But Jacqueline was--whistling. The bristling highwayman swung round full of anger. Driscoll stared at her amazed. Then he laughed outright. "Well, well, Honorable Mr. Buccaneer of the Sierras, now maybe---- Yes, that's what I mean," he added approvingly as Fra Diavolo leaped astride his charger and jerked forth two pistols from their holsters, "that's it, get the game started!" Jacqueline's red lips were again pursed to whistle, but she changed and hummed the refrain instead: "Mironton, mironton, mirontaine!" Driscoll stared at her harder. The words were strange and meant nothing. But there was a familiarity to the tune. That at least needed no interpreter. The old ballad of troubadours, the French war song of old, the song of raillery, the song of Revolution, this that had been a folk song of the Crusader, a Basque rhyme of fairy lore, the air known in the desert tents of Happy Arabia, known to the Jews coming out of Egypt, known to the tribes in the days without history or fifes--why, if this wasn't the rollicking, the defiant paean of Americans! But how came she by it, and by what right? "'And we won't go home till morning,'" he joined in, inquisitively. The girl paused, as explorers singing it have paused when savages never before seen by white men joined in with barbarian words. But she went on, letting the miracle be as it might. "'The news I bear, fair lady----'" she sang, and nodded at the bandit, to indicate that here was _his_ line, "'The news I bear, fair lady, Will cause your eyes to weep.'" "'----Till daylight doth appear,'" Driscoll finished it with her. Then both looked up like two children, to the awful presence on horseback. Don Rodrigo was at some pains to recover himself. A helpless girl and one lone trooper were practising a duet under his very frown. Only a glance toward the boulders and cacti reassured him. "Well, what next?" Jacqueline demanded sweetly. "Is it to be the--the 'game' at last?"