illed? yes, I am killed. But I want--my cotton, my burros, my
peons--I want them. I am dead, give them to me."

"You're alive, you old maverick."

The gaze focused slowly on Driscoll, and slowly wakened to a crafty
leer. Believe this Gringo?--not he!

With an arm behind his shoulders Driscoll forced him down the trail to
his caravan. Most of the animals were lying down, dozing under their
packs. Murguia's eyes grew watery when he saw them, but he was still
dazed and his delusion was obstinate. The leer shot exultant gleams. "A
rich man _can_ enter heaven," he chuckled with unholy glee.

"Oh wake up, and give me two donkeys for the girls. Their horses got
hit, you know."

Then the stunned old miser began to perceive that he was not in heaven.
His tyrant's voice! "You get my horses killed," he whined, "and now you
take my burros."

Driscoll said no more, but picked out two beasts and bound some
cushioned sacking on their backs for saddles. Then with a brisk hearty
word, he swept Berthe up on the first one.

"Next," he said, turning to Jacqueline.

But the marchioness drew back. Next--after her maid! It nettled her that
this country boy, or any other, could not recognize in her that
indefinable something which is supposed to distinguish quality.

"What's the matter, now?" he asked. "Quick, please, I'm in a hurry."

"It's too preposterous. I'll not!"

"You will," he said quietly.

Her gray eyes deepened to blue with amazement. She stood stock still,
haughtily daring him. She even lifted her arms a little, leaving the
girlish waist defenseless. Her slender figure was temptation, the pretty
ducal fury was only added zest. Up among the rocks Driscoll had found
himself whispering, "She's game, that little girl!" But at the same time
he had remembered Rodrigo's innuendo, the linking of her name with
Maximilian's. She was so brave, and so headstrong, so lovably
headstrong, and her beauty was so fresh and soft! Yet he could not but
think of that taint in what nature had made so pure. Of a sudden there
was a something wrong, something ugly and hideously wrong in life. And
the country boy, the trooper, the man of blood-letting, what you will,
was filled with helpless rage against it; and next against himself,
because the girlish waist could thrill him so. "A silly little
butterfly," he argued inwardly. Before, he had been unaware of his own
indifference. But now he angrily tried to summon it back. He set his
mind on t