"That's what I think," declared Mrs. Conrad. "I don't put much faith in this regiment business. I think Pachuca has simply gone back to first principles and run amuck." "I don't believe----" Polly stopped, consciously. "Miss Polly thinks he's a gentleman and that ends it," said Scott, drily. "She's young, and the wretch has a way with him. I liked him myself when I was young and frivolous," said Mrs. Conrad, cheerfully. "I've entertained him many a time in Mexico City. Suppose you go into my room, my dear, and have a nice rest and clean up while I go and help Li rustle us a dinner out of the remnants?" she continued, taking the girl by the hand. "If Angel Gonzales is playing around this neighborhood, the sooner we get away the better," said Scott to Hard as the three men were left together. "Come and cast your weather eye over the wagon. For a quiet part of the country, we seem to have struck a bad gait." It was nearly eight o'clock when they sat down to their dinner; a dinner contrived with Oriental thrift from materials scorned by the marauders. "Give a Chinaman a handful of rice and a few vegetables and he'll make you a feast, so my husband used to say," remarked Mrs. Conrad. "You simply can't starve them." "Li wants to start right after dinner," said Scott. "And ride all night?" asked Herrick. "He says so. He says he knows the trail, and, of course, he's got the moon." A little later, as they sat around the fire, they heard the sound of his horse's feet on the stones and knew that the Chinaman had started. Polly began to feel the charm of the quaint room, with its dim lighting, the low fire, the fantastic patterns of rug and basket showing faintly, and through the windows the mountains and the stars. As the conversation began to yield to the quiet of the place, Herrick went to the piano and played softly. It had never fallen to the lot of the girl to hear such music; the revelation of a man's soul, poured out through an absolute mastery of the art. The little man, with the brown beard and the long nervous hands, sat hunched up in his low chair, knees crossed, eyes half closed, drawing from the keyboard the chords which carried to each one the message of his own heart. Presently, Clara Conrad rose, and, standing back of the piano, leaning over it, her hands clasped, began to sing--softly and easily--her voice, a rich contralto, blending with Herrick's small but exquisite baritone, in an old song. Polly looked at Hard, seated in a dim corner, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes fixed on the two at the piano. She wondered what he was thinking and what the woman meant to him. There was something almost too intimate about the whole scene and she was glad when Scott rose and went toward the door, speaking to her as he passed her.