ghroad set mid
maguey farms that made the rolling hill slopes of Anahuac look like a
giant's cabbage patch. In the distance, under two snow-capped peaks
beyond, the mosaic domes and sandstone towers and painted walls of the
capital glittered in the setting sun like some picture of an Arabian
city vaguely known to memory. The travelers were not a dozen miles from
their destination, but Berthe announced that madame her mistress would
rest at Tuxtla for the night.

The Austrians were quartered in the village, and Ney and Driscoll found
accommodations for the two girls and themselves farther down the road,
at the house of a maguey grower whom they persuaded to vacate. While it
was still light Driscoll amused himself strolling alone between the rows
of the great century plants. Under their leaves, curving high above his
head, he watched peons with gourds suck out the honey water from the
onion-like bulbs into goatskin bags. After a time he wandered through
the hacendado's primitive distillery and on back to the house, with a
feeling for supper.

As he entered, he heard the clanking of a sabre in the dark room. He
thought nothing of it, but almost at once something cut through the air
and a noose fell over him. He swung round, but the rope jerked tight
about his knees, and he lurched and swayed as an oak before the axe. He
struck with his fist and had a groan for reward, but a second lariat
circled his shoulders and bound his arms to his body. As he went down
under the weight of men, the shutters were thrown open, and he looked up
into the red-lidded eyes of Colonel Lopez. A troop of cavalry was
passing on the road outside, and he caught the sound of wheels
departing.

"You hear?" said Lopez. "The marquesa is going to the City, having
decided not to wait for you. But she leaves a note, pour prendre conge,
eh? You will perhaps have time to read it before the shooting."

Once more Driscoll found himself in an adobe with a sputtering candle
for company. But he also had her note. It was the third of the messages
which she had written the night before.

"Monsieur," it began, "I cannot let you die without telling you that it
was I who betrayed----"

He jumped to his feet. "Oh--the pythoness!" he breathed fervently.

"----who betrayed you," the letter read. "That you know this, monsieur,
that your last thought shall be a curse at me, such will be my
punishment. It is a self inflicted one, because you need not have known
wha