"Madame is served," Berthe announced. Madame raised herself on an elbow and looked at the tray, at the sorry chinaware, at the earthen supplements. "Served?" she repeated. "Berthe, exaggeration is a very bad habit. But child, what are you about? This is not a petit dejeuner!" "I know, madame, but he told me to bring it. He said we'd be traveling, and there wouldn't be time for a second breakfast." "_He?_ Who in the world----" "Why, the, the American monsieur. He said just coffee wasn't enough, and for me to bring along the entire contest of marksmanship--the, the whole shooting match--and for madame to hurry." "Berthe! one would say you thought him a prince." "He--he is a kind of prince," said the little Bretonne doggedly. Madame whistled softly. Still, she ate a hearty breakfast. Meantime, outside two resplendent horsemen were galloping up the curving sweep of the wide road. Their haste smacked of vast importance, and the very dazzling flash of their brass helmets in the sunlight had a certain arrogance. The foremost jerked his horse's bit with a cruel petulance and drew up before the hacienda house. Several natives were basking on the steps, and he cut at them sharply with his whip. "Wake, you r-rats!" A Teutonic thickness of speech clogged his utterance, and he turned to his companion. "Tell this canaille," he snarled in Flemish, "to go fetch their master here at once." The administrador came hurrying, and was overcome. His hospitable flow gushed and choked at its source before the splendor of the two cavaliers. They were Belgians. The first wore a long blue coat bedecked with golden leaves and belted with a sash. Crosses and stars dangled on his breast. His breeches were white doe, and his high glossy boots had wrinkles like a mousquetaire's. Heavy tassels flapped from his sword hilt. A brass eagle was perched on his helmet. Altogether, here was a glittering bit of flotsam from the new Mexican Empire. But a narrowness between the man's eyes affected one unpleasantly. It was a mean and a sour scowl, of a fellow lately come into authority. The other man graced the ornate uniform of an aide in Maximilian's imperial household. "Your Mercy is--is the Emperor?" stammered the poor fat administrador. He had, indeed, heard rumors of Maximilian on one of his ostentatious voyages. The first Belgian, however, was in no way embarrassed at the question. It was a natural mistake, in his opinion. "Explain to this imbecile," he ordered, "since there's no better here to receive us."