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.

Instead of executioners, he beheld a tray, gripped by chocolate hands. Involuntarily he looked up to the face above the tray.

“Johnny the Baptist!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, how goes it itself to Your Mercy this evening?”

“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.

“A thousand thanks,” replied Driscoll, “but I’ll try to make that other bath answer.”

“But seÑor, you wasted it.”

“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 229saving just my life, and how I left my soul to bustle along for itself.”

The Baptist drew nearer. “But suppose, seÑor,” he whispered, “suppose the need of absolution was again postponed, even now?”

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?

“Still your move, Johnny,” Driscoll had to remind him.

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.

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.”

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 230to 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.”

The man protested, and in some genuine alarm, that he had no employers.

“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.”

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.

“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?”

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.

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!”

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 231Contra 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.

“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.

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.

“How did he escape this second time?” demanded the Frenchman. “It seems to me, mon colonel, that the question would occur to you too.”

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.

“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?”

Lopez glared at the sentinel. It was a fine simulation of outraged discipline, and so life-like that when he spoke of a 232court 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.

“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!”

“Go with them,” added Dupin quietly to six of his Cossacks.

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.

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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.

The Storm Centre glanced at the picked hussars, at the 233famously 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.

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.

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 234out, and Cossacks and Dragoons threw themselves upon him and brought him down.

“It was lovely,” he muttered under the heap.

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.

“’Tis you, monsieur,” he confessed with rugged grace, “who have honored us.”

“Oh, your grandmother!” said Driscoll.

“Well, be patient. It will be all over in a minute more.”

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.

“What is it?” responded both Dupin and Lopez.

“I, I mean the American Colonel. He–he––”

“Hello, Mike!” cried Driscoll.

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?”

“Monsieur Ney,” the Tiger interrupted, “let your men tend 235you here, and we will be back at once to see what can be done for your hurt. But just now––”

He signed to Lopez, and Cossacks and Dragoons caught up the prisoner and started for the door.

“Wait!” Ney moaned feebly.

“Tonnerre, mon prince, your wound must be paid for, first. Hurry there, Messieurs les Imbeciles!”

“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.

“Help him, you there!” cried Driscoll. “Open his coat!”

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.

“Al SeÑor Coronel Don Miguel Lopez.”

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.”

“Wait!” a faint whisper came from the bed.

“He says to wait,” doggedly repeated a cuirassier.

“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.”

But Ney’s head, moving weakly on the pillow, was a negative.

The prisoner’s voice grew firm again.

“Then hurry up!” he ordered in the old querulous drawl. “Don’t you know I’m in a hurry?”

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.

“I–I––” His lips barely moved.

236The cuirassier sprang to his feet. He looked to his fellows, spoke to them. Puzzled, mystified, they rushed to the door and barred the way.

“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––”

“It’s something to do with the American,” declared a second cuirassier.

Dupin pounded back his half unsheathed blade. Brusquely he wheeled and faced the colonel of Dragoons. “Lopez,” he roared, “what was that message?”

“N-nothing, mi coronel, absolutely.”

“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.”

Lopez blanched, yet insisted again that the message was nothing. “Besides, seÑor,” he added, “I do not take orders from His Excellency, the marshal.”

“But 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.”

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.

“Listen,” he said, very distinctly, putting into his tones every timbre of quiet, compelling will. “Listen, hear me!”

Slowly the feverish man grew still.

“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?”

The Chasseur’s eyes opened wide, and they were calm.

237“Good, that’s the brave gentleman! Now then, steady. The first question: Shall we shoot this American?”

Slowly, painfully, the head rocked on the pillow, from one side to the other.

“It’s ‘No’!” cried a score of men.

“Silence!” roared the Tiger. “Now, the second question: Does this order come from Marshal Bazaine?”

Michel’s chin sank to his breast. He groaned, he could not lift it again.

“Yes, thank––” Ney himself, his voice!

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––”

The Tiger’s pistols were drawn. His whelps looked hopeful. The cuirassiers bristled in sympathy.

Cracking his finger nails, fawning to the marrow, Lopez agreed.

“Unbind the prisoner,” ordered Dupin.

“Thank God!” came faintly from the bed.