But he would learn when he should dash his horse's skull and his own against the shell that remained. He saddled Demijohn, filled an empty jar with the soft earth of his excavations, and waited. His dramatic appearance at the instant of the door's opening was not a coincidence. It was minute calculation. Already mounted, he faced the wall, with the heavy jar poised over his head in both hands, his spurs drawn back to strike. He waited until sentinels and shooting squad had gathered at the door. He waited to draw their fire, to empty their muskets. But he did not wait until the door should open enough to give them unimpeded aim. In the second of its opening he drove back the spurs, hurled the jar against the wall, and--crashed through his dungeon as easily as breaking a sucked egg. "But," demanded Jacqueline eagerly, "how is it you did feel?" She was disappointed that the personal equation had had so little prominence. "I don't recollect," said Driscoll, puzzled, "there was nothing hurting especially." "No, no! Your sensations facing death, then escaping?" He brightened. "W'y yes," he replied, happy to catch her meaning. "I felt toler'ble busy." She sighed despairingly. Yet there was plenty left her for wonderment, and in it she revelled. "Ingenuity!" she mused. "I declare, I believe the first human being to stand up on his hind legs must have been an American. It simply occurred to him one day that he didn't need all fours for walking, and that he might as well use his before-feet for something else." "And a Frenchman, Miss Jack-leen?" She flung up her hands. "_He!_" she exclaimed. "If ever a compatriot of mine had gotten that idea into his--how you say?--pate, would he not carry it out to the idiotic limit, yes? He? _He_ would try to walk without any feet whatever, and use _all_ of them for other things. Already you have seen him doing the, the pugilat--the box--with every one of his fours. Voila!" But time was passing. Lopez had certainly repaired his girths by this time. Driscoll arose. "There's a shorter way back," he announced. "The river junction can't be far down stream, and I'll wait for you there, Miss Jack-leen, while you scout on ahead to the hacienda house. If all's clear, you signal and I will advance with the heavy cavalry." "C'est bien, mon colonel." "Whatever that means, I hope it ain't mutiny." At best it was only mock compliance. Jacqueline also knew that time was passing, but she had not mentioned the fact. Now the reason transpired. She harked back on their separation, with a grave earnestness and a saddened air of finality. He was to leave her here, she said. He was to go back to his own country. How badly had his reception fared so far? Why not, then, leave Mexico to ingratitude, and have done? The romantic land of roses was notoriously a blight to hopes. Why should he seek to thrive despite the mysterious curse that seemed to hover over all things like a deadly miasma?