e was that day swept away, and
naught remained but to enjoy the favors of his grateful Majesty.

"Which only makes it," said Driscoll, "a good time to quit. I should
mention, too, that I intend to join the Republic, that is," he added,
"if there's any of the Republic left."

Don Tiburcio was not disappointed.

Mendez sprang to his feet and his voice was stentorian, as when he
rallied his men by the magnet of fury and hatred.

"It's desertion!" he roared.

"Or simple honesty," Driscoll corrected him. "But it doesn't matter. The
penalty is no worse for a deserter, if you catch him."

Mendez curbed his rage. He did not wish to lose this man. That is, he
would regret deeply having to kill him.

"_Why_ do you mean to change?" he demanded.

"Because I can't feel _right_! It's like--somehow it's like being
an accomplice of murderers."

"Dios mio, I suppose Your Mercy and his tender heart refers to the
Decree?"

"Partly. That thing is a blanket warrant of death. Just because your
enemy can't fight any longer----"

"But you forget, senor, the mines that exploded in the highways. You
forget the poisoned springs, the ambuscades, the massacres. Would they
not shoot prisoners too, your new friends?"

"Si senor, as you and others may some day experience personally."

"Then, mighty judge, condemn them also."

"Don't I? But I can't blame them. They are punishing crime."

"But not of murder, as we did to-day."

"That too, for that was murder to-day. But I was thinking of a worse
crime. I was thinking of theft, sir."

"Theft? How can that be worse?"

"Theft of their country, I mean, and as your accomplice I owe
restitution. Leaving after a victory ain't so bad, but if I'd known that
I was fighting for that Black Decree, I'd of dropped out before the
fight. But look at it anyway you please. _How_ it looks be damned!"

"Senor, lay down your pistols and sabre, there, on that table, because,
by Heaven, I shall stop you! But if you are armed, I--I shall have to
shoot you, too."

"Hang it, Mendez, you're a good fellow! But--I can't help it."

"Lay them down, you renegade!"

Driscoll removed his sabre and gravely placed it on the table.

"The guns are my own," he said. "Dupin had them returned to me.
_He_ took them. Suppose _you_ take them, Colonel Mendez!"

He was in the doorway, and from there he faced them. The day was hot,
and Mendez had taken off his belt with his weapons. But the others were
armed. Yet they