“Can I get a permit to go into the interior—­to Mezquital?” asked Madeline of the officer.

“You are going on?  Madam, it’s a forlorn hope.  Mezquital is a hundred miles away.  But there’s a chance—­the barest chance if your man can drive this car.  The Mexicans are either murderous or ceremonious in their executions.  The arrangements for Stewart’s will be elaborate.  But, barring unusual circumstances, it will take place precisely at the hour designated.  You need no permit.  Your messages are official papers.  But to save time, perhaps delay, I suggest you take this Mexican, Senor Montes, with you.  He outranks Don Carlos and knows the captain of the Mezquital detachment.”

“Ah!  Then Don Carlos is not in command of the forces holding Stewart?”

“No.”

“I thank you, sir.  I shall not forget your kindness,” concluded Madeline.

She bowed to Senor Montes, and requested him to enter the car.  Nels stowed some of the paraphernalia away, making room in the rear seat.  Link bent over the wheel.  The start was so sudden, with such crack and roar, that the crowd split in wild disorder.  Out of the plaza the car ran, gathering headway; down a street lined by white and blue walls; across a square where rebels were building barricades; along a railroad track full of iron flat-cars that carried mounted pieces of artillery; through the outlying guards, who waved to the officer, Montes.

Madeline bound her glasses tightly over her eyes, and wound veils round the lower part of her face.  She was all in a strange glow, she had begun to burn, to throb, to thrill, to expand, and she meant to see all that was possible.  The sullen sun, red as fire, hung over the mountain range in the west.  How low it had sunk!  Before her stretched a narrow, white road, dusty, hard as stone—­ a highway that had been used for centuries.  If it had been wide enough to permit passing a vehicle it would have been a magnificent course for automobiles.  But the weeds and the dusty flowers and the mesquite boughs and arms of cactus brushed the car as it sped by.

Faster, faster, faster!  That old resistless weight began to press Madeline back; the old incessant bellow of wind filled her ears.  Link Stevens hunched low over the wheel.  His eyes were hidden under leather helmet and goggles, but the lower part of his face was unprotected.  He resembled a demon, so dark and stone-hard and strangely grinning was he.  All at once Madeline realized how matchless, how wonderful a driver was this cowboy.  She divined that weakening could not have been possible to Link Stevens.  He was a cowboy, and he really was riding that car, making it answer to his will, as it had been born in him to master a horse.  He had never driven to suit himself, had never reached an all-satisfying speed until now.  Beyond that his motive was to save Stewart—­to make Madeline happy.  Life was nothing to him.  That fact gave him the superhuman nerve to face the peril of this ride.  Because of his disregard of self he was able to operate the machine, to choose the power, the speed, the guidance, the going with the best judgment and highest efficiency possible.  Madeline knew he would get her to Mezquital in time to save Stewart or he would kill her in the attempt.