aybe? Or was it Juan?"

"Or Don Tiburcio?" suggested the captain. He dismounted and doffed his
big sombrero. "Good, I see you brought Her Ladyship safely."

"Or I myself, rather," said Jacqueline, reining in her pony at the
moment, "Ah, the Senor Capitan as an escort knows how to make himself
prized by much anticipation."

"Senorita!" 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."

"Forward then, captain. On with the excuses, I promise to believe them."

"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."

"Oh, but Maximilian shall hear of this!"

"I think he will," and Fra Diavolo bowed again, hiding the gleam of a
smile. "But I forget, your compatriot----"

"Monsieur Ney?--Yes?"

"He meant to help the sailors----"

"But he was not hurt?"

"Oh, no, no! But he had to be held in the fort."

"That poor Michel!"

"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."

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 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!"

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.

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, _who_ are you?"

The Mexican straightened pompously. "Who?" he repeated deep in his
chest, "who, but one at Your Mercy's feet! Who, but--Rodrigo Galan
himself!"

"The _terrible_ Rodrigo?" She wanted complete identification.

He