t I have done. The telling of this to you is my scourge, but it is
not penitence. Worse and more unbearable is my sorrow that the penitence
will never come, that I can feel no remorse, no more than if some
inevitable thing, like the fever, had taken you. I would always do again
what I have just done; as pitiless as I must be for you, Fate is for me.
Your life, monsieur, is but added to the hundreds already snuffed out in
this country for France's sake. Those hundreds are my countrymen, and
you, if you lived till to-morrow, would make _their_ offering
useless. I have tried to save you, monsieur, but you would not permit.
You would not return to your own country, and--there was no other way.
But do not think there will come emissaries in your place. Do not
believe that I would so send you to death needlessly. There will be no
emissaries after you. Your Confederates shall know that Maximilian's
court martial executed you, and is it that your compatriotes will then
desire to help Maximilian? Believe--only believe, monsieur--that it is a
cruel duty not permitting that I shall listen to my heart. If you but
knew, if you but knew--and you shall know. Monsieur Driscoll--oh, mon
chevalier, it is that I love you. There, know then, dear heart cheri,
the enormity of my sacrifice. Know the necessity of it. Know that I envy
you, for you are going, and I must stay, all alone, without you. Mon
bien aime, _without you_, through all my long life!"

She had signed it simply, "Jacqueline."

Again Driscoll was on his feet. He paced up and down the room. "There's
one thing," he muttered, "and that is, there's nothing between her and
Maximilian, not when she's keeping help from him." And on he paced, his
fists opening and clenching. Suddenly he came to a dead halt.

"By God," he cried, "I'm not going to be shot, no sir, not now, not
after--not after this letter!"

Here was neither boy nor warrior. It was very much in the way of a
lover.

CHAPTER XXVII

BERTHE

"Il y a deux etres en nous: l'acteur et le spectateur."
--_Sienkiewicz._

The same evening, though two hours later, a public hack entered an
outlying quarter of the City of Mexico called San Cosme, and drew up
before a white mansion with beautiful gardens. A young girl with soft
brown hair and gentle eyes got out, ran to the door, and brought down
the ponderous knocker so terrifically that it abashed her, for all her
pre