"We'll let it go at that," said Driscoll, with a little wave of the hand, "but--how in----" "You scoff already, senor? But will you, at these stains of blood? Then let me say to you, senor mio, they make me remember one shameless deed for which the tyrant Maximilian must pay." The stains Rodrigo meant were on a little ivory cross which he had taken from his jacket. The emblem served him to lash his emotions, to goad his precious sense of wrong. He studied the cross intently; then, by a vast and excruciating effort, thrust it into Driscoll's hand. "Yes, yes," he cried, "you must take it! He said so." "He?" "Si, senor, he who shares my wrong, Don Anastasio Murguia." "Murgie!" exclaimed the bewildered American. "But--why, hombre, I haven't seen the old skinflint since--since he and I both were court-martialled by Lopez!" "Still I promised him to send the cross to you, because you will have a chance to give it to him. He said so." "Oh, he did?" But Driscoll put the trinket in his pocket, not unwilling to see more of this foolish drama in Latin-American sentiment. "Now then, Rod," he went on impatiently, "you haven't explained yet how you happen to find her again." "That," replied the outlaw, "was _his_ part of the bargain." "Whose?" "Anastasio Murguia's." "Rod, you talk like a----" "But no, senor, it's because you Americans cannot understand. Murguia also believes in vengeance. I haven't seen him either, not since he sold his hacienda over a year ago. But I do know that he or some spy of his is in the capital, for a messenger from him came to me in the mountains. The messenger said that the Marquesa d'Aumerle was leaving for Queretero. If I captured her, it would be vengeance in kind. But Murguia wanted pay for his information. He wanted that cross--it was his daughter's--and I was to send it to him through you. Dios mio, but I had to hurry! A little more, and the Marquesa would have been inside your lines." "She is already," Driscoll corrected him, "and so are you. Will you fight it out, or surrender?" He pointed to the Grays as he spoke. They had dismounted, and each man had a rifle at aim across his saddle. It was a reminiscence out of Driscoll's boyhood of Indians and the Santa Fe trail. But Don Rodrigo only smiled. "You want the coach first?" he said. "No!" Driscoll retorted. "You're the one that's wanted, and you can either wait for your trial, or be shot now, fighting. The coach will have to take its chances. But see here, if the firing once starts, not a thief among you will be left standing----" It was a perilous "bluff," and none might say if it would have broken the deadlock. But the outlaw interrupted. "Listen! What's that?" "Oh, nothing. We're only throwing a few bombs into Queretero."