Jacqueline caught her breath. What race of men were these? Exalted, quivering, she watched them doing as workmen what fell to their hands, yet ever with that whirlwind of vim.
“The Missourians–of course!” she cried.
Through powder smoke and misty rain the figure of one horseman slowly grew familiar. She caught fleeting glimpses of him, as he darted into a mêlée, as he spurred round to find a hotter field. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she pressed a hand hard against her breast.
“The coincidence!” she gasped, trembling from head to foot. “It is the coincidence!”
Her nose flattened against the wet pane. She remembered how that general of the Missourians had told Charlotte about this man, for the Empress had asked. And the general had related how the troop had dubbed him the Storm Centre.
“And no wonder!” she breathed. “Mon Dieu, how he enjoys it!–But, oh–he will be killed–oh!”
Yet nothing of the kind happened. When she uncovered her eyes, his assailants were in flight. Every Cossack survivor was in flight. The Storm Centre wheeled and confronted Don Rodrigo, who raised his sombrero effusively.
309“Rebellion makes strange comrades,” thought Jacqueline. “But no, my–the–chevalier–does not take his hand.”
Indeed Driscoll was looking the guerrilla over with little favor. “So,” he exclaimed, “it was you I was to help here!”
“And what better patriot, señor––”