The Tiger was, in fact, ordering the shooting squad, when through the open door glittering helmets and excited French and clanking sabres flooded the room. It was still another wondrous uniform for Driscoll, this of the cuirassiers, with so much of brass, and a queue of horse's hair, and loose pantaloons that merged into gigantic black boots. In they strode, an agitated host of bristling moustaches, while outside was the restless sound of many hard breathed horses. The cuirassiers bore their wounded leader, and laid him on the iron bed in the room. But the man struggled to his feet. He called loudly for "Monsieur le Colonel," and only by force, though gentle, could they hold him quiet. "What is it?" responded both Dupin and Lopez. "I, I mean the American Colonel. He--he----" "Hello, Mike!" cried Driscoll. He could not see for the others, nor move, but he recognized the voice of Michel Ney. He knew, too, that Michel must be the cavalry leader he had just shot. "Darn it, Mike!" he exclaimed, "I'm sorry! But weren't there enough of 'em without you?" "Monsieur Ney," the Tiger interrupted, "let your men tend you here, and we will be back at once to see what can be done for your hurt. But just now----" He signed to Lopez, and Cossacks and Dragoons caught up the prisoner and started for the door. "Wait!" Ney moaned feebly. "Tonnerre, mon prince, your wound must be paid for, first. Hurry there, Messieurs les Imbeciles!" "Wait!" Ney gasped. He half raised himself, but sank back with closing eyes. He made a gesture to his breast. All halted as in the presence of death. "Help him, you there!" cried Driscoll. "Open his coat!" The cuirassiers, eager, awkward nurses, fluttered round the bed, and tore away the sky-blue jacket, thinking to find the wound beneath. Instead, they drew out a paper. One of them read the address on it. "Al Senor Coronel Don Miguel Lopez." Lopez broke the seal, frowned, and put the message in his pocket. "Nothing--oh, nothing important," he volunteered. "Now, once for all, let us finish our work." "Wait!" a faint whisper came from the bed. "He says to wait," doggedly repeated a cuirassier. "Yes, wait," Driscoll pleaded suddenly. "Just a minute, before I go, before we both go, perhaps,"--he thought in a flash that it might be a last word from Jacqueline--"perhaps, gentlemen, he, he has something to tell me." But Ney's head, moving weakly on the pillow, was a negative. The prisoner's voice grew firm again. "Then hurry up!" he ordered in the old querulous drawl. "Don't you know I'm in a hurry?" Ney opened his eyes as he heard the shuffling of feet. Men were carrying out the prisoner. With feeble anger he brushed aside the hand of a cuirassier who was trying to staunch the blood at his groin. "I--I----" His lips barely moved. The cuirassier sprang to his feet. He looked to his fellows, spoke to them. Puzzled, mystified, they rushed to the door and barred the way.