of rays slanting
down from the lofty Sierra line. Like himself, his horse was a thing of
spirited flesh, for glorious display. The glossy mane flowed
luxuriantly. The tail curved to the ground. A mountain lion's skin
covered his flanks. He was large and sleek and black, with the metal and
pride of an English strain. He was a carved war-charger. The man astride
was rigid, stately. Man and horse had a heroic statue's promise of
instant, furious life.

"Oh, la beaute d'un homme!" cried Jacqueline, perceiving the majestic
outline silhouetted against the rocks. "Why, why--it's Fra Diavolo!"

"It--it is!" confessed Murguia. There was dread, not surprise, in his
exclamation. The waiting horseman, and a lonely hut there behind
him--none other than a brigand "toll-station"--these were but too
significant of an old and hated rendezvous. Don Anastasio got to his
feet and nervously hurried his caravan back a short distance. Then he
ran ahead again and overtook the two Frenchwomen. "Senoritas, wait!
Neither of you need go. But I will--I must, but I can go alone, while
you----"

"Why, what ails the man?"

"Back, senorita, back, before he sees you!"

Jacqueline looked at the imploring eyes, at the palsied hand on her
bridle. "Berthe," she said, "here's your little monsieur getting
constitutional again."

"You _will_ go, senorita?"

"Parbleu!" said the girl, and lashed her mustang.

"Dios, Dios," gasped the little monsieur, hurrying after them, "when
Maximiliano hears of this----"

"You should see Maximilian when he is angry," Jacqueline called over her
shoulder. "It is very droll."

Din Driscoll had vaulted to the ground in the instant of halting.
Immediately he led his horse behind the solitary hut, which was a
_jacal_ of bamboo and thatch built under the cliff, and left him
there. Demijohn was a seasoned campaigner, and he would not move until
his trooper came for him. When Driscoll emerged again, his coat was over
his left arm, and the pockets were bulging. Fra Diavolo had already
saluted him, but gazed down the trail at the two women approaching.

"How are you, captain?" Driscoll began cordially.

Fra Diavolo looked down from his mighty seat. "Ai, mi coronel, I was
expecting Your Mercy."

"Honest, now? Or weren't you worrying lest I'd got left back in
Tampico?"

One of the ranchero's hands rose, palm out, deprecatingly.

"But someone might have told you I didn't get left at all," Driscoll
pursued. "Segundino m