dismally, “can only fight.”

“But you forget,” she answered gravely, “that after all a woman can only give.”

That cynicism of life which had become a part of the young girl was yet gaiety itself. Youth and health and beauty would not have even cynicism otherwise. But now, as she spoke, the irony was bitter, and worn, as of age. And behind it was a woman’s reluctance before some abhorred sacrifice, a sacrifice which would entail the woman’s power to give.

Ney stared at her uncomprehendingly. Here lay a clue to her mysterious errand in Mexico. But he was not thinking of her as the Napoleonic enigma personified. It was of herself he thought, an enigma apart. She was a flower of France. Yet many, many flowers blossom there. She might be a grande dame, of nobility of womanhood as well as of family. Or again, she might be only an alluring, heartless witch, that helped to make tempting, and damnable, the brilliant Second Empire. But in any case, Jacqueline was truly as dainty as a flower.

“It has already cost us enough to gain this New World,” ventured the Chasseur, waving a hand toward the desolate shore, “and we made Maximilian emperor, but now they say that, that he would–they say so in Paris, mademoiselle–that he would rob us of it.”

“Indeed, monsieur?” There was warning in the look she gave him.

“But,” he plunged on boldly, “our soldiers still hold it, that is, until, until someone shall win it for us for our very own, absolutely. Ducal grandfathers never did more than that for France.”

10“Where are you leading, Michel? Please take me with you.”

“To a question. Don’t you think ‘someone’ is risking a great deal for a little walk on shore?”

Before she answered he knew that she had seen through all his blundering wiles.

“Are there guerrillas there?” she asked pensively.

“You should know. But they say, that out of Tampico especially––”

She was gazing toward the land, sandy and flat. Once she looked back with lively distaste at the rocking ship. Now she interrupted.

“It would be fun traveling overland–and such excitement!”

Ney’s shoulders went up in despair.

“Oh, my poor guardian!” she exclaimed contritely. “But why aren’t you a reader of the poets? Then you would find something to say to make me feel–sorry.”

“You say it then.”

“Why, for example, you might call all the stored vengeance of heaven right down on my ungrateful top.”

The soldier gazed at the ungrateful top. It was of burnished copper. A rebellious lock was then blowing in the wind, and there was a wide, rakish crown of rice-white straw. There was also a soft skin of creamy satin, lips blood red, a velvet patch near a dimple, and two gray eyes that danced behind the hat’s filmy curtain. An ungrateful top, out of all mercy!

11CHAPTER II
A Fra Diavolo in the Land of Roses

The torpid, sordid and sun-baked port of Tampico gave little promise of aught so romantic and rare and exotic as the young French woman’s coveted thrill of ecstasy. There was first the sand bar, which kept ships from coming up the deep Pánuco to the town. Beyond there were lagoons and swamps mottling the flat, dreary, moisture-sodden, fever-scourged land. There were solemn pelicans, and such kind of grotesque bird as use only one leg, it being long enough for two, and never that to walk upon, so far as anybody had ever noticed. Such an old fellow would outline himself against the yellow loneliness, like a lump of pessimistic philosopher impaled on the end of his own hobbling crutch. Tarpons and sharks and