But the pseudo mule driver moved squarely in front of her. He was embarrassed and respectful, but determined. Jacqueline lifted her brows. "My good man, this is effrontery!" But her good man did not quail. She noticed him a little then. He was ruddy and clean, with a stubble growth on his jaw. Since the civilization of Mobile, Lieutenant Colonel Jno. D. Driscoll had backslided into his old campaign ease. His first genuine stiff beard had found him sabre in hand, so that his knowledge of cutting instruments and of arched brows was limited. He said that he would be much obliged to have his question answered. Whereat Jacqueline thought, by her faith, "What a round, wholesome voice these rustics sometimes have!" The one she heard possessed the full rich quality of an Irishman's brogue, with the brogue worn off. "You know Spanish, do you not, senorita?" "Mais--why, better than I thought," she returned in English; and in English that was piquant because it could not help being just the least bit French as well. "Much better--because, I comprehend even yours, sir." "Con-_grat_-ulate you," Driscoll returned. "But what's this about Maximilian?" An eagerness in his manner caught her attention. But she answered with her old irony. "His Imperial Majesty seems to concern you profoundly, monsieur?" "H'm'm--oh no! Only it's curious how he gets mixed up in this shindy of ours." "If--if you are asking about Maximilian, senor," a heavy voice began. Fra Diavolo at least was not indifferent to the American's questioning, and now he explained that the lady was the Marquesa d'Aumerle, and that she was on her way from Paris to the Mexican court. But a storm having brought her to Tampico, she wished to finish her journey overland. He, the Capitan Morel of His Majesty's Contra Guerrillas, had offered her escort for the trip. But the French caballero had presumed to force her to continue by water. "By water?" Driscoll repeated, glaring at Ney. "That poor little girl!--And make her sick again!" Jacqueline's chin tilted. "Ma foi, monsieur, I was not sick." Driscoll noted her fragile dainty person, and recalling his own experience, had grave doubts about the consistency of Nature. But this was apart. There was still the mystery of his having blundered into a business that somehow concerned the Emperor of Mexico. And it was a matter that must be set right. "You say you are an officer," he demanded of the ranchero, "but your Greaser clothes, that's not a uniform?" Uniforms were not necessarily a part of the contra-guerrilla service, said the Mexican; and besides, there might be reasons for a disguise. But as to his own identity, he reproduced the order signed by Colonel Dupin. "Correct," said Driscoll, and handed back the paper. "Now then," he added to Ney, "what do you say for yourself?"