"Monsieur permits himself----" she began, but no one heard except her terrified companion within the coach. Driscoll had already dropped the curtain as a thing that burned, and was raging on again with the turbulent stream. He got to the leader of the band, and jerked the fellow's bridle. He raised his voice, and louder than the pounding of hoofs he cursed in wrathful disgust. "Dam' you Rod, this here's getting monotonous!" The man swung in his saddle. His eyes were black-browed and savage. He was Rodrigo Galan, the terrible Don Rodrigo. But shabby, how very shabby he looked for the thief of million dollar convoys! Yet that bonanza coup of the bullion train had happened two years ago. Since then the outlaw had visited the capital. Boldly, audaciously, he had gone as a rich hacendado, and after the manner of rich hacendados he had "seen the City." Mozos with gorged canvas bags on their shoulders had followed his stately stride into the gambling casinos. He had played with regal nerve, and on the last occasion, had flung the emptied sacks away as nonchalantly as on the first. Only, the last time, he had felt remorse that the "bank" had profited instead of Tiburcio. In that matter of the bullion convoy he had not treated Don Tiburcio as one caballero should another. Their horses--Rodrigo's and Driscoll's--were racing by bounds shoulder to shoulder. This endured for possibly the space of a second. Then Demijohn felt his rein tighten, and he took more time. Next his bit suddenly pinched, and down the old fellow came upon his front feet together, firmly planted, and sank to his haunches. Driscoll still held Rodrigo's bridle, and Rodrigo and horse, being in air, lunged backward. "We stop here," Driscoll announced. Don Rodrigo plumped down heavily in his saddle. His bristling moustache lifted over his cruel white teeth. Two hundred swarthy little demons reining in around them looked expectantly for a signal. But their chief frowned at the twelve hundred Gringo Grays hovering on his flank. They too wanted only a sign, and they outnumbered the Brigand's six to one. But Rodrigo believed he held the advantage. First he obediently halted himself and his minions. "Now then senor," said he in pompous and heavy syllables, "I am at your disposition. Will your people commence the battle, or shall we?" Driscoll appreciated the dilemma. The carriage would be in the line of fire. He had had an intuition of its occupants, and for that reason had kept back his men. "Where was she going?" he demanded. Rodrigo feigned surprise. "And where," he asked, "or rather, to whom, should Your Mercy imagine?" To Queretero! To Maximilian, of course! This, too, Driscoll had divined already. "No matter," he retorted shortly, "but how did you run across her this time?" The outlaw filled his chest, "You Americans, senor, do not understand the feelings of a man bowed under a heavy wrong. You----"