Paris to the Mexican court. But a storm having
brought her to Tampico, she wished to finish her journey overland. He,
the Capitan Morel of His Majesty's Contra Guerrillas, had offered her
escort for the trip. But the French caballero had presumed to force her
to continue by water.

"By water?" Driscoll repeated, glaring at Ney. "That poor little
girl!--And make her sick again!"

Jacqueline's chin tilted. "Ma foi, monsieur, I was not sick."

Driscoll noted her fragile dainty person, and recalling his own
experience, had grave doubts about the consistency of Nature. But this
was apart. There was still the mystery of his having blundered into a
business that somehow concerned the Emperor of Mexico. And it was a
matter that must be set right.

"You say you are an officer," he demanded of the ranchero, "but your
Greaser clothes, that's not a uniform?"

Uniforms were not necessarily a part of the contra-guerrilla service,
said the Mexican; and besides, there might be reasons for a disguise.
But as to his own identity, he reproduced the order signed by Colonel
Dupin.

"Correct," said Driscoll, and handed back the paper.

"Now then," he added to Ney, "what do you say for yourself?"

Unconsciously the French soldier replied as to a superior officer. "I've
just been transferred to the service of His Excellency, Marshal Bazaine,
in the City of Mexico, and am on my way there now."

"You are in the French service?"

"Of course I am."

"Your rank?"

"Sergeant."

Here, in a caprice of kind heart, as well as of mischief, Jacqueline
interposed. "Your sergeant, Monsieur the American, is the Duke of
Elchingen." But she might have called Ney a genus homo, for all the
impression it made.

"Too bad, sergeant," said Driscoll, "but a captain ranks first, you
know, and--well, I reckon I'll have to change sides. I know it's tough,"
and his brow knitted with droll perplexity, "but I'm afraid we'll just
have to do this thing all over again, unless--well, unless you give in,
sergeant."

Jacqueline had been waxing more and more agog, and her boot had tapped
impatiently. Now she gave way, and declared that it was too much. What,
she demanded, had monsieur to do with the matter in the first place?
Driscoll took off his slouch hat and ran his fingers through his hair to
grope for an answer. It had never been brought to him before that
fighting might be a private preserve. But his face cleared straightway.
In this second skirmish, d