"Receive then this young hero with all becoming state; 'Twere ill advis'd to merit so fierce a champion's hate." --_Nibelungenlied._ In his bedroom at Buena Vista, the marshal's residence, Driscoll the next day received a personage, and offered him a cigar. Declined, with bow from shoulder. Hoped he would have a nip of peach brandy? Declined, with sweep from hips. He _was_ a personage. Driscoll noted regalia, medals, cordon; and apologized for the temerity of Missouri hospitality. "Especially," he said, "as you're a Grand Divinity." "Dignity, senor," the hidalgo corrected him, "Grand Dignity." "You'll have to pardon me again," said Driscoll, "but I really didn't intend any short measure at all." It was the Imperial Grand Chamberlain himself. There were no incomunicado doors before _him_; he came from the Emperor. The Empress had spoken to His Majesty, having just had her discussion aforementioned with Madame la Marechale, so that Monsieur le Marechal had had to lift from his prisoner the ban of the incomunicado. But monsieur had been extremely reluctant about it. The Chamberlain's name went well with his exalted fourth degree of proximity to the throne. It was Velasquez de Leon, a very bristling of Castilian pride. He looked over the battered American in homespun gray, and wondered where the mistake was. For, as arbiter of precedence, appraiser of inequality between men, and supervisor over court functions generally, he had been sent in the way of business. Driscoll felt sorry for him. "Just tell them to let me out of here," said the prisoner, "then I'll call in on the Emperor whenever it's convenient for him." "But, senor," the don objected testily, "with what status, pray? Has your country a representative here? You must obtain a letter from your ambassador, or have him present you." Driscoll shook his head. "Can't," he said, "haven't any country." The minion of etiquette despaired. "But," Driscoll added, "I've got as good as credentials from what used to be my country." Velasquez de Leon grasped at the straw. "Then," he cried, "we can register you as an ambassador." "Bringing my country with me," Driscoll suggested. So it was all straightened out pleasantly, and quite in the orthodox manner, too. The American's status was defined. His reception would fall under the rubric: "Private Audience." There remained only one grave drawback. The protocol allowed no hints as to the un-protocol aspect of an ambassador's wardrobe. The hidalgo could only finger nervously the Imperial Crown in his Grand Uniform, and with stiff dignity take his leave.