ine demanded sweetly. "Is it to be the--the
'game' at last?"

"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
Galan. 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,
Senorita Marquesa. He will know it, too, when he learns that Captain
Maurel--a Frenchman, senorita, 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 Galan. But his Tender-Hearted Majesty will grieve less
for that than for the loss of you, Senorita--Jacqueline. For is it not
known that you, the first lady of honor to the Empress, that you are
also His Majesty's----"

"My faith," said Jacqueline, "he speaks Spanish well!"

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, would mean a bad ending to the
game. That he knew. So he was thankful for Jacqueline's hand on his
wrist.

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.

"Come!" he said thickly. "