Eugene P. Lyle

“A man, a woman, a passion–what else matters?”

–Sardou.

“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?

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.”

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.

316When 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.

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.

“Snubbing–an acquaintance,” spoke an impersonal little voice, “is cheap.”

He stopped, waited.

317“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.”

“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 not speaking.”

“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.”

“Monsieur, monsieur, you fight for your captives only–only to give them up?”

“That’s not the question. You can overtake the Empress yet. Dupin will––”

“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.”

Again the liaison with Maximilian, he thought bitterly. And Charlotte away! It was infamous. However, he had no right to be concerned.

“Very well,” he said, “then Dupin can take you to the City, or wherever you wish.”

“Ma foi, what trouble to be rid of your prisoners, monsieur, and after two battles too!”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

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.

“You go to that Tiger!” she cried. “Do you not know 318that––” She darted between him and the door–“that he recognizes no rules of war? He will shoot you, he will, he will!”

Driscoll laughed.

“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.”

“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?”

“Me? W’y, I’ll wait for the boys at Dupin’s camp, after he takes charge here. Then we’ll march.”

“And–you do not come back?”

“No need to. Now will you please get away from that door?”

“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.

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. 319And 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.

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.

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.

“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.

“We’ll not talk of that any more,” he grumbled. “Are you going to let me pass?”

Frail creature between him and the door, how easy to remove her! But he feared the warmth of her hand, should he but 320touch it, or the faint odor from her hair, should a stray lock no more than brush his cheek.

“Even a captive will wonder why she is so little prized,” observed the perverse maid.

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.

“Why do you keep me?” he demanded.

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.

“Oh, am I keeping you?” she exclaimed in innocent dismay.

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.

“You must not go,” she whispered, “must not!”

He drew her farther from the door, toward himself.

“Must not!” she repeated. He could feel the breath of her whisper.

“Don’t–Jack-leen!”

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.

“It is that common, yes. It is not the instinct of––”

321Yet, 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.

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.

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.

And then, and then–oh, the words he was whispering! Even as he smothered her shriek, she heard them.

“Well–we’ll just have in Clem Douglas. You’ve seen Clem, little girl? He’s our parson.”

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 322trustful 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.

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,

“And are you so sure, sir, that you are the first?”

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.

323“Take this woman to my mother?” the question rose.

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.