ds grated in rage and
chagrin, "I curse His Excellency the general-of-division-in-chief of the
army of operations, Don Leonardo Marquez. I curse, senores, the Reverend
Senor Abbot, Padre Augustin Fischer----"

"Good, that's finished. Now tell us why there was no battle."

"I curse His Ex----"

"You have already, but now----"

Tiburcio flung up his hand in a gesture of assent, and his ugly features
relaxed. Though going at a brisk trot, he rolled a cigarette and lighted
it. Then he told his story. Queretero? Ha, Queretero was now the Court,
the Army, the Empire! Pious townsmen shouted "Viva el Senor Emperador!"
all day long. The cafes were alive with uniforms and oaths and high
play. Padres and friars shrived with ardor. There was the theatre.
Fashion promenaded under the beautiful Alameda trees, and whispered the
latest rumors of the Empress Carlota. Maximilian decorated the brave,
and bestowed gold fringed standards. Then came Escobedo and his Legion
del Norte, but they kept behind the hills. Bueno, the Empire would go
forth and smite them, and the pious townspeople climbed to the housetops
to see it done. And yesterday morning the Empire, with banners flying
and clarion blasts, did march out and form in glittering battle array.

"And then, hombre?"

"And then the Empire marched back again, senores."

Regules and Driscoll were stupefied. What gross idiocy--or
treachery--had thrown away the Empire's one magnificent chance?

Tiburcio sucked in his breath. "I curse----"

"Marquez?" cried Regules.

"Si senor, Marquez! Marquez cried out against the attack, and His
Majesty ordered the troops back into town again."

"But Miramon, hombre? Miramon, the best among you, where was he?"

"General Miramon fairly begged to fight, but he has been defeated once,
and now Marquez warns the Emperor against Miramon's 'imprudence.'
Marquez is chief of staff, and crows over Miramon, who was once his
president. He personally ordered Miramon off the field, yet it was
Miramon who first made the insolent little whelp into a general."

"This," said Driscoll, "does not explain why you desert to us?"

For an instant the old malignant humor gleamed in the baleful crescent.
"It's the fault of the fat padrecito," he replied. "Your Mercy perhaps
does not know about the pretty servant he eloped with from the Bishop of
Durango's to Murguia's hacienda? Well, but trouble started when I saw
her, or rather, when she saw me, even me, senor, fo