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.

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, 115that 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.

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.

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.

“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?”

“Might we,” Jacqueline interposed, “pay our respects to SeÑor MurguÍa’s daughter?”

116The 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.

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.

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 117rags 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.”

“But, mi patron, there’s my nephew.”

“True, and he has his own father’s debt waiting for him.”

“Just a wee little,” begged the man.

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.”

The administrador brightened on perceiving Driscoll. “How was His Mercy? How had His Mercy passed the night? How––”

“Where,” interposed Driscoll, “might one find the nearest stage to Mexico?”

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.

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?”

Yes, the wife of one of the clerks was a passable seamstress. She did such work for the DoÑas at the House.

118“And can she do some to-day, and can you send it on to overtake me by to-morrow?”

Most certainly.

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.

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.

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.

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 119strove tantalizingly, and Jacqueline was trying to direct her.

“Madame is served,” Berthe announced.

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!”

“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.”

“He? Who in the world––”

“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.”

“Berthe! one would say you thought him a prince.”

“He–he is a kind of prince,” said the little Bretonne doggedly.

Madame whistled softly. Still, she ate a hearty breakfast.

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.

“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.”

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. 120His 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.

“Your Mercy is–is the Emperor?” stammered the poor fat administrador.

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.

“Explain to this imbecile,” he ordered, “since there’s no better here to receive us.”

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.

121“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?”

“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.”

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.”

“The loathsome beasts!”

“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!”

“But where’s the harm?”

“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.”

“Messiah for these pigs!” Éloin sneered. “What pleasure it gives him, I can’t see.”