“La Señorita d-d’Aumerle!” he stuttered.
“Faith, no other, who is awaiting your pleasure, señor.”
“You come from, from–Mexico?”
“But hardly to chat with you all the afternoon, caballero.”
“From Mexico! From the capital!” he kept repeating. The man’s finger nails cracked disagreeably, and his features worked in an extreme of agitation. He tried to fix his shifting blue eyes upon first one and then the other of the two girls, as though to ferret out what they must know. “You do bring news from there?” he said huskily. “What of Marquez? Is he coming? Shall we have the aid he went for? When––”
“Ah, the medal for military valor!” observed Jacqueline. “Indeed, mi coronel, all must acclaim your bravery, as well as–your loyalty. But take me to your beloved Prince Max, for I do assure you, señor, my news goes not without myself.”
“He visits the hospital every day,” Lopez advised reluctantly. “Perhaps if I should take Your Mercy there first––”
Passing on through the ravaged Alameda, they entered the streets of Querétaro.
“Hear!” Jacqueline exclaimed. “Such a quantity of vivas and clarins and national hymns and triumphant dianas, one would imagine, for example, that there had been a great victory?”
“Eh? Oh yes, or a hearty breakfast, señorita.”