Maximiliano I. of Mexico was dead. His dynasty and his Empire were the frippery of a past time. Yet there was his capital, still holding out against the Republic. Leonardo Marquez, the Leopard, spitefully refused to capitulate. But why he would not, no one knew, neither the starving City, nor the patient besieger outside. No one, unless it was Jacqueline. The very day of the triple execution she called on Escobedo, commander in chief at Queretaro. She desired to return to the capital, and she wanted a pass through the Republic's lines there. She mentioned, in case it were any inducement, that the place would fall within twenty-four hours after her arrival. Jacqueline had difficulty to speak at all. She could not endure the general's monstrous flaps of ears, his rabbinical beard, his cruel black eyes. "Maria purisima," he exclaimed, "you cannot mean, senorita, that you, all alone, will deliver the City of Mexico into our hands?" "It will certainly be an incident of my stay there," she replied. The hard, Jewish features lighted cunningly. "Then, por Dios, you are as wonderful as I've always heard! But may--may one be allowed a little curiosity?" "I _might_ say," and Jacqueline forthwith said it, "that I have just had a cipher telegram from Louis Napoleon." "Which," breathlessly demanded the other, "will interest Marquez, eh? Will disappoint him? Will cause him to surrender?" "Your Excellency is of course entitled to his own conjectures." But the commander-in-chief was satisfied. "We must hasten your going by every means," he declared. "You shall have an escort. You----" "Then I choose the Gray Troop--because," she added carefully, "they're the best." Now, why, by all that's feminine, was she surprised next morning when the Gray Troop gathered round her coach, as though that were a coincidence? At least she arched her brows, and lifted one shoulder petulantly, and unmistakably showed that she expected a tedious time of it. The sunburned colonel of the Grays beamed so with happiness too, as he drew rein to report to her. They met for the first time since Maximilian's embarrassing little scene for their express benefit. Driscoll noted her disdain, and it is likely that he only grinned. He did that because he knew how helpless he was, and how merciless she could be. For she was not only beautiful, she was pretty--a demure, sweet, and very pretty girl. Some vague instinct of self-defense guided him. His broad smile was exasperating in the last degree, and it was not she, but the other young woman in the coach, whom he addressed. "I got some side saddles, Miss Burt," he announced, "and a few extra mustangs, whenever anybody gets tired of traveling behind curtains." Curiously enough, both girls wore riding habits. "Oh, by the way," he inquired suddenly, "how's Miss Jack'leen this morning? Is she well and--docile?"