“It–it is!” confessed Murguía. There was dread, not surprise, in his exclamation. The waiting horseman, and a lonely hut there behind him–none other than a brigand “toll-station”–these were but too significant of an old and hated rendezvous. Don Anastasio got to his feet and nervously hurried his caravan back a short distance. Then he ran ahead again and overtook the two Frenchwomen. “Señoritas, wait! Neither of you need go. But I will–I must, but I can go alone, while you––”
“Why, what ails the man?”
“Back, señorita, back, before he sees you!”
Jacqueline looked at the imploring eyes, at the palsied hand on her bridle. “Berthe,” she said, “here’s your little monsieur getting constitutional again.”
“You will go, señorita?”
“Parbleu!” said the girl, and lashed her mustang.
“Dios, Dios,” gasped the little monsieur, hurrying after them, “when Maximiliano hears of this––”
“You should see Maximilian when he is angry,” Jacqueline called over her shoulder. “It is very droll.”
Din Driscoll had vaulted to the ground in the instant of halting. Immediately he led his horse behind the solitary hut, which was a jacal of bamboo and thatch built under the cliff, and left him there. Demijohn was a seasoned campaigner, and he would not move until his trooper came for him. When Driscoll emerged again, his coat was over his left arm, and the pockets were bulging. Fra Diavolo had already saluted him, but gazed down the trail at the two women approaching.
“How are you, captain?” Driscoll began cordially.