"Sure it's hard," said Boone quietly, "mighty hard, to forgive our enemies the good they do."

"What enemies?"

"W'y, them," and Daniel pointed to a flag as to a nation. "Yes sir, the Yanks have kept faith. Do you see a single one of their uniforms down here? Do you notice anywheres that Yankee protectorate we were predicting? No sir, you do not! The Yanks--" But the term was d.a.m.ning to eloquence. Mr. Boone found another. "The _Americans_, I repeat, have hurled back the European invader. They have given Mexico to the Mexicans. They have endowed a people with nationality. But they have not gobbled up one solitary foot of territory. Which is finer, grander, than your Napoleonic glory! And yet it's selfish, of coh'se it is. But listen here, there'll never be any Utopia, Altruria, Millennium, or what not, that don't coincide with self-interest. And first among the races of the earth, the Americans have _made_ 'em coincide, and I want to know right now if the Americans are not the hope of the world!"

The orator paused for breath. He had to. And then surprise the most lugubrious unexpectedly clouded his lank features. "Darn it, Jack," he exclaimed in alarm, "if I ain't getting Reconstructed, right while I am standing here!"

"_Talked_ yourself into it," Driscoll observed scornfully. "But Dan, you can just put the South along with your Americans. The French laughed at the North alone, but later, when--Well, just maybe it's a good thing we did get licked."

Mr. Boone gasped. Sparks of indignation darted from his steel blue eyes.

The recoil needed a full minute to spend itself. Then a greater horror appalled him, a horror of himself. "The Lawd help me," he burst forth, "but you're right, Din Driscoll! You are! It _was_ for the best.

But don't you ever think I'm going to admit it again, to nary a living mortal soul, myself included. W'y, it would, it would knock my editorial usefulness--all _to_ smash. There," he added, "that's decided, we're going back. The colonels want their mamas. They've been men long enough, and they're plum' homesick. All the old grudges up there must be about paid off by now, so's an ex-Reb can live in Missouri without train robbing. _Libertas et natale solum_--It's our surrender, _at_ last."

Driscoll rose abruptly. "Lay down your pen, Shanks," he said. "You're only trying to convert the converted. Of course I'm going too. That there flag, being down here, did it. And don't you suppose _I've_ had letters from home too?"

Meagre Shanks jumped with relief. He straightened throughout his spare length. As the smell of battle to the war charger, the pungent odor of printer's ink wet on galley proofs a.s.sailed his nostrils. There were visions, of double-leaded, unterrified thunderbolts crashing from the old Gutenberg, back in Booneville.

"Missouri," he breathed in fire, "Missouri will sho'ly stay Democratic."

Both men glowed. They were buoyant, happy. But these two could not so soon be quit of the enervating Land of Roses. A pair of countenances fell together. Daniel voiced their mutual thought.

"And Miss Jacqueline?" he queried boldly, with the air of meaning to persist, no matter what happened.

Driscoll showed weariness, anger.

"And Miss Burt?" he parried.

"She won't desert, I told you once."

"You mean that she's going to Paris too? I say, Shanks, they're leaving to-morrow."

Shanks knew that much, quite well enough.

"Have you _tried_ to stop her?" he demanded sternly.

Driscoll only looked disgusted.

"But have you--_asked_ her?"

Driscoll's head jerked a nod, of wrath ascending.

The inquisitor wisely swerved. What her answer had been was, to say the least, palpable. But her reason for it was _the_ question with Daniel.

"Is it," he pursued, "is it because she hasn't any dot? You know, Jack, that in France, when a young lady----"

"No, it's not that. I know it's not."

"Oh ho," said Daniel, "so you've been guessing too! And how many guesses did she give you? No, let me try just a few more. It ain't because, because she's an aristocrat?"

"But I _want_ an aristocrat," cried the young Missourian, "one to her finger tips, enough of one to be above aristocracy. And _she_ is."

"Then," said his friend in despair, "it's because she don't, just simply don't care for you?"

"You're a long time finding that out."

"What! You don't mean----"

"Fact," said Driscoll. "Even I guessed it at last. I told her I had been reckoning that she----"

"Cared, yes?"

Driscoll made a wry face. "And she said I mustn't jump at conclusions, I might scare 'em."

The Troubadour chuckled heartlessly. Neither was Driscoll's sense of humor entirely gone.

"'Oh, awful G.o.ddess! ever dreadful maid!'" Mr. Boone quoted.

"She's sure a wonder," the other owned gloomily.

"And you are a blind dunce, Jack."

"Don't talk axioms at me," said Driscoll, with a warning light in his eye. "I don't need 'em."

"Well, now," drawled Mr. Boone, "I can't help it if I a.s.sociate with you any longer, so I'll just mosey round to the flower market. As they leave to-morrow, they'll be wanting some violets."

And he went, and Din Driscoll sat down again and hated him.

Daniel wended his way slowly, an attenuated ranger in gray mid carriages and blanketed forms. "Sho'", he mused, "that girl's heart is fair bleeding for him, can't _I_ see! Her eye-lashes, they're _wet_, every now _and_ then. And whatever the matter with her is, it's nothing. But nothing is the very darndest thing to overcome in a girl. There's got to be strong measures. It's got to be _jolted_ out of her. _Archimagnifico, there's_ the point!"

Mr. Boone drew out a black cigar, and mangled it between his teeth. He pondered and pondered, absent-mindedly kicking at natives he b.u.mped into. "Kidnap 'em!" he cried at length. "N-o," he reflected, "they go in the public stage, and what with the escort, somebody'd get hurt. We don't want any dead men at this wedding. Old Brothers and Sisters would balk anyhow, and our ecclesiastical officiator is the boy we _do_ need. Now what the everlasting----"

He meant what salutary jolt he _could_ invent, barring holdups, but in the same breath he meant also a most startling scene which revealed itself as he turned the corner.

A deafening crash of musketry was the first thing, and he looked up. He had come into a small plaza before a church, and against the church's blank wall a scene was taking place before an awe-stricken throng. He understood. Another proscribed "traitor" had just been caught; and executed, naturally. But no, not executed! For as the officer of the shooting squad approached to give the stroke of mercy, the prostrate victim raised himself by one hand and knocked aside the pistol at his head. Then he laughed in the officer's face, the most diabolical and unearthly mirth any there had ever heard. There was not a stain of blood on him. He had dropped in the breath of eternity before the bullets spattered past. But his uplifted face, with chin tilted back, was swollen, black, distorted, corded by pulsing veins, and one of the eyes--a crossed eye--bulged round and purple out of its socket, and _gleamed_. The demon of pain was tearing at the man's tissue of life, but by grip of will unspeakable the agony in that grimace changed to a smile.

"Yes, poison! Vitriol!" he chattered at them hideously. "Adios, imbeciles. It's my last--jest!"

Whereat he fell, writhing as the acid burned to his soul. Before the astounded officer could shoot, he had grown entirely quiet.

Boone strained and pushed against the crowd until he reached the spot.

The cadaver was in tight charro garb of raw leather. His sombrero lay near, on which was worked a Roman sword, meaning "Woe to the conquered!"

Boone turned inquiringly to the officer. The man, who was pallid, touched his thumb to his cap, recognizing the uniform of the Grays.

"You should know him, mi coronel," he explained. "His name was Tiburcio.

He deserted from the Imperialistas at Queretaro, but afterward he joined the plot for Maximilian's escape. We had his description, and I found him. He wanted to take me to Marquez and Fischer, whom we would also like to find. He said that he risked himself here, to spy on them, and that he knew where they had fled, the Leopard disguised in the padre's cloak. But of course I paid no attention. I did not delay even to tie his hands. As Your Mercy observes, I had the honor to do my duty, at once."

"I see," replied Boone dryly. "Lawd, this _is_ a jolt!"