er there, her startled fancy pictured only one. But the new
comer was a stranger.

"Oh-ho, come a-visiting, eh?"

The voice was cordial, robust, Western.

"Missour-_i_!" she exclaimed involuntarily.

"Yes'm, Cooper county."

She turned, won to friendliness, and beheld a man who, to use her mental
ejaculation, was "of a leanness!"

"Monsieur----" and she paused.

"Boone, ma'am. Daniel, your most obedient servant. If I'd known--Sho',
we might of had things spruced up a bit. Are you the queen, maybe?"

The lady's laugh rang as clear as a bell. Taken aback, Boone sought to
correct his mistake. He saw that Berthe was seated in the hammock. She,
then, must be the Empress.

"I'm downright sorry we went and captured Your Majesty," he began.

"Her Imperial Highness does not understand English," Jacqueline
explained.

Then to her surprise the man proceeded in French. He was evidently
greatly disturbed because Missouri hospitality did not harmonize with
war. "It was a blunder," he apologized earnestly, "come of our deciding
just this morning to make you Europeans vacate our continent. But don't
let that worry Your Majesty. Here, under my roof, the decision doesn't
hold, _at_ all!"

Berthe lifted her head quickly. It was her second promotion in the
social scale that day. She had trembled when the door opened, for she
knew that Rodrigo's side had triumphed. But this tall stranger brought
relief to one's nerves, and somehow she had watched him trustingly. He
was of the same race as Monsieur Driscoll, to whom also she had once
turned instinctively for help. But when the tremendous young fellow
addressed her with reverence due a queen, she felt only the respectful
admiration due a pretty young woman. It unexpectedly awakened in her the
knowledge that she was a pretty young woman; and with a winsomeness that
amazed and delighted Jacqueline, to say nothing of its effect on Daniel,
she gently put him right as to her identity.

"It doesn't matter," Boone protested stoutly, "you ought to be one!"

The door opened again. It struck the wall with an insolent bang, and in
strode Don Rodrigo. Jacqueline noted who it was and indifferently seated
herself in the rocking chair, with her back toward him. The Mexican
advanced to the centre of the room. The brief twilight had fallen, and
the place was in half light except for the blazing logs. He stopped
rigid and flung his scarlet-lined cloak back over his shoulder.

"Where," he dem