"Senorita!" The Mexican bent in heavy ceremony, the sombrero covering his breast. "I am honored, even in Your Mercy's censure. Those who deserve it could not appreciate it more." "Forward then, captain. On with the excuses, I promise to believe them." "Those sailors, my lady, who fight with kicks. Ugh!--they attacked some of my men this morning in Tampico. I had to call at the fort for aid." "Oh, but Maximilian shall hear of this!" "I think he will," and Fra Diavolo bowed again, hiding the gleam of a smile. "But I forget, your compatriot----" "Monsieur Ney?--Yes?" "He meant to help the sailors----" "But he was not hurt?" "Oh, no, no! But he had to be held in the fort." "That poor Michel!" "So," the syllable fell weightily, as if to crush Ney out of her thoughts, "here I am at last, to claim the distinguished pleasure of seeing Your Ladyship to the stage at Valles." Din Driscoll had been gazing far away at the mountains, his thumbs tucked in his belt. He stood so that the Mexican was between him and the scattered boulders on the right of the trail. Now he addressed the mountains. "The stage at Valles? There is no stage at Valles---- And, captain," he dropped Nature abruptly, and turned on the man, "who are you, hombre? Come, tell us!" If Fra Diavolo were a humbug, he was not nearly so dismayed as one might expect. For that matter, neither was Jacqueline. She inquired of Driscoll how he knew more about stage lines than the natives themselves. Because the natives themselves were not of one mind, he replied. For instance, Murgie's muleteers had assured him fervidly that there was such a stage, whereas passing wayfarers had told him quite simply that there was not, nor ever had been. Jacqueline's gray eyes, wide open and full lashed, turned on Fra Diavolo. "You are," she exclaimed, noiselessly clapping her hands as at a play, "then you are--Oh, _who_ are you?" The Mexican straightened pompously. "Who?" he repeated deep in his chest, "who, but one at Your Mercy's feet! Who, but--Rodrigo Galan himself!" "The _terrible_ Rodrigo?" She wanted complete identification. He looked at her quickly. The first darkening of a frown creased his brow. But still she was not alarmed. Berthe, however, proved more satisfying. "Oh, my dear lady!" she cried, reining in her horse closer to her mistress. "And who," drawled the American at a quizzical pitch of inquiry, "may Don Rodrigo be?" "What, senor," thundered the robber, "you don't----" He stopped, catching sight of the timorous Murguia hovering near. "Then, look at that old man, for he at least knows that he is in the presence of Don Rodrigo. He is trembling."