The hard, Jewish features lighted cunningly. “Then, por Dios, you are as wonderful as I’ve always heard! But may–may one be allowed a little curiosity?”
“I might say,” and Jacqueline forthwith said it, “that I have just had a cipher telegram from Louis Napoleon.”
497“Which,” breathlessly demanded the other, “will interest Marquez, eh? Will disappoint him? Will cause him to surrender?”
“Your Excellency is of course entitled to his own conjectures.”
But the commander-in-chief was satisfied. “We must hasten your going by every means,” he declared. “You shall have an escort. You––”
“Then I choose the Gray Troop–because,” she added carefully, “they’re the best.”
Now, why, by all that’s feminine, was she surprised next morning when the Gray Troop gathered round her coach, as though that were a coincidence? At least she arched her brows, and lifted one shoulder petulantly, and unmistakably showed that she expected a tedious time of it. The sunburned colonel of the Grays beamed so with happiness too, as he drew rein to report to her. They met for the first time since Maximilian’s embarrassing little scene for their express benefit. Driscoll noted her disdain, and it is likely that he only grinned. He did that because he knew how helpless he was, and how merciless she could be. For she was not only beautiful, she was pretty–a demure, sweet, and very pretty girl. Some vague instinct of self-defense guided him. His broad smile was exasperating in the last degree, and it was not she, but the other young woman in the coach, whom he addressed.
“I got some side saddles, Miss Burt,” he announced, “and a few extra mustangs, whenever anybody gets tired of traveling behind curtains.” Curiously enough, both girls wore riding habits. “Oh, by the way,” he inquired suddenly, “how’s Miss Jack’leen this morning? Is she well and–docile?”
Jacqueline’s chin dropped in astonishment. She seized the old canvas window flap and jerked it down. But at once she raised it again, and thoughtfully contemplated the trooper.
“I wonder,” she mused aloud, in that quaint accenting of 498the English which cannot be described, “when is it that you are going to grow up, ever?”