"Nevertheless," persisted Jacqueline, whose heritage of a revolution was
an obstinate bundle of these same absurdities, "nevertheless, I had
hoped to save Your Highness with my news, since it is news that leaves
no hope. Why not, then, escape? Treat for terms, do anything, only save
your followers and--yourself, sire?"

But she found it impossible to sway him from this, his latest conceit.
His new role, the more desperate it looked, only ensnared him as the
more worthy. He contemplated the end serenely. As a military captain he
was culling laurels against theatric odds. His heroic loyalty to a lost
cause, with perhaps a little martyrdom (of personal inconvenience), how
these would count and be not denied when he should return to his destiny
in Europe!

His was even a mood to consort with lofty traits in others, and in a
kind of poetic ecstasy he thought of Jacqueline's steadfast devotion to
her country's glory. And he was moved again by the vague, chivalrous
longing to bend the knee, to do her some knightly service. But--yes, he
seemed to remember, there _was_ such a service to be done, yet and
yet--no, he had forgotten.

Then quite curiously, yet still without remembering, he dwelt in reverie
on that man named Driscoll who had so filled the morning with valiant
deeds.

CHAPTER XVI

VENDETTA'S HALF SISTER, BETTER BORN

"When private men shall act with original views, the lustre will
be transferred from the actions of kings to those of gentlemen."
--_Emerson_.

Just outside Driscoll's tent, under the stars, a fragrant steak was
broiling. The colonel's mozo had learned the magic of the forked stick,
and he manipulated his wand with a conscious pride, so that the low
sizzling of flesh and flame was as the mystic voice in some witch's
brew. There were many other tents on the plain, a blurred city of
whitish shadows against the night, and there were many other glowing
coals to mark where the earth lay under the stars, and the witching
murmur, the tantalizing charm of each was--supper. In this wise, and
thinking themselves very patient, men were waiting for other men to
starve to death. The besieged had tried, but they had not again cut
through to food.

In Driscoll's tent there was a galaxy of woolen-shirted warriors, a
constellation of quiescent Berserkers. For they were Missouri colonels,
except one, who being a Kansan, required no title. T