than the surprise of
recognition. What could it be that had grown so--so _terrible_ in
the weazen, craven miser! And to find the abject little coward on a
battlefield, and wounded! An occasional bomb even then screeched
overhead. And he was clothed in uniform, a soldier's uniform, he, Don
Anastasio!

"Gra-_cious!_" Driscoll muttered.

More and more stupefying, the uniform was not Republican, but
Imperialist. There were the green pantaloons with red stripes, the red
jacket, the white shoes, the white kepi, of the Batallon del
Emperador--a ludicrous martial combination, but pathetic on an aged,
withered man. The Batallon del Emperador? Driscoll remembered. They were
the troop that had surrounded Maximilian during the recent battle in
front of the Alameda, and Murguia had fallen on the very spot. The
venomous Republican was then become one of the Emperor's bodyguard!

As the Republican, so also was the coward gone. The gaunt little old
Mexican seemed oblivious of peril, as fever blinds one to every nearest
emotion. There was even a grimness in the shifting gaze. And a certain
merciless capacity, born of unyielding resolve--born of an obsession,
one might say--was there also. He could have been some great military
leader, cruel and of iron, if those eyes were all. Little shriveled Don
Anastasio, he had no sense of present danger, nor of the red blood
trickling.

"That's bad, that," said Driscoll, overcoming his repugnance. "Here,
I'll get you taken right along to our surgeons."

But Murguia shrank from the offer as though he feared the Republicans of
all monsters.

"No, no," he protested feebly, yet with an odd ring of command. "Some
one on--on my side will find me."

"But you called?" Driscoll insisted.

"Yes, you--have heard from Rodrigo Galan? He was to have sent you a--to
have sent you something for me."

More and more of mystery! Rodrigo had said that Driscoll would see
Murguia to give him the ivory cross, and so it had come to pass. But the
battle, the old man's wound, surely these things were not prearranged
only that a trinket might be delivered.

"How was I to see you?" Driscoll asked abruptly.

Murguia started, and there was the old slinking evasion.

"There, there," said Driscoll hastily. "Don't move that way, you'll
bleed to death! Here, take it, here it is."

Murguia clutched the ivory thing in his bony fingers.

"Maria, Maria de la Luz," he fell to murmuring, gazing upon the cross as
though