A few minutes before Conyngham and his guide rode into the market- place, which in Xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of Spain had thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a pa.s.ser-by.

With a fire too bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white moustache and imperial, had turned on them, calling them good- for-nothings and sons of pigs.

Conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man and rush at the victim of their humour. The old man with his back to the wall repelled his a.s.sailants with a sort of fierce joy in his att.i.tude which betokened the soldier.

'Come on, Concepcion!' cried Conyngham, with a dig of the spurs that made his tired horse leap into the air. He charged down upon the gathering crowd, which scattered right and left before the wild onslaught. But he saw the flash of steel, and knew that it was too late. The old man, with an oath and a gasp of pain, sank against the wall with the blood trickling through the fingers clasped against his breast. Conyngham would have reined in, but Concepcion on his heels gave the charger a cut with his heavy whip that made him bound forward and would have unseated a short-stirruped rider.

'Go on,' cried the Spaniard; 'it is no business of ours. The police are behind.'

And Conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without looking back. In the day of which the present narrative treats, the streets of Xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to the depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this time of daily occurrence in Spain. Riding on at random, Conyngham and his companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and were able to satisfy themselves that none had followed them. Here in a quiet alley Conyngham read again the address of the letter of which he earnestly desired to rid himself without more ado.

It was addressed to Colonel Monreal at No. 84 Plaza de Cadiz.

'Let his Excellency stay here and drink a gla.s.s of wine at this venta,' said Concepcion. 'Alone, I shall be able to get information without attracting attention. And then, in the name of the saints, let us shake the dust of Xeres off our feet. The first thing we see is steel, and I do not like it. I have a wife in Algeciras to whom I am much attached, and I am afraid--yes, afraid. A gentleman need never hesitate to say so.'

He shook his head forebodingly as he loosened his girths and called for water for the horses.

'I could eat a cocida,' he went on, sniffing the odours of a neighbouring kitchen, 'with plenty of onions and the mutton as becomes the springtime--young and tender. Dios! this quick travelling and an empty stomach, it kills one.'

'When I have delivered my letter,' replied Conyngham, 'we shall eat with a lighter heart.'

Concepcion went away in a pessimistic humour. He was one of those men who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but lack the stamina to fight when hungry. He returned presently with the required information. The Plaza de Cadiz was, it appeared, quite close. Indeed, the town of Xeres is not large, though the intricacies of its narrow streets may well puzzle a new-comer. No.

84 was the house of the barber, and on his first floor lived Colonel Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the English against Napoleon's armies.

During his servant's absence, Conyngham had written a short note in French, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the news that Julia Barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that her letter had been delivered to him whose address it bore.

'I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,' he said to Concepcion. 'Your horse is feeding. Make good use of your time, for when I return I shall want you to take the road again at once.

You must make ten miles before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.'

'For where, senor?'

'For Ronda.'

Concepcion shrugged his shoulders. His life had been spent upon the road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle- bag, and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of Ishmael.

They are a homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them, under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall. It often happens that a worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the mountain side.

'And his Excellency?' inquired Concepcion.

'I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow, by way of Cordova, where I will wait for you. I have a letter here which you must deliver to the Senorita Barenna at Ronda without the knowledge of anyone. It will be well that neither General Vincente nor any other who knows you should catch sight of you in the streets of Ronda.'

Concepcion nodded his head with much philosophy.

'Ah! these women,' he said, turning to the steaming dish of mutton and vegetables which is almost universal in the South, 'these women, what shoe leather they cost us!'

Leaving his servant thus profitably employed, Conyngham set out to find the barber's shop in the Plaza de Cadiz. This he did without difficulty, but on presenting himself at the door of Colonel Monreal's apartment learnt that that gentleman was out.

'But,' added the servant, 'the Colonel is a man of regular habits.

He will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.'

Conyngham paused. He had no desire to make Colonel Monreal's acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly judged that Senor Larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone.

'I have a letter for the Colonel,' he said to the servant, a man of stupid countenance. 'I will place it here upon his table, and can no doubt trust you to see that he gets it.'

'That you can, Excellency,' replied the man, with a palm already half extended to receive a gratuity.

'If the Colonel fails to receive the letter I shall certainly know of it,' said Conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase, and well pleased to have accomplished his mission.

He returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he had elected to pa.s.s the night, and found Concepcion still at table.

'In half an hour I take the road,' said the Spaniard. 'The time for a cup of coffee, and I am ready to ride all night.'

Having eaten, Concepcion was in a better frame of mind, and now cheerfully undertook to carry out his master's instructions. In little more than half an hour he was in the saddle again, and waved an airy adieu to Conyngham as he pa.s.sed under the swinging oil lamp that hung at the corner of the street.

It was yet early in the evening, and Conyngham, having dined, set out to explore the streets of Xeres, which were quiet enough now, as the cafes were gayer and safer than the gloomy thoroughfares where a foe might lurk in every doorway. In the market-place, between rows of booths and tents, a dense crowd walked backwards and forwards with that steady sense of promenading which the Spaniard understands above all other men. The dealers in coloured handkerchiefs from Barcelona or mantillas from Seville were driving a great trade, and the majority of them had long since shouted themselves hoa.r.s.e. A few quack dentists were operating upon their victims under the friendly covert of a big drum and a ba.s.soon. Dealers in wonderful drugs and herbs were haranguing the crowd, easily gaining the attention of the simple peasants by handling a live snake or a crocodile which they allowed to crawl upon their shoulders.

Conyngham lingered in the crowd, which was orderly enough, and amused himself by noting the credulity of the country folk, until his attention was attracted by a solemn procession pa.s.sing up the market-place behind the tents. He inquired of a bystander what this might be.

'It is the police carrying to his apartment the body of Colonel Monreal, who was murdered this afternoon in the Plaza Mayor,' was the answer.

Conyngham made his way between two tents to the deserted side of the market-place, and, running past the procession, reached the barber's shop before it. In answer to his summons a girl came to the door of the Colonel's apartment. She was weeping and moaning in great mental distress.

Without explanation Conyngham pushed past her into the room where he had deposited the letter. The room was in disorder, and no letter lay upon the table.

'It is,' sobbed the girl, 'my husband, who, having heard that the good Colonel had been murdered, stole all his valuables and papers and has run away from me.'

CHAPTER XI. A TANGLED WEB.

'Wherein I am false, I am honest--not true to be true.'

'And--would you believe it?--there are soldiers in the house, at the very door of Julia's apartments.' Senora Barenna, who made this remark, heaved a sigh and sat back in her canework chair with that jerkiness of action which in elderly ladies usually betokens impatience with the ways of young people.

'Policemen--policemen, not soldiers,' corrected Father Concha patiently, as if it did not matter much. They were sitting in the broad vine-clad verandah of the Casa Barenna, that grim old house on the Bobadilla road, two miles from Ronda. The priest had walked thither, as the dust on his square-toed shoes and black stockings would testify. He had laid aside his mournful old hat, long since brown and discoloured, and was wiping his forehead with a cheap pocket-handkerchief of colour and pattern rather loud for his station in life.

'Well, they have swords,' persisted the lady.

'Policemen,' said Father Concha, in a stern and final voice, which caused Senora Barenna to cast her eyes upwards with an air of resigned martyrdom.

'Ah, that Alcalde!' she whispered between her teeth.

'A little dog, when it is afraid, growls,' said Concha philosophically. 'The Alcalde is a very small dog, and he is at his wit's end. Such a thing has not occurred in Ronda before, and the Alcalde's world is Ronda. He does not know whether his office permits him to inspect young ladies' love letters or not.'

'Love letters!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Senora Barenna. She evidently had a keen sense of the romantic, and hoped for something more tragic than a mere flirtation begotten of idleness at sea.

'Yes,' said Concha, crossing his legs and looking at his companion with a queer cynicism. 'Young people mostly pa.s.s that way.'