The second new-comer was now within hail, and began at once to speak in Spanish. The tale he told was similar in every way to that translated by Concepcion from the Limousin dialect.

'Why should we not travel together to Ronda?' he said, coming forward with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect than any protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye, and the demeanour of one educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco across the Sierra, though indeed, he was no better clad than his companion. The two guides instinctively took the road together, Concepcion leading his horse, for the way was such that none could ride over it. Conyngham did the same, and his companion led the mule by a rope, as is the custom in Andalusia.

The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving back a puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired and not too trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully occupied with his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full half-hour when a shout from the rocks above caused them to halt suddenly. The white linen head coverings of the Guardia Civil and the glint of the sun on their accoutrements showed at a glance that this was not a summons to be disregarded.

In an instant Concepcion's companion was leaping from rock to rock with an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of death. A report rang out and echoed among the hills. A bullet went 'splat'

against a rock near at hand, making a frayed blue mark upon the grey stone. The man dodged from side to side in the panic-stricken irresponsibility of a rabbit seeking covert where none exists.

There was not so much as to hide his head. Conyngham looked up towards the foe in time to see a puff of white smoke thrown up against the steely sky. A second report, and the fugitive seemed to trip over a stone. He recovered himself, stood upright for a moment, gave a queer spluttering cough, and sat slowly down against a boulder.

'He is killed!' said Concepcion, throwing down his cigarette.

'Mother of G.o.d! these Guardias Civiles!'

The two guards came clambering down the face of the rock.

Concepcion glanced at his late companion writhing in the sharpness of death.

'Here or at Ronda, to-day, or to-morrow, what matters it?' muttered the quiet-eyed man at Conyngham's side. The Englishman turned and looked at him.

'They will shoot me too, but not now.'

Concepcion sullenly awaited the arrival of the guards. These men ever hunt in couples of a widely different age, for the law has found that an old head and a young arm form the strongest combination. The elder of the two had the face of an old grey wolf.

He muttered some order to his companion, and went towards the mule.

He cut away the outer covering of the burden suspended from the saddle, and nodded his head wisely. These were boxes of cartridges to carry one thousand each. The grey old man turned and looked at him who lay on the ground.

'A la longa,' he said with a grim smile. 'In the long run, Antonio.'

The man gave a sickly grin and opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw dropped instead, and he pa.s.sed across that frontier which is watched by no earthly sentinel.

'This gentleman,' said the quiet-eyed man, whose guide had thus paid for his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word of command, 'is a stranger to me--an Englishman, I think.'

'Yes,' answered Conyngham.

The old soldier looked from one to the other.

'That may be,' he said, 'but he sleeps in Ronda prison to-night.

To-morrow the Captain-General will see to it.'

'I have a letter to the Captain-General,' said Conyngham, who drew from his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the pink scented envelope given to him by the man called Larralde at Algeciras. He had forgotten its existence, and put it back in his pocket with a smile. Having found that for which he sought, he gave it to the soldier, who read the address in silence and returned the letter.

'You I know,' he said, turning to the man at Conyngham's side, who merely shrugged his shoulders. 'And Concepcion Vara, we all know him.'

Concepcion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular air with the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect innocence. The old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his comrade, who went towards the dead man and quietly covered his face with the folds of his own faja or waistcloth. This he weighted at the corners with stones, carrying out this simple office to the dead with a suggestive indifference. To this day the Guardias Civiles have plenary power to shoot whomsoever they think fit--flight and resistance being equally fatal.

No more heeding the dead body of the man whom he had shot than he would have heeded the carcase of a rat, the elder of the two soldiers now gave the order to march, commanding Concepcion to lead the way.

'It will not be worth your while to risk a bullet by running away,'

he said. 'This time it is probably a matter of a few pounds of tobacco only.'

The evening had fallen ere the silent party caught sight of the town of Ronda, perched, as the Moorish strongholds usually are, on a height. Ronda, as history tells, was the last possession of the brave and gifted Moslems in Spain. The people are half Moorish still, and from the barred windows look out deep almond eyes and patient faces that have no European feature. The narrow streets were empty as the travellers entered the town, and the clatter of the mules slipping and stumbling on the cobble stones brought but few to the doors of the low-built houses. To enter Ronda from the south the traveller must traverse the Moorish town, which is divided from the Spanish quarter by a cleft in the great rock that renders the town impregnable to all attack. Having crossed the bridge spanning the great gorge into which the sun never penetrates even at midday, the party emerged into the broader streets of the more modern town, and, turning to the right through a high gateway, found themselves in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles.

CHAPTER VI. AT RONDA.

'Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son habilete.'

When Conyngham awoke after a night conscientiously spent in that profound slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a careless heart, he found the prison attendant at his bedside. A less easy-going mind would perhaps have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of this fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly in his hand than a card.

'It is the Captain-General,' said he, 'who calls at this early hour.

His Excellency's letter has been delivered, and the Captain-General scarce waited to swallow his morning chocolate.'

'Very much to the Captain-General's credit,' returned Conyngham rising. 'Cold water,' he went on, 'soap, a towel, and my luggage-- and then the Captain-General.'

The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles, and when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs. He was a solemn man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile.

In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted into a barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years or more stood smoking a cigarette. On perceiving Conyngham he came forward with outstretched hand and a smile which can only be described as angelic. It was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark eyes between lashes almost closed, parting moustached lips to disclose a row of pearly teeth.

'My dear sir,' said General Vincente in very tolerable English, 'I am at your feet. That such a mistake should have been made in respect to the bearer of a letter of introduction from my old friend General Watterson--we fought together in Wellington's day--that such a mistake should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.'

He pressed Conyngham's hand in both of his, which were small and white--looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft laugh. Indeed his voice was admirably suited to a lady's drawing- room, and suggested nought of the camp or battle field. From the handkerchief which he drew from his sleeve and pa.s.sed across his white moustache a faint scent floated on the morning air.

'Are you General Vincente?' asked Conyngham.

'Yes--why not?' And in truth the tone of the Englishman's voice had betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question.

'It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been quite comfortable, and they gave me a good supper last night,' said Conyngham. 'Moreover, the Guardias Civiles are in no way to blame for my arrest. I was in bad company, it seems.'

'Yes; your companions were engaged in conveying ammunition to the Carlists; we have wanted to lay our hands upon them for some weeks.

They have carried former journeys to a successful termination.'

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

'The guide, Antonio something-or-other, died, as I understand.'

'Well, yes; if you choose to put it that way,' admitted Conyngham.

The General raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace expressive of deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated by a moisture of the eye, for the family of Antonio something-or-other in their bereavement.

'And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow. . .' inquired Conyngham.

The General raised one gloved hand as if to fend off some approaching calamity.

'He died this morning--at six o'clock.'

Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light of comprehension. This might after all be the General Vincente whom he had been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish Queen's adherents.

'Of the same complaint?'