A strange breathlessness attacked her, and she attributed it to the celerity with which she was being carried along.  Pulling the hood down over her face, she sank low in the seat.  The whir of the car now seemed to be a world-filling sound.  Again the feeling of excitement, the poignancy of emotional heights, the ever-present impending sense of catastrophe became held in abeyance to the sheer intensity of physical sensations.  There came a time when all her strength seemed to unite in an effort to lift her breast against the terrific force of the wind—­to draw air into her flattened lungs.  She became partly dazed.  The darkness before her eyes was not all occasioned by the blood that pressed like a stone mask on her face.  She had a sense that she was floating, sailing, drifting, reeling, even while being borne swiftly as a thunderbolt.  Her hands and arms were immovable under the weight of mountains.  There was a long, blank period from which she awakened to feel an arm supporting her.  Then she rallied.  The velocity of the car had been cut to the speed to which she was accustomed.  Throwing back the hood, she breathed freely again, recovered fully.

The car was bowling along a wide road upon the outskirts of a city.  Madeline asked what place it could be.

“Douglas,” replied Link.  “An’ jest around is Agua Prieta!”

That last name seemed to stun Madeline.  She heard no more, and saw little until the car stopped.  Nels spoke to some one.  Then sight of khaki-clad soldiers quickened Madeline’s faculties.  She was on the boundary-line between the United States and Mexico, and Agua Prieta, with its white and blue walled houses, its brown-tiled roofs, lay before her.  A soldier, evidently despatched by Nels, returned and said an officer would come at once.  Madeline’s attention was centered in the foreground, upon the guard over the road, upon the dry, dusty town beyond; but she was aware of noise and people in the rear.  A cavalry officer approached the car, stared, and removed his sombrero.

“Can you tell me anything about Stewart, the American cowboy who was captured by rebels a few days ago?” asked Madeline.

“Yes,” replied the officer.  “There was a skirmish over the line between a company of Federals and a large force of guerrillas and rebels.  The Federals were driven west along the line.  Stewart is reported to have done reckless fighting and was captured.  He got a Mexican sentence.  He is known here along the border, and the news of his capture stirred up excitement.  We did all we could to get his release.  The guerrillas feared to execute him here, and believed he might be aided to escape.  So a detachment departed with him for Mezquital.”

“He was sentenced to be shot Thursday at sunset—­to-night?”

“Yes.  It was rumored there was a personal resentment against Stewart.  I regret that I can’t give you definite information.  If you are friends of Stewart—­relatives—­I might find—­”