One of the horsemen--he wore a sombrero--leaned back frantically. The other--who wore a battered soldier cap--passed ahead like the wind. The lariat twanged, but held. Sombrero's horse got its feet planted. The horse of Soldier Cap slowed to a standstill, and panted. Sombrero flung out his pistol, Soldier Cap his. They aimed at each other, the triggers snapped, no report. They looked amazed, embarrassed; and tried again. Same result. "Por Dios!" "Sacre nom!" They hurled the pistols, each at the other's head. Both ducked. Sombrero wheeled, drove home the spurs, and headed for retreat. Soldier Cap and horse braced themselves against the shock. The spectators, running nearer, now perceived that the lariat was tied round each man's waist as well as wrapped over his pommel. Soldier Cap weathered the jolt, next plunged suddenly closer, and in the instant of the slack, unwound the rope from his saddle and leaped to the ground. In two leaps more he had Sombrero about the neck. They fell together, rolling and fighting, while Sombrero's horse reared and plowed the soil with them. Dragoons and Cossacks heaped themselves on all three. It was quite an energetic mystery altogether. Under the soldier cap, under dust and blood and scratches, Jacqueline caught glimpses of a happy face. "Oh la-la, it's--it's Michel!" "Rodrigo Galan!" roared the Tiger, in his turn recognizing Sombrero. "Here, up with him! Six of you, quick there, in line, shoot him!" It was near the sweetest moment of the old warrior's life. "One moment, colonel!" someone spoke quietly. "Is it a Huastecan custom, by the way, to shoot a cavalier the instant he--ah--dismounts?" "But this scoundrel is Rodrigo Galan, Your Majesty. And that black horse, sacre tonnerre, that is Maurel's horse. Captain Maurel, sire, whom he murdered!" Don Rodrigo straightened pompously. "Your Most Opportune Majesty--" he began. "Also, Colonel Dupin," Maximilian continued, "he waylaid the Belgian ambassador, sent by Leopold, brother to Our August Spouse." "The more reason to shoot him, pardi!" "Without doubt, monsieur. But his execution must have eclat. Europe must know that Mexican outlaws do not go unpunished.--Colonel Lopez, you will take charge of Our prisoner. Guard him well, and bring him with you to the City. He shall be tried there, with every ceremony." Colonel Dupin, that policeman of the backwoods forced upon Mexico by Napoleon, could only grind his teeth, which he did. "Now then," said His Majesty, "let Us see this brigand-catcher who excels the redoubtable Contra Guerrillas.--As I live, the young man is a Chasseur d'Afrique! Step nearer, sir, and tell Us who you are." "Michel Ney, at Your Majesty's service." "The Prince of Moskowa!" exclaimed the Emperor. In his court, he was grateful for even a Napoleonic prince. "Sergeant, Your Majesty." It looked as though Ney were hinting to be made something else.