nything, everything. A long provision train offered first. Many carts
had been loaded with Republican stores, and were being convoyed to the
town by a squadron of Imperialist cavalry. It was the clash between this
escort and the brigands that attracted the Grays coming on behind. But
the escort wheeled and fled and the brigands pursued, slashing with
machetes, and so charged full tilt into the Dragoons of the Empress who
were sent to retake the abandoned prize. Red tunics mixed with ragged
yellow shirts, and war-chargers and mustangs swirled together as a
maelstrom. Then the Grays pounded among them, in each hand of each man a
six-shooter. The red spots began to fall out of the peppered caldron.
The red tunics that were left broke, retreated, ran. It became a rout.
Only a few of the Empire's best survived those ten minutes of
blood-letting. Fatality? Driscoll's lip curled. Fatality? The Dragoons,
now no more, had twice held him for their bullets.

Grays and brigands chased them back toward Queretero. The fleeing
remnant began yelling for help. Driscoll rose in his stirrups, and saw
just ahead a large force of the enemy. It was gathered around the Casa
Blanca, a little house on the plain. The large Imperialist force there
was an army, nothing less, though still disordered from the late action
and victory. Surrounded by a brilliant staff was a tall, golden bearded
chieftain, sumptuously arrayed as a general of division, regally mounted
on a cream-coated horse of Spain. He was Maximilian, viewing from there
the winning of his empire. The army behind him filled his ears--"Viva Su
Majestad!"

But he who had given the cue for that thrilling music now saw the
convoy's fate. He rode up and down anxiously, striving for order in the
confused ranks. He wore the green sash of a general. He had a moustache
and imperial, searching black eyes, and an open brow. His fine features
showed in the blend of French and Castilian blood. He was the real
chieftain. He was Miramon. Impetuously he made ready to avenge the
Dragoons.

These things that he saw ahead brought Driscoll to his senses. With
reluctance, but instantly, he made up his mind. He held high his sabre
and halted his own men, turning at the same time to collide obliquely,
and purposely, against Rodrigo.

"Not that way, Rod, not that way!"

"But it's the tyrant! It's the tyrant!"

Driscoll got the brigand's bridle and swung him around fiercely. "Let
the poor tyrant be!" he