had told him, about his daughter and Maximilian, as Lopez had said he
would. The American's easy, stalwart form in gray filled his blurred
eyes. Here was a Confederate emissary come with an offer of aid for that
same Maximilian. Such had been Murguia's suspicion from the first, and
now it moved him with venomous hate. Yes, he would testify. Yes, yes,
the prisoner had ridden out alone at Tampico. Yes, yes, yes, the
prisoner was with Rodrigo there.

"But why, Don Anastasio," asked Tiburcio purely in fantastic mischief,
"did you bring such a disturbing man to our happy country?"

"That will do," Lopez interposed. "The Senor Murguia could not know at
the time that this fellow was Rodrigo's agent."

"And," Murguia added eagerly, "I was helpless, there at Mobile. The
Confederates could have sunk my boat, and he held an order from
Jefferson Davis."

"What's that?" cried Tiburcio, his humor suddenly vanished. "What's
that, an order from Jefferson Davis?"

Tiburcio's was a new interest, now. He possessed a mind as crooked as
his vision, and being crooked, it followed unerringly the devious paths
of other minds. So, they had made a tool of him! Rodrigo and Murguia
wanted the Gringo shot to help the rebel cause. And he, Tiburcio of the
cunning wits, had just sworn away, not only the Gringo's life, but the
possible salvation of the Empire. Coming from Jefferson Davis, the
Gringo with his mission could mean nothing else. Then there was Lopez.
Tiburcio did not love this changeling Mexican who had red hair. But what
could be the mongrel's game? Why had he freed Murguia, if not to unleash
a small terrier at Maximilian's heel? Why was he trying the American
over again, if not to poison a friendly mastiff? And why either, if Don
Miguel Lopez were not seeking to make friends with the Republic? Or
perhaps he was at heart a Republican. Thus Don Tiburcio, a loyal
Imperialist, read the finger posts as he ambled down the crooked path.

Yes, and here was Lopez putting on the final touch. Here he was, the
traitor, pronouncing the death sentence, and poor impotent Don Tiburcio
gnawing his baffled rage, as one would say of a villain. The execution
was to take place the very next morning. His Majesty the Emperor would
be asked to approve, afterward.

CHAPTER XXIII

A CURIOUS PAGAN RITE

"E un peccato che se ne va con l'acqua benedetta."
--_Machiavelli_.

The Storm Centre looked round