"Oh wake up, and give me two donkeys for the girls. Their horses got hit, you know." Then the stunned old miser began to perceive that he was not in heaven. His tyrant's voice! "You get my horses killed," he whined, "and now you take my burros." Driscoll said no more, but picked out two beasts and bound some cushioned sacking on their backs for saddles. Then with a brisk hearty word, he swept Berthe up on the first one. "Next," he said, turning to Jacqueline. But the marchioness drew back. Next--after her maid! It nettled her that this country boy, or any other, could not recognize in her that indefinable something which is supposed to distinguish quality. "What's the matter, now?" he asked. "Quick, please, I'm in a hurry." "It's too preposterous. I'll not!" "You will," he said quietly. Her gray eyes deepened to blue with amazement. She stood stock still, haughtily daring him. She even lifted her arms a little, leaving the girlish waist defenseless. Her slender figure was temptation, the pretty ducal fury was only added zest. Up among the rocks Driscoll had found himself whispering, "She's game, that little girl!" But at the same time he had remembered Rodrigo's innuendo, the linking of her name with Maximilian's. She was so brave, and so headstrong, so lovably headstrong, and her beauty was so fresh and soft! Yet he could not but think of that taint in what nature had made so pure. Of a sudden there was a something wrong, something ugly and hideously wrong in life. And the country boy, the trooper, the man of blood-letting, what you will, was filled with helpless rage against it; and next against himself, because the girlish waist could thrill him so. "A silly little butterfly," he argued inwardly. Before, he had been unaware of his own indifference. But now he angrily tried to summon it back. He set his mind on their situation, on what it exacted. It exacted haste, simple, impersonal haste. And keeping his mind on just that, he caught her up. "Oh, you boor!" she cried, pushing at him. His jaw hardened. His will was well nigh superhuman, for he battled against two furious little hands, against the dimple and the patch so near his lips, against the fragrance of her hair, against the subtle warmth of his burden. "No, no!" she panted. "Monsieur, do you hear me? I am not to be carried!" "Maybe not," said he, carrying her. A moment later she discovered herself planted squarely on the burro. "Bonte divine!" she gasped. But she took care not to fall off. He drew a long breath. "Now whip 'em up," he commanded. * * * * * The first village beyond, where Dupin had promised to meet Jacqueline, was a squatting group of thatched cones in a dense forest of Cyprus and eucalyptus. Its denizens were Huasteca Indians, living as they had before the Conquest, among themselves still talking their native dialect. The name of the hamlet was Culebra.