compared +its conditions with the tapestried court in Mexico, then hope of success must +have <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_365'></a>365</span>seemed +lugubrious irony. Yet there was the watchword still, “Viva la Intervención +del Norte!” Régules looked to the United States to drive away the French. +Driscoll’s face would twist to a grimace. It was a peculiar position for +an ex-Confederate.</p> + +<p>The Republicans in Michoacan were cut off from all outside help, while those +along the Rio Grande drew from the friendly Americans in Texas much aid and +comfort. Driscoll pondered on this, until in June he got leave to go to the +Córdova colony and there enlist, if possible, his old comrades of Shelby’s +brigade. The result is known. After the affair at Tampico, he came back with a +troop of colonels. They were the nucleus of a cavalry which he loved more than +Demijohn, more than his ugly pistols, more than his pipe.</p> + +<p>It was a grim affection that Driscoll bore his regiment of horse. He was no +longer the same man as when he left. He returned from Córdova with a mood on +him, which settled more and more heavily as he nursed his troops into a splendid +fighting machine. There was a dangerously quiet exultation in the patience with +which he built the regiment up to full strength and trained it into the power of +a brigade. He did wonders through the idea, pleasantly instilled, that much of +the fun of fighting lies in the winning, and he demolished, as an absurd fetich, +the idea that the hunted men of Régules were doomed never to win.</p> + +<p>Thus he labored with the Inditos, his terrible little fatalists in combat. +There were enough to choose from, since by now the tide of desertion was +changing toward the Republic. The problem of mounts in time solved itself. The +French began selling their horses rather than transport them back to Europe, and +these being declared contraband of war by the Liberal government, were +complacently taken away from their owners without even Juarez script in payment. +The question of arms proved more troublesome, but the answer at last was even +more <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_366'></a>366</span>satisfactory. +For the besieged at Quéretero, Driscoll’s troop later became some +unfamiliar dragon hissing an incessant flame of poisonous breath. This was due +to a strange and mystical weapon which not only carried a ball farther than any +rifle known before, but sixteen of them, one after the other. The strange and +mystical weapon multiplied a lone man into a very genii of death, until the +Missourian’s twelve hundred were more to be dreaded than many +battalions.</p> + +<p>The repeating rifles, it may be explained, formed a part of the cache which +General Shelby had made on crossing into Mexico. He had taken them, among other +things, from the Confederate depositories in Texas. Driscoll knew of the cache +through Boone, and by infinite patience had it brought into Michoacan. A +solitary Indito journeyed eight hundred miles unnoticed with some seeming +fragments of scrap iron. Other vagos were in front of him. Others followed. And +these passed yet others, empty handed, trudging in the opposite direction. So an +arsenal came to the Sierra Madre del Sur all the way from the Rio Grande, and +each and every cavalier, whether miserable ranchero or veteran Missourian, +became an engine of destruction, good for a fusillade of forty shots without the +biting of a cartridge, for sixteen from his rifle, for six from each of his +revolvers, and after these, good for terrific in-fighting with his dragoon +sabre. It was no marvel that Driscoll loved such a troop, but the wonder lay in +his smile, soft and purring and far-away, as he stroked his murderous +darling.</p> + +<p>Colonel Daniel Boone, chief of scouts, was harassed nearly to insomnia over +the change in his friend. At the bottom of the mystery there must be inspiration +for a glowing line, and with pen ready poised over the violet fluid of romance, +it was disheartening to have the solution elude him. He proposed clues as a poet +tests rhymes. There was vendetta. There was blighted passion. But he ruefully +discarded both. Either <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_367'></a>367</span>would be marked by violent growth, while this thing +that touched the Storm Centre formed as slowly as the gravity of wisdom. But +what baffled most was that Driscoll himself was completely oblivious. If +<i>he</i> knew nothing of the effect, how then could one ask him about the +cause?</p> + +<p>Daniel, however, overlooked the fact that a malady may break out variously, +according to temperament. As an instance Daniel’s patient would lose +himself in reverie, long and deep and mellowing. Now he was riding with a girl +whose gray eyes were upon him in that pensive way she had; or rather, in the +pensive way of a girl who finds herself in love, and wondering at it, seeks to +learn the reason through a grave scrutiny of the object. It seemed very good to +be riding with her again like that, for there was a soothing sense of +companionship, of dear camaraderie that needed no words, but only that +expression of her mouth and a pair of gray eyes. The day dream, while it lasted, +had nothing of bitterness, but lulled his soul instead, and when it passed, he +would be left with thankfulness for his moment of fleeting bliss and ineffable +comfort. Or again, he awoke to reality with a longing that fiercely would not be +denied. “Oh, I want–Jack’leen!” Often and often the imperious +smothered cry all but passed his lips. And then he would shake himself, as out +of physical slumber, and he would take up his life again. But he would be a +shade deeper in the devil’s own mood, of gentleness and a smile.</p> + +<p>After Cuernavaca Driscoll had brooded somewhat, yet rather as a boy whose +melancholy is callow and easily fades. But during that evening in Boone’s +cabin, he had changed to a man, for it was then he came to know the meaning of +possession, and in the same moment he learned the meaning of loss. A dull and +indefinable resentment thereafter grew on him. But against whom? Against no one, +perhaps. Yet he had had a vision of his life’s dearest happiness, and it +was gone, that vision, beyond recall.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_368'></a>368</span>Ignorant as he +was of Jacqueline’s mission, Driscoll had but one explanation. A man had +been born a prince, and a prince dazzles a woman. Yet the rankling in him was +neither because of the prince, nor because of the woman. It was much more +hopeless than that. It was because a man could be born a prince at all. +Something was out of harmony in the world. The irony of it made him grim, and to +his sense of humor that such things could be came the smile. A prince in the New +World and in the Nineteenth Century!–Now here was as incongruous a +juxtaposition as a bull in a crockery shop. And the result?–A people +robbed of their dignity as men; a spike among the cogs, and the machinery +everywhere grinding discordantly. For the pilfered people, however, the matter +could be righted, and Driscoll felt his vague wrath as one with theirs. Together +they would drive the bull from the shop. The Mexicans could later repair +<i>their</i> crockery. But as to his own precious little bit of bric-à-brac, that +was shattered beyond hope. His only balm was to help the other sufferers. His +only resentment was against fatality. But to pout at fatality is such a foolish +business that he smiled, in a gentlemanly, sardonic way. Lucifer himself would +be obsequious before fatality. And as for presuming to chastise it, that does +indeed require the devil’s own mood.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_369'></a>369</span><a id='link_45'></a>CHAPTER XII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Rendezvous of the Republic</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“It may be short, it may be long,<br /> +’Tis reckoning-day!’ sneers unpaid Wrong.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Lowell.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>It was a long column that undulated over the cacti plain with the turnings of +the national highway. Men and horses bent like whitened spectres under a cloud +of saltpetre dust. They burned with thirst, and had burned during fifteen days +of forced marching over bad roads. They kept their ranks after the manner of +soldiers, else they would have seemed a hurrying mob, for there was scant boast +of uniforms. The officers wore shoulder straps of green or yellow, and some of +the men had old military caps, high and black, with manta flaps protecting the +neck.</p> + +<p>Except for an occasional pair of guaraches, or sandals, the infantry trudged +barefoot, little leather-heeled Mercuries who cared nothing for thorns. Their +olive faces, running with sweat, were for the most part typically humble, +patient under fatigue, lethargic before peril. Here and there one held the hand +of his soldadera, like him a stoic brown creature, who shared his hardships that +she might be near to grind his ration of corn into tortillas. Veterans were +there who had fought the French at Puebla, and on coarse frayed shirts displayed +their heroes’ medals. Some among them had meantime served the Empire, and +had lately deserted back again–but no matter. In the cavalry there were +those who on a time had ridden against the Americans in Santa Anna’s +famous guard. Now <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_370'></a>370</span>they rode with Driscoll, among the Missourians. And +the Missourians sang:</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“My name it is Joe Bowers,<br /> And I’ve got a brother Ike;<br /> I come from old Missouri,<br /> Yes, all the way from Pike.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Their mouths opened wide to the salty dust, and they roared with great-lunged +humor, the stentor note of Tall Mose Bledsoe–Colonel Bledsoe of the State +of Pike–far and away in the van of the chorus. Even the Mexicans, who +comprised over half the regiment, chanted forth the tune. They had heard it +often enough, and thought it a species of appropriate national hymn. Only the +colonel of the troop rode in silence, but not gloomily. This playfulness of his +pet before a snarl was music that he liked. The other Missouri colonels (brevet) +were as boys ever, were still only Joe Shelby’s “young men for +war.” There was Colonel Marmaduke of Platte. There was Colonel Crittenden +of Nodaway. There was Colonel Grinders from the Ozarks. There was Colonel Clay +of Carroll, and Colonel Carroll of Clay. These were captains. Colonel Bledsoe +was a major, and so was Colonel Boone, also chief of scouts. Colonel Clayburn, +otherwise the “Doc” of Benton, was ranking surgeon; while the +chaplain, lovingly known as “Old Brothers and Sisters,” and the +choicest fighter among them, was lieutenant-colonel.</p> + +<p>Of course some of the four or five hundred colonels had to be privates. But +they did not mind, they were colonels just the same. Which provoked +complications, especially with a Kansan who had wandered among them some time +since. The Kansan, whose name was Collins, was an ex-Federal, even one of their +ancient and warmest enemies, of the Sixth Kansas Cavalry. And being a mettlesome +young man into the bargain, he rose by unanimous consent to command a native +company of the troop. But Captain Collins found it hard to address a <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_371'></a>371</span>Missouri private as +colonel, and to be addressed by the Missouri private as an inferior in rank. A +sporadic outburst of jayhawker warfare generally ensued. But according to the +merger treaty between the Republic of Colonels and the República Mexicana, the +Missourian was strictly in his rights. Besides, both needed the exercise, and +after the business of fists, formality dropped of itself. Captain Collins +thereupon became “Harry;” and the private “Ben” or +“Jim,” or whatever else.</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s troop wanted for nothing. Regimentals, luckily, were not +considered a want. But in replacing worn-out slouch hats and cape-coats, the +Americans set an approximate standard, which was observed also by their fellow +troopers among the Mexicans. They were able to procure sombreros, wide-brimmed +and high-peaked, of mouse-colored beaver with a rope of silver. The officers and +many of the men had long Spanish capas, or cloaks, which were black and faced in +gray velvet. Their coats were short charro jackets. As armor against cacti, they +either had “chaps” or trousers “foxed” over in leather, +with sometimes a Wild Western fringe. They came to be known as the Gray Troop, +or the Gringo Grays. The natives themselves were proudest of the latter +title.</p> + +<p>The brigade marched as victors, but they remembered how they had formerly +skulked as hunted guerrillas, and also, how Mendez had scourged the dissident +villages. They found bodies hanging to trees. At Morelia a citizen who cried +“Viva la Libertad!” had been brained with a sabre. It was the hour +for reprisals. And Régules exacted suffering of the <i>mocho</i>, or clerical, +towns that had sheltered the “traitors.” Requisitions for arms, +horses, and provisions marked his path. Deserters swelled his ranks. He had +enough left-overs from the evacuation to organize what in irony he called his +Foreign Legion. At Acámbaro a second Republican army, under General +Corona–“welcomer than a stack of blues,” as Boone +said–more <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_372'></a>372</span>than doubled their force, and together they hastened +on to Querétero.</p> + +<p>But at Celaya, when men were thinking of rest in the cool monasteries there, +they learned that they must not pause. The word came from El Chaparrito, who +ever watched the Empire as a hawk poised in mid-air. General Escobedo of the +Army of the North had pursued Miramon south into Querétero, but only to find him +reinforced there by Mendez and the troops from the capital. This superior array +meant to attack Escobedo, then turn and destroy Corona and Régules. The +Republicans, therefore, must be united at once.</p> + +<p>The message was no sooner heard than the two weary brigades of Corona and +Régules set forth again. They covered the remaining thirty miles that night, +expecting a victorious Imperialist army at each bend in the road. But they met +instead, toward morning, a lone Imperialist horseman galloping toward them. +Régules’s sharp eyes caught the glint of the stranger’s white +gold-bordered sombrero, and with a large Castilian oath he plucked out his +revolver. Driscoll touched his arm soothingly.</p> + +<p>“But, María purísima,” cried Régules, “he’s an +Explorador!”</p> + +<p>The Exploradores were Mendez’s scouts, his bloodhounds for a Republican +trail, and the most hated of all that breed.</p> + +<p>“Aye, Señor General,” the stranger now spoke, “I was even +the capitan of Exploradores, who kisses Your Mercy’s hand.”</p> + +<p>There was a familiar quality in the man’s half chuckle, and Driscoll +hastily struck a match. In its light a face grew before him, and a pair of +malevolent eyes, one of them crossed and beaming recognition, met his.</p> + +<p>“Well, Tibby?” said Driscoll quietly.</p> + +<p>“First your pistols, then what you know,” commanded Régules. +“Here, in between us. Talk as we ride, or––”</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio complied. Such had been his intention.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_373'></a>373</span>“I am no +more a loyal Imperialist,” he announced, with a gruesome contortion of the +mouth.</p> + +<p>“Nor a live deserter for long,” said Régules. “Quick, +what’s the news at Querétero?”</p> + +<p>“Carrai, my news and more will jolt out if I open my mouth. Eh, mi +coronel,” he added to Driscoll, “you’ve taught this barbarous +gait to the Republic too, I see?”</p> + +<p>“Better obey orders,” Driscoll warned him gently.</p> + +<p>“But there’s no need of hurry, señores. Not now, there +isn’t.”</p> + +<p>“You mean the Imperialists have whipped Escobedo, +that––”</p> + +<p>“Not so fast, mi general. If they had, wouldn’t I want you to +hurry, for then there’d be a conquering Empire waiting for you?”</p> + +<p>“Colonel Driscoll,” said Régules, “fall back a step. +I’m going to kill this fellow now.”</p> + +<p>“As you wish, general. But he’s got something to tell.”</p> + +<p>“Then por Dios, why doesn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Tibby, why don’t you?”</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio cocked a puzzled head toward the American. He had not known such +softness of voice in Mendez’s former captain of Lancers. But he saw that +Driscoll had drawn his pistol, which accorded so grimly with the mildness of his +tone that the scout chuckled in delight and admiration.</p> + +<p>“You know that I’ll tell–now,” he said reproachfully. +“In a word, there’s been no battle at all, curse him, curse +both––”</p> + +<p>“No battle! Escobedo kept away then?”</p> + +<p>“No, not even that. The Imperialists would not fight, and the Empire +has lost its last chance. Curse them both, curse––”</p> + +<p>“Well, curse away, but who, what?”</p> + +<p>“I curse, señores mios,” and the scout’s words grated in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_374'></a>374</span>rage and chagrin, +“I curse His Excellency the general-of-division-in-chief of the army of +operations, Don Leonardo Marquez. I curse, señores, the Reverend Señor Abbot, +Padre Augustin Fischer––”</p> + +<p>“Good, that’s finished. Now tell us why there was no +battle.”</p> + +<p>“I curse His Ex––”</p> + +<p>“You have already, but now––”</p> + +<p>Tiburcio flung up his hand in a gesture of assent, and his ugly features +relaxed. Though going at a brisk trot, he rolled a cigarette and lighted it. +Then he told his story. Querétero? Ha, Querétero was now the Court, the Army, +the Empire! Pious townsmen shouted “Viva el Señor Emperador!” all +day long. The cafés were alive with uniforms and oaths and high play. Padres and +friars shrived with ardor. There was the theatre. Fashion promenaded under the +beautiful Alameda trees, and whispered the latest rumors of the Empress Carlota. +Maximilian decorated the brave, and bestowed gold fringed standards. Then came +Escobedo and his Legion del Norte, but they kept behind the hills. Bueno, the +Empire would go forth and smite them, and the pious townspeople climbed to the +housetops to see it done. And yesterday morning the Empire, with banners flying +and clarion blasts, did march out and form in glittering battle array.</p> + +<p>“And then, hombre?”</p> + +<p>“And then the Empire marched back again, señores.”</p> + +<p>Régules and Driscoll were stupefied. What gross idiocy–or +treachery–had thrown away the Empire’s one magnificent chance?</p> + +<p>Tiburcio sucked in his breath. “I curse––”</p> + +<p>“Marquez?” cried Régules.</p> + +<p>“Si señor, Marquez! Marquez cried out against the attack, and His +Majesty ordered the troops back into town again.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_375'></a>375</span>“But +Miramon, hombre? Miramon, the best among you, where was he?”</p> + +<p>“General Miramon fairly begged to fight, but he has been defeated once, +and now Marquez warns the Emperor against Miramon’s ‘imprudence.’ +Marquez is chief of staff, and crows over Miramon, who was once his president. +He personally ordered Miramon off the field, yet it was Miramon who first made +the insolent little whelp into a general.”</p> + +<p>“This,” said Driscoll, “does not explain why you desert to +us?”</p> + +<p>For an instant the old malignant humor gleamed in the baleful crescent. +“It’s the fault of the fat padrecito,” he replied. “Your +Mercy perhaps does not know about the pretty servant he eloped with from the +Bishop of Durango’s to Murguía’s hacienda? Well, but trouble started +when I saw her, or rather, when she saw me, even me, señor, for then she +perceived that the padrecito was not a handsome man. Presto, there was another +eloping, and the holy Father Fischer felt bad, so very bad that when he got into +favor with Maximilian, he had me condemned for certain toll-taking matters he +knew of. But I vanished in time, and I’ve been serving under Mendez as a +loyal and undiscouraged Imperialist until yesterday. But yesterday the padre +recognized me at a review of the troops. Your Mercy figures to himself how long +I waited after that? Your Mercy observed how fast I was riding?”</p> + +<p>The fellow’s audacity saved him. The news he brought proved correct. +Escobedo had not been attacked. Besides, Régules perhaps hoped to trap Mendez +through the former Imperialist scout, though Driscoll derided the idea and even +counseled the worthy deserter’s execution.</p> + +<p>Don Tiburcio’s lank jaw dropped. Driscoll’s advice was too heavy +a recoil on his own wits, for had he not once saved the Gringo’s life, +feeling that one day he might be a beneficiary <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_376'></a>376</span>of the Gringo’s singular aversion to shooting +people? And now here was the Gringo in quite another of his unexpected humors. +But what bothered Don Tiburcio most was the acumen that tempered the +American’s mercy. The facts indeed stood as Driscoll casually laid them +before General Régules. Tibby, for instance, had neglected to call himself a +“loyal” Republican. Asked for a description of the new earthworks on +the Cerro de las Campanas, he only told how peons and criminals were forced to +carry adobes there though exposed to Escobedo’s sharpshooters, which had +in it for Tibby the subtle element of a jest. Or asked about the new powder +mills, he described how Maximilian slept patriotically wrapped in a native +serape, woven with the eagle and colors, or related how the Emperor won the +hearts of soldiers and citizens by his princely and ever amiable bearing.</p> + +<p>“Now sing us the national hymn,” said Driscoll, “and the +betrayal of your former friends will be complete.”</p> + +<p>But though Don Tiburcio had deserted for convenience and perhaps meant to be +a spy in the dissident camp, yet Régules saved him, while Driscoll lifted his +shoulders indifferently and at heart was not sorry.</p> + +<p>The Celaya road, crossing a flat country, first touches Querétero on its +southwestern corner, and from here the two Republican brigades beheld the +ancient romantic town in the dawn as they approached. Many beautiful Castilian +towers, stately and tapering to needles of stone, rose from among flat roofs and +verdure tufts, and pointed upward to a sky as soft and warm as over the Tuscan +hills. Other spires were Gothic, and others truncated, but the temples that gave +character to the whole were those of Byzantine domes. Lighted by the sun’s +level rays of early morning, their mosaic colors glittered as in some bright +glare of Algeria, but were relieved by the town’s cooling fringe of green +and the palms of many plazas within. It might have been a Moorish city, in Happy +Arabia <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_377'></a>377</span>called +paradise, a city of fountains, and wooded glens, like haunts of mythical fauns. +Querétero once boasted a coat of arms, granted by a condescending Spanish +monarch, and for loyalty to the hoary order of king and church she in those old +days described herself as Very Noble and Royal. Stern cuirassed conquistadores +held her as a key to the nation’s heart, as a buckler for the capital, and +lately the French did also. And now the Hapsburg had come to a welcome of +garlands, and called her his “querida.”</p> + +<p>But however excellently Querétero served as a base of military operations, as +a besieged place pocketed among hills her aspect altered woefully. She was like +an egg clutched in the talons of an eagle. On north and east and south the hills +swept perilously near, a low, convenient range, with only a grass plain a few +miles wide separating them from the town below. On north and east the heights +were already sprinkled with Escobedo’s tents and cannon. They commanded +the only two strongholds of the besieged, as well as the town itself, which lay +between. One stronghold was the Cerro de las Campanas, a wedge-shaped hill on +the northwestern edge of the town, which held nothing but trenches. On the +northwestern edge was the other stronghold, the mound of Sangremal, which fell +away as a steep bluff to the grassy plain below. From the bluff, across the +plain, to the hills opposite, stretched a magnificent aqueduct. On the +mound’s commodious summit of tableland there was the Plaza de la Cruz, +also the Church de la Cruz, and an old Franciscan hive, called the monastery de +la Cruz. Here Maximilian established himself in a friar’s lonely cell. On +the north a small river skirted the town, on the south, where nothing intervened +between the grassy plain and the wooded Alameda, the besiegers found the most +vulnerable flank.</p> + +<p>On this side investment began with the arrival of Corona and Régules, and +soon after, of General Riva Palacio. The <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_378'></a>378</span>Republicans numbered fifteen thousand already, and +more were coming daily, but as yet there were ragged strands in the noose being +woven around the beleaguered place. Curiously enough, the most feverish to see +the cordon perfected was none other than Don Tiburcio.</p> + +<p>“Marquez will escape! Marquez will fly the net!” he kept +bewailing. “Si señor, and the padrecito with him, curse them +both!”</p> + +<p>Two weeks passed, filled with skirmishes and ominous tests of strength. At +night fiery parabolas blazed their course against the sky, up from the outer +hills, sweeping down on Las Campanas or La Cruz. Imperialist chiefs urged a +general attack, but again Marquez foiled their hopes. Then, at two o’clock +one morning, there came to pass what Tiburcio had feared. A body of horse stole +out upon the plain, and gained the unguarded Sierra road to Mexico. Four +thousand cavalry pursued over the hills, but in vain. The fugitives were Marquez +and the Fifth Lancers, his escort. He was gone to the capital to raise funds, +and to bring back with him, at once, the Imperialist garrison there of five +thousand men. Doting Maximilian had even named him lieutenant of the Empire, and +Mexico City would shortly have the Leopard for regent. Querétero, moreover, was +seriously weakened by the loss of the Fifth Lancers, and there were those who +remembered how, when Guadalajara was besieged by Liberals seven years before, +Marquez had likewise set out for aid, and had returned–too late.</p> + +<p>To his wrathful disgust, Don Tiburcio learned that Father Fischer was also +gone with Marquez. The priest had disguised himself in an officer’s cloak, +and for the moment none in the town knew of his flight. The fat padre, it +appeared, no longer hoped for the luscious bishopric of Durango. His was the +rat’s instinct, as regards a sinking ship.</p> + +<p>The Leopard and the Rat got away only in time. The <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_379'></a>379</span>very next day ten thousand ragged +Inditos, largely conscripts, arrived from the Valley of Mexico and filled the +gap in the besiegers’ line. Investment was now complete, against a paltry +nine thousand within the town.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_380'></a>380</span><a id='link_46'></a>CHAPTER XIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Buccaneer and a Battle</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“The inclination to goodness is imprinted deeply in the nature of man.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Bacon.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>But the paltry nine thousand were the best army of Mexicans ever yet gathered +together. For weeks they kept more than thirty thousand Republicans out of an +unwalled, almost an unfortified town. But while the Republicans were largely +<i>chinacos</i>, or raw soldiery, they inside were trained men. There were the +Cazadores, a Mexican edition of the Chasseurs, organized by Bazaine under French +drill masters. There was Mendez’s seasoned brigade. There was +Arellano’s artillery, though numbering only fifty pieces. There were the +crack Dragoons of the Empress, the Austro-Mexican Hussars, and a squadron of the +Municipal Guards. There were veterans who had fought at Cerro Gordo, and +steadily ever since in the civil wars. There was the ancient Battalion de +Celaya, mainstay of the Spanish viceroys, and later of the Emperor Iturbide, its +colonel. There were the Battalion del Emperador, the Tiradores de la Frontera, a +company of engineers, and several well-disciplined regiments of the line.</p> + +<p>But the day came when they began to starve, and being hungry took the heart +out of many things. It took the heart out of bombarding Escobedo in his hillside +adobe; out of taunting “uncouth rebels.” The rebels were in trenches +often not a street’s width distant, and for reply they pointed to certain +dangling acorns who had been “traitors” caught slipping through the +lines. Being hungry took the heart out <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_381'></a>381</span>of the quick-time diana, played after a brilliant +sortie. Out of the embrace Maximilian gave Miramon. Out of Miramon’s call +for vivas for His Majesty the Emperor. Out of standard decorating and promotions +and thrilling words of praise. Out of the anniversary of Maximilian’s +acceptance of the throne. Out of a medal presentation for military merit, which +the generals bestowed on their Emperor in the name of the army. Out of being +made a caballero of the Order of Guadalupe, especially as the monarch could give +only a ribbon, since the cross must wait until his return to the capital. And +being hungry certainly made pathetic his prediction that some among those +present would one day wear the medal for twenty-five years of faithful service +to the Empire. Being hungry took the poet-hero’s glow out of his wan cheek +as he declared again that he, a Hapsburg, would never desert, for even then he +heard Imperialist platoons shooting recaptured deserters. Or he thought of the +wounded left to die on the grassy plain and lying there unburied. No, all the +heart was being taken out of these things, for Marquez still did not come with +the help he had gone to bring, and the noose was tightening day by day. Attempts +were made to send some one through to depose Marquez, but each one failed. +Splendid sallies resulted in prisoners taken, which were only so many more +mouths to feed. The Roman aqueduct had long since been cut off, and now the +wells were giving out. Mules and horses drank at the river, while sharpshooters +picked them off. The feebler animals were butchered and distributed as rations. +And still the sorry Marquez gave no sign. Even hope failed the empty +stomachs.</p> + +<p>But for those who waited outside as Vengeance enthroned, expectation began to +take on a creepy quality. The besiegers were preparing against themselves a +host, not of men, but of frightful spectres, of famished maniacs, of unearthly +ghouls, who would clutch and tear with claws any man that stood between <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_382'></a>382</span>them and a morsel of +food. And the fury of desperation sharpened with each succeeding irony of a +dinner hour.</p> + +<p>The siege had endured six weeks. Marquez had been gone a month. But the +Republicans held ready for whatever force he might bring. Their key to the +situation was the Cimatario, the highest hill on the south. Between it and the +wooded Alameda stretched the grassy plain. Republican trenches from base to +shoulder of the peak opposed Imperialist trenches under the Alameda trees. +Republican troops flanked the Cimatario on either side, lying in wait for +Marquez. On one side Driscoll’s Grays guarded the Celaya road.</p> + +<p>So here they were sleeping encamped on the morning of April 27, when the +bugle of a patrol cracked their slumbers. They lay booted and spurred. A moment +later they were horsed as well, blinking across the plain in the pearly mist of +dawn. They had heard hoofbeats, sharp and dry on the high tableland. Now they +saw a wild, shadowy troop, which was hotly pursuing a spectral coach of gossamer +wheels, with six plunging mules frantically lashed by outriders. At once, +almost, the coach was lost among the dim strangers, who snatched at flying ends +of harness, and with their prize raced on again.</p> + +<p>The Grays stared. It was like some pictured hold-up, not real. But they knew +better when from among themselves a colossal yellow horse and rider dashed +toward the road. Then they awoke for certain, and tore after their colonel to +solve this ashen mystery so early in the morning. Was it Marquez, perhaps? But +the coach white with dust, and white curtains flapping, what was that?</p> + +<p>Striking their flank at an angle, Driscoll drove hard into the fleeing horde. +The Grays saw his hand raise as a signal, whereat they did not close in, but +swerved and galloped parallel, some fifty paces distant. Driscoll struggled +alone against the heaving sea about him. But no cut-throat of that pirate mass +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_383'></a>383</span>so much as drew a +knife. By force of brawn, he wedged his way toward the coach, reached it, leaned +forward, and caught up the curtain. And what he saw was a poke bonnet. The +bonnet was a bower of lace and roses, held by a filmy saucy knot under a +lady’s chin. He saw a face framed within, of a skin creamy white, of lips +blood-red, of hair like copper, and he saw a pair of eyes. They were gray eyes, +and as they opened suddenly and wider upon him whom she thought must be her +captor, the lady started violently, her cheeks aflame. But at once the eyes +snapped as in mockery, and her lips moved.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur permits himself––” she began, but no one heard +except her terrified companion within the coach. Driscoll had already dropped +the curtain as a thing that burned, and was raging on again with the turbulent +stream. He got to the leader of the band, and jerked the fellow’s bridle. +He raised his voice, and louder than the pounding of hoofs he cursed in wrathful +disgust.</p> + +<p>“Dam’ you Rod, this here’s getting monotonous!”</p> + +<p>The man swung in his saddle. His eyes were black-browed and savage. He was +Rodrigo Galán, the terrible Don Rodrigo. But shabby, how very shabby he looked +for the thief of million dollar convoys! Yet that bonanza coup of the bullion +train had happened two years ago. Since then the outlaw had visited the capital. +Boldly, audaciously, he had gone as a rich hacendado, and after the manner of +rich hacendados he had “seen the City.” Mozos with gorged canvas +bags on their shoulders had followed his stately stride into the gambling +casinos. He had played with regal nerve, and on the last occasion, had flung the +emptied sacks away as nonchalantly as on the first. Only, the last time, he had +felt remorse that the “bank” had profited instead of Tiburcio. In +that matter of the bullion convoy he had not treated Don Tiburcio as one +caballero should another.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_384'></a>384</span>Their +horses–Rodrigo’s and Driscoll’s–were racing by bounds +shoulder to shoulder. This endured for possibly the space of a second. Then +Demijohn felt his rein tighten, and he took more time. Next his bit suddenly +pinched, and down the old fellow came upon his front feet together, firmly +planted, and sank to his haunches. Driscoll still held Rodrigo’s bridle, +and Rodrigo and horse, being in air, lunged backward.</p> + +<p>“We stop here,” Driscoll announced.</p> + +<p>Don Rodrigo plumped down heavily in his saddle. His bristling moustache +lifted over his cruel white teeth. Two hundred swarthy little demons reining in +around them looked expectantly for a signal. But their chief frowned at the +twelve hundred Gringo Grays hovering on his flank. They too wanted only a sign, +and they outnumbered the Brigand’s six to one. But Rodrigo believed he +held the advantage. First he obediently halted himself and his minions.</p> + +<p>“Now then señor,” said he in pompous and heavy syllables, +“I am at your disposition. Will your people commence the battle, or shall +we?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll appreciated the dilemma. The carriage would be in the line of fire. +He had had an intuition of its occupants, and for that reason had kept back his +men.</p> + +<p>“Where was she going?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>Rodrigo feigned surprise. “And where,” he asked, “or +rather, to whom, should Your Mercy imagine?”</p> + +<p>To Querétero! To Maximilian, of course! This, too, Driscoll had divined +already.</p> + +<p>“No matter,” he retorted shortly, “but how did you run +across her this time?”</p> + +<p>The outlaw filled his chest, “You Americans, señor, do not understand +the feelings of a man bowed under a heavy wrong. You––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_385'></a>385</span>“We’ll let it go at that,” said +Driscoll, with a little wave of the hand, “but–how +in––”</p> + +<p>“You scoff already, señor? But will you, at these stains of blood? Then +let me say to you, señor mio, they make me remember one shameless deed for which +the tyrant Maximilian must pay.”</p> + +<p>The stains Rodrigo meant were on a little ivory cross which he had taken from +his jacket. The emblem served him to lash his emotions, to goad his precious +sense of wrong. He studied the cross intently; then, by a vast and excruciating +effort, thrust it into Driscoll’s hand.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes,” he cried, “you must take it! He said +so.”</p> + +<p>“He?”</p> + +<p>“Si, señor, he who shares my wrong, Don Anastasio Murguía.”</p> + +<p>“Murgie!” exclaimed the bewildered American. +“But–why, hombre, I haven’t seen the old skinflint +since–since he and I both were court-martialled by Lopez!”</p> + +<p>“Still I promised him to send the cross to you, because you will have a +chance to give it to him. He said so.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he did?” But Driscoll put the trinket in his pocket, not +unwilling to see more of this foolish drama in Latin-American sentiment. +“Now then, Rod,” he went on impatiently, “you haven’t +explained yet how you happen to find her again.”</p> + +<p>“That,” replied the outlaw, “was <i>his</i> part of the +bargain.”</p> + +<p>“Whose?”</p> + +<p>“Anastasio Murguía’s.”</p> + +<p>“Rod, you talk like a––”</p> + +<p>“But no, señor, it’s because you Americans cannot understand. +Murguía also believes in vengeance. I haven’t seen him either, not since +he sold his hacienda over a year ago. But I do know that he or some spy of his +is in the capital, for a messenger from him came to me in the mountains. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_386'></a>386</span>messenger said that +the Marquesa d’Aumerle was leaving for Querétero. If I captured her, it would +be vengeance in kind. But Murguía wanted pay for his information. He wanted that +cross–it was his daughter’s–and I was to send it to him +through you. Dios mio, but I had to hurry! A little more, and the Marquesa would +have been inside your lines.”</p> + +<p>“She is already,” Driscoll corrected him, “and so are you. +Will you fight it out, or surrender?”</p> + +<p>He pointed to the Grays as he spoke. They had dismounted, and each man had a +rifle at aim across his saddle. It was a reminiscence out of Driscoll’s +boyhood of Indians and the Santa Fé trail. But Don Rodrigo only smiled.</p> + +<p>“You want the coach first?” he said.</p> + +<p>“No!” Driscoll retorted. “You’re the one that’s +wanted, and you can either wait for your trial, or be shot now, fighting. The +coach will have to take its chances. But see here, if the firing once starts, +not a thief among you will be left standing––”</p> + +<p>It was a perilous “bluff,” and none might say if it would have +broken the deadlock. But the outlaw interrupted.</p> + +<p>“Listen! What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing. We’re only throwing a few bombs into +Querétero.”</p> + +<p>“Only!” The brigand’s eyes flashed, and his voice was +filled with envy. Throwing bombs among the traitors?–and magnificence like +that had grown common! Yet he, whose patriotism was a passion that fed and +thrived upon itself, must be barred from such exquisite satiety.</p> + +<p>Driscoll understood, and thought it droll. First there was that loyal +Imperialist, Don Tiburcio, frothing chagrin because he had had to desert. And +now here was this rabid Republican, heart broken over being outlawed from the +ranks of his country’s avengers.</p> + +<p>Again Rodrigo interrupted, more excitedly yet. “Señor, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_387'></a>387</span>señor, you don’t +shoot them that way every day? What does it mean?”</p> + +<p>Both gazed across the plain to the city of domes under the green hills. +Driscoll’s chin raised, and he listened intently. What had commenced like +indolent target practice against a beleaguered town had suddenly burst into a +terrific cannonading chorus. More, there was musketry, vicious and sustained. +There were troops deploying over the plain. Something critical was happening. If +it were the supreme rally of the famishing Empire!</p> + +<p>Driscoll stirred uneasily. He glanced at his outlaw. He thought of the coach. +To leave her with these ruffians? To miss a fight? Here was a quandary!</p> + +<p>“You are not going?” Rodrigo cried at him furiously. “Now, +now,” he raged, “is the hour of triumph for the incarnation of +popular sovereignty. Go, I say, go, the Republic needs you!”</p> + +<p>Until those words Rodrigo had held the situation. With them he lost it, and +Driscoll was master. And Driscoll grew serene, and very sweet of manner. He +began filling a cob pipe. A nod of his head indicated the coach as a condition +of his going.</p> + +<p>“Look, look!” Rodrigo shouted. “Oh, que +viva–they’re running! We’ve smoked them out! We’ve +smoked them out!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll swept the country with his glasses. Thousands of men were running +like frightened rabbits down the Cimatario slope, and spreading as a fan over +the grassy plain. Mountain pieces boomed farewell behind them, until in abject +panic they cast away carbines and scrambled the faster. But other troops were +pushing up the slope opposite the town, and these were ordered ranks of +infantry. Up and up they climbed, to trench after trench, and the howitzers one +by one stopped short their roar. When <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_388'></a>388</span>Driscoll laid down the glasses, his face was white. +Rodrigo’s glee turned to uncertainty.</p> + +<p>“What–what––”</p> + +<p>“Smoked out, you fool? We’re the ones smoked out!”</p> + +<p>“But those runaways?”</p> + +<p>“Are our own men, ten thousand of ’em, raw conscripts to support +our batteries on the Cimatario.”</p> + +<p>“But the Cimitario?” Rodrigo knew by instinct the crucial +importance of the black cone.</p> + +<p>“The Cimitario is taken by the Imperialists!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll did not forget, however, the nearer contest, and as the Mexican grew +frantic, he was the more coolly indifferent.</p> + +<p>“Max has everything his own way now,” he added soothingly. +“He can either evacuate, or go around on the north side and thrash +Escobedo.”</p> + +<p>But the Grays were clamoring for action. “By cracken, Din, hurry up +there!” yelled Cal Grinders.</p> + +<p>Driscoll raised his palm, waving the fingers for patience. He scanned the +plain again. The Imperialist ranks were breaking. Hungry men rushed on the +besiegers’ camps, snatching untouched breakfasts. The townsmen poured out +among the uniforms, and darted greedily in every direction. The llano was alive +with scurrying human beings. Driscoll could well wait for the psychology of +Republican defeat on Don Rodrigo, since at the same time he awaited the effects +of victory on a starving army. The Grays fretted, but they knew their colonel +was never more to be depended upon than when his blood grew cold like this.</p> + +<p>“If,” Driscoll observed pleasantly to the Mexican, +“Escobedo isn’t already making tracks for San +Luis––”</p> + +<p>It was the last straw. The patriot brigand jerked off his sombrero and flung +it to the ground. He gestured wildly over the plain, and he gestured in the +American’s face. He choked on words that boiled up too fast.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_389'></a>389</span>“You–you–traitor!” he +spluttered. There was actually froth on his lips.</p> + +<p>“We haven’t,” Driscoll reminded him with exceeding +gentleness, “settled this other yet,” and again he nodded to the +coach.</p> + +<p>“That–that is why you wait?” Rodrigo had forgotten his +prize entirely. “Take her, then, take her! Only go, go, kill all the +traitors!”</p> + +<p>“After you, caballero,” Driscoll returned with Mexican +politeness. He wanted to be sure of the outlaw’s departure, since holding +him prisoner was now out of the question. But Rodrigo chafed only to be gone. +With a reed whistle he signaled his little demon centaurs, then at a touch of +the spurs his horse leaped forward and all the band clattered close on his +heels.</p> + +<p>“Sure anxious to escape,” thought Driscoll. But he stared after +them in wonder. Instead of turning to the safety of the mountains, they charged +straight ahead on the town, straight against the Empire, and in any case, +straight into the maw of justice. Behind, the coach and mules stood high and dry +in the road. Driscoll was at once all action.</p> + +<p>“Shanks,” he called.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone hurried to him from the Grays.</p> + +<p>“Shanks, will you stay here with six men––”</p> + +<p>“Jack Driscoll!”</p> + +<p>“To watch that coach, Dan. There’s two girls in it.”</p> + +<p>“Jack! Miss that there fight!”</p> + +<p>“But Dan, <i>these</i> girls are friends of yours, you met them +once.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone started violently.</p> + +<p>“Never mind, I’ll ask Rube Marmaduke or the Parson.”</p> + +<p>A pitiful struggle racked Mr. Boone.</p> + +<p>“You, you’re not fooling me, Din?” he pleaded.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_390'></a>390</span>“Sure not. +It’s your empress all right. It’s Miss Burt all right.”</p> + +<p>“Then, Lawd help me, I’ll stay!–But you’d best be +hustling and get to work.”</p> + +<p>“Just a minute, Shanks, there’s the other one in the coach. She +wants to go to Querétero. If she gives her word of honor–never mind, she +knows honor from a man’s standpoint–if she gives her word that she +brings nothing that will help ’em inside, then you can escort the coach +into the town after things quiet down some. All right? Good. Then we’re +off!”</p> + +<p>Demijohn’s hoofs pelted dust balls with each impact. The Grays were +ready. They surged behind. The sound of them was a swishing roar. In the apex of +the blinding tempest, Driscoll sat his saddle as unmoved as an engineer in his +cab. He looked ahead placidly. Empire and a prince had just triumphed. So he was +going to readjust fatality. The smile touched his lips as it never had before, +and hovered there in the midst of battle.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_391'></a>391</span><a id='link_47'></a>CHAPTER XIV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Blood and Noise–What Else?</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“On stubborn foes he vengeance wreak’d,<br /> +And laid about him like a Tartar,<br /> +But if for mercy once they squeak’d,<br /> +He was the first to grant them quarter.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–Orlando Furioso.</p> +</div> + +<p>Only for the moment of a cooling breath is Nature gray in Mexico. The +sun’s barbed shafts had already ripped away the cloak of dawn when +Driscoll and his cavaliers swept over the glaring road. But there was no longer +any battle. The plain swarmed confusion only. Panic cringed before hunger. The +defeated besiegers panted, stumbled, ran on again, or lay still in trembling. +The victorious besieged were gorging from fingers crammed full. It was the hour +for trophies. A prosperous townsman bore a stack of tortillas, and gloated +leeringly as he hurried to put his treasure safely away. A dashing Hungarian +with fur pelisse shouted gallant oaths at a yoke of oxen and prodded them with +his curved sword, as though a creaking cart filled with corn were the precious +loot of an Attila. Pueblo and soldiery tore ravenously at fortifications that +had so long kept them from one savory broth. With nails alone they would +demolish walls and trenches. Some lurched over fugitives in the grass, and then +pinned them there with bayonets, the lust for food turning fiendishly to a lust +for blood.</p> + +<p>But what most inflamed the Grays were the captured cannon. They counted as +many as twenty being dragged into the Imperialist lines. The Missourians were +aggrieved. Never, never <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_392'></a>392</span>had Joe Shelby’s brigade ever lost a gun. And +as they galloped, they looked anxiously about for chances of more battle. Just +then Rodrigo’s outlaw band caught their eye. These had swerved from the +road out upon the field, hot to engage anything, everything. A long provision +train offered first. Many carts had been loaded with Republican stores, and were +being convoyed to the town by a squadron of Imperialist cavalry. It was the +clash between this escort and the brigands that attracted the Grays coming on +behind. But the escort wheeled and fled and the brigands pursued, slashing with +machetes, and so charged full tilt into the Dragoons of the Empress who were +sent to retake the abandoned prize. Red tunics mixed with ragged yellow shirts, +and war-chargers and mustangs swirled together as a maelstrom. Then the Grays +pounded among them, in each hand of each man a six-shooter. The red spots began +to fall out of the peppered caldron. The red tunics that were left broke, +retreated, ran. It became a rout. Only a few of the Empire’s best survived +those ten minutes of blood-letting. Fatality? Driscoll’s lip curled. +Fatality? The Dragoons, now no more, had twice held him for their bullets.</p> + +<p>Grays and brigands chased them back toward Querétero. The fleeing remnant +began yelling for help. Driscoll rose in his stirrups, and saw just ahead a +large force of the enemy. It was gathered around the Casa Blanca, a little house +on the plain. The large Imperialist force there was an army, nothing less, +though still disordered from the late action and victory. Surrounded by a +brilliant staff was a tall, golden bearded chieftain, sumptuously arrayed as a +general of division, regally mounted on a cream-coated horse of Spain. He was +Maximilian, viewing from there the winning of his empire. The army behind him +filled his ears–“Viva Su Majestad!”</p> + +<p>But he who had given the cue for that thrilling music now saw the +convoy’s fate. He rode up and down anxiously, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_393'></a>393</span>striving for order in the confused +ranks. He wore the green sash of a general. He had a moustache and imperial, +searching black eyes, and an open brow. His fine features showed in the blend of +French and Castilian blood. He was the real chieftain. He was Miramon. +Impetuously he made ready to avenge the Dragoons.</p> + +<p>These things that he saw ahead brought Driscoll to his senses. With +reluctance, but instantly, he made up his mind. He held high his sabre and +halted his own men, turning at the same time to collide obliquely, and +purposely, against Rodrigo.</p> + +<p>“Not that way, Rod, not that way!”</p> + +<p>“But it’s the tyrant! It’s the tyrant!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll got the brigand’s bridle and swung him around fiercely. +“Let the poor tyrant be!” he yelled. “We’ve got to take +that there Cimatario hill.”</p> + +<p>A moment later Grays and brigands wheeled to the right and were off. Back at +the Casa Blanca Maximilian lowered his glasses. “They surely, they surely +are not–yes,” he cried, “they <i>are</i> going to attack the +Cimatario!”</p> + +<p>Miramon smiled. “Then they are lunatics,” he said. “Why, +Your Highness knows that we have five thousand of our best men on the +Cimatario.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Maximilian agreed uneasily, “but I thought I +recognized the man who leads those lunatics. Do you happen to know, general, how +Tampico fell?”</p> + +<p>“Do not worry, sire,” Miramon replied, willing to humor the +prince, “I will take our infantry to the Alameda and strengthen our +reserve there, should anything really happen.”</p> + +<p>Across the grassy plain raced the twelve hundred cavalry and the two hundred +outlaws. They raced to attack five thousand brave men who had that morning +dislodged ten thousand. Five thousand in the trenches above, fourteen hundred in +the open below, such were the odds of Empire against Republic.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_394'></a>394</span>Grays and +brigands drew rein under the Cimatario’s west slope, and the bugle sounded +to dismount.</p> + +<p>“But señor,” Rodrigo protested, “don’t we charge +straight up?”</p> + +<p>“And not have a man left when we do get up? Here Clem,” Driscoll +added to Old Brothers and Sisters, the lieutenant colonel of the Grays, +“you circle round and up the other side with eight companies. Take all the +horses, but leave ’em back of the hill as you go. Don’t that look +like the best scheme?”</p> + +<p>The parson’s cherubic features beamed. “Good-bye, Din,” he +said. “But pshaw, I reckon–I reckon we’ll be meeting up +above.” He referred, however, to the top of the Cimatario.</p> + +<p>Four companies and Rodrigo’s band remained. These Driscoll spread out +in a skirmish line that made a long beaded chain around their side of the hill. +It was evidently an unfamiliar method, for the Imperialist tiradores fired down +on them contemptuously. But each time, while the enemy above were reloading, the +Grays and outlaws below were climbing a few yards, each man of them +individually, up from behind his own particular rock. The Imperialists, it now +appeared, had blundered incomprehensibly, since they had actually taken away +nearly all the cannon captured on the Cimatario. But six-pound affairs from +batteries in the Alameda soon began to splinter and furrow around the climbing +men. One loosened boulder rolled and struck Doc Clayburn on the tip of the +shoulder, bringing him down like a bag of meal. He arose, feeling himself. +“Now, by the Great and Unterrified Continental––” he began, as +he always did at the monotony of being hit. Then his disgust changed to wonder. +“W’y,” he cried, “I’m not either, I only thought I +was!”</p> + +<p>They mounted higher, and the business grew hotter. Each man had to look to +himself more and more sharply, lest he forget that economy of the individual was +now the hope of the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_395'></a>395</span>regiment. But for all that, when a Missourian craved +tobacco–it is a craving not to be denied, in no matter what danger, as +most any fireman knows–he would leave cover to beg his nearest neighbor +for a chew, and obtaining it, would feel the heart put back into him.</p> + +<p>As they drew close under the first of the trenches, they concentrated for a +bit of sharp in-fighting, and so suffered more. But once they provoked the next +volley, they meant to rush the works. The Imperialists though were loath to +squander the one ball to a carbine when Indian-like fighters like these were so +near. They had one mountain piece, a brass howitzer, and the gunner stood ready, +the lanyard in his hand. But he hesitated, bewildered. His targets were not +twenty paces below, yet nowhere crouching behind the rocks were the foe massed +together. His pride forbade that he waste twelve pounds of death on a single +man.</p> + +<p>But suddenly that happened which the gunner never in this life explained. +Poised expectant in the lull of the fray, he was trembling under the tense +silence, when he saw the impetuous Don Rodrigo dart up the slope, full against +the muzzle. At the same instant he heard shouts of warning behind him, and he +heard the tiradores there above firing at someone almost at his feet. But the +figure that had scaled up the back of the hill, crawling around the trench, was +already on him. He drew back his arm to drive the heavy shot through Don Rodrigo +in front, but only to feel the cord in his hand part before a knife’s keen +edge. With a cry of dismay he sprang to grasp the rope’s end, but as in a +vision a head of curly black and an odd smile rose between, and a swinging fist +of a great bared arm crashed back his chin, and he sank as a brained ox.</p> + +<p>“Lambaste ’em, Din Driscoll!”</p> + +<p>It was a rapturous shout, and Cal Grinders, passing Rodrigo, tumbled over the +earth-heap and joined his colonel against five hundred. Behind swarmed others +into the newly awakened <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_396'></a>396</span>hell, coatless men of Saxon necks tanned a dark +ruby, and in the hot Imperialist fire they settled to their work.</p> + +<p>“By cracken, lambaste ’em! Why in all hell <i>don’t</i> ye +lambaste ’em?”</p> + +<p>This fury boiled through oaths, unable to spend itself in blows. The tigerish +rage seized on them every one. Teeth grated vengefully as men struck.</p> + +<p>“Lambaste ’em, Din Driscoll!”</p> + +<p>“Lambaste ’em–<i>good</i>–Din Driscoll!”</p> + +<p>The yell swelled to a murderous chorus. These men did not know that they were +raving. A war cry is just the natural vent. It is simply the whole pack in full +cry.</p> + +<p>But never before–for now around him there was the contrast of hate and +panting and passions in ferment–had Driscoll seemed so distant a thing +from flesh and the human sphere. In grime, in dust, in smoke, among faces +changing demoniac wrath for the sharp, self-wondering agony of mortality, his +face was cool, serene, with just the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. His +own men would try to look another way, try uneasily to break the fascination of +this strange warrior who led them.</p> + +<p>The battle was short, but of the hottest. Its central point was the little +brass howitzer. Driscoll, Grinders, Bledsoe, the Doc, all four pushed at the +carriage or pulled at the trunnion rings, while around them, hindering them, +swaying back and forth over rocks and in the ditches, the two forces battled for +possession, hand to hand, with six-shooters and clubbed muskets. Grinders fell, +cursing angrily. Bledsoe fell, toppling heavily his great length. The Doc fell. +“By the––” he began, but got no further. He was not mistaken +this time. But the gun was turned at last, and a vicious hand jerked the rope. +Powder grains pierced the eyes of the nearest Imperialists. The shot tore +through the mass of them. Yet Driscoll remembered most how wan, how +<i>hungry</i>, they looked.</p> + +<p>“Death to the traitors! Á muerte! Á mu-erte!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_397'></a>397</span>It was a heavy +nasal, hurled from the lungs with that force and venom peculiar to the Spanish +tongue. It came from Don Rodrigo, who had pulled the lanyard, and who now pulled +it again and again, crazed first with joy, then with rage because the emptied +gun would not respond.</p> + +<p>While the combatants were so confused together, the tiradores in the upper +trenches had to hold their fire, but when the defenders gave way at last, those +above could wait no longer. Four thousand and more, they leaped their +earthworks, and came charging down the slope on what was left of +Driscoll’s six hundred.</p> + +<p>Grays and brigands faced about, but most of all they looked beyond the +enemy’s right flank, to the line of the hill’s crest there. For just +beyond that jagged line and somewhere below Old Brothers and Sisters and the +eight other companies must be toiling up. But they would have to appear in the +interval of the Imperialists’ downward rush. Driscoll turned to his +bugler. “Blow, Hanks! Blow like the <i>very</i> devil!”</p> + +<p>The blast sounded long and shrill, like a plaintive wail. The six hundred +pumped lead up the hill mechanically, but their hearts were echoing the +clarion’s cry for help, and rather than on the foe sweeping down over the +rocks to crush them, their eyes were strained on the sun-emblazoned line against +the sky. But the parson was a man. At last, just over the slope’s crest, a +head appeared, a cherubic head with spectacles, and two arms waved for haste to +others behind. And instantly more heads bobbed up, and more yet, until the +jagged line was fairly encrusted with mouse-colored sombreros, like barnacles on +a stranded keel.</p> + +<p>From where they were the new comers began their work, lying flat on their +stomachs. Once over the ridge, down each man fell and joined the chorus of +musketry. Their fusilade thickened to a blanket of flame, closely woven. The +host rushing down the slope forgot the tales that were told of the <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_398'></a>398</span>marvelous sixteen-shot +rifles. They thought instead that an army of Republicans, and not a man less, +were upon their flank. For how else could volleys be so well sustained, how else +so deadly? And how fast they themselves were dropping! The thing was not like +bullets, but as the earth caving under them. The charge turned to panic. They +plunged on downward, indeed, and even sheer into the cross fire of +Driscoll’s six-shooters and the one howitzer. But it was headlong flight. +At the trench they did not stop to grapple, but fought their way through and +fled on down the hill, on across the grassy plain, nor paused until they had +crowded pell-mell into the main Imperialist army drawn up before the +Alameda.</p> + +<p>Maximilian and his resplendent staff were there at the Alameda. The Emperor +was perhaps less astounded than they.</p> + +<p>“Ai, general, if you <i>had</i> known how Tampico fell!” he said +to Miramon.</p> + +<p>Yet neither was actually dismayed. The Cimatario and five thousand men had +succumbed to a thousand or fifteen hundred daredevils. It was hard enough to +believe, in all conscience. But the daredevils could be dislodged, and they must +be, at once. Miramon’s orders rose sharply and quick, and the Empire +sprang to obey. The Alameda batteries were trained on the hill, and a few +moments later the guns on the roof of the La Cruz monastery were also. At the +same time, the army, the entire Imperialist reserve, battalion after battalion +in close, hurried ranks, set out across the grassy plain, straight toward the +Cimatario’s front slope. Foot, horse, artillery, the concentrated might of +the Austrian’s sceptre, was being hurled against a handful of jaded +warriors. Maximilian flushed with something like shame at the thought.</p> + +<p>Back on the slope Driscoll cried, “No, no, keep to the trenches, you +fellows! This ain’t <i>our</i> promenade.”</p> + +<p>And soon, when screaming comets began to fill the air and burst around them, +they were glad of the ditches. There <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_399'></a>399</span>they waited, smoking, spitting tobacco against the +torrid rocks, but with sullen eyes on the army moving nearer and nearer. Where, +all this morning, was Escobedo, who, with his thousands of Republicans on the +north of the town had taken no thought of the Republican stress on the south? He +had not fired a shot. Yet surely he must know by this time. But no matter. Over +a hundred outlaws were left, and nearly a thousand Grays. Missourians, brigands, +and guerrillas of Michoacan, they were a dangerous blend.</p> + +<p>“Got a match, Harry?” asked Driscoll of the Kansan, as he filled +his cob pipe.</p> + +<p>They <i>had</i> to wait, you see. Yet haste was all they would have begged of +the advancing Imperialist host.</p> + +<p>The red jackets of the Dragoons–the few that were left–brightly +dotted the van of the attacking thousands. On either side rode the Second and +Fourth Lanciers. Behind tramped the battalions of Iturbide, of Celaya, and +regiments of the line. They gained the foot of the hill and the cavalry were +dismounting before they drew fire. The baptism had a sharpshooter deadliness, +even at that distance, but the Imperialists waited tentatively. No, there was +but one volley. When the second came, it was only after an interval long enough +for reloading. Officers and men glanced at one another more hopefully. The +terrified fugitives were of course mistaken, they thought. For the force above +could not be large, nor yet possess the mysterious sixteen-shot rifles. The +assurance gave the buoyancy of relief. To charge against carbines that made each +man as sixteen were uncanny, too much like challenging the Unknown. But a +thousand men who fired only every two or three minutes–an antagonist like +that was quite well known to their philosophy. So breathing hard, they valiantly +marched up the hill. They suffered cruelly under the scattered fusillades, yet +were not materially resisted. At last they were near enough, and the bugles +sounded for the final rush.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_400'></a>400</span>Now what was +odd, the Republicans stopped firing altogether. But they were waiting for +shorter range, and a moment later, at a hundred paces, their reopening volley +had all the clockwork dispatch of platoon drill. Yet the Imperialists took the +dose as a thing expected, and sprang over their wounded to gain the trenches. +They required only the lull of reloading. But instantly a second volley +prolonged the first. The column staggered, and faces blanched. In a sudden +despair they realized the enemy’s tactics, for the enemy did have those +terrible rifles, after all. From the trenches a low sheet of flame had spread, +searing the breasts of rank after rank that pressed against its edge. +Scarlet-coated Dragoons, the last of them, flecked the rocks, and over them fell +green uniformed troopers, as grass will cover a bloody field, and the Municipal +Guards, swaying up from behind, paid out a sprinkling of blue–a ghastly +pousse-café, as one grim jester described it afterward. The long massed lines +wavered.</p> + +<p>“They’ve stopped, they’ve stopped!” cried Rodrigo. +“Now we’ll close with them, eh, señor–por Dios, +<i>now</i>!”</p> + +<p>“All you fellows,” shouted Driscoll, “just fill your rifles +while they wait. Stopped nothing, Rod! And anyhow, who’d hold the hill if +we left it? Who?”</p> + +<p>The answer came at once, and in dramatic form. One of the pickets stationed +on the flank ran among them.</p> + +<p>“There’s another big slew of ’em a-coming!” he yelled +excitedly. “Yonder, over yonder!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll rose and followed the man to the east slope. From there he beheld an +overpowering force, advancing diagonally across the llano below. It came by the +Carretas road, which skirted Querétaro on that side, and it was hurrying toward +the Cimatario. The colonel of Grays watched them anxiously through his +glasses.</p> + +<p>“Shucks,” he said at last, “the fight’s over. +It’s Escobedo. He’s sent his reserve. Don’t you see those +black shakos, Jim, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_401'></a>401</span>and those gray coats? They’re the Cazadores de +Galeana, and the best yet. Now we’ll have someone to hold the +hill!”</p> + +<p>But getting back to the trenches, Driscoll saw that the help might not come +soon enough. For however the Imperialists squandered their lives, they would yet +overcrowd death. Some had already gained the first trench, and were there +engaged hand to hand, with sabre and pistol. In the trenches above the Grays +steadily fed the molten flame. But Driscoll chose the in-fighting, and naturally +became himself the centre of the hottest patch.</p> + +<p>“Help’s here! in five minutes, just five minutes!” he spoke +right and left to his men, as a carpenter will converse and hammer at the same +time. For the outnumbered Grays it was the help arrived already.</p> + +<p>The Imperialist cannon had of necessity ceased firing, so what should be the +consternation of the attacking column to have a shell fall among them from the +rear! All eyes turned, and a murmur of panic rose. It was not that their own +batteries had made a mistake, but that there had not been any mistake. The +reserve sent by Escobedo, hearing the battle, had wheeled and rushed straight +down the centre of the plain on the chance of giving quicker assistance. Once in +sight of the trenches, though still considerably to the right of the hill, they +had unlimbered a gun, while cavalry and infantry pushed on to the rescue. Not to +be caught between trenches and plain, the Imperialists acted with soldiery +decision. Their clarions sounded retreat.</p> + +<p>“Now it’s <i>our</i> turn!” shouted Driscoll, and with the +parson and the Kansan and the outlaw chief, and guerrillas and Missourians +pouring out of their ditches, he chased down hill the concentrated might of an +Empire. So closely was that chasing performed that pistol flashes burned into +standards and uniforms.</p> + +<p>Maximilian and Miramon and the high officers of the realm <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_402'></a>402</span>were still at their post +of observation in front of the Alameda. For the third time that morning they +faced Imperial cohorts hurled back upon them by a man named Driscoll. Miramon +reproached himself bitterly. His plans to intercept Escobedo’s reserve on +the north had failed. The Emperor’s pallid features were drawn with the +tensity of a big loser. Yet in the soft blue eyes there flashed a chivalrous +wonder at an enemy’s valiant deed.</p> + +<p>On the llano fugitives and pursuers mingled as one in the human wave of +confusion. Escobedo’s cavalry had overtaken the mêlée, and blended with +the rear of the fleeing column, until it seemed likely that both must enter the +town together. But a charge of grape, fired obliquely from the Alameda, mowed a +path between them–a Spartan business, for it reaped Imperialists among +Republicans. However, a second and third blast were better gauged, and these +carpeted the new alley-way with Republican bodies. Also, the Imperialists were +re-forming, and under a withering fire the little band of victors had to draw +back to the Cimatario.</p> + +<p>As Escobedo’s reserve occupied the hill, Driscoll marched his own force +behind the same to get his horses there. But the mustangs of the brigands had +disappeared, and far to the southwest were the brigands themselves, moving +swiftly over the plain toward the mountains. They hardly numbered two-score now, +and at that distance seemed a few men herding a drove of empty saddles. The late +indignant patriot, Don Rodrigo, had changed back to outlaw. As another Cid, he +might have looked for pardon from a grateful country, but possibly he feared the +Roman justice of Juarez too much to risk it. Besides, a man will not lightly +give up his career. That same night Rodrigo lay again among the sierras, quite +ready for the first bullion convoy or beautiful marchioness passing by.</p> + +<p>Shells and minié balls were yet dropping perfunctorily, and <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_403'></a>403</span>the llano between hill +and town was still a dangerous place enough, but scattered here and there were a +few of both sides looking for their wounded, and often themselves going down +before the aim of sharpshooters. Stiffening bodies lay under the trampled grass +in every varied horror of mutilation, and glassy eyes peered unseeing upward +through the stalks, like the absurd and ghastly contrast of a horrible dream. +But among them were the stricken living in as varied an agony, of raw wounds +stung by gnats, of pain cutting deep to vitality, of thirst, of the broiling +sun, of a buzzing fly, or of an intolerable loneliness there with death. Groans +rose over the plain, and guided the searchers. Driscoll had already found many +of his men in this way. Once he heard his own name. The voice was weak, but +there was something vaguely familiar to it, and involuntarily he held his pistol +against treachery as he parted the grass and revealed a wounded man at his feet. +It was a piteously famished body that raised itself a little by one hand. It was +a soul-tenanted death-head that crooked gruesomely down on the shoulder and +lifted its eyes to Driscoll’s in greeting. They were glowing coals, those +eyes, glowing with the virile fire of twenty men, however wasted the face or +tightly drawn the yellow parchment skin.</p> + +<p>“Murgie!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s exclamation was a shudder rather than the surprise of +recognition. What could it be that had grown so–so <i>terrible</i> in the +weazen, craven miser! And to find the abject little coward on a battlefield, and +wounded! An occasional bomb even then screeched overhead. And he was clothed in +uniform, a soldier’s uniform, he, Don Anastasio!</p> + +<p>“Gra-<i>cious!</i>” Driscoll muttered.</p> + +<p>More and more stupefying, the uniform was not Republican, but Imperialist. +There were the green pantaloons with red stripes, the red jacket, the white +shoes, the white kepí, of the Batallon del Emperador–a ludicrous martial +combination, but <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_404'></a>404</span>pathetic on an aged, withered man. The Batallon del +Emperador? Driscoll remembered. They were the troop that had surrounded +Maximilian during the recent battle in front of the Alameda, and Murguía had +fallen on the very spot. The venomous Republican was then become one of the +Emperor’s bodyguard!</p> + +<p>As the Republican, so also was the coward gone. The gaunt little old Mexican +seemed oblivious of peril, as fever blinds one to every nearest emotion. There +was even a grimness in the shifting gaze. And a certain merciless capacity, born +of unyielding resolve–born of an obsession, one might say–was there +also. He could have been some great military leader, cruel and of iron, if those +eyes were all. Little shriveled Don Anastasio, he had no sense of present +danger, nor of the red blood trickling.</p> + +<p>“That’s bad, that,” said Driscoll, overcoming his +repugnance. “Here, I’ll get you taken right along to our +surgeons.”</p> + +<p>But Murguía shrank from the offer as though he feared the Republicans of all +monsters.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” he protested feebly, yet with an odd ring of command. +“Some one on–on my side will find me.”</p> + +<p>“But you called?” Driscoll insisted.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you–have heard from Rodrigo Galán? He was to have sent you +a–to have sent you something for me.”</p> + +<p>More and more of mystery! Rodrigo had said that Driscoll would see Murguía to +give him the ivory cross, and so it had come to pass. But the battle, the old +man’s wound, surely these things were not prearranged only that a trinket +might be delivered.</p> + +<p>“How was I to see you?” Driscoll asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>Murguía started, and there was the old slinking evasion.</p> + +<p>“There, there,” said Driscoll hastily. “Don’t move +that way, you’ll bleed to death! Here, take it, here it is.”</p> + +<p>Murguía clutched the ivory thing in his bony fingers.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_405'></a>405</span>“María, +María de la Luz,” he fell to murmuring, gazing upon the cross as though it +were her poor crushed face. In the old days she had made him forget avarice or +fear, and now, before this token of her, the hardness died out of his eyes and +they swam in tears. Driscoll gazed down on him pityingly. The old man was +palsied. He trembled. There passed over him the same spasm, so silent, so +terrible, as on the night of her death, when he had sat at the court martial, +his head buried in his arm.</p> + +<p>“Rod said you would want it,” Driscoll spoke gently. Then he +moved away. An Imperialist officer was approaching over the field who would +bring the help which Murguía refused to accept of the Republicans.</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked back once. The Imperialist officer was carrying Murguía into +the town. He was a large man, and had red hair. His regimentals were gorgeous. +There seemed to be something familiar about him, too. Greatly puzzled, Driscoll +unslung his glasses, and through them he recognized Colonel Miguel Lopez. Lopez, +the former colonel of Dragoons, now commanded the Imperialist reserve, quartered +in the monastery of La Cruz around the person of their sovereign. But Lopez had +once condemned Murguía to death. A strange solicitude, thought Driscoll, in such +a high and mighty person for a little, insignificant, useless warrior as poor +Murgie. A strange, a very strange solicitude, and Driscoll could not get it out +of his head.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_406'></a>406</span><a id='link_48'></a>CHAPTER XV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Of All News the Most Spiteful</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“O poor and wretched ones!<br /> +That, feeble in the mind’s eye, lean your trust<br /> +Upon unstaid perverseness.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Dante</i>.</p> </div> + +<p>Her gestures, her every word, were an effervescence. There was something near +hysteria in the bright flashes of her wit. However gay, joyous, cynical, +Jacqueline may have seemed to herself, to Berthe, terrified though the girl was, +Jacqueline’s mood was a sham.</p> + +<p>“The <i>frisson</i>, oh, those few exquisite seconds of emotion, eh +Berthe?” she exclaimed. “Pursued by robbers–the +chase–the rescue–and the jolting, the jolting that took our breaths! +Why, Berthe, what more would you have? Hélas, to be over so quickly! And here we +are, left alone in our coach, robbers gone, rescuers gone! Berthe, do you know, +I believe they compared notes and decided we weren’t worth it. But I +<i>should</i> have thought,” she went on in mock bitterness, “I +should indeed, that at least our Fra Diavolo would have been more gallant, even +if––”</p> + +<p>“Even if?” prompted Berthe, then bit her lip.</p> + +<p>“Even–Oh Berthe, <i>fi donc</i>, to catch me so because I was +wandering!–even if one could expect no such gallantry from the Chevalier +de Missour-<i>i</i>. There now, do you tell Tobie to drive on––”</p> + +<p>“But mademoiselle––”</p> + +<p>“Say ‘Jeanne’,” the marchioness commanded, stamping her +foot.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_407'></a>407</span>“My +lady,” the girl persisted, but added with affectionate earnestness, +“and my only friend, I was simply going to say that we are not deserted +after all.”</p> + +<p>“But didn’t I see him riding away?”</p> + +<p>“<i>Him</i>, yes, but look out of the window. See, he’s left six +or eight–O–oh––”</p> + +<p>It was a joyful cry, which got smothered at once in confusion. Turning +quickly, Jacqueline beheld a little Bretonne with eyes cast down and cheeks +aflame. Yet even then Berthe gave a cosy sigh of relief. There was cannonading +not far away. They had just been taken by brigands, and as suddenly left alone +on the road. Thus Jacqueline’s company ever cost her many a tremor. Yet +somehow one of those chevaliers de Missour-<i>i</i> needed only to appear, and +she felt as secure as a kitten on the hearth rug. A chevalier de +Missour-<i>i</i> had but now ridden up to the coach door.</p> + +<p>“Berthe!” whispered Jacqueline severely, so that the girl thought +her dress was awry. “Quick, tuck your heart away in your pocket. +It’s right there on your sleeve.” Whereat Berthe employed the sleeve +to hide her higher mantling color.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline turned on the chevalier at the window, and surveyed +<i>his</i> sleeve. It was covered with dust, but Jacqueline’s big eyes +could see through dust. She felt about her a subtle atmosphere that made her an +outsider.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Monsieur le Troubadour?” came her bantering recognition.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone’s French crowded pleasantly to his tongue tip. +“Mademoiselle,” he returned, “and,” he added, with an +odd glance toward Berthe, “Madame l’Imperatrice, uh–how goes +it?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s lashes raised inquiringly, until she remembered how the +lank gentleman before her, with the tender heart of a Quixote, had mistaken +Berthe for the Empress, months <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_408'></a>408</span>before at the Córdova plantation. She liked him +somehow better now for persisting in it.</p> + +<p>“Her Imperial Highness,” she explained, very soberly, “may +deign presently to observe that you are here, monsieur, though, as you see, her +thoughts are far away. However, if you can possibly give your own to a humbler +person, to myself, dear Troubadour, I should very much like to know what is to +happen next. Use fine words, if you must; even put it into verse, only tell +me––” With an impulsive shove she flung open the door and stepped +into the road. She could still see Driscoll’s troop, or rather the cloud +of dust, speeding toward Querétaro, but her arm swept the horizon impersonally. +“Only tell me,” she demanded, “what’s happening now, +over yonder?”</p> + +<p>“Pressing business, ma’am–mademoiselle, and,” Daniel +lied promptly, “Colonel Driscoll wished me to make you his +excuses.”</p> + +<p>“The minstrels of old, sir,” said Jacqueline, “usually +accompanied their more gallant fibs with a harp.”</p> + +<p>Her vivacity was rising fast, and for some reason, Berthe darted an angry +look of warning on Mr. Boone. But the poor fellow was blind to +Jacqueline’s jealousy of a distant conflict, and he blundered further.</p> + +<p>“Jack Driscoll’s just that way,” he apologized for his +friend cheerfully. “<i>Abundat dulcibus vitiis</i>–he’s chuck +full of pleasant faults. When there’s a clash of arms around, let the most +alluring Peri that ever wore sweet jessamine glide by, and–she can just +glide. While with me––”</p> + +<p>“I see. <i>You</i> have stayed. But I, too, like battles, monsieur. +Tobie, get back up there with the driver. There’s no admission charge, I +imagine, to this battle?”</p> + +<p>Boone gladly offered to take them for a nearer view, but he saw +Berthe–his eyes were never elsewhere–shrink involuntarily.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_409'></a>409</span>“Stop, +arretaz! Hey there!” he ordered, and the driver stopped.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s pretty jaw fell in wonder. The natural order of things was +prevailing over the artificial. Social status to the contrary notwithstanding, +it was Berthe who commanded here, and not Mlle. la Marquise. But Jacqueline was +happy in it, and perhaps a little envious too. Ah, those <i>Missouriens</i>! +This one, who would rather stay than fight! And that other, who was now fighting +for quite the opposite reason! They had a capacity for variety, those +<i>Missouriens</i>!</p> + +<p>It was much later, after a lunch from Jacqueline’s hampers under the +nearest trees, and after the distant fusillades had quieted to an occasional +angry spat, that the ladies’ escort of Gringo Grays, bearing a flag of +truce, set out with their charge toward the town. Daniel rode beside the coach +window, and the flaps of the old hacienda conveyance were drawn aside. He +wondered how it happened that the hours had passed so quickly. He would not +believe that his comrades had been fighting, that many of them had died, so +blissfully fleeting were those hours to himself.</p> + +<p>“It’s all according,” he mused profoundly.</p> + +<p>And he could not help singing. He hummed the forlorn chanson of Joe Bowers of +the State of Pike, which Bledsoe, then lying cold and stiff under a mountain +howitzer, had so often bellowed forth.</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p>“It said that Sal was false to me,<br /> Her love for me had fled,<br /> She’s got married to a butcher–<br /> The butcher’s hair was red.”</p> +</div> + +<p>But he sung it as a plaint, yet not hopelessly, and Mademoiselle Berthe was +the maid entreated of his melody.</p> + +<p>The sharpshooters on both sides paused as the coach drove into the little +sweet-scented wood that was called the Alameda, and the Missourians, with sabres +at salute, transferred their <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_410'></a>410</span>charge to the Imperialists crowding around. Among +the latter were some of Jacqueline’s own countrymen, and those, in +starvation and defeat, were as debonair as the cadets of Gascogne.</p> + +<p>“A rose, mademoiselle,” said one, bowing low. He had an arm +bandaged, and his sword was broken. “An early merciful bullet plucked it +for you, so that it fell unhurt, though the petals of all the others are +scattered everywhere among the leaves, among the fallen branches, among the +shattered statues of our classic grove here. See, like the rose I tender, you +come among us poor broken soldiers of fortune. I think, dear lady, there will be +those above to bless you for it.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline smiled behind her tears. “Always a Frenchman, eh, mon +lieutenant?” she said.</p> + +<p>The fragrance of the place was smothered under gunpowder and sluggish fumes. +The pleasant drives, the grass, the flowers, were trampled by gaunt soldiers +bearing their wounded, but the young officer murmured on in the speech of the +Alameda’s one time fashionable promenade.</p> + +<p>“Who is that?” she interrupted.</p> + +<p>She pointed over the heads around her to a man bearing someone off the late +bloody field, and that moment staggering across the trenches into the Alameda. +It was an act that moved her, for the rescuer was a richly uniformed officer, +and the other but a common soldier. With Berthe close behind, she alighted from +the coach and hurried forward to help. The wounded soldier’s face lay on +the officer’s breast, and she saw only his hair, matted and very white, +from which a rusty brown wig had partly fallen. But more to the purpose she saw +that he was bleeding, and the callous warriors there knew that the angels of the +siege had come at last.</p> + +<p>“Lay him in my carriage–but carefully, you!” she said, and +was obeyed, while Berthe deftly fixed cloaks and blankets around the withered +form. Someone mounted with Toby <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_411'></a>411</span>and the driver, and the coach rolled slowly away to +the hospital, leaving behind the two girls staring at the richly uniformed +officer, and the officer staring tenfold harder at them. He was a large man, +with big hands and feet, and for a Mexican he had a mongrel floridness of skin. +His cap was in his hand, and his hair was red and thin. Amazement and a startled +prying anxiety choked his utterance.</p> + +<p>“Now then, Colonel Lopez,” Jacqueline addressed him calmly, +“may I ask you the way? I have come to speak with Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>“La Señorita d-d’Aumerle!” he stuttered.</p> + +<p>“Faith, no other, who is awaiting your pleasure, señor.”</p> + +<p>“You come from, from–Mexico?”</p> + +<p>“But hardly to chat with you all the afternoon, caballero.”</p> + +<p>“From Mexico! From the capital!” he kept repeating. The +man’s finger nails cracked disagreeably, and his features worked in an +extreme of agitation. He tried to fix his shifting blue eyes upon first one and +then the other of the two girls, as though to ferret out what they must know. +“You do bring news from there?” he said huskily. “What of +Marquez? Is he coming? Shall we have the aid he went for? +When––”</p> + +<p>“Ah, the medal for military valor!” observed Jacqueline. +“Indeed, mi coronel, all must acclaim your bravery, as well as–your +loyalty. But take me to your beloved Prince Max, for I do assure you, señor, my +news goes not without myself.”</p> + +<p>“He visits the hospital every day,” Lopez advised reluctantly. +“Perhaps if I should take Your Mercy there first––”</p> + +<p>Passing on through the ravaged Alameda, they entered the streets of +Querétaro.</p> + +<p>“Hear!” Jacqueline exclaimed. “Such a quantity of vivas and +clarins and national hymns and triumphant dianas, one would imagine, for +example, that there had been a great victory?”</p> + +<p>“Eh? Oh yes, or a hearty breakfast, señorita.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_412'></a>412</span>Which was more +essential. And why not? Hope’s bright hue blotted out emaciation. They had +broken through to food that day. Bueno, could they not do it again? Old croons +had returned to their stalls and accustomed corners in the market place, and as +in days of peace were already squatted before corn or beans heaped on the stone +pavement in portions for a quartilla, a media, or a real, as though the pyramids +were not so pitifully little, as though the wholesale purchase were not made +just that morning in heavy terms of blood.</p> + +<p>Behind the ponderous Assyrian-like church of Santa Rosa, in the old, half +ruined monastery and garden, was the hospital of the besieged. A stifling, fetid +odor, far worse than of drugs merely, sickened the two girls as a foul breath +when they passed with their guide between thick walls into the large, +overcrowded rooms. Military medical service was not yet become an institution in +Mexico, and this place was like some horrible antechamber of the grave. Every +cot had its ghastly transient, and so had the benches, brought here from the +different plazas. More and more wounded were arriving constantly, and those +found to be still alive were laid on the flagstones wherever space for a blanket +remained. But in spite of the morning’s fight, in spite of almost daily +skirmishes for weeks past, the sick outnumbered all others; and those who did +come with wounds, and survived them, stayed on to swell the longer list. Men +tossed in fever, craving what they might not have, a cooling draught, a proper +food, and effective medicine, until, with waking, they craved an easier boon, +and died. But the hospital fever, the calenturas, the gangrene, were not to be +all. Out of the diseased air, mid the fumes of pious tapers, the spectre of +epidemic was taking hideous shape over the many, many upturned faces. The +spectre was the tifo, a plague more dreaded in high altitudes than black vomit +in the low.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline found Maximilian bending over a stricken <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_413'></a>413</span>cavalry officer. The Emperor was far +from a well man, and his fair skin more than ever contrasted as something +foreign and lonely among the swarthy faces on every side. His ostentation was +now simplicity, as befitted a monarch in camp. He wore neither sword nor star. +His garb was plain charro, in which he often walked among citizens and soldiers, +inquiring about rations, or requesting a light for his cigar, never minding if a +shell burst and kicked dust over him, and always affable, always ready to smile +and praise. It was a rôle that came naturally to his gentle soul. One would like +to believe–if one could, alas!–that he had in mind no kingly +precedent.</p> + +<p>Pausing unseen, Jacqueline noted tears in the blue eyes as he pinned some +decoration on the officer’s bloodstained shirt. A good heart, she thought, +yet ever the prince. In his divine right was he even here, presuming to send a +dying subject to the Sovereign in Heaven with a “character,” with a +recommendation for service faithfully done. His hands trembled from haste, for +he would have the soldier appear before that dread Throne above as a Caballero +of the Mexican Eagle. In pity for them both, Jacqueline asked herself what +precedence awaited the new Caballero of the Mexican Eagle in a Court, not +Imperial, but Divine.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline had not journeyed her perilous way out of simple friendship for a +desolate prince, but could she have foreseen how his eyes lighted with gladness +to behold one friend who remembered, in sweet charity she would almost have come +for that alone.</p> + +<p>“When Your Highness has finished here,” she said, glancing at the +inquisitive Lopez near her, “or whenever I can speak with Your Highness in +private––”</p> + +<p>There was beseeching in Maximilian’s quick scrutiny of her face, as +though the helpless messenger had aught of power over her tidings. +“In–in a moment, mademoiselle,” he said tremulously. “I +always see the–new ones, before I go.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_414'></a>414</span>The “new +ones” were still being brought in, until any first aid from the distracted +surgeons was of the most casual–the ripping of bandaged cloth, a knot +tied, and so on to the next. Followed by Lopez, the two girls, and several +officers of the hospital staff, Maximilian passed from ward to ward. But +Jacqueline’s hand seemed always to be threading a needle, or holding a +ligature, or lightly touching a hot forehead, and in every case the surgeon +would nod quickly, gratefully, as to a fellow craftsman. Berthe the while gazed +in tender wonder on her calm mistress, and nerved herself someway to help +also.</p> + +<p>And so they came to the withered form in brave red coat, and green pantaloon +whom Lopez had carried off the field. One of the nurses had placed a +handkerchief over his face, because of the stinging flies, but Jacqueline +recognized the thin white hair and the twisted wig as of the old man whom she +had sent ahead in her coach. At first he seemed to be dead, for he lay very +still on the floor, though a surgeon was probing his wound, and his blood was +fast filling the bowl held by the nurse. But now and again, the straining cords +in his emaciated wrist twitched with the protest of life. Maximilian stooped to +raise the handkerchief. Lopez made a movement to prevent, but restrained the +impulse as useless. And then Maximilian revealed the gaunt, leaden features of +Anastasio Murguía, the father of María de la Luz.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline fell back with bloodless lips. The father of that dead +girl–and Maximilian! They were face to face, these two! But the +Emperor’s expression was of pity only. He sank to his knees, the better to +make the wounded man understand the words of comfort on his lips. For +Jacqueline, the horror of it chilled her. Surely, surely, she thought, the +hidden tragedy must now unmask; because of its very awfulness, it must! That the +prince should be thus oblivious of such a knowledge, and yet kneeling there, +made the scene ghastly beyond words.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_415'></a>415</span>“I +remember him,” said Maximilian softly, looking up to the others. +“One of your orderlies, Colonel Lopez, I believe? Of course I remember +him, for I see him often. He is always near me. Even to-day, on the llano, +during the thickest of the battle, there he was at my stirrup, and there he must +have fallen, in humble, unquestioning loyalty.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline drew back in relief, and she imagined that Lopez did also. +Maximilian had forgotten the hacendado utterly.</p> + +<p>With a grunt of satisfaction the surgeon drew forth his forceps from the +wound and dropped a bullet to the floor. Next he gently rolled the patient over +on his back, and then it was that Jacqueline saw in Murguía’s hand, in the +hand that had been under him, a little ivory cross. Fainting, unconscious, he +still clutched it, from Driscoll’s leaving him on the battlefield until +the present moment. By now the stains of his child’s blood were washed +away in his own. Jacqueline’s quick eyes caught an inscription on the gold +mounting, and leaning close she read the dead girl’s name, “María de +la Luz.”</p> + +<p>With the gripping of the bullet and its extraction, or possibly at the sound +of a voice–Maximilian’s–the old man’s eyes opened, and +held the Emperor’s in a deathly stare. Jacqueline watched the piercing +beads grow smaller and smaller in their cavernous sockets, and all the while +they seemed to concentrate their intense fire. The others, except Lopez, thought +it delirium, but Jacqueline would have named it the very blackest hate. +“This man will live!” she said to herself, and shuddered.</p> + +<p>Maximilian, seeing consciousness returned, spoke cheerily. “Ah, doctor, +you will have him well and sound within a week, I know? Look to it, sir; a +heroic veteran like this cannot be spared.”</p> + +<p>A strange distortion wrapped the visage of suffering. “Could <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_416'></a>416</span>that be a smile?” +Jacqueline wondered. But the Imperial party took its leave, and the tragedy +lurking beneath was not revealed, as yet.</p> + +<p>Through the throng waiting outside the hospital to acclaim him again as a +prince victorious, Maximilian led the two girls to their coach, and went with +them to the convent of Santa Clara, where he asked that they be received as +guests by the sisters. Here, in the comfortless <i>parloir</i> of the retreat, he +learned the reason of Jacqueline’s daring journey from the capital.</p> + +<p>“I bring Your Highness,” said she, “the most spiteful news +my feeble sex can ever bring.”</p> + +<p>Again the involuntary plea for fair tidings swept his face.</p> + +<p>“And, and that is, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“‘I told you so.’”</p> + +<p>Maximilan’s cheeks paled to the marble whiteness of his brow. He had +just heard the answer to the one question, to the one hope, of all +Querétaro.</p> + +<p>“You, you mean Marquez?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” And then she told him, and seeing how stricken he was, her +exasperation at his vain incapacity changed to pity for his breaking +pride–which may be called his breaking heart.</p> + +<p>“But mademoiselle, I gave my empire into his keeping,” he +protested, as though such trust in a man of itself proved that man’s +constancy. But the messenger, but Truth, would not recant.</p> + +<p>“Then,” moaned the Emperor suddenly, “Marquez is not coming +back?”</p> + +<p>“Nor ever meant to, sire. Listen, Your Highness made him lieutenant of +the Empire, and sent him to the capital for aid. Bien, he turned out the +ministers. He broke into homes, and pillaged even the stanchest Imperialists. He +heard that Puebla was besieged by a Liberal general, Porfirio Diaz, so <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_417'></a>417</span>instead of coming here, +Marquez marches all his army down there. You will observe, sire, that he wanted +the road kept open to Vera Cruz.”</p> + +<p>“But why? Tell me!”</p> + +<p>“Ma foi, to sell the capital more easily. In any case to be able to +save himself.”</p> + +<p>“Sell the capital?”</p> + +<p>“Just a little patience, sire. Now what did Diaz do, but take Puebla by +assault before Marquez could arrive? Then he turned on Marquez, and Marquez +turned and ran. Oui, oui, sire, he <i>ran</i>, ran like the little ugly, +skulking Leopard that he is. To cross a creek, he filled it with all the +ammunition, and kept on running, leaving his army defenseless behind him. Groan +if you must, sire; others have died in groans. But the Leopard had done this +kind of thing before, it should have been remembered. He got back safely though, +and squandered the army that might have relieved Querétaro to do it. Mon Dieu, +what that panic must have been! One entire battalion surrendered to fifty +guerrillas. Yet the Austrian cavalry, the Hungarians, and some others fought, +fought with their sabres, and won victories too. Hélas, they only proved what +might have been. They only proved how Marquez, if he had not hesitated, might +perhaps have saved Puebla and destroyed the Liberals. As it was, they could only +retreat, and hardly two thousand of them, ragged and bleeding and filthy, +straggled back into Mexico during the next few days. Now they are besieged +there. Oui, oui, <i>besieged</i>, by Diaz, by the army of the East, by twelve +thousand Republicans, formerly called brigands. And inside is the Leopard, +snarling as ever with his regency of terror. Oh no, he will not come to +Querétaro. Bonté divine, he cannot. Nor would he. He still holds the +capital–for sale.”</p> + +<p>“No, no, mademoiselle, there you wrong him, surely. Or tell me, then, +who would buy?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_418'></a>418</span>“Probably +no one. At least not Santa Anna. The buyer must have an army.”</p> + +<p>“My friend, this is a cruel jest.”</p> + +<p>“Earnest enough, parbleu, to make the Leopard forget Querétaro, once he +was safely away.”</p> + +<p>“Then why doesn’t he sell out to Diaz?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s eyes snapped contemptuously. “Young Diaz,” she +replied, “is not a fighter to buy what he can take. It’s only a +question of a few weeks.”</p> + +<p>“Then by all that’s mysterious, <i>who</i> would buy? I +cannot.”</p> + +<p>“Of course you cannot. That is why Marquez wants you out of the way, +sire. So he left you here. The Liberals will attend to that for him.”</p> + +<p>“Then who will buy? Who? Who?”</p> + +<p>The blood shot into the girl’s cheeks, and one small hand clenched +tightly.</p> + +<p>“France–possibly,” she said.</p> + +<p>The Emperor started as from an acute shock. His thoughts raced backward, then +forward, gathering the whole heinous truth about the perfidy of Marquez.</p> + +<p>“And I,” Jacqueline added calmly, though she was still flushed, +“I have forwarded his offer to Napoleon.”</p> + +<p>“You, mademoiselle? You, an accessory?”</p> + +<p>“To Your Imperial Highness’s downfall? Ah no, sire! Your Highness +is no longer a factor. Your August Majesty will be eliminated absolutely before +Napoleon can reply to my despatch. As I said, the Liberals around Querétaro will +attend to that. Your Highness has merely delayed the profit my country might +have had from his abdication. Meantime Your Highness himself has made his own +ruin inevitable. But I, sire, I would not see Marquez, nor receive a word from +him, until we were actually besieged in the capital, and he beyond the hope of +coming to Your Highness here. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_419'></a>419</span>Now then, if Marquez only holds out until the army +of France returns––”</p> + +<p>A deep sigh interrupted her. “No longer a factor,” murmured the +Emperor. Thus quickly, then, could the world take up its affairs again after his +elimination!</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” he cried suddenly, generously, “you +are–superb! Dear little Frenchwoman, you are, you are!”</p> + +<p>“Poof!” said Jacqueline. “But don’t you see, +sire,” she hurried on eagerly, “that we will have to fight the +Americans? Yes, yes, then they can no longer say they <i>drove</i> us +out.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed they cannot. And I, among the first, and the most heartily, do +wish you a warlike answer from that firebrand of a Napoleon. But tell me, why do +you come to Querétaro? How did you come?”</p> + +<p>“How? Easily. All the guerrilla bands–except one, which I +escaped–are concentrated either here or with Diaz.”</p> + +<p>“And Marquez let you come, you who are so important to him +now?”</p> + +<p>“As though he could help it, parbleu! My message to Napoleon was in my +own cipher, and after he had sent it by a scout to Vera Cruz, I informed him +that in it I had directed Napoleon to send his answer to me at Querétaro. +Otherwise Marquez would have kept me in prison rather than let me go. But as it +was, he assisted me through the Republican lines by a secret way he has arranged +for his own escape, if need be. So––”</p> + +<p>“But why did you wish to come at all?”</p> + +<p>“Ma foi, as if I knew! A matter of conscience, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Matters of conscience are usually riddles.”</p> + +<p>“Like this one? Bien, I am still trying to get Your Highness to leave +the country. But this time, sire, it is to save you.”</p> + +<p>“To save me?”</p> + +<p>“Of course, on account of France.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, on account of France?”</p> + +<p>“Why else? If–if anything happens to Maximilian, France <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_420'></a>420</span>will be blamed. Oh why, +why did you not escape this morning, while the road was open?”</p> + +<p>For the first time during the interview the fire of high resolve leaped into +the prince’s eyes. “But could I, in honor?” he demanded +sternly. “Think of the townspeople, abandoned to the Liberal fury. Their +Emperor, mademoiselle, means to face the end with them, here, in +Querétaro.”</p> + +<p>The dignity of his catastrophe was already beginning to appeal to him, to +exalt him, even as the vision of a Hapsburg winning his empire had so often done +before.</p> + +<p>“But,” protested the girl, “if they capture Your Highness, +if they–if they hold you for trial?”</p> + +<p>She stopped, for Maximilian was laughing, and laughing heartily. The idea of +hands laid on him, an Archduke of Austria–ha, he was grateful to her. Its +very absurdity had given him the first relaxation of a laugh in months.</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless,” persisted Jacqueline, whose heritage of a +revolution was an obstinate bundle of these same absurdities, +“nevertheless, I had hoped to save Your Highness with my news, since it is +news that leaves no hope. Why not, then, escape? Treat for terms, do anything, +only save your followers and–yourself, sire?”</p> + +<p>But she found it impossible to sway him from this, his latest conceit. His +new rôle, the more desperate it looked, only ensnared him as the more worthy. He +contemplated the end serenely. As a military captain he was culling laurels +against theatric odds. His heroic loyalty to a lost cause, with perhaps a little +martyrdom (of personal inconvenience), how these would count and be not denied +when he should return to his destiny in Europe!</p> + +<p>His was even a mood to consort with lofty traits in others, and in a kind of +poetic ecstasy he thought of Jacqueline’s steadfast devotion to her +country’s glory. And he was moved again by the vague, chivalrous longing +to bend the knee, to do her <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_421'></a>421</span>some knightly service. But–yes, he seemed to +remember, there <i>was</i> such a service to be done, yet and yet–no, he +had forgotten.</p> + +<p>Then quite curiously, yet still without remembering, he dwelt in reverie on +that man named Driscoll who had so filled the morning with valiant deeds.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_422'></a>422</span><a id='link_49'></a>CHAPTER XVI<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Vendetta’s Half Sister, Better Born</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“When private men shall act with original views, the lustre will be transferred from the actions of kings to those of gentlemen.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Emerson</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>Just outside Driscoll’s tent, under the stars, a fragrant steak was +broiling. The colonel’s mozo had learned the magic of the forked stick, +and he manipulated his wand with a conscious pride, so that the low sizzling of +flesh and flame was as the mystic voice in some witch’s brew. There were +many other tents on the plain, a blurred city of whitish shadows against the +night, and there were many other glowing coals to mark where the earth lay under +the stars, and the witching murmur, the tantalizing charm of each +was–supper. In this wise, and thinking themselves very patient, men were +waiting for other men to starve to death. The besieged had tried, but they had +not again cut through to food.</p> + +<p>In Driscoll’s tent there was a galaxy of woolen-shirted warriors, a +constellation of quiescent Berserkers. For they were Missouri colonels, except +one, who being a Kansan, required no title. They were tobacco-chewing giants, +famous for expectoration. Except Meagre Shanks, who tilted his inevitable black +cigar now toward one eye, now toward the other. Except the Storm Centre, who +fondly closed his palm over his cob meerschaum and felt its warmth and seemed +far away, a dangerous poet. Except Old Brothers and Sisters, most austere of +Wesleyans, who had neither pipe nor quid. He was cleaning his pistols. They were +men hewn for mighty deeds, but–cringe must we all <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_423'></a>423</span>before the irony that neither life nor +romance may dodge–it was not a mighty deed which that night was to exact +of them, which yet they were brave enough to do, though sorry the figures they +thought they made.</p> + +<p>Politics was their theme, since men, though busy with war and death, must yet +relieve their statesmen, especially after supper, and neatly arrange the Tariff, +Resumption, or whatever else. Like oracles the ex-Confederates held forth that +the Yankees had only driven out the French to march in themselves, and so tutor +the Mexicans in self-government. To which the Kansan ventured a minority +opinion, though being thus a judge of the bench, as it were, he had no need of +the oaths he took.</p> + +<p>“Why God help me and to thunder with you, the United States ain’t +aiming at any protectorate. You unreconstructed Rebs simply cain’t and +won’t see good faith in the Federal government!”</p> + +<p>“Carpet bags?” Driscoll murmured sweetly. It was the majority +opinion.</p> + +<p>“Yes sir’ee,” and Daniel took the cue as a bit in the mouth, +“there’s blood on the face of the moon up there, <i>acerrima +proximorum odia</i>, by God sir! Look at the troops at our elections! Look at +the Drake Test Oath! Look at––” Mr. Boone was fast getting +vitriolic, in heavy editorial fashion, when a famished face, a wolfish face, +appeared between the flaps of the tent. “Look +at–<i>that!</i>”</p> + +<p>Politics vanished, war and death resumed their own.</p> + +<p>The whole mess stared.</p> + +<p>“Sth-hunderation, it’s an Imperialist!” lisped Crittenden +of Nodaway. He pointed at the newcomer’s uniform, which was of the +Batallon del Emperador.</p> + +<p>“Well, bring him on in,” said Driscoll to the pickets gripping +the man by either arm.</p> + +<p>“He was trying to pass through our lines,” one explained. <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_424'></a>424</span>“And when we +stopped him, he begged hard to be brought to the Coronel Gringo, that is, to +you, señor.”</p> + +<p>The mess turned curiously on Driscoll. Why a half dead soldier of the +Batallon del Emperador should have a preference as to his jailer was beyond +them. But they were yet more puzzled to hear Driscoll address the prisoner by +name.</p> + +<p>“See here, Murgie,” he said, “is this the occasion Rodrigo +meant when he talked about my meeting you soon? Is it? Come, crawl out of the +grass. Show us what you’re up to. No, wait, feed first. There’s +plenty left.”</p> + +<p>But the old man had not once glanced toward the table. Whatever the pangs of +hunger, another torment was uppermost.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by this,” Boone demanded, as though personally +offended, “you’ve got the hospital color, dull lead on yellow? Here, +take a drink. Yes, I know, it’s mescal, out-and-out embalmed deviltry that +no self-respecting drunkard would touch, but Lord A’mighty, man, you need +<i>something!</i>”</p> + +<p>Murguía shook his head irritably. Offers of what his body craved were +annoying hindrances before the craving of his soul. He twitched himself free of +the sentinels, and limped painfully to where Driscoll sat. He wore no coat, but +his green pantaloons with their crimson stripes were rolled to the knee, and the +white calzoncillos beneath flapped against his skeleton ankles. His feet were +bare, the better for an errand of stealth in the night. He was a pitiful +spectacle, yet a repulsive, and the Americans despised themselves for the +strange impulse they had to kick him out like a dog. They watched him +wonderingly as he tried to speak. He panted from his late rough handling by the +sentry, and his half-closed wound gave excruciating pain. The muscles of his +face jerked horribly, but his will was tremendous, merciless, and at last the +cords of the jaw knotted and hardened.</p> + +<p>“To-morrow morn–morning,” he began, “the Emperor +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_425'></a>425</span>will fight. It is +arranged for–for daybreak, señores. To to fight–to break +through–to–to ESCAPE!”</p> + +<p>“W’y then,” exclaimed Harry Collins, the Kansan, +“<i>good</i> for him!”</p> + +<p>The parson snatched off his brass-bowed spectacles, and his brow lowered +fiercely over his cherubic eyes.</p> + +<p>“And so <i>you</i> had to come and tell us?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>But the traitorous old man had not the smallest thought of his shame, nor +could have.</p> + +<p>“You–you will let him <i>escape?</i>” he challenged them in +frantic anger.</p> + +<p>The mess stole abashed glances at one another. They would, they knew well +enough, have to act on this information. But they were men for a fair fight, and +they had no stomach to rob the besieged of a last desperate chance. For a moment +they were enraged against the informer.</p> + +<p>“We’ll just keep him here,” said one.</p> + +<p>“Yes, till morning. Then he’ll tell no one else, and +<i>we</i> won’t. Poor old Maxie!”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” ejaculated Collins, “give Golden Whiskers a +show!”</p> + +<p>The wolfish light in the sunken eyes quickened to a flash. Lust for +Maximilian’s capture turned to chagrin.</p> + +<p>“Señores, señores mios,” he whined, “you do not know yet, +you do not know, that if Maximilian is not taken––”</p> + +<p>“Ah, here now,” growled Clay of Carroll, “you needn’t +worry so much. He’ll be driven back into the town all right, I +reckon.”</p> + +<p>“And what then, señor? No, you do not know. Your general, +señores–General Escobedo–has orders to–to raise the +siege.”</p> + +<p>“<i>What?</i>”</p> + +<p>“Si señor, to <i>raise</i> the siege! The orders are from San Luis, from +the Señor Presidente there. He–he thinks the siege has lasted long +enough.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_426'></a>426</span>“Great +Scot!”</p> + +<p>“Precisamente. Yes, it would look like–defeat. It would, +if–you don’t capture Maximilian by daybreak.”</p> + +<p>Meagre Shanks brought his boot soles wrathfully to the ground, kicking the +stool back of him. His whole mien exuded a newspaper man’s contempt for +faking. “Now then, young fellow,” and he shook a long finger at the +ancient Mexican, “here you know all that Maximilian knows. And here again +you know all that the Presidente knows. All right, s’pose you just tell us now +more or less about how mighty little you <i>do</i> know?”</p> + +<p>“It’s–it’s like a message from El Chaparrito,” +the parson demurred.</p> + +<p>“From Shorty?” Daniel almost roared. “Oh come, Clem, +don’t you go to mixing up the unseen and all-seeing guardian of the +República with this dried-up, wild-eyed specimen of a dried-up–of, of an +old rascal. No one ever hears from El Chaparrito ’less there’s a crisis +on, and is there one on now? You know there ain’t. If there was, someone +would be hearing from Shorty–Driscoll there, prob’bly. But there +ain’t. Shucks, this old codger is only plum’ daft. Aren’t you +now”–he appealed querulously to Murguía, “aren’t you +just crazy–<i>say?</i>”</p> + +<p>But even as the Americans breathed easier, they stared aghast at the old +man.</p> + +<p>“Crazy?” he repeated. “Crazy?” he fairly shrieked, +clutching Boone by the sleeve. “No, I am not! Señor, say that I am not! +No, no, no, I am not crazy, not yet–not–not before it is done, +not–before––”</p> + +<p>“God!” Boone half whispered. “Look at his eyes +now!”</p> + +<p>The old man checked himself in trembling. No help for him lay in human +testimony. But there was his own will, which had driven his frail body. Now as a +demon it gripped his mind and held it from the brink.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_427'></a>427</span>“Go, out +of here, all of you!” he burst on them. “Go, I have more to +tell–more, more, more, do you understand?–but I’ll tell it to +no one, to no one, unless to Mister Dreescol.”</p> + +<p>A raving maniac or not, canards or not, there might be in all this what was +vital. The Americans stirred uneasily, in a kind of awe, and at a nod from +Driscoll they left the tent.</p> + +<p>Murguía grew quieter at once. His faculties tightened on the effort before +him. He was alone with the man who would understand, so he thought; who had the +same reason to understand, so he thought.</p> + +<p>Driscoll had shared nothing of the late emotions. He had smoked impassively. +His interest was of the coldest. Only his eyes, narrowed fixedly on the Mexican, +betrayed the heed he gave. When the others were gone, he uncrossed his legs, and +crossed them the other way, and thrust the corncob into his pocket.</p> + +<p>“Sit down!”</p> + +<p>Murguía dropped to the nearest camp stool.</p> + +<p>“Now then, you with your dirty little affairs, why do you come to +me?”</p> + +<p>Murguía leaned forward over the table between them, his bony arms among +candles and a litter of earthen plates. The odor of meat assailed his nostrils. +But the hunger in his leer had no scent for food.</p> + +<p>“This <i>is</i> the time I meant, señor, when Rodrigo told you that you +would see me.”</p> + +<p>“About the ivory cross? But I gave you that a month ago.”</p> + +<p>“A month ago–a month, wasted! How much sooner I would have come, +only another had to be–persuaded–first.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, had he? Then it’s not about the cross? And this other? +Suppose I guess? He was–he was the red-haired puppy, my old friend the +Dragoon, who carried you off wounded that day? Humph, the very first guess, +too!”</p> + +<p>Murguía darted at him a look of uneasy admiration.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_428'></a>428</span>“I would +have told Your Mercy, anyway,” he said, half cringing. “Yes, he is +Colonel Lopez.”</p> + +<p>“And you ‘persuaded’ him?”</p> + +<p>“Events did. Since the siege began I’ve tried, I’ve worked, +to convince him that these same events would happen. Ugh, the dull fool, he had +to wait for them.”</p> + +<p>“I can almost guess again,” said Driscoll, as though it were some +curious game, “but if you’d just as soon explain––”</p> + +<p>“Listen! You remember two years ago at my hacienda, when Lopez +sentenced you to death? But why did he sentence you to death, why, +señor?”</p> + +<p>“That’s an easy one. It was because he didn’t want my offer +of Confederate aid to reach Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>“But why not? I will tell you. It was because he was trying even then +to buy the Republic’s good will, in case–in case anything should +happen. But he was <i>afraid</i> to change, the coward! He must first <i>know</i> +which side would win. I am his orderly–<i>he</i> knows why I am–and +I’ve tried to drive it into his thick wits that the Empire is damned and +has been, but he still doubted, even when we were starving again, even when +every crumb was gathered into the common store, even when it was useless to +shoot men for not declaring hidden corn, even when forced loans were vain, since +money could no longer buy. No señor, even with proofs like these, Miguel Lopez +was stubborn.”</p> + +<p>“I’d prob’bly guess he was a loyal scoundrel, after +all.”</p> + +<p>“More yet, he has fought bravely, making himself a marked man in the +Republic’s eyes.”</p> + +<p>“Then why––”</p> + +<p>“Because so long as the Empire had a chance, or he thought it had, he +hoped for more coddling. You see, señor, he thought Marquez was coming back with +relief. There was that–that Frenchwoman you know of–who brought news +from the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_429'></a>429</span>capital. +But Maximilian dared not make the news public. He forged a letter instead, a +letter from Marquez, and he had its contents proclaimed. Marquez had been +delayed, so all Querétaro read, but he had at last destroyed the Liberals in his +path, and was then hurrying here with his victorious army. This false hope +blinded Lopez with the others in there. But when Marquez did not come, when +utter demoralization set in, when we were a starving town against thirty-five +thousand outside, when there were scores of deserters every day, when any man +who talked of surrender was executed, and still no Marquez, then Lopez +began––”</p> + +<p>“I see, he began to be persuaded?”</p> + +<p>“Still, he wanted to be a general. But the other generals forced +Maximilian not to promote him.”</p> + +<p>“So he was disappointed?”</p> + +<p>“And persuaded, señor. The sally was already planned for this morning, +but Lopez argued obstacles, and so got it postponed until to-morrow morning. He +wanted to–to act on his–persuasion. And that is why,” Murguía +got to his feet and limped around the table to Driscoll, “and that is +why,” he ended in a croaking whisper, “why I am here!”</p> + +<p>“And the red puppy, how near here did <i>he</i> come with +you?”</p> + +<p>Again Murguía darted at his questioner that uneasy glance of admiration.</p> + +<p>“Lopez is waiting between the lines,” he replied. “As to +our own lines, we passed them easily, since Lopez commands the reserve brigade +and places the sentinels himself around La Cruz monastery.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, does he?” Driscoll whistled softly. “But what’s +your plan?” He put the question sympathetically, which disturbed Don +Anastasio vastly more than the American’s peremptory tone in the +beginning. “What’s your plan?” he asked again, gently +coaxing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_430'></a>430</span>Murguía +hesitated. This polite drawing-room interest was the most ironical of +encouragement for villainy. Driscoll frowned impatiently, but at once he was +smiling again. He placidly filled his corncob, and a moment later, his gaze +piercing the tobacco smoke, he said, “Then I’ll tell you. +You’re here to make a dicker, you and your tool between the lines. The +monastery of La Cruz on top of the bluff is the citadel of Querétaro. Maximilian +has his quarters there. The troops there are the reserve brigade. This puppy, +this mongrel, commands the reserve brigade. He places the sentinels. And you are +his orderly.–Oh, I haven’t forgotten how he let you off that time he +condemned me!–So now you are his orderly, for your own reasons and his. +And here you are, talking mysteriously about <i>capturing</i> Maximilian. But you +don’t mean that, snake. You are here to <i>sell</i> him! Howsoever,” +and smiling a little at the stilted phrasing, Driscoll paused and delicately +rammed the tobacco tighter in the bowl, “howsoever, Murgie, you’ve +come to the wrong market. No, there’s no demand for Maximilians just now, +not in this booth. But why in blazes didn’t you go to Escobedo? With his +Shylock beard, I reckon <i>he’d</i> take a flyer in human +flesh.”</p> + +<p>“I was going to him, but I came to you first, to take us there, to take +Lopez and myself, I–I thought you would manage it all, because +you–Your Mercy is the strongest, the most resourceful––”</p> + +<p>“Resourceful enough, eh, to dodge the bullets you had fixed up for me +once? Thanks, Murgie, but I liked your attentions then better than your slimy +advances now. By the way, how are you going to get to Escobedo?”</p> + +<p>The tone was honey itself.</p> + +<p>Murguía gasped, yet not so much to find himself a prisoner, as to find +himself mistaken in the American.</p> + +<p>“Now maybe,” Driscoll suggested, “maybe you’ll be +wondering yourself why you bring your dirty little affairs to me? <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_431'></a>431</span>Lopez may be an open +book, but you seem to’ve read <i>me</i> wrong. Prob’bly the language is +foreign.”</p> + +<p>Murguía’s jaw dropped, and he gaped as one who beholds the collapse of +high towering walls. It was his system of life, of motives calculated, of +humanity weighed. It was the whole fabric of hate and passions which quivered +and crashed and flattened in a chaos of dust before his wildly staring eyes.</p> + +<p>“You mean, señor, you mean you do not want–as well, as +<i>I!</i>–to bring to his end this libertine, this thief of girlhood, this +prince who scatters death, who scatters shame, +this–this––”</p> + +<p>“Man alive, you’re screaming! Stop it!”</p> + +<p>With his nails the old man combed the froth from his lips.</p> + +<p>“But you too have cause,” he cried, “cause not so heavy, +but cause enough, as well as I! There was my daughter, my little girl! With you +there is that French wo––”</p> + +<p>He stopped, for he thought he heard the sharp click of teeth. But Driscoll +was only grave.</p> + +<p>“Well, go on,” he said. “But–speak for your daughter +only.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t go on. I won’t go on,” Murguía burst out +desperately, and flung up his arms. “If you don’t understand +already, then I can’t make you. It’s useless. A book? You’re a +stone! But any other, who had a heart for suffering, in your place +would––”</p> + +<p>“Oh shut up, Murgie!” cried Driscoll wearily, but in something +akin to supplication.</p> + +<p>With the serpent’s wisdom, the tempter struck no more on that side. His +fangs were not for the blighted lover. What, though, of the soldier?</p> + +<p>“No one doubts, señor,” he whined unctuously, “that Your +Mercy is loyal to the Republic. So it cannot be that Y’r Mercy +knows––”</p> + +<p>“See here, Murgie, I’m getting sleepy. But I’ll find you a +comfortable tent, with plenty to eat, and a polite guard––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_432'></a>432</span>“Señor,” stormed the old man, “I +tell you you don’t know what this means to the Republic. Maximilian will +escape, no matter the cost. At daybreak there is to be a concentrated attack on +some point in your lines; but where, nobody knows except Miramon. Then +Maximilian will cut through with the cavalry. The infantry will follow, if it +can. And after them, the artillery. You Republicans may not even know it until +too late, because meantime you will be fighting the townspeople, thinking you +are fighting the whole army.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll roused himself suddenly. “The townspeople?”</p> + +<p>“Si señor, they are to be a decoy. Some volunteered, the rest were +drafted. They have been armed, but they are only to be killed, they are only to +draw the Republican strength, while the Emperor and the army escape.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll sprang from his seat, in an agitation that was Murguía’s first +hope.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that this +Maximilian who makes speeches about not deserting intends now to sacrifice these +poor helpless devils? Prove it!”</p> + +<p>Murguía had touched neither lover nor soldier. But what man was here, in +boots and woolen shirt, puffing angrily at a corncob, yet sitting in judgment +supreme on the proud Hapsburg himself? Blindly stumbling, Murguía had touched +the inexplicable man who was of stone, and the baffled fiend that was in him +leaped up with a cry of glee.</p> + +<p>“To prove it?” he cried, “Ai, then Lopez shall walk with +you in our outer trenches. For in them you shall see the doomed townsmen +themselves, a thousand townsmen, sleeping there until the dawn. Afterward, when +Maximilian is safe, they who are still alive will be free to +surrender.”</p> + +<p>“And then––” But Driscoll knew the temper of the siege. +What with the chief prize lost, there would be scant mercy for surrendered +townsmen.</p> + +<p>“God in heaven,” he muttered fervently, “if there’s +any to <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_433'></a>433</span>suffer, it +might as well be the guilty one, and a thousand times better one than one +thousand! A man’s a man, or alleged to be!–Murgie, you wait here, +I’m going to call the others.”</p> + +<p>The others came, and heard. It was the court en banc, five Missourians and a +Kansan. And the culprit was a Cæsar. But they hewed forth their Justice as +rugged and huge, and as true, as would the outlaw, Michel Angelo. Like him, they +were their own law. Nor were they nice gentlemen, these Homeric men who spat +tobacco. Finding their goddess pandered to by those who were nice gentlemen, and +finding the gift of these a pretty scarf over her eye, they roughly tore it +away. For them she was not that kind of a woman.</p> + +<p>“W’y, this prince is no Christian,” Crittenden announced in +querulous discovery.</p> + +<p>“One thousand loyally dying for their sovereign,” Daniel mused, +his romantic soul wavering. “Sho!” he cried the instant after, +“that thing’s out-dated!”</p> + +<p>“And the prince there––” began the Kansan angrily.</p> + +<p>“May just go–to–the–devil!”</p> + +<p>All swung round on one of their number. It was the parson himself who had +pronounced sentence.</p> + +<p>Then they set out under the stars to attend to it.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_434'></a>434</span><a id='link_50'></a>CHAPTER XVII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Under a Spanish Cloak</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“What misadventure is so early up,<br /> +That calls our person from our morning’s rest?”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Romeo and Juliet</i>.</p> </div> + +<p>Just within their own bivouac four Missourians waited with eight horses. +Driscoll and Boone, and the small limping shadow of Murguía between them, went +on outside the sentry line toward the Alameda. When they returned, a stranger +accompanied them, a little distance apart.</p> + +<p>“It’s true,” Driscoll whispered to those who had staid. +“The trenches are filled with townsmen. <i>He</i> took me.”</p> + +<p>The Americans glanced once the stranger’s way, and grunted. He was a +large man, hidden to the eyes in a Spanish cloak. For all the charity of +darkness, he seemed ill at ease, and held himself from them, a marked figure, +alone. A leprosy in himself tainted his every thought. He would not willingly +come near any man. He understood English, unhappily now for him, and +Boone’s warning as they mounted seared like vitriol. “Look out, +Harry, don’t touch the filthy skut! It’ll take the rotting of death +to clean your fingers.” After that, even Murguía drew involuntarily away +from the stranger.</p> + +<p>They circled the town widely, having only Republican challenges to quiet, and +they dismounted under the trees which shade the valley to the northeast, between +the Sangremal, or mound of La Cruz, and the besiegers’ range of hills. +Here, under La Cruz’s steep bluff, the Republican general-in-chief <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_435'></a>435</span>had his quarters, and +here he kept a hawk’s jealous watch on the walls above, where slept his +country’s invader.</p> + +<p>Open battle is clear honor, so reckoned; but it takes a brave man to dive for +a pearl in slime. Driscoll was the one to conduct Murguía and his gloomy +companion into the presence of General Escobedo. When he rejoined the other five +outside the tent, he was alone.</p> + +<p>“Well, come on,” he said as he mounted under the trees. “We +needn’t stay for the rest of it, thank God.”</p> + +<p>For a while they rode in silence back toward their camp. They passed under +the aqueduct and entered the open plain. Then the parson stretched out his hand +to the pommel of Driscoll’s saddle.</p> + +<p>“Well?” he ventured softly.</p> + +<p>“Well, Clem, it’s done.”</p> + +<p>The others crowded their horses nearer.</p> + +<p>“I want to tell you all,” Driscoll abruptly began again. “I +want to tell you that I’ve just seen the strangest thing of my whole life, +right back there in that tent. I–well, it’s simply flattened me +out!”</p> + +<p>“You mean Lopez, Din?” one asked tentatively.</p> + +<p>“Lopez? No, no, there’s nothing strange in him. Any low hound +will sell out to save his hide. No, Dan, I mean the other. I mean the old man. +He’s the one who used to run the blockade off Mobile, and a +whiter-livered, more contemptible old grandmother I never hope to see anywhere, +no, never! Yet not a month ago, the day of that Cimatario scrimmage, I found him +on the battlefield, and he had been wounded. But he didn’t seem to know +it. He didn’t even seem to know that the shells were still banging all +around him.”</p> + +<p>“An <i>old</i> coward, too!” someone muttered.</p> + +<p>“But wait. He used to be one thing worse, one thing more, than a +coward. He was a miser, and such a miser that he <i>made</i> himself face danger. +You should have seen him running a <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_436'></a>436</span> blockade, with the Yankees chasing behind. He +trembled–I tell you, he trembled like a withered cottonwood leaf on a +broken stem. Yet he whined against stoking with turpentine, because it cost a +little more. I’d ’a’ thought, I did then, that the miser was +in his bones until the last trumpet. But to-night, back in that tent just +now––”</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“Well, he <i>refused</i> money! He refused <i>gold</i>! He didn’t +seem to know what it was, any more than he did bullets a month ago. Escobedo +asked him his price, and shoved a glittering heap across the table at him. You +saw how he acted when we offered him something to eat? Well, he looked the same +way at the gold. He acted impatient. He didn’t want to see anything except +Lopez. But you’d have called it a miser’s eagerness, the way he +watched that Lopez. Only a miser don’t exult when it’s someone else +who pockets the money.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe they’ll divide?”</p> + +<p>“Not much, because Murgie could have had his share over and above. No, +it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the gold. He was greedy–for a soul! +He wanted to see Lopez <i>bought</i>, and no hitch. And when it was done, he wet +those catfish lips of his with his tongue. I believe the devil in hell must look +just that way when he gets some poor sinner. But to think of that old skinflint, +to think of that old feeble cowardly shark not <i>knowing</i> danger, not +<i>knowing</i> money––”</p> + +<p>“Come, Din,” the parson’s blessed, cheery voice +interrupted, “let’s hurry back and wash our hands. Then we’ll +<i>all</i> feel better.”</p> + +<p>While the six Americans rode gloomily away from what they had done, and from +their own thoughts as they best could, a stealthy company was forming under the +trees among the tents of the Republican general. After a time the seeming +spectres began to move in unison, an undulating wave that <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_437'></a>437</span>spread as the grayish shadow of a low +hanging cloud. The dim figures slowly swept the little space of valley, on +toward the steep slope of La Cruz, and soon they were climbing, silently +creeping, nearer and nearer the dark walls above.</p> + +<p>Two seemed the leaders, and the third limped close behind. But one of the +first two held a pistol ever near the heart of his companion, who was wrapped to +the eyes in a Spanish cloak.</p> + +<p>“Who goes––” cried an Imperialist sentry.</p> + +<p>“Your colonel, fool!” he of the cloak stopped him short. +“I, Miguel Lopez. I am changing the guard. Return now to your barracks and +get what sleep you can before morning. One of these men with me will take your +place.”</p> + +<p>In like manner each later challenge was satisfied, and so on to a +cannon-battered crevice in the wall. The spectres passed through the gap there +into a field of graves on the mound’s level summit. The earth had an +uncanny softness under their tread. The plots were mostly fresh, of slain +Imperialists still keeping their rank according to battalion. But the living, +the Reserve Brigade, were here as well, sleeping over the dead. They stirred and +grumbled at being disturbed, but thought then no more of the intruders. The +secret plans for the daybreak attack explained everything. Their colonel, whose +voice they knew, was shifting forces in preparation. But when the dawn came, +they awoke to find their weapons gone, and themselves defenseless prisoners.</p> + +<p>Many of the spectral troop fell away to hold the cemetery, but the rest kept +on, and entered the monastery garden. Here there was a battery of one gun, whose +muzzle pointed the way to the Republican camp. Without a sound the Imperialist +gunners were replaced by Republicans. The cannon was one captured during the +Cimatario fight. It was called “La Tempestad,” and bore an +inscription, “The Last Argument of Nations.” Its new possessors +turned the muzzle squarely on <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_438'></a>438</span>the monastery, not fifty yards away, where +Maximilian lay then asleep.</p> + +<p>The shadowy host did not linger in the monastery itself. They swept through +hastily, in at the garden entrance, along the corridor, and out by the great +portico door upon La Cruz Plaza. They had passed the citadel. The town lay +before them. But in the Plaza were more cannon, which had been taken from the +trenches and massed for the supreme effort. They lay silent, under the silent +bells of the church. They lay under the giant Cross of the Apparition, which was +adorned by the Inditos with garlands in vague memory of pagan rites on that very +spot. They lay under the splendid Arabian palms. They lay among defenders. To +take them was like prowling with a torch among broken casks of gunpowder. Not a +shot must be fired until the thing was done. Otherwise, a quick second shot was +to find the heart of Lopez. So Lopez was exceedingly cautious. However, he +commanded here. He was the Emperor’s favorite. Squad after squad, the +drowsy Imperialists moved off, letting the strangers relieve them. So the +critical work was achieved, even as day appeared over the eastern hills. Then he +who had kept so close to Lopez put his revolver away.</p> + +<p>“Your bargain is fulfilled, señor,” he said. “Accordingly, +here’s the paper I was to give you. It is your safe conduct throughout the +Republic. You are free. Go!”</p> + +<p>Lopez clutched the thing that meant his life, but as his fingers tightened +over it, his first greed vanished. He stared about him uncertainly. The Plaza +swarmed with men. They were the gray battalion he had led there. In the dawning +light they were still gray. They were the Supremos Poderes de la República. De +la República? Yes, of the enemy, and he had brought them. But it was as though +he had just awakened, and found them there. The enemy? The enemy was in La Cruz! +With a sharp cry, he turned and ran back into the <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_439'></a>439</span>monastery. He brushed aside the hateful +gray uniforms. He ran panting up the stone steps. In the dark hall above he +stopped at a cell door, and pounded, and tugged frantically at its latch.</p> + +<p>“Señor, awake! Hurry! We are betrayed! Hurry! +Escape–escape––”</p> + +<p>Within came a startled sleepy voice, “What, what’s–” +which changed at once to reproving dignity. “Can it +be?–Lopez!”</p> + +<p>“But señor–sire–the Chinacos, the Republicans, they are +here already!”</p> + +<p>“Colonel Lopez!” In its shocked surprise the voice was edged with +rebuke. “Man, man, where are your years of training near my person? One +would think you some boorish night-watchman.”</p> + +<p>Lopez outside the door dropped his hands, and fell abjectedly silent, as +servilely abashed in his lapse of etiquette as though he stood the traitor +unmasked.</p> + +<p>“Now then, Miguel,” spoke the Emperor more kindly, “go to +General Mejía and the others. Let them have the goodness to attend me +here.”</p> + +<p>Lopez turned on down the corridor, stopped at the doors of Generals Mejía and +Castillo, and the Prince Salm-Salm. At each he tapped lightly, as one dazed, and +announced that the enemy surrounded them. Then, remembering, he fled.</p> + +<p>Within the thick walls that narrowed his state into a friar’s cell, +Maximilian rose from his iron couch. “So,” he sighed, almost in +relief, “Destiny means it to end in this way.” He was calm, and he +attired himself carefully. He chose his general’s uniform, with its rich +dark blue, and scarlet cordon. Nor did he forget the star of some royal order, +which to common men seemed a cotillion favor. When he should step forth that +morning, it was to play a world rôle. The prince must be serene in the moment of +trial. The nations must know that <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_440'></a>440</span>Destiny had him in hand. And musing thus, he parted +his golden beard with dainty precision. Within a month Europe would acclaim him +reverently. He noted that his high boots glistened. Mejía and the other two, +hurrying to him, fell back in admiration to behold how placid he was.</p> + +<p>“Gentlemen,” said he, “to leave here, or die! There’s +nothing else.”</p> + +<p>He noticed a soft heap at the door, and picked it up.</p> + +<p>“Lopez’s cloak, a disguise!” he exclaimed. “God bless +the poor fellow, he left it for me.”</p> + +<p>He wrapped the garment about him, took his pistols, and led the way. In the +dark corridor down stairs a Republican sentry mistook the cool, commanding +figure for one of his own generals, and presented arms. Maximilian gravely +saluted, and with his three companions passed out.</p> + +<p>The Plaza was a blurred scene of confusion. Men were awakening to find their +arms gone, and themselves covered by muskets. Shots had been fired. Curses +abounded. Entire companies were being marched away as prisoners. Republican +officers either thought that Maximilian was Lopez, from his cloak and height, or +were too distracted to notice. It is possible, too, that the victors would have +had him escape, that they might not have the trouble of his disposal, and that +they preferred that he should not thrust it on them. At any rate, he and the +three behind pushed their way undisturbed through cannon and brown stolid men in +gray, and reached the spot where the Plaza narrows into a street that gently +slopes down into the town. But here a guard was posted.</p> + +<p>“Pues, hombre, they’re civilians, let them pass.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian turned on him who spoke, and beheld the blackmailer, scout, +deserter, Don Tiburcio. He wore now the uniform of a Republican explorador. His +crossed eye gleamed so humorously up at the Emperor, it might have been +insolence, but it was only the proffered sharing of a jest. His matter-of-fact +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_441'></a>441</span>tone prevailed, and +the guard stood aside. The four passed on down the street. In comical melancholy +Don Tiburcio looked after them, and then he perceived that a fifth had slipped +by the guard and was following closely behind.</p> + +<p>“The saints help us–help <i>him</i>, it’s Murguía!” +Tiburcio muttered in horror. He recalled the night when María de la Luz was +found dead.</p> + +<p>The old man, coatless, barefoot, in his pantaloons of Imperial green, limped +desperately to keep pace with the great strides of the four ahead. The broad +crimson stripe down each pant leg would break, straighten, break again, in +bizarre accord, with every painful step. It was a lope, and he more like a +starved wolf, a lean, persistent shadow, ever ready for the chance to +spring.</p> + +<p>By hastening down into the town, Maximilian thought to rally what forces were +there for a last stand; or, to be more exact, for a last tableau. The end of his +empire must have éclat. He found the town panic-stricken, since all could see +the Republic’s standard over the towers of La Cruz. Dumfounded officers +had gotten to housetops, and were using their glasses. They beheld the enemy as +busy as scurrying ants on the surrounding hills. Clouds of men from every point +were sweeping across the llano toward the town. The advance were already in the +narrow streets. Killing, looting, had begun. Clanging bells, hoof beats, yells, +musketry, and in the distance deep-voiced cannon! The Emperor and his three +companions, with the malignant shadow hovering ever near, quickened their course +through the town. They paused only to dispatch couriers. Miramon, when found, +was to come at all speed with every possible man to the Cerro de las Campanas. +They gained the adobe suburbs on the western edge, leaving behind the fearsome +rising tide of human sound. An officer forced the Emperor to mount his horse. +Many joined their flight. They crossed broken fields, and reached the summit of +the wedge-shaped <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_442'></a>442</span>rock called las Campanas. Close behind, emerging +from the town, were the first pursuers, who quickly grew to a thick black fringe +around the hill. Shells were falling. The heavens seemed to flower vengefully, +with the Campanas knoll as the one focus. The adobe stockade crowning the top +was soon packed with fugitives, until those within, like shipwrecked creatures +on a raft, barred out those still coming. The whisper spread that in the town +Miramon had been taken shot through the cheek after shooting many others. The +panic grew. Men knew themselves at bay. They recognized the deathtrap. On the +outlying heights the cannon had their range. Grenades, bombs, grape, and +canister, fell as hail.</p> + +<p>The Emperor turned to General Mejía.</p> + +<p>“Could we cut our way out?” he asked.</p> + +<p>Mejía put down his glasses. He paused, then shook his head.</p> + +<p>Straightway an orderly with a white flag was sent down the hill. But the +firing did not cease for that. Maximilian, seeing that he could make no terms +for those around him, seeing them fall by scores instead, himself followed the +orderly; and following him, was the ever faithful shadow.</p> + +<p>From out the dark fringe a man on a white horse, a black bearded man with +monstrous flapping ears, General Escobedo, rode forth to meet the Hapsburg. Then +Maximilian forgot the eyes of the world, and thought of her who had suffered +with him, who had suffered more than he, to hazard this, their dream.</p> + +<p>“It is our throne, Charlotte,” he murmured, and gave up his +sword.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_443'></a>443</span><a id='link_51'></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>El Chaparrito</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Meagre were his looks,<br /> +Sharp misery had worn him to the bones.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Romeo and Juliet.</i></p> </div> + +<p>A few days later Jacqueline and Berthe attended a performance at the Teatro +de Iturbide. It was the first held there since the beginning of the siege, and +to the place late foes were thronging eagerly in what seemed a most inordinate +thirst for amusement. The playhouse was without a roof. Its metal covering had +been widely sown in the shape of bullets, and only a canvas overhead kept out +the sun. But the broiling pit was filled, as well as circling tier over tier of +loges, and in the street a great crowd jostled and surged, like people who stare +at the dead walls of a jail because a man is being hanged inside. If the curious +cannot have both Time and Space to their liking, then the more ghoulish will +gorge themselves on the coincidence of Time alone. “Now,” they +whisper awesomely, “his hands and feet are being strapped! What +<i>must</i> he be thinking this very instant, and we standing here?” So +those outside the Teatro de Iturbide sweated patiently. In all evidence it was +not an ordinary performance scheduled for that day.</p> + +<p>“Buzzards?” said Jacqueline, looking up and seeing their +outspread wings shadowed on the canvas roof, “Fi donc, <i>that</i> effect +is long since shabby!” But it chilled her, nevertheless.</p> + +<p>The curtain was up. A drop, showing fields in green and a receding road in +brown, filled the back. The actors seemed actors solely, and this idea persisted +with the Frenchwoman, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_444'></a>444</span>as with many another, throughout. Seven military +characters arranged themselves in a kind of state on the unpainted, slanting +stage. They might have been supernumeraries, like the “senators” in +“Othello.” At least their severe demeanor became them awkwardly. +They wore uniforms, but not of appalling rank. He who presided was only a +lieutenant colonel, the other six were captains. Before them, each on a square +stool, sat two generals, one with a bandaged cheek. There were legal gentlemen +in plain black, while guards at stiff attention here and there completed the +grouping. Beyond any doubt, it was a trial scene. And to confirm the surmise, +one of the legal gentlemen, a very peaceable appearing youth, arose and in the +Republic’s name demanded the lives of Miguel Miramon and Tomas +Mejía–here he indicated the two generals–and with impressive +cadence, also in the Republic’s name, demanded likewise the life of +Fernando Maximiliano de Hapsburgo. The lieutenant colonel and the captains +knitted their seven tawny brows portentously, but they were not in the least +astounded at such a very extraordinary request.</p> + +<p>There was no need of a theatrical production at all. Other Imperialists had +not been so unnecessarily distinguished, as for instance, General Mendez, that +ancient enemy of Régules and executioner of Republicans under the Black Decree. +Caught the day Querétaro fell, he was shot in the back as a traitor. Yet he met +a legal death. Taken in armed defiance of the Republic, identity established, +the hollow square and shooting squad, such was the routine prescribed. But the +lesser official relics of the Empire, six hundred in all, escaped generally with +a few months of prison. The rank and file of the betrayed army had already +melted away. But for the three arch-culprits a trial was deemed requisite, and +President Juarez, in San Luis Potosi, so ordered. Hence the stage setting as +above described.</p> + +<p>Maximilian was at first surprised. He had said to Escobedo, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_445'></a>445</span>“I am ready to go +whenever you can favor me with an escort to the coast, but first I require +assurance that my loyal followers shall not suffer.” But the Republican +chief had smiled oddly, and locked him up. Later, however, Maximilian had seemed +content. A trial for his life, that would add the last needed glamour to the +prestige of his return to Europe. So he affably humored his captors, and was +rewarded with humiliation–his judges could hardly be more obscure. So as +he was genuinely sick abed, he got himself excused from playing his part in the +Teatro Iturbide.</p> + +<p>The soi-disant Emperor had four conscientious defenders, chosen from +Republican jurists, two of whom were then in San Luis to do what they might +before Juarez. The other two spent eloquence and acumen on the court’s +seven tawny brows. Their first point came from Maximilian himself. It was +complacent, this point. The naïveté of it was superb.</p> + +<p>“I am no longer Emperor,” so the defense ran, “nor was I +during the siege; because, before leaving the capital, I drew up my abdication, +which was then countersigned by my ministers. However, it was not to take effect +until I should fall prisoner.”</p> + +<p>When the Republic recovered her breath, she felt in her amusement a wounded +pride. This prince must think her very simple. So, she was to recognize the +usurper’s abdication after she had fought and suffered to take the +usurper? A captured thief draws from his pockets a quit-claim deed to the +plunder he has stolen, and giving it to the court, would therefore go free! The +tragedy changed for a spell to comic opera. And matters were not helped greatly +when next were invoked “the immunities and privileges which pertain under +any and all circumstances to an archduke of Austria.”</p> + +<p>Though handicapped by their client’s arrogance, counsel yet did their +utmost. They argued law and humanity, with tremulo effects. They prayed that +“the greatest of victories <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_446'></a>446</span>be crowned by the greatest of pardons.” But it +was of no use. The bloodthirsty stripling persisted in the Republic’s +name. This Maximiliano was a Mexican. In many beautiful speeches the said +Maximiliano had said so. Hence he could not evade responsibility to the laws of +his adopted country. And there was, for instance, the law of 1862 concerning +treason.</p> + +<p>Well, in a word, the three accused were straightway sentenced to death; and +Escobedo, approving, named Sunday, June 16th, for the execution. It might be +mentioned of this Escobedo that on two former occasions, when the circumstances +were exactly reversed, Mejía had each time saved his life. Since Querétaro, +there have been comments on the vigor of Escobedo’s memory.</p> + +<p>“Poor pliant Prince Max,” sighed Jacqueline, “he is still +being influenced to stay in Mexico! Come, Berthe, we must make all speed to San +Luis and see the Presidente.”</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>In the long hall of the Palacio Munícipal at San Luis Potosi, before the +old-fashioned desk there, sat an Indian. He was low and squat and pock-marked, +and there was an ugly scar, livid against yellow, across the upper lip. He had a +large mouth, high cheek-bones, and swarthy skin with a copperish tinge. He was a +pure-blooded Indian. At twelve he did not know a word of Spanish. His race, the +Zapotecas of Oaxaca, had all but been extinguished by the Conquest. Except for +the ungainly black he wore–excepting, too, his character–he might +have been a peon, or still the servant he once had been. But the homely, heavy +features of his round head did not, in any sense, repel. On the contrary, the +countenance was frank, though yet inscrutable. The piercing black eyes were good +eyes, and indomitable, like his muscled jaw. The flat, square forehead made one +aware of intellect, and of force. So short and thick, he looked a sluggish man, +but it was the phlegm of a rock, the calm of strength, and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_447'></a>447</span>whatever the peril, almost inanimate. +His country called him Benemérito de América, a title the noblest and rarest in +its Spartan hint of civic virtue.</p> + +<p>The Indian’s desk was littered with messages from the princes of the +earth. Like his expiring race, he had fought their order, and they had made of +him a wandering fugitive. But now they were imploring him for one of their +number, whose surrendered sword that moment lay across their petitions. Two of +the letters, but not from princes, he had read with deep consideration. One was +from the President of the United States, the other from Victor Hugo. But these +also he shoved from him, though regretfully, and now he was gazing out over the +Plaza, the line of his jaw as inflexible as ever.</p> + +<p>But they were not many, the moments this man had to himself, and it was not +long before a gendarme in coarse blue, serving as an orderly, disturbed him.</p> + +<p>“Well, show her in then,” he said, frowning at the card laid on +his desk, nor did he rise when an unusually beautiful but very grave young woman +entered the room.</p> + +<p>“At your orders, Señorita de–d’Aumerle. You come, I suppose, to +save him?–But,” he added with the austerity of a parent, “it +is not difficult to imagine why <i>you</i> are interested.”</p> + +<p>“No, Señor Presidente,” he heard himself quietly contradicted, +“Your Excellency can not imagine.”</p> + +<p>He looked up, into a pair of honest gray eyes. But her tone had already told +him enough. He rose to his feet in rugged courtesy. The Indian was a wise man, +and he knew now that other men had whispered falsely about one exquisite +Parisienne.</p> + +<p>“Pardon me, child,” he said gently. “No, I cannot +imagine.”</p> + +<p>Impulsively Jacqueline leaned over the desk and gave him her hand. +“Thank you,” she said, in a voice that trembled unexpectedly. From +that moment, too, she abandoned tactics. The wiles of courts would avail nothing +against the primitive straightforwardness of the man before her. It seemed, +moreover, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_448'></a>448</span>good and +homely, to cast them aside. She took a seat near the window, since he remained +standing until she did, and waited. He should speak first, and afterward, she +would accept. For there was nothing, she felt, that she could say. O rare tongue +of woman, to so respect the leash of intuitions!</p> + +<p>As for Don Benito Juarez, he had not meant to speak at all. But knowing her +now to be not what he had thought, he spoke as he had not to any plenipotentiary +of any crowned head.</p> + +<p>“You are a Frenchwoman, señorita,” he began. “Tell me, your +coming must be explained by that?”</p> + +<p>“Now,” said Jacqueline, smiling on him cordially, “Your +Excellency’s imagination is getting better.”</p> + +<p>“And you wish to save Maximilian,” the Presidente stated, rather +than questioned, “because he is a victim of France.”</p> + +<p>“Because he will be considered so.”</p> + +<p>The old Roman smiled. “My dear young lady,” he said, “an +answer to France is the least of my obligations. Yet you expect it, and ask for +clemency, though I deny all the great nations?”</p> + +<p>“Oh señor, what’s the use? Let him go!”</p> + +<p>The keen black eyes regarded her quizzically. “Do you know,” he +said, “this is the second time I’ve heard that question to-day? One +of our American officers had himself put in command of the escort for +Maximilian’s two lawyers here, and now I believe he did it simply because +he too wanted to know, ‘What’s the use?’ It was anti-climax, and a +wet blanket over the fervid eloquence of the two lawyers. But nevertheless, he +hit the one argument.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes!”</p> + +<p>“In a word, why not brush aside our archduke? He’s harmless, now, +he’s insignificant? Why not take from him the only dignity left, that of +dying?”</p> + +<p>“Of course, Señor Juarez! Of course!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_449'></a>449</span>“And at +the same time win bright renown for ourselves, instead of what will be called +harsh cruelty?”</p> + +<p>“Surely!”</p> + +<p>The smile vanished. The large mouth closed tightly.</p> + +<p>“No,” spoke the judge of iron. “He dies! That is the truest +mercy, a mercy to those who might otherwise follow him here. And we, señorita, +we have already suffered enough from Europe.”</p> + +<p>“But the other two?” pleaded Jacqueline. “They are +Mexicans.”</p> + +<p>“They are that, por Dios, and they make me proud of my race. Miramon, +Mejía, they are the leaven. They redeem Lopez, they redeem Marquez, they redeem +the deserters who now so largely form my armies, who before had deserted me for +the French invasion. By the signal example of these two men to die to-morrow, +the world shall know that Mexicans are not all traitors. And as we grow, we +Mexicans, we may grow beyond the empty loyalty of glowing Spanish words. +Remembering such an example, we may come to be, in our very hearts, breathing +things of honor. We have been shackled because of infamy during the last +centuries. Can you wonder, then, that we use the treacherous weapon of the +Conquistadores?–But that’s apart. The loyalty of Miramon and Mejía +has been loyalty to an invader, a wrong their country will not forgive. But our +cultured gentleman of Europe, our vain fool who would regenerate the poor +Indito, he will perhaps not feel so ashamed of us, not when he has two such +companions in death, and not when he learns, though painfully, that the rod of +Mexican justice respects neither immunity nor privilege of birth. There, +señorita, I’ve had to talk more about this one individual than about the +hundreds of others who have been punished for much less than he.”</p> + +<p>“But it must be terrible to die, señor. And <i>he</i> doesn’t +realize, while a delay of only a few days––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_450'></a>450</span>“Would +suffice for his escape?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline reddened guiltily. “No, to prepare for his end,” she +said.</p> + +<p>The Presidente smiled tolerantly. “Never fear,” he answered first +her confusion, “our justice stands committed, and to wink at escape now +would be cowardly. Yet, whether you meant it or not, you are right, and the +execution stands postponed until the nineteenth. A doomed man may learn much in +three days to comfort him–on his way. But the criminal of all is +lacking.”</p> + +<p>“Marquez, you mean?”</p> + +<p>“U’m, him also. But I was thinking of Louis Napoleon, +<i>and</i> his wife.”</p> + +<p>The order of postponement, being openly telegraphed to Escobedo at Querétaro, +was known at once in San Luis, and caused a fury of excitement. For none doubted +but that it meant eventual pardon. The tender hearted rejoiced. The rabid ones +muttered. The wise shook dubious heads. And even as Jacqueline and Berthe were +hurrying back to Querétaro in the canvas-covered coach, another caller was +admitted roundly on the president’s privacy, without so much as being +announced. Juarez wondered if his orderly had gone crazy, for the newcomer thus +obsequiously presented looked to be a species of ancient vagabond.</p> + +<p>“Well, what is it?” the President asked, frowning heavily. He was +curiously irritated. “Stay,” he interposed, “those dusty, +muddy rags you have on, that green and red, that’s not a Republican +uniform?”</p> + +<p>“It’s of the Batallon del Emperador,” replied the stranger, +unabashed.</p> + +<p>“Bless me the saints! Well, well, well, I suppose you, too, want to +save your Maximilian. But how does it happen that you’re not under guard +yourself?”</p> + +<p>For answer the old man came nearer. He limped feebly, <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_451'></a>451</span>and the while he unbuttoned his coarse +red jacket. Juarez watched him sluggishly, but with a hand upon a revolver under +the papers on his desk. The stranger, however, drew forth nothing more +sensational than five or six square bits of parchment. Yet these aroused the +President more than a weapon could have done. They were blank, except at the +bottom, and there the President read his own signature, “Benito Juarez, +Libertad y Reforma.”</p> + +<p>“Your–Your Excellency remembers?”</p> + +<p>“How well!” The admission came involuntarily. Juarez was laboring +under an emotion that he could not at first control. He stared at his visitor in +a new wonder. So gaunt, so hollow, so utterly insignificant! The +President’s wonder grew.</p> + +<p>“You–you gained entrance here by one of these slips?” he +questioned sharply. The old man nodded. “And it was countersigned +by––”</p> + +<p>“Si señor, by El Chaparrito. The slip said, ‘Admit bearer at +once.’”</p> + +<p>“Then I cannot blame my orderly! But who are you?”</p> + +<p>“Anastasio Murguía, to serve Your Mercy.”</p> + +<p>“Bien, Señor Murguía, and now will you explain what no other messenger +from our unknown friend has done? Who–who is El Chaparrito?”</p> + +<p>But, like the wretched messengers who had gone before, Anastasio Murguía only +shrugged his shoulders blankly. “Your Excellency does not know El +Chaparrito?” he asked. “And yet you trusted him, a stranger, with +your signature?”</p> + +<p>There was a crafty stress on his words.</p> + +<p>“Ah, señor,” Juarez placidly inquired, “what if a chief +magistrate did not know when to trust? You are to be informed, then, that one +year ago last October, at Chihuahua, I was saved from a French flying column by +an Indito. The <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_452'></a>452</span>poor +wretch had run across the desert with his warning. But he could prove nothing. +He couldn’t even tell who sent him, except that it was a short gentleman, +a señor chaparro. Yet it was well for the Republic that I took his word and +fled. Later, when I reached the Rio Grande, and he wanted my signature to some +blank squares of parchment, which he was to take back to his señor +chaparro–well, señor, I trusted again. That Indito in breech-clout +obtained my autograph some twenty times over.”</p> + +<p>The President, however, might have added that every Republican officer was +advised first to test any warning on any bit of parchment signed “Benito +Juarez.” Yet, as a matter of fact, there came to be such magic in the name +of El Chaparrito that the name of Juarez thereto was only needed as a guarantee +that the lesser name was genuine.</p> + +<p>“Now, then, Señor Emissary,” said the President, “what +danger hangs over our Republic this time?”</p> + +<p>“None, señor. I return the parchment squares left over. El–El +Chaparrito has no more thoughts for the Republic. He thinks,” and Murguía +ground his knuckles into the desk top, “he thinks of no one, of no +one–except Maximilian! And he has never thought of aught else. The +Republic? Bah, the Republic was only his tool, Señor Presidente. Only his tool, +but the tool needed sharpening. They say that’s the way with the +guillotine, eh, Señor Presidente?”</p> + +<p>“But hombre–No, our unseen friend of the Republic, our +Chaparrito, would not ask for Maximilian’s pardon?”</p> + +<p>“<i>Pardon!</i>”–It was fairly a cry of +rage–“Yet you, Señor Presidente, <i>you</i> postpone the execution! +<i>You</i> mean to pardon him!”</p> + +<p>“Indeed?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I–I think so. But you shall not, Señor Presidente. I come +to, to––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_453'></a>453</span>“Now +that’s curious. Possibly I, too, am to be sharpened into a kind of +guillotine, eh, señor?”</p> + +<p>“All the others were,” Murguía returned stubbornly. “That +is, all except one.”</p> + +<p>“Ha, then El Chaparrito found one man who was incorruptible?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. But still Your Excellency is mistaken. El Chaparrito did not use +money to win his agents. That, señor, is the unsafest way of all.”</p> + +<p>“You would tell me, señor, that El Chaparrito had a safe +way?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and it was absolute. He awakened memory, the memory, Señor +Presidente, of wrongs. For example, there was Your Excellency’s savior in +breech-clout. He once lived in a forest village down in the Huasteca. One night +Dupin came and burned the huts, and the Indito’s family perished with +other women and children there. That village alone gave the Chaparrito many +another messenger or spy, but memories left by the Empire were plentiful enough +everywhere, and cheap. The Chaparrito simply drafted them, that was all. But +once his system failed. Yet–well the man in that case was an American, and +<i>they</i> are liable to be exceptions to any rule, to any passion. But in the +end he was safe enough too, though something else, that I can’t +understand, made him so.”</p> + +<p>“And what did he do, this American?”</p> + +<p>“He took me to Escobedo.”</p> + +<p>“And you?”</p> + +<p>“I took Lopez. That same night Querétaro fell.”</p> + +<p>“<i>You?</i> Now–now to what particular wrong in <i>your</i> case, +señor, does the Republic stand thus indebted?”</p> + +<p>Juarez put the question lightly, even patronizingly. But his steadfast gaze +had not once left his gaunt and battered visitor. By design, too, he had not +asked a second time who the Chaparrito was, because he saw, or felt, that the +old man <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_454'></a>454</span>knew, +though former emissaries from that mysterious source had not known. And Juarez +meant to possess the secret. But with his casual irony he never looked for any +such kindling of memory as then flashed deep in the cavernous sockets opposite +him. The eyes of the aged man glowed and darkened, glowed and darkened, and +seemed the very breathing of some famished beast. It was a thing to startle even +Benito Juarez, who during many, many years had learned the meaning of civil war. +The President leaped to his feet, pointing a finger.</p> + +<p>“You are,” he cried, “yes, <i>you</i> are the +Chaparrito!–No?–Yes! Ha, I’ve struck, I’ve +struck!”</p> + +<p>He had indeed. The colossal guile and intellect and will, the giant whom men +in awe called El Chaparrito, was only old, withered Anastasio Murguía. But the +astute Juarez <i>knew</i> that he was right. He knew it in that one look of +consuming, conquering hate. He knew the giant in that hate. The feeble flesh, +Anastasio Murguía, was an incident. Yet even so, only the President’s +tenacity held him to where his instinct had leapt. For under discovery Murguía +was changed to a huddled, abject creature, stammering denial. Yet it must be +true, it must. The strangest, the most weird of contrasts in the same soul and +body–yet it must, it <i>was</i> true!</p> + +<p>And Murguía? He might have asked for reward, and had it. But his was rankest +despair. His work was not finished, his goal not attained. And now his most +potent instrument of all, the Chaparrito, was miserably identified in his own +self, was taken from him.</p> + +<p>Juarez rose and touched his shoulder, “Come,” he said, +“there’s much too much tension here. Now then, sit down, so. Let me +see, you said your name was–yes, Murguía. But–why, Dios mio, +that’s the Huasteca miser! Well, well, well, and so you are that rich old +hacendado who never gave even a fanega of corn to Republic or French either, +unless <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_455'></a>455</span>frightened +into it? But hombre, we’ve had <i>big</i> sums from the Chaparrito, and +all unasked!”</p> + +<p>And yet must it still be true, yet must even this contrast accord. El +Chaparrito had indeed given munificently. But in each case it was to bridge a +crisis. As the shrewdest general he knew a vital campaign, and aided, if need +be. But on a useless one the Republic’s soldiers might starve, might +freeze, might bleed and die, without ever the most niggardly solace ever +reaching them from El Chaparrito. Economy was applied to vengeance, and made it +unspeakably grim.</p> + +<p>“Once though,” Juarez pursued, “you all but lost your +Maximilian? I mean last fall when he started for the coast. He could have +escaped to Europe.”</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Murguía quietly, “but I was near him. If he +had not turned back, I would have done it myself.”</p> + +<p>“It?”</p> + +<p>“The justice which Your Excellency has just postponed three +days.”</p> + +<p>“Dios mio, but our Chaparrito is a dangerous person! He’d have to +be locked up if Maximilian were pardoned.”</p> + +<p>“But–but Your Excellency will not pardon him!”</p> + +<p>“To be sure, I had forgotten. I am to be given a memory. +Well?”</p> + +<p>“Your Excellency remembers, he remembers Zacatecas?”</p> + +<p>“Last February? Certainly I do. Miramon came, but a warning from El +Chaparrito, from you, came first, and a last time I escaped. As it was, I was +reported captured, and I sometimes wonder what Maximilian would have done had +that report been true.”</p> + +<p>“If I should tell you, señor?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is beyond even you, since Maximilian has never had the chance +to decide my fate.”</p> + +<p>“But he did decide, señor. He got word that you were taken at +Zacatecas, and at once he sent orders to Miramon as <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_456'></a>456</span>to your treatment. But Miramon was +already defeated, already fleeing to Querétaro.”</p> + +<p>“And the orders, the orders from Maximilian?”</p> + +<p>“They never arrived. They were intercepted. They–yes, here they +are, but before reading them, will Your Excellency promise to imagine himself in +Miramon’s power?”</p> + +<p>“I would, naturally. Come, señor, hand them over.”</p> + +<p>It made curious reading, that weather-blotched dispatch. For Don Benito +Juarez it was reading as curious as a man may ever expect to come by. In the +handwriting of his prisoner, he read his own death sentence.</p> + +<p>“Your–Your Excellency sees?” Murguía stammered +hungrily.</p> + +<p>“H’m, what, for example?”</p> + +<p>“Why, that–that Maximilian would not have pardoned?”</p> + +<p>“On the contrary, señor mio, that is precisely what the generous +Maximilian did intend. Listen–Miramon was ‘to delay execution until His +Majesty should pass upon it.’”</p> + +<p>“No–no, Your Excellency, he would not have––”</p> + +<p>“O ho, so you think you’ve missed your last stroke! You think +that there is no memory for me in this dispatch! But don’t whine so, +because, man, there is, there is! It may not be the memory of my intended death, +but it is the memory of–intended insult. Oh, what a patriot he must have +thought me, this good, regenerating prince! He had already offered to make me +chief justice. But this time he would have saved me from his own Black Decree. +And I would have been touched by his clemency? I would have accepted, the +grateful tears streaming from my eyes? And thus I would be regenerated? It +sounds beautiful. It sounds like the chivalrous Middle Ages, when there were +Black Princes along with the Black Decrees. My liege lord <i>he</i> would have +been, but my liege Patria, what of her?–Well, well, well, he has three +days in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_457'></a>457</span> which to +understand me better, and to think of his own regeneration a little.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” cried Murgía, limping gleefully toward him, “then +there will be no pardon?”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Juarez, suddenly cold and very calm, “I am +now corrupted. I am now safe, like the others. Take that chair, wait!”</p> + +<p>Saying which the Presidente left his desk, clapped his hands for the orderly, +and seated himself near the window. To the orderly he said, “Go to the +diligence office across the Plaza. Ask for Colonel Driscoll, the American +officer who commands the escort of the two lawyers. Say that I wish to see him +here at once.”</p> + +<p>When Driscoll appeared, Juarez put to him this question, +“Colonel–I’ll say ‘General’ whenever you decide to be a +citizen among us–Colonel, can you reach Querétaro early to-morrow morning +by riding all night?”</p> + +<p>“Not with my own horse, sir. He’s getting old, and deserves +better.”</p> + +<p>“Then it’s all right, señor. You will take any horse you want. I +have telegraphed to stop the execution, but there’s been no reply. You +must therefore see General Escobedo yourself. Look on my desk. Do you find a +packet there?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Sealed? Well, break it open. Now read the contents to my visitor +here.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll unfolded a long sheet of foolscap, and began to read. Murguía the +while fidgeted in an agony, but listening further, his limbs grew tense, and a +hideous joy overspread his face.</p> + +<p>“‘But at sunrise of the nineteenth you will execute the sentence +already approved.’”</p> + +<p>The prisoners were not to be deceived by false hopes. There would be no +further appeal. The last, the final decision, had been made.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_458'></a>458</span>“I have +signed it, I believe, Colonel Driscoll?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Then seal it again, and hurry! Good-bye, sir, good-bye.”</p> + +<p>When Driscoll was gone, the Benemérito of America turned to the grinning +hyena-like old man who was his visitor. His own dark features were passionless, +impenetrable.</p> + +<p>“You observe, señor,” he said, “that Justice does not +require corrupting, nor even a memory. So let El Chaparrito add this to his +philosophy, that he need not boast again of an infallible spur to civic loyalty, +for he will never find it, nor I. And yet–there is patriotism.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_459'></a>459</span><a id='link_52'></a>CHAPTER XIX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>In Articulo Mortis</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and majesty of the soul.... Man cannot be happy and strong until he lives in the present.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Emerson.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>For Maximilian it was the eve of execution. The soul feels that there is much +to decide at such a time, but under the nettling merciless load the soul will +either flounder pitifully and decide nothing, else lie numb and in a half death +vaingloriously believe that it has decided everything. So may the condemned be +open-eyed or blind. Or, according to the police reporter, be either coward or +stoic. But it really depends in large measure on whether realization be dulled, +or no.</p> + +<p>Maximilian had too late come to understand that his anointed flesh was +violable at all. He learned it only when the death watch was actually set on his +each remaining breath. And now he was <i>en capilla</i>, in the chapel of the +doomed; he, Ferdinand Maximilian Joseph, Archduke of Austria, Prince of Hungary +and Bohemia, Count of Hapsburg, Prince of Lorraine, Emperor of Mexico, even +He!</p> + +<p>They had given him the tower room of Querétaro’s old Capuchin church, +and against the wall was an improvised altar. But the sacrament waited. The +tapers on the snow-white cloth were as yet unlighted. Instead the Most Serene +Archduke–Emperor no longer–read from a battered volume of Universal +History, which, with a book’s queer vagaries, had strayed into his cell. +He read how Charles of England had died, then he paused, blinking at the two +candles on the rough <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_460'></a>460</span>table. They were vague shapes, they were horrors, +which he now began to see, as the visions of Truth so often are when hazily +perceived.</p> + +<p>He bitterly envied that unhappy Stuart, who, before his palace window, among +Cavaliers and Roundheads, had died in majesty, the bright central figure in a +tragedy of august magnitude. But for the Hapsburg how sordid, how mean, it all +would be! He could see already the gaping, yellow faces, sympathetic in their +stupidity. <i>They</i> would not really know that a prince was dying. The very +guard with shouldered bayonet outside his door was a deserter, and it was this +man, more than aught else, that gave him to chafe against his ignoble lot. The +fellow never uttered a word, indeed; but he had a heavy, malignant eye, and each +time he passed the large inner window that opened on the corridor he would look +into the cell, as though to locate his prisoner. Then Maximilian could feel the +insolent, mocking gleam upon himself, until for rage he clenched his fist.</p> + +<p>Thus the Most Serene Archduke’s first perception of calamity was not +that royal blood was to flow, but that it was to flow obscurely. Even the +ancient raven curse, the curse of the Habicht which had given his House its very +name, was now fulfilled by unclean buzzards. He saw them each day, perched on +the neighboring roofs.</p> + +<p>He sighed and turned to his book. Universal History? Yes, but for hundreds +and hundreds of years that history of millions and millions of people was no +more than the record of his own little family group. Such a course of reading +for such a man held a terrible grandeur, and it must have been a unique +sensation of pride that touched the golden-bearded, ultra-refined viking prince. +A spoilt child he was, and though so cruelly reproved by Life, he yet could +learn no lesson in the passing footnote that <i>he</i> would add to that family +record. He could not see that the light which made the printed characters <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_461'></a>461</span> so dazzling, yet +distorted them. He could not know that the commonest man of the millions and +millions might read that Universal History by quite a different and a calmer +light. But he was aware of the sentinel’s tread back of him, and aware too +of the fellow’s coarse, familiar leer.</p> + +<p>One consolation he felt he might have had, and this was the dignity of +martyrdom. But no one, alas, seemed to regard him as a martyr at all. He had +begged that he alone should suffer. But the play at knightly generosity was too +shallow. For at the time Maximilian believed that he would not suffer in any +case. Later, though, when he knew that he must die, then with simple earnestness +he had pleaded for Miramon and Mejía, and forgot himself altogether. But Juarez +had hardly more than acknowledged the telegram, and now in the cell next him +Miramon was confessing, and in the cell on his other side Mejía waited. Each of +these two men would leave a wife and child.</p> + +<p>Someone knocked. “No, father, not yet,” Maximilian answered +gently, although his mood was impatience. The confessor sighed in protest +against the waste of precious time, but he did not move away, as he had already +twice before during the night. Instead he came and stood at the corridor window. +His lip trembled pityingly. There was news, he said.</p> + +<p>Maximilian pushed back the book, and was on his feet. The priest meeting his +eager look, shook his head sadly.</p> + +<p>“It comes from–from Miramar.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian fell back. One hand groped out involuntarily, as in appeal before +a blow. “News of Charlotte?” he asked faintly.</p> + +<p>Charlotte was dead, the priest told him.</p> + +<p>During a long time, after the priest had gone, his head lay on his arms, +between the two candles. He heard no more the sentry challenges, nor sensed the +menace in every slightest <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_462'></a>462</span>sound of the dark night outside. There was something +else. “Death?” At first he did not consciously strive for an answer. +But the question kept falling, and falling again, as a lash. The vulgar hands +which plied the scourge, the stupid yellow faces, these no longer mattered. He +felt the blows themselves, only the blows.</p> + +<p>She had died, the poor maniac! She had died, a thing for the lowliest pity. +And this was true of the haughty child of Orleans because she had wanted a +throne. Slowly her husband raised his head; and staring at the wall, his +tear-dimmed eyes opened wider and wider. Because she had wanted a throne? +Because she had wanted a dais above the meek and lowly, above those who now +pitied her! His eyes fell on the Universal History–the family record, and +there grew in his eyes a look of detestation. Groaning suddenly, he buried his +head again in his arms.</p> + +<p>At dawn he too was to die, and because he too had craved a sceptre. Yet, and +yet, he had meant to be an instrument of good. Born of kings, anointed by the +Vicar of Christ, he had come as agent from the Almighty. But God had failed to +sustain him, God had–again the blue eyes raised, but dry now, and stark in +terror. “Yes, yes, yes,” so his reeling soul cried to him, +“there <i>is</i> a God! There is, there is!” One sharp breath, and +the mortal fear passed. In ghastly panic he crept back from the brink, either of +the atheist’s despair or of the madman’s chaos. But the cost was +heavy. Since God did exist, and God yet had failed him, then it was the +man’s Divine Right that must be false. He, only a man, had mistaken his +Destiny. Nay, had he a Destiny? Or why, more than another man? Here, then, was +the cost. To keep his hope of Heaven, he stepped down among the millions and +millions. His Divine Right, crumbling under the grandeur of partition among the +millions, became for himself the most infinitesimal of shares, neither greater +nor less than that of any <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_463'></a>463</span> other human being. But glorified now by the holy +alchemy of Charity, the tiny grain became divine indeed, and he beheld it as a +glowing spark, his own inalienable share in the rights of man. So, for a moment, +the poet prince knew again his old-time exultation. Even Truth, he now +perceived, had her sublimities.</p> + +<p>But the pall of horror fell again. To-morrow he was to die. He was to die +because his life long he had sought to rob others of the tiny grain, of their +God-given dignity as men, and that too, even as they were awaking to its +possession. The vanity, the presumptuous, inconsistent vanity of it all! Under +the dark mediæval cloak he had planned enlightenment, he, who had tried to rule +without parliament, without constitution! He would have made a people believe in +God’s injustice, in God’s choice of a man like them to be a demigod +over them. Hence the blasphemous demigod had now to answer to human law. And it +was meet and right. Purgatory was beginning on the eve of his death.</p> + +<p>He, the torch of Progress! Maximilian smiled scornfully on himself. He was +only a clod of grit caught in the world’s great wheels. The foreign +substance had wrought a discordant screech for a moment, and then was +mercilessly ground into powder and thrust out of the bearings. He pondered on +the first days of the Family Group, when there was extenuation; more, when there +was necessity, for a king. At any rate the monarch then earned, or could earn, +his pomp and state by services actually rendered. And now? The Hapsburg decided +that there was not a more contemptible parasite on the body politic. The crowned +head was simply the first among paupers. He had his bowl of porridge, which was +the civil list.</p> + +<p>The doomed prince sank to a depth of shame that may not be conceived. He was +humanity’s puny infant. He had dawdled among men centuries older than +himself. His <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_464'></a>464</span>whole +being was out of harmony with the universe. Fate had held his soul fast during +those Dark Ages when he might have striven nobly, and now had cast it forth, an +anachronism. It was a soul misplaced in eternity. The dire realization grew and +grew, and with it the tragic agony, until with a sudden and the bitterest of +cries he flung up his arms and fell heavily across the table.</p> + +<p>“My life!” he moaned in piteous begging for something he might +not have. “My life, to live my life over again!”</p> + +<p>In the first light of morning Escobedo came. The Republican general unfolded +a paper, and began to read. But instead of the death sentence, it was reprieve. +President Juarez had postponed execution for three days.</p> + +<p>“Three days?” Maximilian repeated, wearily shaking his head. +“If your Republic could give me as many centuries, but three +days!–Three days, in which to <i>live</i> my life!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_465'></a>465</span><a id='link_53'></a>CHAPTER XX<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Knighthood’s Belated Flower</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Trusting to shew, in wordès few,<br /> +That men have an ill use<br /> +(To their own shame) women to blame,<br /> +And causeless them accuse.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>The Nut-Brown Maid.</i></p> </div> + +<p>Later the same morning there sounded the ineffable swish of silken petticoats +along the corridor and the clinking of high heels on the tiles. La Señorita +Marquesa d’Aumerle had obtained permission to visit His Most Serene Highness. +The sentinel of the evening before was again on duty, and his evil crossed eye +seemed to lighten with vast humor as he presented arms for the lady to pass. She +met his insolence with a searching, level gaze.</p> + +<p>Maximilian hastened to the door of his bare cell, and took both her hands in +his. “I am beginning to recognize my friends,” he said simply. +“I know, I know,” he added, “you come to tell me that you +failed to get the pardon. But you do bring reprieve.”</p> + +<p>He would have her believe that he valued that.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline regarded steadily the tall, slight figure in black, with the +pinioned sheep of the Golden Fleece about his neck, and she sighed. She was +disappointed in him. She had thought that pride of race, if nothing more, would +give him character during these last moments. She allowed, too, for the grief, +and the remorse, in the blow of Charlotte’s death. But she was not +prepared for the roving eyes, the disordered mind, the feverish unrest of the +condemned prince. Had his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_466'></a>466</span>soul, then, been a cringing one throughout the night +just past? It was the first time she had seen him, except at a distance, since +the day she arrived in Querétaro, for she had chosen, and perhaps maliciously, +to disconcert the tongue of slander. Hence she could not picture the ravages of +sickness and anxiety, until now when she beheld his haggard face. It was one to +bring a pang. The cheeks were hollow, the lines sharply drawn, and the skin was +white, so very white, with never a fleck of pink remaining. And staring from the +wasted flesh were the eyes, large and round and faded blue, and in them an +appealing, a haunted look. But they softened at sight of her, as though +comforted already.</p> + +<p>“A reprieve is best,” he said. “You cannot think that I +want a pardon, now that, that <i>she</i> is dead!”</p> + +<p>“But sire––”</p> + +<p>“‘Sire’? Ah, my lady, you are a little late, by something like a few +hundred years. You see our American was right after all; a letter no longer +makes a king.”</p> + +<p>It was a bon mot that Maximilian had always enjoyed, it being his own, but +this time he was most zealously in earnest.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur, then,” she said, in no mood for reforms of etiquette. +“Only, let me talk! We have three days, three days which are to be used. +Your Highness must escape!”</p> + +<p>But now she understood him less than before, for he only smiled wearily. It +was, then, something else than fear that had broken him so.</p> + +<p>Escape? And that guard in the corridor? Passing, ever passing, the diabolical +humorist seemed to chuckle inwardly, as though to stand death-watch were the +most exquisite of jokes.</p> + +<p>“That man?” whispered Jacqueline. “Why, that’s Don +Tiburcio. He was driven out of the Imperialist ranks by Father Fischer. But from +his lips, this very night, Your Highness will hear that the road is open to Vera +Cruz. Ah <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_467'></a>467</span>sire–monsieur–we have been working, we +others. There will be horses ready, there will be a long ride, and then, you +will safely board an Austrian ship waiting for you.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, “I am +ready to die, as–as ready as I shall ever be.”</p> + +<p>“But the remaining years of your natural life, Your Highness counts +them as nothing! Yet you might live twice your present age!”</p> + +<p>“My life–over again,” he murmured dreamily.</p> + +<p>“Of course, why not?”</p> + +<p>“One year to redeem each year that has gone.”</p> + +<p>“Years of Destiny!” she cried, thinking to touch him there.</p> + +<p>“No!” he exclaimed, so harshly and quick that it startled her. +“But for me they will be years of dearest mercy. Wait, tell me first, +Miramon and Mejía––”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, we will save them too. Only, the risk is greater.”</p> + +<p>“Bien!” He had almost accepted, but he smothered the word, and +starting up, began to pace the room. At last he stopped. “The risk must be +lessened, for them,” he said. “<i>I</i> will remain.”</p> + +<p>“H’m’n,” the girl ejaculated, “Hamlet declines? Then +there will be no play at all, at all.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian knew how stubborn she could be; and so, reluctantly, he joined the +plot.</p> + +<p>“I have deserved Marquez and Fischer and Lopez,” he sighed. +“But why there should be friends, even now, that I cannot +understand.”</p> + +<p>Yet she told him bluntly why she wanted his safety. It was on France’s +account. Still, his gratitude was no less profound. She who would give life to +others, what was her life to be henceforth? The mellowing sorrow, which her +vivacity could not hide, smote him again, as it had that evening in Mexico when +he came to her for counsel. He remembered. Out of a useless ambition for her +country she had squandered <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_468'></a>468</span>her name, blighted her future. He remembered how, +looking on her saddened face, he had been exalted to a pure devotion, and had +burned with knightly fervor to do her some impossible service. But what was the +service? There his memory failed, and he despised the chivalrous ardor which +could be quenched with feeding on itself. After the fearful vigil of the night +before, he had found a suit of armor beside him. In a word, he had forgotten +self. Simple compassion was enough. That service? that service? If he could only +remember. But he must. And in hot anger he strode back and forth, while +Jacqueline sat and gazed in wonder. Once, turning from the corridor window, he +paused. The guard had stopped a man, who now was evidently waiting until the +prisoner should be unoccupied. Unseen himself, Maximilian recognized in the man +the American named Driscoll. And then he remembered. He remembered +Jacqueline’s secret, betrayed to him that evening in Mexico. He remembered +that her happiness was lost in the loss of this man’s respect. Here, at +last, lay the impossible service!</p> + +<p>Maximilian glanced toward her stealthily. No, from where she sat she could +not see the corridor, could not see the waiting American. A moment later +Maximilian stood behind her; and when he spoke, she thought it odd that he +should change from French to halting English.</p> + +<p>“Miss d’Aumerle,” he began, in distinct if nervous phrasing, +“yes, it was for France, all, all of which you haf done. Therefore is it +that you haf come to this country, and here to Querétaro, whatever is to the +contrary said.”</p> + +<p>“De grace,” she laughed, rising abruptly, “there’s +enough to do to-day without discussing––”</p> + +<p>But he intercepted her even as she opened the door.</p> + +<p>“Will Your Highness kindly let me pass?”</p> + +<p>“And I know, I alone, that nefer haf you toward myself once felt, once +shown, that which––”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_469'></a>469</span>A sharp, +indignant cry escaped her. Following her gaze he saw the American pass on down +the corridor and out of hearing.</p> + +<p>“Now who,” exclaimed the chagrined prince, “would ever have +imagined such delicacy of breeding!”</p> + +<p>“And don’t ever again,” cried Jacqueline furiously, +“imagine that <i>I</i> stand in need of being righted!” Wherewith she +too was gone, leaving her clumsy knight staring blankly after her.</p> + +<p>A few moments later Driscoll knocked.</p> + +<p>It was the first meeting of these two men since the memorable afternoon at +Cuernavaca, when Driscoll had surprised Jacqueline listening to royalty’s +shameless suit. Now he beheld Fatality’s retribution for that day’s +bitterness. Retribution, yes. But it was not restitution. The girl he loved had +just passed him in the corridor with a slight casual nod, and he would not, +could not, stretch forth a hand to stop her. Instead, the smile so ironical of +Fate had touched his lips.</p> + +<p>“I was sent by Señor Juarez, sir,” he addressed the archduke in +the tone of military business. “The President is afraid your three days of +reprieve will be misunderstood. He sent for me as I was leaving San Luis +yesterday, and I–I was to tell you––”</p> + +<p>“You need not hesitate, colonel.”</p> + +<p>“Well, that you must not hope for pardon, for the sentence will +positively be carried out day after to-morrow. That–I believe that is +all.”</p> + +<p>“But–” Maximilian called, staying him. “Dios mio, +such news merits a longer telling. It seems to me too, Señor Americano, that you +should enjoy it the more, since it was partly you who brought me to +this.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know as I’d thought of that. How?”</p> + +<p>“You ask how? Do you forget how you took the traitor Lopez to Escobedo, +the night I was betrayed?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_470'></a>470</span>Driscoll swung +bluntly round on his questioner. “No I don’t,” he replied. +“But you see, there was such a lot of bloodshed scheduled for the next +day?”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that rather a curious reproof from a soldier? Loyal hearts +would have bled, yes, and gladly. Noble fellows, they would have saved their +Emperor!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll half snorted, and turned on his heel. But he stopped, his lips +pressed to a clean, hard line. “What of those townsmen in the +trenches?” he demanded. “It wasn’t their fight.”</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s eyes opened very wide, and slowly his expression changed. +The thick lower lip drooped and quivered. Suddenly he came nearer the American, +a trembling hand outstretched.</p> + +<p>“I was saved that,” he murmured earnestly.</p> + +<p>“They were,” the grim trooper corrected him.</p> + +<p>“The townsmen, yes. But I–I was kept from murder. God in heaven, +I would have murdered them! Ah, señor, if I could put to my account a +night’s work such as yours, that night, when you used the traitor! I could +almost thank Lopez. I do thank you.”</p> + +<p>Still Driscoll failed to notice the proffered hand. He might have, had he +seen his suppliant’s face, and the tense anguish there.</p> + +<p>“Those innocent non-combatants, then,” Maximilian went on, +“so they counted more than a prince with you?”</p> + +<p>“Of course, there were a thousand of ’em.”</p> + +<p>The other’s haggard look gave way to a smile, half sad, half amused, +and taking the American by the shoulder in a grip almost affectionate, he said, +“Colonel, did you ever happen to know of one Don Quixote of La Mancha? +Well, lately I’ve begun to think that he was the truest of gentlemen, +though now I believe I could name another who––”</p> + +<p>“And,” interrupted Driscoll, “did you ever try to locate +the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_471'></a>471</span>most dignified +animal that walks, bipeds not excepted? Well, sir, it’s the donkey. Take +him impartially, and you’ll say so too.”</p> + +<p>The strain was over. Maximilian laughed. “If Don Quixote had only had +your sanity!” he began; “or rather,” he added, charmed with +the conceit, “if knighthood had had it, then the poor don would never have +been needed to be born at all.”</p> + +<p>Ignoring the sincerity of the Hapsburg’s new philosophy, and how +tragically it was grounded, Driscoll only smiled in a very peculiar way. +Knighthood? The word was supercilious cant, and irritated him. During that very +moment, while listening to Chivalry’s devotee, the young trooper thought +of a little ivory cross in his pocket, a cross which was stained with a +girl’s blood. Murguía had given it to him, to give to Maximilian on the +eve of execution. But Driscoll had not promised, and yet Murguía had implored +him to take it, even without promising. The old man held faith in vengeance as a +spring to drive all souls alike, and if Maximilian’s last earthly moment +could be embittered with sight of a cross, then, he firmly believed, the +American needed only to be tempted with the means to do it. Moreover, in a +sudden impulse, Driscoll had taken the holy symbol, “to do with as he +chose.” There was no message, Murguía had explained. The Señor Emperador +would read the graven name, “Maria de la Luz,” and that would +suffice.</p> + +<p>Looking now on the cultured gentleman caressing his beard, Driscoll thought +again how hellishly distorted was the sign of salvation then in his pocket. But +he left it there. He, too, had a king’s pride, incapable of low spite. +Charity alone, though, would have held him, if he had but known that Maximilian +was ignorant of the dead girl’s fate.</p> + +<p>The archduke for his part had been amiable and conciliatory, because there +was a certain delicate question he wished to ask.</p> + +<p>“Oh by the way, mi coronel,” he said abruptly, “I must +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_472'></a>472</span>extend my excuses +for keeping you waiting in the corridor just now. But there was another visitor +here. And as we happened to be talking of–well, of a rather personal +matter, not intended for outside ears––”</p> + +<p>“Do not worry. When you raised your voice, I turned and +left.”</p> + +<p>“But perhaps,” said Maximilian slowly, “it would have been +better if you had overheard, either you or another knowing the cruel rumors +which–which link my recent visitor’s name with my own. Then the +truth would have been made known. That truth, señor,” he hastened to add, +despite a hardening frown between the American’s eyes, “means first +that I have been honored, indeed, in my visitor’s––”</p> + +<p>He got no further. A broad hand closed over his mouth.</p> + +<p>“Another word of that, and +I’ll–I’ll––”</p> + +<p>The threat was left unfinished. Gasping in the chair where he had fallen, +Maximilian found himself alone. He was vaguely nonplussed. There had been so +many revelations of late that he thought this one simply a further re-adjusting +of himself to the modern world of men. The present instance had to do with the +critical juncture where the woman enters. But he had learned something else, +too. The American loved her, and that was important. Yet lovers were very +contrary beings, he mused lugubriously.</p> + +<p>“Still, I shall try again,” he decided. “One humble success +against my career of distinguished failures should not be too much to +expect.”</p> + +<p>The night that followed, a black, favorable night, was the time planned for +escape. Horses ready saddled waited outside the town under the aqueduct. Certain +guards were bribed, among them Don Tiburcio. The humorous rascal had driven a +hard bargain, but only because the money was to be had. He would have sold +himself as briskly for the cream of the jest.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_473'></a>473</span>Late the same +night there came a frantic pounding at Driscoll’s door, where he was +quartered in the sacristy of the old Capuchin church. “Well?” he +muttered, alert already.</p> + +<p>“Hurry, mi coronel!” a cracked voice blended with the knocking. +“Hurry, you are wanted!”</p> + +<p>“Murgie!” Driscoll exclaimed, flinging wide the door. “Back +from San Luis, and prowling round here as usual, eh? Well, what’s the +matter?”</p> + +<p>“Quick, señor! Maximilian is sick. Go, go to him!”</p> + +<p>Partly dressed, bootless, unarmed, Driscoll shoved the old man aside, and +sped through the church, hopping over half awakened soldiers as he went. Once in +the street, he glanced up at the tower room, which was Maximilian’s, and +thought it odd that no light streamed through the narrow slits there. The +sentinels, too, were gone. But he ran up the steps and darted along the +corridor, only to strike his head against a heavy wooden door that was ajar. He +rushed inside the cell, and with arms outspread quickly covered the space of it, +in the utter dark smashing a chair, crashing over a table, cursing a mishap to +his toe. But he found no one.</p> + +<p>“This here’s a jail-break,” he mumbled under his breath. +“Dam’ that Murgie, he’s roped me in to stop ’em!” +Whereat, all unconsciously, he smiled again at Fatality.</p> + +<p>Groping his way back to the corridor, he felt rather than saw three dim +figures steal past the door. Silently, swiftly, he gave pursuit. He heard a +fervent whisper just ahead.</p> + +<p>“Hasten, dear friends, and may God––”</p> + +<p>The next second he was grappling with someone. But his unknown captive did +not resist.</p> + +<p>“There, señor, loosen your fingers. I am not escaping. I am returning +to my cell. But I had to make the other two think that I was with +them.”</p> + +<p>The voice was Maximilian’s.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_474'></a>474</span>“Hark! Ah, +poor souls, they have failed!”</p> + +<p>The prince spoke truly. A fierce “Alto ahí!” sounded below. Then +there were musket shots and the confusion of many scrambling feet. Murguía had +routed out the church barracks. And when torches were brought, the soldiers +discovered that they had hands on Miramon and Mejía. But the false sentinels +were gone! In leaving the road clear they had used it themselves, already.</p> + +<p>“You fools!” suddenly a half crazed wail arose. “Fools, +<i>he</i> has escaped! He––”</p> + +<p>“Oh dry up, Murgie,” said Driscoll, coming down the steps. +“He’s gone back to his room, I reckon.”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_475'></a>475</span><a id='link_54'></a>CHAPTER XXI<br /><span class='h2fs'>The Title of Nobility</span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Hear, therefore, O ye kings, and understand.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Wisdom of Solomon.</i></p> </div> + +<p>One more sunset, one more sunrise! And then?...</p> + +<p>Maximilian again confronted the ghostly enumeration. But this time his last +day should be the day of a man’s work, in simple-hearted humility. He no +more searched the skies to find a supernal finger there. He let Destiny alone, +and did his best instead. For a man’s best is Destiny’s peer.</p> + +<p>The fiery June sun was dying in its larger shell of bronze over the western +sierras, and the self-same blue that vaults beautiful Tuscany was taking on its +richer, darker hue, when a foreigner in the land, Din Driscoll, walked under the +Alameda trees, his pipe cold in his mouth, he perplexed before his heavy +spirits. For he no longer had war to distract, to engross.</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s physician, an Austrian, found him in his reverie. Would +the Herr Americano at once repair to His Highness attend? The señor’s +presence would a favor be esteemed, in reason that a witness was greatly +necessitated.</p> + +<p>Wondering not a little, Driscoll hastened back into the town. As the +physician did not follow, he arrived alone. But in the door of the +archduke’s cell he stopped, angry and embarrassed. For his eyes +encountered a second pair, which were no less angry, which moreover, were +Jacqueline’s. Maximilian and Padre Soria, the father confessor, were also +there, but Driscoll at first saw no one but Jacqueline. As with him, she had +been vaguely summoned, without knowing why. A last testament <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_476'></a>476</span>was to be signed, she +imagined, but in his choice of witnesses she thought that Maximilian might at +least have shown more delicacy. As to cruelty also, she would not confess, but +cruelty it was, nevertheless. To see again this American was to know memory +quickened into torture, and days afterward there would still be with her, +vividly, hatefully, the beloved awkwardness of his strong frame, the splendid, +roguish head, now so forbidding, and more than all, the way he smiled of late. +It was a smile so cold, so cheerless, a something so changed in him since the +old, piquant days of their first acquaintance. Despise herself as she might, +Jacqueline knew how the sight of the man halted there would leave her whole +woman’s being athirst and panting.</p> + +<p>Maximilian’s thin white face lighted eagerly when he perceived that +Driscoll had come. The haggard despair of two days before had given way to a +serene calm, like that which soothes a dying man when the pain is no longer +felt. In a gentleness of command that would not be denied, he rose and brought +the American into the room.</p> + +<p>“Colonel Driscoll,” he began, “you know, of course, that a +witness is the world’s deputy. He is named to learn a certain truth, but +afterward he must champion that truth, even against the world. So you find +yourself here, but first I wish to thank––”</p> + +<p>“Please don’t mention it,” Driscoll interposed. +“I’m willing to do anything I can.”</p> + +<p>“Then remember,” said Maximilian, “that you are a witness, +and a witness only. Can you bear that in mind, señor, no matter what you may +hear?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll nodded, but the very first words all but made him a violent actor as +well. Maximilian had turned to Jacqueline. For a moment he paused, then with a +grave dignity spoke.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle,” he said, “reverently, prayerfully, I ask +your hand in marriage.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_477'></a>477</span>She gasped, and +so sharp and quick that certainly she was the most dumbfounded there. Her utter +stupefaction amazed Driscoll as much again as the question itself. He stiffened +as though struck. If this were a revelation? If it could be–if it could be +that she really knew no reason why she should marry Maximilian?</p> + +<p>The archduke observed them both, and his eyes shone with kindliness. But +making a gesture for patience, he hurried on. “Father Soria here,” +he said, “will come in the morning, just before the–the execution, +to perform the ceremony. A judge of the Republic will come too, for the civil +marriage. As to the banns––”</p> + +<p>“But why–<i>why</i>, parbleu?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline stood before him, stung from her speechless trance by fury. Behind +narrowed lids the gray eyes hardened as points of steel.</p> + +<p>“You shall know, mademoiselle,” he answered softly. “It is +a boon I ask of you, the greatest, and the only one before I +go––”</p> + +<p>“Why? Tell me why!”</p> + +<p>“Because it is <i>the</i> boon a true knight may crave. It is to right +before the world the noblest woman a knight can ever know––”</p> + +<p>“Sire!”</p> + +<p>The word was rage and supplication both. It was a hurt cry, piteous to hear. +Then the glint dying from her eyes blazed to tempestuous life in those of the +Missourian. But the priest’s hand touched his arm, and the priest’s +voice, low and gentle, stayed him.</p> + +<p>Maximilian, though, had seen the outburst. “Ah yes, señor, I +remember,” he said, and smiled, “one may be slapped upon the mouth, +yes, yes, for even breathing my lady’s name when one talks of +rumor.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline darted at them a puzzled glance. She did <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_478'></a>478</span>not understand at first. Then she +divined. And then, wide and gloriously, her eyes opened on Driscoll, her +defender. But in the instant they sought a safer quarter. She could not, and +would not, forgive him for being there at all.</p> + +<p>“However,” the obdurate prince continued, “our witness must +bear with me this time, for I will–<i>will</i>, I tell each of +you–speak plainly. The false scandal does exist. Deny it, dear lady, if +you can.–Nay, señor, <i>you</i> believe it, or did. So, now, as the +world’s deputy here, you must be armed to foil those venomous tongues. But +there is only one way. You shall tell them that they talk of Maximilian’s +widow––”</p> + +<p>“But––”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline, Driscoll, both spoke at once. But the girl flashed on the man an +angry command for silence.</p> + +<p>“Enough, enough!” she cried, “Let me speak, then end it. +Whatever others may think, Your Highness extends me his respect? Bien, but that +gives me a certain right, which is the right to consider just one thing in +answering the question of Your Highness–just one lone, little +thing.”</p> + +<p>“And that?”</p> + +<p>“Is–is whether or not I have the honor to love Your Highness. Oh, +the shame in such sacrifice, the shame you put on me! You should have known my +answer already.”</p> + +<p>Her answer? Driscoll stirred uneasily. What, indeed, was her answer?</p> + +<p>“Yet later, mademoiselle,” pursued her inflexible suitor, +“when others aspire to your hand, there might come one for whom your +answer would be favorable. How then, if this suitor, when pausing to hear what +the world says of you––”</p> + +<p>“He’d choke it down the world’s throat!” Driscoll +burst forth. “He alone need know it’s a lie.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline started as she heard him speak, but the glad and unintended look +she gave him changed as quick as thought to haughty resentment. After all, he +was still there.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_479'></a>479</span>“But how +else,” Maximilian persisted, “can such a man know so +much?”</p> + +<p>Then, a captive absolute to his lofty idea, the poet prince pleaded for it as +one inspired. All things worked, as by Heaven’s own will, to sanction what +he proposed. There was Charlotte’s death. There was his own. Dying, he was +still a Mexican, and might wed in any station he chose. While if he lived, as an +archduke of Austria he could not. But he detested life. With it he had bettered +no one. Yet by his death he hoped to save more than life to another. This other +was the girl before him. He had wrecked her dearest ambition. For France’s +sake she would have lured him from peril. For that, and that alone, she had +sacrificed her name. Such accounted for their interview at Cuernavaca. Such +accounted for her coming to Querétaro. Yet through his own blind weakness she +had failed. France had lost Mexico, he his life, and she–her happiness. +But the last could yet be restored. And why not purchase it with his death, +since he must have died in any case?</p> + +<p>“Must have,” Driscoll interrupted, “must have died in any +case?”</p> + +<p>The American had listened perplexed, now with a quick, eager start, now with +crinkled brows. First of all the old mystery and its anguish had assailed him. +The hideous, gloomy tangle would wound him round again. Did Jacqueline care for +this prince? Surely, because he had seen the evidence. But why had she intrigued +against his Empire, why had she turned Confederate aid from him?</p> + +<p>Then, as the ruined monarch spoke, the other man saw. He saw the truth. Truth +that reconciled all contradictions. That explained what even the theory of her +wanton heart had only half satisfied before. Explained everything by that heart +of purest gold. The lover knew now why she had delivered him to Lopez and the +Tiger, two years ago, though <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_480'></a>480</span>with the act so perversely confessing her love for +him. He knew why, at Boone’s Córdova plantation, she had tempted him to +hold her for his own, though even then she was returning to the capital, to +Maximilian. No, it was not wanton sport. It was not contradiction. But it was +conflict. In the contemplation of that conflict he stood unnerved. It was the +conflict between a wild yet altogether French scheme of patriotic endeavor and +her own good woman’s love. His eyes wandered to her, half afraid, and the +chill of months about his heart was gone, as some great berg of ice sinks in the +warmth of sunny waters. From siren alluring flesh whose touch was woe, she was +become a sceptred angel, far, far away, so tantalizingly far away!</p> + +<p>Thus Driscoll listened on, happy in his soul of a man, yet abashed as a boy. +But listening, at the last he was perplexed anew, though for another reason.</p> + +<p>“Must have died, sir?” he repeated again. “But that +wasn’t what you thought last night. No sir, last night you thought you +could escape. But just the same you turned back. You chose to die!”</p> + +<p>“His Highness,” spoke the gray-haired priest, “returned for +the señorita’s answer.”</p> + +<p>“My answer?” cried Jacqueline. “You mean, father, for my +sake?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll started violently, perplexed no longer. “By God, sir,” +he swore, and clapped Maximilian on the shoulder, “but you are a +man!”</p> + +<p>The prince recoiled, his instincts of breeding in arms against the savage +equality. But then, slowly, a smile that was almost beatific touched his lips, +and without knowing it, he straightened proudly, as majesty would.</p> + +<p>“A man?” he murmured, breathing exaltation. “Then am I, at +my last moment, come into harmony with God’s own <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_481'></a>481</span>ordering of the universe. For he made +man on the sixth day, not a Hapsburg. Man, and after His Own Image–Oh, but +that is the title the hardest of all to win! You–you don’t think, +señor, that you would like to take it back?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll reddened inexplicably. Murguía’s ivory cross was still in his +pocket.</p> + +<p>“No!” he blurted out with sudden defiance. “It’s the +truth!”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said Maximilian solemnly, “on your word I stake my +faith. To-morrow, at the judgment-seat, I shall hope to hear myself called +so.”</p> + +<p>“Your Highness,” questioned Jacqueline in a kind of daze, +“Your Highness did not <i>intend</i> to escape last night?”</p> + +<p>“No, he did not,” Driscoll answered for him. “He got +Miramon and Mejía started all right, and then, without knowing that your plot +had failed, he turned back to this cell here, alone.”</p> + +<p>“Your Highness, you did that for–for––”</p> + +<p>Her voice broke, and she stopped abruptly and went to the narrow window. With +her back to them, she groped for the dainty bit of cambric that was her +handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“So you see, my daughter,” said the priest, drawing near her, +“what he would have given, what, before Heaven, he has given, to tell you +what you so hotly resent. Do you resent it now?”</p> + +<p>The beautiful head shook slowly. She was touching her eyes with her +handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“Then you will not let his sacrifice be in vain? You will marry +him?”</p> + +<p>Impetuously she turned, and faced them. There were blinding drops, clear as +diamonds, on the long lashes. “Oh Your Highness, Your–Oh, there is +something you can tell me that is–that is inexpressibly better?”</p> + +<p>“Let me know what it is.”</p> + +<p>“It is if–if you can forgive me.–Mon Dieu, why did you +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_482'></a>482</span>need to heap this +terrible sacrifice on me? Why could you not remember that I tried to drive you +from your empire? That I plotted against you? That––”</p> + +<p>“Hush, you would have saved me.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, only incidentally, and you knew it. Yet you +must––”</p> + +<p>“Don’t! There’s nothing to forgive.–But wait, we will +grant that there really is, but only that I may exact my price of +forgiveness.”</p> + +<p>“The price? Name it.”</p> + +<p>“That you will marry me, here, to-morrow morning, before I +die.”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline raised her head. “Has Your Highness,” she demanded, +smiling shyly behind her tears, “has he forgotten the woman’s, +rather my consideration, before such a question?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll straightened, squared his shoulders to take a blow. To his blindness +her manner looked like awakening love for the other man–and for the man +himself, not for the prince! His sense of loss, his agony, were extreme. But of +the old bitterness he now knew nothing. His rival was putting the question. +“And according to that consideration, mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll did not see her swift glance toward himself. He was hurrying out +lest he might hear her answer. And she let him go–till he reached the +door. But there, like one frozen, he halted rigidly.</p> + +<p>“Hélas, I do not love you, sire,” Jacqueline had answered, very +quietly.</p> + +<p>Maximilian, however, did not seem heart broken.</p> + +<p>His attention was all for the mere witness. He saw the effect on that +witness. In Driscoll’s glad face he read his own triumph, his own purpose +achieved. Jacqueline was righted at last.</p> + +<p>“No,” he agreed, “I could not hope for so much.–But +another might.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_483'></a>483</span>Then apropos of +nothing, he went and flung his arms about Driscoll. The astounded trooper could +only grip his hand, just once, without a word. Then he was gone.</p> + +<p>Maximilian watched him go. The priest turned to Jacqueline. She, too, stood +poised so long as his spurs rang through the corridor. At last silence fell on +them. For a moment she hesitated. Then, trembling, her eyes moist, she held out +her hand. “Good-bye,” she whispered. But, impulsively, she raised +her arm and touched the doomed man’s forehead lightly with her finger +tips, making a blurred sign of the cross. And, not daring an instant longer, she +too fled.</p> + +<p>Maximilian was alone with the priest. The room was growing dark. It was the +last night.</p> + +<p>“Now, father, light the tapers, there on the altar. Yes, I am ready. +Ready? Blessed Mother in Heaven, it is more than I had thought to be!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_484'></a>484</span><a id='link_55'></a>CHAPTER XXII<br /><span class='h2fs'>The Abbey of Mount Regret</span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“O, here<br />Will I set up my everlasting rest,<br /> +And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars<br /> +From this world-wearied flesh.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Romeo and Juliet</i>.</p> </div> + +<p>It is curious and humiliating, how Nature does not vex herself in the least +for the dying of a man. And yet, to the man, the event is so very important! +Each breath of spaceless night, each twinkle from the firmament, though but the +phantom of a ray quenched ages before, everything, he teases into anxious +commentary on his own puny end. There could not be more ado if the Universe were +in the throes, writhing against a reconquering Chaos. Harassed creature, what +ails him is only the pathetic fallacy, which is a soothing melody and +stimulating to mortal pride. But the lapses into healthier realization are very, +very hard to bear.</p> + +<p>How cold it was, when Maximilian awoke! The chill seemed creeping nearer his +heart, nearer the citadel. And how black the night, before the dawn! But where, +now, were his matches? He had the same monotonous trouble of any other morning +in getting one to light. Then the two candles guttered fitfully, sordidly, just +as they had always done. The white cloths of the last communion seemed a ghostly +intrusion on what was of every day. Maximilian drew his cloak about him. The +chill was simply of the plateau, of the night, not the portent of death. The +world without was dark and desolate, but that had no reference to the tomb. The +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_485'></a>485</span>world was merely +taking its normal sleep. The heavy cloak ought to answer–but, it did +not.</p> + +<p>He took up the snuffers, coaxing the yellow flames to brighter promise, then +set the candles before him on the table. A piece of dripping tallow fell upon +his hand, and the hand jerked back. The man pondered. So, even his flesh was +part of Nature too, and heeded trivial pain, with no thought of the bullets to +drive through it shortly.</p> + +<p>He wrote two or three letters yet remaining, to friends, to his brother, the +Emperor of Austria. He penned words of farewell, yet even as the tears welled in +his eyes, he needed to stop and make sure that he had indeed not more than three +hours yet to live. It was difficult, though, with the candles spluttering there, +in the ordinary, every-day fashion. He signed the last letter, to his mother. He +gazed at the signature, of characters squarely formed. He might have written it +yesterday, or the year before. It looked the same. But the pen he had just +dropped had dropped forever. No, no, that should not be! And he snatched it up +again, and wrote, scribbled, covered paper, fearing to stop. But at last he did +stop, with a shivering laugh. He must face this thing, he decided. And over and +over again he told himself, “I have written my last. Yes, my last!” +and steadfastly resisted the taunting, airy quill lying there. So, what was +harder than farewell to loved ones, he nerved himself to end the small actions +of his daily existence.</p> + +<p>Maximilian had his life long been a dreamer, ever gazing wide-eyed as a child +on the wonderful fantasies that came, whether entrancing or dreadful. But the +child’s fantasies are kindred with man’s philosophies. Often, as he +lay awaiting sleep, there was one particular thought that would bring him +quickly, stark, staring awake. And this thought was, how certain things always +came to pass. No matter how far away, nor how very slow their approach, making +vague the hope or horror of them, yet the actual, present hour of their +happening <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_486'></a>486</span>always +struck at last. There was the eve of the day when he should be of age. Oh, but +he had longed for that day! He had longed until he craftily suspected it never +would arrive. And yet, despite those leaden-footed oxen, the minutes, arrive it +did, in very fact. The eve of that day was a happy bed-time; but over his ardent +reveries, over the vista of future achievements, there suddenly, darkly loomed +another thought, a foretoken and clammy shroud, which smote the young prince +with trembling. For would not the day of his death, however far away also, +sometime be the present, passing moment, as surely, just as surely, as this +anniversary of his birth? Here was a terrifying glimpse of mortality.</p> + +<p>When, not fifteen years later, Maximilian opened his eyes in the black +Capuchin cell, and comprehension grew on him of the present day’s meaning, +he recalled how the fantasy of a morning of death had first come to him. He was +a boy, and he was to go on a voyage. The boy had awakened when there was +scarcely light as yet, and heard his mother at the door. “It is time, +dear.” She spoke low, not liking to break his slumber. But in the silence +of all the world her voice was clear, and very sweet, and the words stood forth +against his memory ever afterward. He was to be gone from her for a time, and +this was in her mind as she called him. The boy, though, could think of nothing +except that his little excursion among new and strange adventures was to begin, +actually to begin. But then, quite unaccountably, there fell over his eagerness +a chilling gloom. The delightful sprite named Expectation, who had whispered so +piquantly of this same eventful morn, had basely changed herself into a hideous +vampire, and she muttered at him, in frightful, raucous tones. Yet the +hag’s snarls were true promises. There was to come, surely, inexorably, a +certain other eventful morn, and he would awake, and without his mother’s +calling him, he would know–<i>know</i>–that it was time!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_487'></a>487</span>Back in that +childhood hour he had lain for a while quite inconsolable, until his mother came +again, and rested her hand on his head, and told him–“Why, one would +think the little goose was going away forever!” It was broad daylight by +now, too; and wholly comforted, he had sprung up, joyfully alive. Eternity did +not worry him any more for a week.</p> + +<p>But the awakening of this later morning, in a Mexican prison! And when he +understood that the old familiar fantasy was become a fact! When he remembered +how once he had been consoled in his boyhood! For a moment the sense of loss and +of helplessness was stifling, and he yearned–yearned frantically, as he +never had as a boy–for the touch of his mother’s hand, for her +voice, so low and sweet. The horrid cruelty he could not, during that moment, +bear. He felt that he must cry out for her, like a very child. And though he +wept, it was the man, and the man’s despair that his was not now the +boy’s need of comfort.</p> + +<p>But when they came in the first dawn and knocked at his door, they found him +serene, untroubled, and only the wonted shade of melancholy on his brow. He +greeted them courteously, and was desirous that they should have no unnecessary +difficulties on his account. Being dressed already, punctiliously, and in black, +he himself went to call Miramon and Mejía, and brought them to his own cell, +where they received the last sacrament together.</p> + +<p>Later the three condemned were at breakfast–bread, chicken, a little +wine and a cup of coffee–when horses’ hoofs rang abruptly in the +street below, and as abruptly ceased under their window. There was a command, +and sabres rasped against their scabbards to gain the light. Maximilian raised +eyes filled with pity to his two companions. Mejía, an Indian thoroughly, made a +gesture of impatience. The handsome Miramon, of French blood, shrugged his +shoulders. Then both glanced timidly in their turn at Maximilian, and each <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_488'></a>488</span>finding a hand stretched +forth, grasped it silently. But the priests of the condemned, who were waiting +apart, felt their blood turn to icy beads. For them the quick metallic gust of +strident life down in the street had the merciless quality of hammering upon a +coffin lid.</p> + +<p>Troops filed up the stairs, and along the corridor. They halted, faced the +door, grounded arms. An officer stepped out, fumbled with a document, and read +the death sentence. Maximilian gently released himself from one and another of +those present, and turning to the Austrian physician, handed him his wedding +ring. “You will give it to my mother,” he said. Father Soria’s +eyes filled with tears, one plump fist clenched pathetically. Maximilian passed +an arm over the good man’s shoulder, and with him walked out among the +soldiers. He nodded to them encouragingly, and so started on his little +journey.</p> + +<p>Three ramshackle public hacks, set high over wabbling wheels, and drawn by +mules, waited at the door. Maximilian smiled an apology as he motioned Father +Soria to precede him into the first. The troops used their spurs. A whip +cracked. The springs jolted. Everywhere, on the curbs, in windows, on housetops, +there were people. The archduke had the impression of breath tensely held, and +of eyes, eyes strained, curious, and awed, like those of children who witness +suffering and cannot understand.</p> + +<p>Passing the convent of Santa Clara, Maximilian peered upward at the windows; +and, as he hoped, he saw Jacqueline. She was leaning far out, and tremulously +poised. Tender compassion was in every line of her tense body, but as their gaze +met she tried to smile, bravely and cheerfully, and until the hack swung round +the corner, there was her hand waving him farewell. The little journey might +have been, a fête, and somehow, he was comforted.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” he mused, “if I’ve done very much for +her, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_489'></a>489</span>after all. Or +for that American, named Driscoll? Will she–” He shook his head, and +sighed. “No, she is not the lass to have him, not after my little scene of +last night. But, the choice does rest with her, now. And for a girl, that is +everything.–Alas, poor young man!”</p> + +<p>His rueful prophecies were that moment interrupted by a woman’s scream. +It rose piercingly over the clatter of their march. Maximilian put out his head +and looked back. The woman was running beside Mejía’s hack, panting, +stumbling through the dust, her black hair streaming. She held a babe in her +rebosa, but with her free hand she clutched weakly at the spokes. To the clumsy, +pitying soldiers who would force her away, she cried again, “Mercy ... +Mercy ... Mercy....” A low murmuring grew on every side. Maximilian flung +open his cab door. But the same instant it was slammed against him. He sank to +his seat, with a stare of dumb pain in his eyes that the priest beside him never +afterward forgot. The woman back there was Mejía’s wife. And Maximilian +had had one glimpse of the husband’s face. It was a face stretched to +agony, deadened to the color of lead.</p> + +<p>“May I, may I–<i>pay</i> for this!” moaned the one-time +Emperor. “O God, grant Thou that I do pay for this, hereafter!”</p> + +<p>Beyond the last hovels of the suburbs, at the foot of the Cerro de las +Campanas, the condemned were told to alight. Here again there was a throng, +hundreds and hundreds of swarthy faces, blank in awed pity. One gaping fellow +pointed wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“Look, there they are! There–los muertos!”</p> + +<p>Maximilian overheard, and a cold shiver crossed his spine. To be identified +already as “the dead one!”</p> + +<p>Then he beheld his coffin, there, the longest of the three being borne up the +hill. They were boxes of cheap wood, unpainted inside, smeared with black on the +outside. A wavy streak of carmine simulated the drooping cord and golden tassels +of <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_490'></a>490</span>richer caskets. +It was the pomp and circumstance that pertains to the humblest peon clay.</p> + +<p>Four thousand serried bayonets squared the base of the hill, and made a +compact, bristling hedge to hold back the common people. Through it marched the +doomed Imperialists, each with his confessor and a platoon of guards, and so +toiled on up the slope. The archduke looked about him. There were many +privileged spectators within the cordon, but nowhere did he see a former friend. +All, all, had kept away, and in his heart he knew that it was better so. He +could not ask that much of them. But stay–yes, a remembered figure caught +his attention; a shriveled decrepit figure. Here, too, mid every color +Republican, he beheld in the man’s garb a last surviving uniform of the +vanished Empire. It was, however, scarcely to be distinguished as such. The red +coat was threadbare, and soiled with dust. The ragged green pantaloons, held by +a knotted rope, were grotesquely faded. Yet the prince, who had once gloried in +dashing regimentals and mistook them for power, was deeply touched. He +recognized a lone unit of what had been none other than the Batallon del +Emperador. He paused, to have a word with the miserable derelict.</p> + +<p>“So, you would be near me, even now?” he said. “Ah, ever +faithful little old man, but are you brave enough for the horror of it? Are +you?”</p> + +<p>Red eyeballs rolled upward in their sockets, and for a space met the +archduke’s kindly gaze. Then the steady repellant hate in them seemed +disconcerted, and the withered form cowered under the touch of the pale white +hand. Inaudible words rattled in the old man’s throat, and he trembled, as +though to turn and run. Maximilian regarded him benevolently, thinking it a +crisis of emotion.</p> + +<p>“There, there,” he said, “go if you wish. It’s not +well, you see, to think of me so much. But you must not imagine that I am +ungrateful. When you believed yourself unseen, certainly <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_491'></a>491</span>when you had no hope of reward, +throughout my misfortunes, you have always hovered near me, on the battlefield, +and more lately under my prison window. Yes, yes, I have seen. And now, and now +I thank you.” The bloodshot eyes roved the ground, but did not lift again. +“As humble, as loyal as a dog,” Maximilian murmured as he turned +away.</p> + +<p>They indicated to him that he should take his place before a wall of adobe +blocks which had been piled together near the crest of the hill, only a little +lower than those very fortifications built by the Imperialists themselves. With +a gesture of assent, he complied. The priests fell sorrowfully back behind the +soldiers, and he and Miramon and Mejía were alone together, three tragic +isolated figures in a little oblong patch of bare rocky hillside. One end of the +oblong was the adobe shield. The other three sides were walls of living men, +massed shoulder to shoulder, with bayonets pointed outward against the jostling +peering crowd. The three who were to die could now see no human being beyond the +dense, double row of soldiery. The remainder of earth for them was the hollow +square, bounded by the slouching backs clothed in blue, by the white flats of +the képis, by the line of light playing over the thorns of steel. Beyond was the +early morning sun; above, the mystery of space.</p> + +<p>Through the gap of an instant the shooting squads tramped in, nearer and +nearer, until they halted opposite the condemned. Maximilian then perceived +which squad was to be his own. It numbered seven tiradores and a yellow, +beardless officer. The seven were low, cumbersome, tawny, and they shuffled +awkwardly. Their stripling chief thrust out his stomach, and he handled his +large sword with an unaccustomed flourish. The pompous severity was, after all, +only insolence. He had need to keep guard on his importance; he did not wish to +hear the pounding of his heart. Yet his muscles twitched unbecomingly, which +jerked his mouth, and sometimes his head.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_492'></a>492</span>Maximilian +stepped forward and addressed them. To each he gave a gold piece bearing his +effigy. It was his last expenditure in that coin. He requested them earnestly, +gently, to aim at his body, not at his head. He was thinking of his mother. He +would not have her see him with mangled features. Then with a final reassuring +word, he turned back to the wall.</p> + +<p>They were going to place him between the other two, but with a smile and +shake of the head, he would not have it so. His last act was for precedence. +Affectionately he drew Miramon to the place of honor, so that Mejía was on the +right, and himself on the left.</p> + +<p>Then the <i>fiscal</i> of the Republic appeared, and read the military law. +For any who should ask the lives of the condemned, death was prescribed. But if +there was anything the condemned themselves wished to say....</p> + +<p>Maximilian removed his hat. “Mexicans,” he said, “may my +blood be the last to be spilled for this country’s welfare. Long live +Independence! Long live Mexico!”</p> + +<p>He spoke the words calmly, gravely, and having concluded, he carefully +adjusted a large handkerchief, so that his beard might not be burned by the +powder. Then he crossed his arms on his breast, and gazed steadily into the +barrels of the leveled muskets, waiting.</p> + +<p>A wave of motion, of tendons stiffening, passed along the thick wall of +flesh. Against it the tide without swelled higher, stronger. Tension strained +upward to the supreme crash. The quiet of a multitude is pain.</p> + +<p>But the other two Imperialists had not spoken yet. Mejía shook his head +passionately. He saw only his young wife with her babe, panting, stumbling +through the dust. He held a crucifix, and would not take it from his lips. +Miramon, however, raised his voice to protest against the charge of treason. Of +that crime he died innocent. But he pardoned, as he hoped <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_493'></a>493</span>for pardon. Then he cried, “Long +live Mexico! Long live the Emperor!”</p> + +<p>Maximilian started. These were the words that he thought he should like to +hear. But now they grated. They recalled the mistake he had lived, the +anachronism of his life. They were scorpions. They stung like the needle in an +ulcer. He turned sharply, in tearful reproach. But a sword flashed, the volley +came, and the three men fell, as under a crushing rock, one against the wall; +his head broken over upon his breast. The pert young officer pointed his blade +at three convulsive bodies, and through each a last bullet sped, burying itself +in the earth beneath. The crowd pressed, surged, stood on tiptoe.</p> + +<hr style='border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; height: 1px; width: 80%; text-align: center; margin: 10px auto;' /> + +<p>There was one other among the spectators, but keeping himself hidden, whom +Maximilian would have been concerned to see there. He was Driscoll. He came to +watch the shriveled derelict, Murguía. He came to stand guard over a soul, +Maximilian’s. What peace that soul had found should not be destroyed. And +so he screened himself in the crowd, holding ready to crush a viper whose fangs +were heavy with poison. When Maximilian paused and spoke to the old man, +Driscoll was very near, near enough to hear, and to strike. But the old man had +only wheezed and mumbled. Though why that old man did not utter a first word, +though why he could not, will never be explained. But this much is true, that +the ambushed soul, moving so calmly toward eternity, then stepping so near the +coiled serpent, was yet its own guardian, unwittingly.</p> + +<p>Until the very end Driscoll staid there alert. The old man, baffled, +insatiate, might yet cry out what he knew. Driscoll’s gaze never relaxed. +He felt as though he watched a murderer while the murder was being done. But the +old man only listened. Unable to see within the hollow square, he listened, and +waited. His lower jaw hung open, and over his lip a white <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_494'></a>494</span>froth grew and grew, until it broke and +trickled down his chin. The red eyeballs gleamed ravenously, as still he +waited.</p> + +<p>“When this is over,” Driscoll said to himself, “he’ll +plump down in a fit and blow out. Else he’ll go raving crazy. Lord, that +look!”</p> + +<p>When it <i>was</i> over, Driscoll went to him. He had but to reach forth a +hand and fasten on his shoulder. He held him against a scurrying of spectators, +whom the tragedy’s close had that instant brought to life.</p> + +<p>“Here, Murgie, here’s something that belongs to you,” he +said. “Well, what’s the matter? Take it, I don’t want +it.”</p> + +<p>The old man looked up. An ivory cross was dangling from the other’s +fingers. The cross still showed bloodstains; no later flowing of blood had +washed <i>them</i> away. But the father of María de la Luz stared, stared +vacantly at the trinket. The masterful, consuming rage of two years past was +gone out of his eyes. Instead they were watery and senile. The brows, and even +the lashes, had turned as white as the thin strands of hair, and contrasted +gruesomely against the yellow, mottled skin, which stretched like clouded +parchment over the bony death’s head. At last the old man put out his hand +and took the cross, not comprehending.</p> + +<p>“No, I didn’t give it to him,” Driscoll explained bluntly. +“I told you I wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p>Yet no spasm of chagrin distorted the weazen face.</p> + +<p>“This chain here, it’s–it’s <i>gold</i>!” the +old man cried.</p> + +<p>Then he sputtered, choked. What had he betrayed? Would the strange donor +reclaim the gift, knowing it was gold? He leered craftily at Driscoll, and with +a hungry, gloating secrecy–his old slimy way of handling money–he +smuggled the holy symbol under his jacket. But from cunning the leer changed to +suspicion and quick alarm. He delved into his pockets, one after another. He +searched greedily, wildly, until the last coin on him lay in his palm. Quaking +in every feeble bone, <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_495'></a>495</span>he counted his poor wealth again and again. There +was very little left. He glared at Driscoll. He glared at townsmen, officers, +blanketed Inditos, all swarming past to gaze on the three corpses. He cried +“Thief!” first at one unheeding passer-by, then at another.</p> + +<p>“I had more than this!” he whined. “More–more than +this! There was my hacienda, my peons, my cotton, my mills, my canvas bags. +There was my blockade runner. She was Clyde-built, she was named <i>La Luz</i>, +she cost twenty thousand English gold pieces. Who has taken these things from +me? Who–where––Curse you, do <i>you</i> know?”</p> + +<p>Dissipating his hoards, sacrificing his last chattel, all that was now a +blank. But his hoards, his chattels, were all that were now worth while, and the +miser clamored for them, and them only. Vengeance, however, is an ironical +bargainer. Vengeance kept her pay, and “abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly +hate,” had dried and left a stranded soul, parched by avarice. Driscoll +was moved by a pity half ashamed.</p> + +<p>“Look here, Murgie,” he threatened terribly, “Do you say +<i>I</i> stole your––By the Great Horn Spoon, I’ll––” He +flung his hand to his revolver.</p> + +<p>The counter-irritant had instant effect. All moisture died out of the rat +eyes, leaving them two little horrible beads. The miser shrank, groveled, in +mortal terror of some physical hurt.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_496'></a>496</span><a id='link_56'></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Contrariness of Jacqueline</span></span></h2> + +<div class='box'> +<p>“Much adoe there was, God wot;<br /> +He wold love, and she wold not.”</p> +<p class='ar'><i>–Ballad of Phillida and Corydon.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Maximiliano I. of Mexico was dead. His dynasty and his Empire were the +frippery of a past time. Yet there was his capital, still holding out against +the Republic. Leonardo Marquez, the Leopard, spitefully refused to capitulate. +But why he would not, no one knew, neither the starving City, nor the patient +besieger outside. No one, unless it was Jacqueline. The very day of the triple +execution she called on Escobedo, commander in chief at Querétaro. She desired +to return to the capital, and she wanted a pass through the Republic’s +lines there. She mentioned, in case it were any inducement, that the place would +fall within twenty-four hours after her arrival. Jacqueline had difficulty to +speak at all. She could not endure the general’s monstrous flaps of ears, +his rabbinical beard, his cruel black eyes.</p> + +<p>“María purísima,” he exclaimed, “you cannot mean, señorita, +that you, all alone, will deliver the City of Mexico into our hands?”</p> + +<p>“It will certainly be an incident of my stay there,” she +replied.</p> + +<p>The hard, Jewish features lighted cunningly. “Then, por Dios, you are +as wonderful as I’ve always heard! But may–may one be allowed a +little curiosity?”</p> + +<p>“I <i>might</i> say,” and Jacqueline forthwith said it, +“that I have just had a cipher telegram from Louis Napoleon.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_497'></a>497</span>“Which,” breathlessly demanded the +other, “will interest Marquez, eh? Will disappoint him? Will cause him to +surrender?”</p> + +<p>“Your Excellency is of course entitled to his own +conjectures.”</p> + +<p>But the commander-in-chief was satisfied. “We must hasten your going by +every means,” he declared. “You shall have an escort. +You––”</p> + +<p>“Then I choose the Gray Troop–because,” she added +carefully, “they’re the best.”</p> + +<p>Now, why, by all that’s feminine, was she surprised next morning when +the Gray Troop gathered round her coach, as though that were a coincidence? At +least she arched her brows, and lifted one shoulder petulantly, and unmistakably +showed that she expected a tedious time of it. The sunburned colonel of the +Grays beamed so with happiness too, as he drew rein to report to her. They met +for the first time since Maximilian’s embarrassing little scene for their +express benefit. Driscoll noted her disdain, and it is likely that he only +grinned. He did that because he knew how helpless he was, and how merciless she +could be. For she was not only beautiful, she was pretty–a demure, sweet, +and very pretty girl. Some vague instinct of self-defense guided him. His broad +smile was exasperating in the last degree, and it was not she, but the other +young woman in the coach, whom he addressed.</p> + +<p>“I got some side saddles, Miss Burt,” he announced, “and a +few extra mustangs, whenever anybody gets tired of traveling behind +curtains.” Curiously enough, both girls wore riding habits. “Oh, by +the way,” he inquired suddenly, “how’s Miss Jack’leen this +morning? Is she well and–docile?”</p> + +<p>Jacqueline’s chin dropped in astonishment. She seized the old canvas +window flap and jerked it down. But at once she raised it again, and +thoughtfully contemplated the trooper.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” she mused aloud, in that quaint accenting of <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_498'></a>498</span>the English which cannot +be described, “when is it that you are going to grow up, +<i>ever</i>?”</p> + +<p>“I did start to,” Driscoll informed her soberly, “but it +got tiresome as all creation, and I reckon I’ve backslided just +since”–a world of earnestness came into his lowered voice. +–“well, just since we had that talk with poor Maximilian.”</p> + +<p>The old canvas curtain fell for good then, and very abruptly.</p> + +<p>A moment later, however, she was avenging her flushed cheeks on Mr. Daniel +Boone, who rode at the other side, also sunburned, also effulgent with +happiness.</p> + +<p>“If it isn’t the <i>animal disputans</i>!” she exclaimed. +“Look Berthe, and rejoice; our sighing Monsieur le Troubadour!”</p> + +<p>Driscoll hovered near a moment, then reluctantly rode ahead of his battered +dusty warriors. So he and the wilful maid from France began a second journey +together, yet far, far apart. But only after many torturing hours did his first +joy consent to perceive the distance between them.</p> + +<p>Now and then, though rarely, and never when he hoped for such a thing, she +would ride with him. And then he usually stirred up hostilities before he knew +it, and notwithstanding all that was tender and humble which he meant to tell +her. There was, however, cause enough for savagery. She made him the least of +the troop, though he arranged each detail of speed and comfort, laid out +tempting noon-day spreads, improvised cheer in the cheerless hostelries, and all +with a forethought showing pathetically how his every thought was of her. But if +she divined the inwardness of this, which of course she did, outwardly she +contrived to be oblivious. She thanked him sincerely and simply, the while that +he craved repayment, as the heart repays. He yearned for only a chance to speak +his mind, and to force hers. But now craftily she would bring the others +flocking round, to decide for her if they did not think monsieur absurdly +mistaken in this or that! <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_499'></a>499</span>The same instant she would conjure up the most +trivial of arguments, and be vastly shocked over the ridiculous contentions +which she herself assigned to Driscoll.</p> + +<p>She grew honestly fond of the other Missouri colonels, with their ranger +uniforms, and brawn scarred by weather and battle, and they and the marchioness +became great friends. She was a dainty flower among them, but they were prime +comrades, and she, the mad-cap tomboy her life long, took to them in the impulse +that here were her own kind. Driscoll was proud to see it, without need of being +generous. She gathered Berthe, as a soberer sister, into the merry communion, +and she rode with Clay of Carroll, with Carroll of Clay, with Reub Marmaduke, +with Crittenden, with cherubic Old Brothers and Sisters, with Hanks the bugler, +and she mocked Meagre Shanks, that disputatious animal, because he tried to +monopolize Berthe and would not dispute at all. She asked them questions. She +asked Harry Collins if his tribe were the same as that of ces Missouriens-là, +and the Kansan confessed that the two tribes had been a bit hostile of late, but +what with raiding, razing, and murdering, he guessed they’d laid the +foundation for a mutual self-respect, as behooved valiant redskins. So she often +got strange answers for her inquisitiveness, but she had grown wary among +Westerners, and she usually paid them back. They were a happy party. But +Driscoll wanted a more definite focusing of the joy. And at times, indeed, +yielding to temptation herself, she permitted him to lose his heart deliciously +over again. Shadows were lifted now, and she was just a lovable girl, just sweet +Jacqueline. And he loved her with the boy’s young strength of adoration +and diffident awe. Precisely in which state she made him suffer exquisitely. No +one could be more contrary and capricious than the lovable girl of a moment +before. Whereat storms brewed within him.</p> + +<p>There was one of the rare times when the Missourian and <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_500'></a>500</span>the maid rode up and down the winding +white ribbon of a Mexican highway, and for awhile both were quiet. This once +they dared the risk–she did, rather–which lurks in the silence that +requires no words. For him it brought the old time, and the rides of that time, +when he wondered what was the matter with him, and she knew all along. And he +thought how during the hard winter in the Michoacan mountains and swamps, he had +caught himself almost crying aloud, that he wanted her, that he wanted +her–wanted again the subtle comradeship of those silences which require no +words. And here, at last, here she was, riding beside him!</p> + +<p>He looked at her furtively. She was in profile. He looked again, to be sure +that it was not memory, but the breathing girl herself. Yes, for a fact, it was +the girl herself. And here was her own queenly head, here its regal poise, here +the superb line of the neck to the shoulder. Reverence grew on admiration, for +as he gazed he beheld her character revealed, of lines as stately, as womanly, +and withal as flexible, too, before the cheery glow of each moment’s life. +He stirred, and was vaguely restive, and perhaps a little frightened also, +because of the deep mystery of something within himself which he could not +understand. The classic outline of her features was softened now in the warmth +of flesh. Her vivacity was off guard, in the forgetfulness of reverie. The pure +white of the little tip of ear was tinged with pink. Her eyes were lowered to +the saddle horn. They were melting. They were almost blue.</p> + +<p>“Jack’leen!” He burst out fervently, before he thought, with an +arm half lifted toward her.</p> + +<p>The drooping lashes raised. The eyes were gray again. She regarded him for +awhile without speaking.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you quarrel?” she asked finally.</p> + +<p>The spell was broken. Her pounding heart had vent in a nervous laugh of +raillery. She touched her horse with the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_501'></a>501</span>riding crop in her gauntleted hand. Somehow she +would not leave that dumb brute, the horse, in peace. Driscoll’s old +Demijohn, however, was used to the game by now. He pointed his ears, and +checkmated that last move by bringing his master once more to the lady’s +side.</p> + +<p>“You used to,” she went on, as though there had been no +interruption, “nicely. You were of an interest then. In fact, I +reck-<i>on</i>–I know no one that I had rather have quarreled +with.”</p> + +<p>But still he would not, though that “reckon” from her lips was +most alluring. She stole a mischievous glance at his face, but the fixed look +there made her lift <i>her</i> hand toward <i>him</i>. Perhaps, if he had seen +and had spoken then–But he did see.</p> + +<p>“Eh bien, since monsieur won’t fight, won’t, +<i>won’t</i>,” she cried, “then it’s more fun +to––”</p> + +<p>Evidently to seek livelier company. For she wheeled the mustang, swerved from +a grasp at her bridle, and went galloping back to the coach. He twisted in his +saddle, pushed his sombrero higher on his head, and dubiously watched her flying +from him, a lithe, trim figure in snug Hungarian jacket, the burnished tendrils +fluttering on the nape of her neck, the soft white veil trailing like a fleecy +cloud from her black <i>amazona</i> hat. He bent a perplexed gaze to the road. +“It’s ’way, ’way beyond me,” he told himself. Then he grew +aware of a sense of warmth on his forearm. Yes, he remembered. For an instant +she had laid a hand on his sleeve, and he had thrilled to the ineffable token of +nestling. He was never immune from her tantalizing contradictions. He felt this +one yet.</p> + +<p>Hoofs pounded behind, and Mr. Boone drew up alongside. “She came back, +and made me get away from the coach,” he announced. “Prob’bly she +wanted to cry some; she looked it.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_502'></a>502</span>Yet another of +her contradictions!</p> + +<p>“Then why in the nation,” Driscoll demanded, “do you keep +hanging round that coach for? Look here Shanks, you make me plum’ weary. +The idea of you falling in––”</p> + +<p>“No more’n you, you innocent gamboling lamb of an ol’ +blatherskite.” But Daniel’s steel blue eyes had softened to their +gentlest. “Say Jack,” he added, “she’s going back to +Paris.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t I know it? Lord A’mighty!”</p> + +<p>“Go on, never mind me,” said Mr. Boone. “Groan out loud, if +you want to. For she sho’ly is, yes, back to Paris. Now Buh’the”–The +Troubadour’s <i>r’s</i> always liquefied dreamily with that +name–“Buh’the has been telling me a few things, and I’m sure +reporter enough to scout out the rest of the story, and it’s just +this–Jack, she’s fair broken-hearted.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Burt?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, the marchioness. She staked out a campaign over here, and +it’s panned out all wrong, and it wasn’t her fault either. Poor +girl, no wonder she might like to cry a little. She’s lavished everything +she had on it too, ancestral château, and all that.”</p> + +<p>“But,” said Driscoll quickly “she’ll not suffer. +There’s her title––”</p> + +<p>“Title?” exclaimed Daniel. “W’y, she’s going to +give that up too, not having any château any more, and she’ll trip +blithely down among the people again, where she says it’s more comfortable +anyhow. Title? Well, you’ve suhtinly noticed that she always did take that +humorously. Her grandfather–Buh’the says–was right considerable of a +jurist, used scissors and paste, and helped make a scrap-book called the +Napoleonic code, and Nap the First changed him into a picayunish duke. But +wasn’t the nobility of intellect there already? Sho’ly! Miss Jacqueline, +though, likes the father of her grandfather the best. He never was noble, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_503'></a>503</span>technically I mean. His +was the nobility of heart, and he’d have scorned to be tagged. He just +baked bread, and fed most half of Saint Antoine for nothing at times, while the +Dauphin at Versailles was throwing cakes to the swans. Howsoever,” Mr. +Boone added hastily, as sop to his softness for princes, “I reckon that +there Dauphin was noble too. Both of ’em fed the hungry mouths that were +nearest.”</p> + +<p>“But,” demanded Driscoll, “doesn’t her title carry +some sort of a–a compensation?”</p> + +<p>“Not a red sou. The majorat–that’s the male line–died +out with her father, which means that the annuity died out too.”</p> + +<p>“W’y, Great Scot, she’s––”</p> + +<p>“She’s tired and disheartened, that’s what she is, and +she’s going back to Paris, and you–” Boone paused, and glared +at his companion, “–and you mean to let her!”</p> + +<p>Old Demijohn felt a spur kicked against his flank, and he lifted his fore +feet and sped as the wind. It was fully an hour later when Meagre Shanks caught +up with horse and rider again. Rather, he met them coming back. His conversation +was guileless, at first.</p> + +<p>“Do you know, Din,” he began, “those two girls are only +half educated? Yes sir, gastronomically, they are positively illiterate, and +it’s a shame! W’y, they don’t know hot biscuits and molasses. +They don’t know buttermilk. They don’t know yams. Nor paw-paws, nor +persimmons. They don’t even know watermelon. Now isn’t France a +backward place?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t, Shanks!” Driscoll begged. “You’ll have +me heading for Missouri in a minute. You didn’t, uh, mention peach +cobbler?”</p> + +<p>“<i>And</i> peach cobbler, big as an acre covered with snow. And just +think, it’s roastin’ ea’ah time up there now, <i>now</i>!” How +Daniel’s voice did mellow under a tender sentiment! “And to +think,” he went on, “of the marchioness living on in <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_504'></a>504</span> such ignorance! +It’s a thing that’s just got to be remedied, Jack.”</p> + +<p>“Then suppose you take her to Missouri,” growled his friend, +“and let me alone.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> take <i>her</i>? Oh come now, Din, I see I’ve got to +tell you something which is–” The Troubadour’s accents grew +low and fond, and the other man respected them, with something between a smile +and a sigh for his own case. “Which is–well, nobody’s noticed +it, but the fact is that Buh’the, that Miss Buh’the––”</p> + +<p>“Dan,” interrupted Driscoll severely, “you’re not +going to tell me any secret. You mean that you weren’t mistaken when you +mistook her for a queen.”</p> + +<p>“That–that’s it!” ejaculated Daniel. “Of +coh’se,” he added soothingly, “the other one is a–a mighty +nice girl, but––”</p> + +<p>“Oh, <i>is</i> she? But Miss Burt is <i>the</i> one you want to take to +Missouri? Well Dan, why don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Because,” was the doleful reply, “those two are just like +orphan sisters together, and–well, she won’t desert. She <i>is</i> a +queen, by God, sir! Miss Jacqueline might make her, but I haven’t got the +heart to ask it. Now, uh, if–if you would just bring along the other +one?”</p> + +<p>So, here was the goal of all of Daniel’s manœuvering!</p> + +<p>Driscoll cast a leg over the pommel of his saddle, and faced Boone squarely. +“Shanks,” he demanded with tense vehemence, “do you suppose I +need your woes for a prod? Don’t you know how much–Lord +A’mighty, how much!–I’d like to oblige you? But–she +won’t let me–even speak. There’s, there’s something the +matter.”</p> + +<p>Boone’s lank jaw fell. “What, I wonder?”</p> + +<p>“And don’t I wonder too?” Driscoll muttered savagely. +“But it’s <i>something</i>.”</p> + +<p>From which moment until the end of the journey, and afterward, <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_505'></a>505</span>there were two men who +pondered on what could be the trouble with Jacqueline. But while one pondered +gloomily and fiercely and with a semi-comic grin under the lash, the other let +perplexity delve and ferret into the mystery. For Mr. Boone had grown aware that +an enormous heap of happiness for four depended on himself alone.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_506'></a>506</span><a id='link_57'></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br /><span class='h2fs'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Journalistic Sagacity of a Daniel</span></span></h2> + +<div class='mbox'> +<p>“Ah, my Belovèd, fill the cup that clears<br /> +To-day of past Regret and future Fears.”</p> +<p class='ar'>–<i>Omar.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>At last Jacqueline stabbed a dot after the word “Finis,” and so +rounded out her chapter on “Failure.” Beyond doubt that tiny +punctuation point saved many lives. The besiegers were waxing impatient to +assault, and within the City famine mobs ran the streets, crying, “Corn +and wood! Corn and wood!” Those who could fled to the Republican camp. The +Austrians practically mutinied. Starving and dying thousands clamored for +surrender. Yet the ugly, revolting pigmy who was lieutenant of the Empire held +them back in the terror of his heartless cruelty.</p> + +<p>Then the angel of mercy came. From her Marquez the tyrant learned that his +speculation in treachery had collapsed. Louis Napoleon wanted no more of that +stock. Besides, every French bayonet was needed in France. The rabid Leopard +heard, and that night meanly crept away to save his own loathsome pelt. Bombs +had begun to fall into the City, when a Mexican general worthier of the name +took upon himself the heroic shame of unconditional surrender. The Oaxacans +outside marched in, led by their young chief, Porfirio Diaz, and they fed the +people, and of “traitors” shot only a moderate few.</p> + +<p>Renovation became the order of the days that followed. The President of the +Republic was to be welcomed back to his <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_507'></a>507</span>capital. The stubborn old patriot’s heart must +be gladdened by every contrast to the dreary, rainy night years before when he +fled into exile. Mexico would honor herself in honoring the Benemérito of +America. So bunting was spread over every façade, along every cornice, green, +white, and red, a festival lichen of magic growth. Flags cracked and snapped +aloft, and lace curtains decked the outside of windows. Soldiers put on shoes +and canvased their brown hands in white cotton gloves, and military bands +rehearsed tirelessly.</p> + +<p>Din Driscoll sat on a bench in the shady Zócalo, and contemplated the Palacio +Nacional and the Cathedral in process of changing sides from Empire to Republic. +Innumerable lanterns being hung along their massive outlines were for incense to +a goddess restored. The Mexican eagle had prevailed over monarchial griffins, +and held her serpent safely in the way of being throttled. The blunt homely +visage of Don Benito Juarez, luxuriously framed, looked out from over the Palace +entrance. It was a huge portrait, surrounded by the national standards. Among +the emblems there was one other, the Stars and Stripes. The gaze of the +ex-Confederate was fixed. It was fixed steadily on the Stars and Stripes. Now +and then he felt a rising in his throat, which he had difficulty to swallow down +again.</p> + +<p>“Well, Jack?”</p> + +<p>Boone stood over him. Driscoll’s eyes were oddly troubled as they +turned from that flag opposite.</p> + +<p>“Sure it’s hard,” said Boone quietly, “mighty hard, +to forgive our enemies the good they do.”</p> + +<p>“What enemies?”</p> + +<p>“W’y, them,” and Daniel pointed to a flag as to a nation. +“Yes sir, the Yanks have kept faith. Do you see a single one of their +uniforms down here? Do you notice anywheres that Yankee protectorate we were +predicting? No sir, you do not! The Yanks–” But the term was damning +to eloquence. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_508'></a>508</span>Mr. +Boone found another. “The <i>Americans</i>, I repeat, have hurled back the +European invader. They have given Mexico to the Mexicans. They have endowed a +people with nationality. But they have not gobbled up one solitary foot of +territory. Which is finer, grander, than your Napoleonic glory! And yet +it’s selfish, of coh’se it is. But listen here, there’ll never be +any Utopia, Altruria, Millennium, or what not, that don’t coincide with +self-interest. And first among the races of the earth, the Americans have +<i>made</i> ’em coincide, and I want to know right now if the Americans +are not the hope of the world!”</p> + +<p>The orator paused for breath. He had to. And then surprise the most +lugubrious unexpectedly clouded his lank features. “Darn it, Jack,” +he exclaimed in alarm, “if I ain’t getting Reconstructed, right +while I am standing here!”</p> + +<p>“<i>Talked</i> yourself into it,” Driscoll observed scornfully. +“But Dan, you can just put the South along with your Americans. The French +laughed at the North alone, but later, when–Well, just maybe it’s a +good thing we did get licked.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone gasped. Sparks of indignation darted from his steel blue eyes. The +recoil needed a full minute to spend itself. Then a greater horror appalled him, +a horror of himself. “The Lawd help me,” he burst forth, “but +you’re right, Din Driscoll! You are! It <i>was</i> for the best. But +don’t you ever think I’m going to admit it again, to nary a living +mortal soul, myself included. W’y, it would, it would knock my editorial +usefulness–all <i>to</i> smash. There,” he added, +“that’s decided, we’re going back. The colonels want their +mamas. They’ve been men long enough, and they’re plum’ +homesick. All the old grudges up there must be about paid off by now, so’s +an ex-Reb can live in Missouri without train robbing. <i>Libertas et natale +solum</i>–It’s our surrender, <i>at</i> last.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll rose abruptly. “Lay down your pen, Shanks,” <span +class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_509'></a>509</span>he said. +“You’re only trying to convert the converted. Of course I’m +going too. That there flag, being down here, did it. And don’t you suppose +<i>I’ve</i> had letters from home too?”</p> + +<p>Meagre Shanks jumped with relief. He straightened throughout his spare +length. As the smell of battle to the war charger, the pungent odor of +printer’s ink wet on galley proofs assailed his nostrils. There were +visions, of double-leaded, unterrified thunderbolts crashing from the old +Gutenberg, back in Booneville.</p> + +<p>“Missouri,” he breathed in fire, “Missouri will sho’ly stay +Democratic.”</p> + +<p>Both men glowed. They were buoyant, happy. But these two could not so soon be +quit of the enervating Land of Roses. A pair of countenances fell together. +Daniel voiced their mutual thought.</p> + +<p>“And Miss Jacqueline?” he queried boldly, with the air of meaning +to persist, no matter what happened.</p> + +<p>Driscoll showed weariness, anger.</p> + +<p>“And Miss Burt?” he parried.</p> + +<p>“She won’t desert, I told you once.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that she’s going to Paris too? I say, Shanks, +they’re leaving to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Shanks knew that much, quite well enough.</p> + +<p>“Have you <i>tried</i> to stop her?” he demanded sternly.</p> + +<p>Driscoll only looked disgusted.</p> + +<p>“But have you–<i>asked</i> her?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll’s head jerked a nod, of wrath ascending.</p> + +<p>The inquisitor wisely swerved. What her answer had been was, to say the +least, palpable. But her reason for it was <i>the</i> question with Daniel.</p> + +<p>“Is it,” he pursued, “is it because she hasn’t any +dot? You know, Jack, that in France, when a young lady––”</p> + +<p>“No, it’s not that. I know it’s not.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_510'></a>510</span>“Oh +ho,” said Daniel, “so you’ve been guessing too! And how many +guesses did she give you? No, let me try just a few more. It ain’t +because, because she’s an aristocrat?”</p> + +<p>“But I <i>want</i> an aristocrat,” cried the young Missourian, +“one to her finger tips, enough of one to be above aristocracy. And +<i>she</i> is.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said his friend in despair, “it’s because she +don’t, just simply don’t care for you?”</p> + +<p>“You’re a long time finding that out.”</p> + +<p>“What! You don’t mean––”</p> + +<p>“Fact,” said Driscoll. “Even I guessed it at last. I told +her I had been reckoning that she––”</p> + +<p>“Cared, yes?”</p> + +<p>Driscoll made a wry face. “And she said I mustn’t jump at +conclusions, I might scare ’em.”</p> + +<p>The Troubadour chuckled heartlessly. Neither was Driscoll’s sense of +humor entirely gone.</p> + +<p>“‘Oh, awful goddess! ever dreadful maid!’” Mr. Boone +quoted.</p> + +<p>“She’s sure a wonder,” the other owned gloomily.</p> + +<p>“And you are a blind dunce, Jack.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk axioms at me,” said Driscoll, with a warning +light in his eye. “I don’t need ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Well, now,” drawled Mr. Boone, “I can’t help it if I +associate with you any longer, so I’ll just mosey round to the flower +market. As they leave to-morrow, they’ll be wanting some +violets.”</p> + +<p>And he went, and Din Driscoll sat down again and hated him.</p> + +<p>Daniel wended his way slowly, an attenuated ranger in gray mid carriages and +blanketed forms. “Sho’”, he mused, “that girl’s +heart is fair bleeding for him, can’t <i>I</i> see! Her eye-lashes, +they’re <i>wet</i>, every now <i>and</i> then. And whatever the matter +with her is, it’s nothing. But nothing is the very <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_511'></a>511</span> darndest thing to overcome in a girl. +There’s got to be strong measures. It’s got to be <i>jolted</i> out +of her. <i>Archimagnífico, there’s</i> the point!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boone drew out a black cigar, and mangled it between his teeth. He +pondered and pondered, absent-mindedly kicking at natives he bumped into. +“Kidnap ’em!” he cried at length. “N-o,” he +reflected, “they go in the public stage, and what with the escort, +somebody’d get hurt. We don’t want any dead men at this wedding. Old +Brothers and Sisters would balk anyhow, and our ecclesiastical officiator is the +boy we <i>do</i> need. Now what the everlasting––”</p> + +<p>He meant what salutary jolt he <i>could</i> invent, barring holdups, but in +the same breath he meant also a most startling scene which revealed itself as he +turned the corner.</p> + +<p>A deafening crash of musketry was the first thing, and he looked up. He had +come into a small plaza before a church, and against the church’s blank +wall a scene was taking place before an awe-stricken throng. He understood. +Another proscribed “traitor” had just been caught; and executed, +naturally. But no, not executed! For as the officer of the shooting squad +approached to give the stroke of mercy, the prostrate victim raised himself by +one hand and knocked aside the pistol at his head. Then he laughed in the +officer’s face, the most diabolical and unearthly mirth any there had ever +heard. There was not a stain of blood on him. He had dropped in the breath of +eternity before the bullets spattered past. But his uplifted face, with chin +tilted back, was swollen, black, distorted, corded by pulsing veins, and one of +the eyes–a crossed eye–bulged round and purple out of its socket, +and <i>gleamed</i>. The demon of pain was tearing at the man’s tissue of +life, but by grip of will unspeakable the agony in that grimace changed to a +smile.</p> + +<p>“Yes, poison! Vitriol!” he chattered at them hideously. +“Adios, imbeciles. It’s my last–jest!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_512'></a>512</span>Whereat he fell, +writhing as the acid burned to his soul. Before the astounded officer could +shoot, he had grown entirely quiet.</p> + +<p>Boone strained and pushed against the crowd until he reached the spot. The +cadaver was in tight charro garb of raw leather. His sombrero lay near, on which +was worked a Roman sword, meaning “Woe to the conquered!” Boone +turned inquiringly to the officer. The man, who was pallid, touched his thumb to +his cap, recognizing the uniform of the Grays.</p> + +<p>“You should know him, mi coronel,” he explained. “His name +was Tiburcio. He deserted from the Imperialistas at Querétaro, but afterward he +joined the plot for Maximilian’s escape. We had his description, and I +found him. He wanted to take me to Marquez and Fischer, whom we would also like +to find. He said that he risked himself here, to spy on them, and that he knew +where they had fled, the Leopard disguised in the padre’s cloak. But of +course I paid no attention. I did not delay even to tie his hands. As Your Mercy +observes, I had the honor to do my duty, at once.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” replied Boone dryly. “Lawd, this <i>is</i> a +jolt!”</p> + +<p>Then he got himself away from there.</p> + +<p>“A jolt,” he muttered to himself again. “But shucks, it +can’t–Yes, it can,” he decided fervently, “it can be +used. We’ve got to have something terrifying, and poor cock-eyed Don Tibby +won’t care. He’d appreciate it. And anyhow, I don’t seem to be +able to stir up inspirations to-day, and this is the only thing.”</p> + +<p>He was as pallid as the shooting squad he had just left.</p> + +<p>“No matter,” he reflected, “I’ll need just this +ghastly state of mind. But here, goodness gracious, I’ve got to be in a +sweat,” with which he began to run, a lank knight in gray dented +armor.</p> + +<p>“Worse luck,” his thought pounded along with him, “this +here’s the first time I’ve ever faked. And it’s a heap the +hottest <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_513'></a>513</span>story +I’ve ever handled, too. Our little Parisienne will get a frisson all +right, all right, and such a one she’ll not be wanting any of again very +soon. Dixie Land, I mustn’t smoke, I’m to be too excited.”</p> + +<p>He came into the Zócalo, and drew up before Driscoll, who was still there and +still ruminating.</p> + +<p>“Listen here,” Boone panted, “here’s your +cue.–In ten minutes–to the second–arrive–knock at her +door–appear!”</p> + +<p>“With violets?” inquired Driscoll.</p> + +<p>“Oh shut up!–Quit, don’t stop me, I’m getting cooled +off!–Only do what I say.–In just ten minutes–that is–if +you want the girl.”</p> + +<p>And Daniel was off again, “with high and haughty steps” towering +along.</p> + +<p>“That Meagre Shanks, there, isn’t a fool,” Driscoll +mentally recorded, and he took out his watch.</p> + +<p>The two girls were stopping at a hotel in Plateros Street, for Jacqueline had +returned to find her beautiful residence, salon and all, ruthlessly dismantled, +looted, robbed by Marquez while she was in Querétaro, which was a manner of +levying contributions not unfamiliar to the Lieutenant of the Empire.</p> + +<p>In the balcony room of their hotel suite the two girls strove valiantly. +Crisp gowns and dainty allied mysteries lay spread over the upholstery. They +were vanishing into cavernous trunks, with crushing indifference if Jacqueline +seized on a garment, but gently when Berthe rescued it, which she always did. +Through the double glass doors of the balcony the street sounds below rose to +their ears, clarion notes and vivas, hurrying feet and prancing hoofs, and the +National hymn a few blocks away in the Zócalo.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a grim apparition loomed before the glass doors on the balcony. +Berthe half screamed, in dismay clutching at ruffles and laces to hide them, +when into the sweet-scented confusion strode Mr. Daniel Boone. He was the grim +apparition. <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_514'></a>514</span>Jacqueline withheld her opinion, but she had one. +The intruder’s spurs were iconoclastic of carpeting, his abrupt presence +of feminine sensibilities. But the lean, perspiring face drove away all thought +of the conventions. Jacqueline snatched up a fleecy bank of petticoats, making +room for him on the sofa. Daniel stared vacantly. The two girls looked very +pretty. They were just flurried enough, and they wore white lawn, with sleeves +short to the elbow. His fingers groped, and soon they closed over a small, +instinctive hand. He kept hold upon that hand for strength, at the same time +collapsing on the sofa.</p> + +<p>“Now, if you please,” said Jacqueline calmly, +“what––”</p> + +<p>“O Lawd!” Boone gulped, fighting for breath. “It +don’t matter much–maybe–to you all, but–O Lawd, I got to +tell somebody!”</p> + +<p>“Tell us, tell us!” cried she of the captured hand.</p> + +<p>Daniel had sufficient presence of mind to retain it.</p> + +<p>“You know that–that poor devil Tiburcio?” he gasped.</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes!” But what anti-climax was here?</p> + +<p>“Well, he–he’s dead. I saw him.–Lawd!”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” It was a little cry of relief.</p> + +<p>“But some were–were killed–taking him.” Boone noted +Jacqueline’s intake of breath, her first tremor of alarm. “He fought +like a–a wildcat. He had a knife–and a machete–and a +pistol–and––”</p> + +<p>“<i>Who</i> was killed? Monsieur–Oh, mon Dieu, what <i>can</i> you +have to tell me?”</p> + +<p>Daniel almost repented, there was that in her gray eyes.</p> + +<p>“Among them was my–” He nerved himself to it, some +way–“my best friend, that peerless––”</p> + +<p>“Who?” Her command was imperious, her white teeth were set.</p> + +<p>“Din Driscoll!”</p> + +<p>The man blurted it out like a whipped schoolboy. He <span class='pagenum +pncolor'><a id='page_515'></a>515</span>could not look up. He could only feel +that she stood there, stricken, suffering.</p> + +<p>“Where is he?”</p> + +<p>He could not believe that this was her voice. It was hardened, tearless, +without emotion.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur–where is he?”</p> + +<p>The girl at his side sprang up with a sharp cry to her who questioned. Then +he raised his eyes. Jacqueline was unaware of the sobbing girl who clung to her. +Her face was changed to marble, her body as rigid.</p> + +<p>“Take me to him,” she spoke again, still with that deathly +authority of the grave.</p> + +<p>The man stammered before what he had done. The great beads stood out on his +forehead. “You would not–you must not–you––”</p> + +<p>“He is mine,” she said simply. “Wait, I shall be ready, at +once.” She passed into an inner room, the portières falling after her.</p> + +<p>“She’s–she’s getting on her hat,” Boone +muttered inanely. “Buh’the, she’s got to be stopped! +She’s–God, why don’t he come? It’s shuah ten minutes. +It’s–What’s that?”</p> + +<p>Someone had knocked. In the instant Boone had the hall door ajar.</p> + +<p>“Round to the balcony window, hurry!” he whispered.</p> + +<p>Then he turned, caught Berthe by the hand, and drew her quickly out into the +hall. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the portières rustle, but he +dared not look back.</p> + +<p>Jacqueline stepped into the room, and her hat was upon her head. It was of +straw, with a drooping brim. She had thrown a long cloak over her thin dress. +There was ice in her veins on this tropical June day. She paused, for she saw +that the room was deserted. But no–there was a shadow between her and the +balcony door. She stared at it, and her eyes grew big. The cloak slipped to the +floor, and her fingers worked in the <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_516'></a>516</span>tapestry behind her. She fluttered weakly, like a +wounded dove on the ground. Her knees trembled under her. And the man there? He +was gazing about him in a puzzled way, for the glare outside still blinded him. +Then he saw. He reached her, and caught her as she sank. He felt two soft arms, +but icy cold, drop as lead around his neck. The white form he held was rigid, +and he thought of shrouds and the chilled death sweat. With savage despair he +crushed her to him. After a time her body slowly began to relax.</p> + +<p>“Oh, oh, my lad, my lad!” he heard her crying faintly, in a kind +of hysteria.</p> + +<p>He touched her hair dazedly, with unutterable tenderness.</p> + +<p>“There, there–sweetheart!”</p> + +<p>The word came, though he had never used it before.</p> + +<p>Blood awoke, and coursed, sluggishly at first, through her being, until her +heart tripped and throbbed and pounded against his own. Her head lay on his +breast, the hat hanging by its ribbons over her back, and with the pulsing life +the head and her whole body nestled closer. The soft arms grew warm against his +neck, and tightened fiercely, to hold and keep him. Gently he forced up her +chin, and her eyes, wet with hottest tears, opened under his. He bent and kissed +the long lashes. But a small moist hand flattened against his brow and pushed +back his head, and she raised on tiptoe. He understood, and–their lips +met.</p> + +<p>“Tu sais,” she murmured deliriously–nothing but her own +dear French would answer now–“tu sais, que–oh, mon cœur, +que je–que je <i>t’aime</i>!”</p> + +<p>The oddest contrasts fall over life’s most sacred moments. The tone of +her words thrilled him, set every fibre tingling, yet he thought of dry +conjugations and declensions, conned over and over again in school, and he was +conscious of vague wonderment that those things really, actually, had a meaning. +Meaning? He believed now that no words in <span class='pagenum pncolor'><a +id='page_517'></a>517</span>English could tell so much. He did not have to +understand them. They bore the flesh and blood, the passion and the soul, of a +woman who told him that she loved him.</p> + +<p>With a hesitant gentleness which bespoke the deep and reverent awe in his +yearning, he pressed her head back against its resting place. A man can do +without words of any kind. She grew very quiet there. The tense quivering +ceased, and she crept closer, and at last she sighed, purringly, +contentedly.</p> + +<p>But of course there was more which she simply had to say. And this time, when +she raised her eyes, they were calm and earnest, and her beautiful forehead was +white and very grave. “Do you know, dear,” she said, “I should +not care to live, I would not have lived, if what he said +were–were–” But the eyes filled with tears, and angry with +herself, she planted her fists against him to be free, and as impulsively +crying, “Oh, my–my own dear lad!” she flung her arms about his +neck again. “Oh, oh,” she moaned, “he said that you were +dead!”</p> + +<p>For the first time it dawned on Driscoll that all this must have had a cause, +and for the first time since entering the room he remembered Boone.</p> + +<p>“<i>He</i> told you–He––”</p> + +<p>But Driscoll did not finish. Putting her from him he sprang to the door and +flung it open. There he waited. Boone was outside, and Boone walked expectantly +in. Without a word Driscoll raised his fist, drew it back, his cruel arm muscled +to kill. Jacqueline saw his anger for her, terrible in murder. She threw herself +upon him, got hold of the knotted fist, got it to her lips. Another woman, too, +had darted between him and the other man, and she faced him. The gentle Berthe +was become a little tigress.</p> + +<p>“Not that, not that!” It was Jacqueline’s voice. +“Listen, mon cheri, I–I thank him. Au contraire, I do! And–and +you must, too!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_518'></a>518</span>Driscoll stared +at all three, first at one, then at another. He floundered, stupefied. Here was +this loving girl, clinging to him as though he might vanish, and he had left her +that morning a disdainful beauty. Then here was this Meagre Shanks with his +mysterious ten minutes, and here was this dumfounding product of those ten +minutes. Driscoll put forth an open hand.</p> + +<p>“Dan,” he muttered incoherently, “you’re a–a +wonder, too!”</p> + +<p>Boone clenched the proffered hand in his own. “I never once thought, +Jack,” he said earnestly, contritely, “never once, that she cared so +ever-<i>lastingly</i> much.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Driscoll, “don’t do it again.”</p> + +<p>“Not unless,” ventured Boone, “not unless she should ever +want a little antidote for ennui. By the way, mademoiselle, do you thank me for +the quaver of emotion, for the frisson?”</p> + +<p>“Frisson?” she repeated scornfully, with loathing. For once she +had been unaware of the prized knife-like tremor. In the fear of losing one dear +she had lost consciousness of self. She had <i>lived</i> the tremor, the agony, +and it was too dreadful, “No, monsieur,” she said, “I want no +more of art. I–I want to <i>live</i>!”</p> + +<p>“You needed something, though,” said Berthe, “to make you +find it out.”</p> + +<p>Driscoll looked curiously at the two girls.</p> + +<p>“Yes, J-Jack’leen”–how quaintly awkward he was, trying her +old tomboy nickname without the “Miss!”–“Yes, what was +the matter with you, anyhow?”</p> + +<p>“Parbleu, I forgot!” cried Jacqueline in dismay. “I was not +to have monsieur, no!” And Jacqueline’s chin, tilting back with +elaborate hauteur, was meant to indicate that she was in her first mind about +it.</p> + +<p>Berthe laughed outright, and softly clapped her hands.</p> + +<p>“Sho’,” declared Mr. Boone, “the matter was nothing, +nothing <i>at</i> all!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_519'></a>519</span>But before +feminine caprices and scruples it is wiser to bow low into the dust. Jacqueline +turned on the editorial personage with vast indignation. “You leave the +room, Seigneur Troubadour,” she commanded, “and Berthe, you march +with him. Haste, both of you!”</p> + +<p>They went, meekly. Their attempt to hide content over the dismissal together +was extreme, but transparent.</p> + +<p>“What was it?” Driscoll insisted, when he and Jacqueline were +alone once more.</p> + +<p>“You mean,” she exclaimed, “that you are going to +quarrel–now?”</p> + +<p>“Jack’leen, what was it?”</p> + +<p>“I reck-on,” she observed demurely, “that the animal +disputans was–was right, after all. It was nothing, +I–reck-on.”</p> + +<p>He noted mockery, defiance. There was much too much independence after her +late surrender. He went up to her and deliberately reassumed the mastery. He +held her, by force. “Mon chevalier,” she murmured softly. So she +confessed his strength.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” he said.</p> + +<p>“And you did not guess? You–Oh, how I hated you! How I never +wanted to see you, never again! Not after, not after–Mon Dieu, you were +two exasperating idiots, you and poor Prince Max! He virtually <i>threw</i> me +into your arms. But I, monsieur, am not a person to be thrown. That is, +unless–unless I do it myself, which–I did, hélas!”</p> + +<p>The trooper’s grip tightened on her arms. “Then you,” he +said earnestly, “would have let me lose you?”</p> + +<p>She laughed merrily at him.</p> + +<p>“And would not you have followed after me?”</p> + +<p>“W’y, little girl, I reckon I certainly would of.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t,” she gasped. “Let me come–closer. Oh +dear, how can the bon Dieu let people be so happy–s-o happy!”</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSOURIAN***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 30623-h.txt or 30623-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/0/6/2/30623">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/6/2/30623</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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