The jefetura, or prefecture, was at present the headquarters of the command, and in the long front room were assembled a number of officers, including Ney and Tiburcio, besides the jefe of the place and several town magistrates, all chatting with Colonel Mendez about the recent victory. They greeted the American cordially, and poured out tequila for him. He had done as much as any to win the fight. Michel laid a hand on his shoulder. "Monsieur," he said with mock formality, "to-day, when you permitted yourself to save my skin, you called me a fool. But I would have you observe, monsieur, that only my patron divinity, the god of fools, is permitted to know so much." Driscoll loosed himself from the affectionate grip, and turned to Mendez. "Colonel," he said, "I'm going to get out of this." "_What?_ Oh come, mi capitan, find a better one!" "It's not a joke, sir. Profiting by a commission that does not bind me, I am here to tell you good-bye." "Jean, mon ami!" Ney cried in protest. Don Tiburcio waited with keen appreciation, as he always did when the unexpectedness of this Gringo was unfolding. The others stared agape at the man between them and the door. Mendez saw too that he was in earnest, and he began to argue, almost to entreat. The Mexican leader had lost the quality of mercy in civil wars that had touched him cruelly, that had exacted many near to him, but there was sincerity in the man, and men were won by the stirring sound of his voice. "You would retire now," he exclaimed, "now, when every soul here may look for promotion, and none of them more than you, Senor Dreescol?" But he did not stop there. He conjured up a tempting vista of long and honored life under an empire that was now supreme. Even the scum of rebellion yet left on the calm surface was that day swept away, and naught remained but to enjoy the favors of his grateful Majesty. "Which only makes it," said Driscoll, "a good time to quit. I should mention, too, that I intend to join the Republic, that is," he added, "if there's any of the Republic left." Don Tiburcio was not disappointed. Mendez sprang to his feet and his voice was stentorian, as when he rallied his men by the magnet of fury and hatred. "It's desertion!" he roared. "Or simple honesty," Driscoll corrected him. "But it doesn't matter. The penalty is no worse for a deserter, if you catch him." Mendez curbed his rage. He did not wish to lose this man. That is, he would regret deeply having to kill him. "_Why_ do you mean to change?" he demanded. "Because I can't feel _right_! It's like--somehow it's like being an accomplice of murderers." "Dios mio, I suppose Your Mercy and his tender heart refers to the Decree?" "Partly. That thing is a blanket warrant of death. Just because your enemy can't fight any longer----"