'The rainy day—it comes at last,' said the Padre Concha, counting out his little stock of silver with the care that only comes from the knowledge that each coin represents a self-denial.



CHAPTER XV. AN ULTIMATUM.



'I do believe yourself against yourself.'

Neither Estella nor her father had a great liking for the city of Madrid, which indeed is at no time desirable. In the winter it is cold, in the summer exceedingly hot, and during the changes of the seasons of a treacherous weather difficult to surpass. The social atmosphere was no more genial at the period with which we deal. For it blew hot and cold, and treachery marked every change.

Although the Queen Regent seemed to be nearing at last a successful issue to her long and eventful struggle against Don Carlos, she had enemies nearer home whose movements were equally dangerous to the throne of the child queen.

'I cannot afford to have an honest soldier so far removed from the capital,' said Christina, who never laid aside the woman while playing the Queen, as Vincente kissed her hand on presenting himself at Court. The General smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

'What did she say? What did she say?' the intriguers whispered eagerly as the great soldier made his way towards the door, with the haste of one who was no courtier. But they received no answer.

The General had taken a suite of rooms in one of the hotels on the Puerta del Sol, and hurried thither, well pleased do have escaped so easily from a palace where self-seeking—the grim spirit that haunts the abodes of royalty—had long reigned supreme. There was, the servants told him, a visitor in the salon—one who had asked for the General, and on learning of his absence had insisted on being received by the senorita.

'That sounds like Conyngham,' muttered the General, unbuckling his sword—for he had but one weapon, and wore it in the presence of the Queen and her enemies alike.

It was indeed Conyngham, whose gay laugh Vincente heard before he crossed the threshold of Estella's drawing-room. The Englishman was in uniform, and stood with his back turned towards the door by which the General entered.

'It is Senor Conyngham,' said Estella at once, in a quiet voice, 'who has been wounded and six weeks in the hospital.'

'Yes,' said Conyngham. 'But I am well again now! And I got my appointment while I was still in the Sisters' care.'

He laughed, though his face was pale and thin, and approached the General with extended hand. The General had come to Madrid with the intention of refusing to take that hand, and those who knew him said that this soldier never swerved from his purpose. He looked for a moment into Conyngham's eyes, and then shook hands with him. He did not disguise the hesitation, which was apparent to both Estella and the Englishman.

'How were you wounded?' he asked.

'I was stabbed in the back on the Toledo road, ten miles from here.'

'Not by a robber—not for your money?'

'No one ever hated me or cared for me on that account,' laughed Conyngham.

'Then who did it?' asked General Vincente, unbuttoning his gloves.

Conyngham hesitated.

'A man with whom I quarrelled on the road,' he made reply; but it was no answer at all, as hearers and speaker alike recognised in a flash of thought.

'He left me for dead on the road, but a carter picked me up and brought me to Madrid, to the hospital of the Hermanas, where I have been ever since.'

There were flowers on the table, and the General stooped over them with a delicate appreciation of their scent. He was a great lover of flowers, and indeed had a sense of the beautiful quite out of keeping with the colour of his coat.

'You must beware,' he said, 'now that you wear the Queen's uniform. There is treachery abroad, I fear. Even I have had an anonymous letter of warning.'

'I should like to know who wrote it,' exclaimed Conyngham, with a sudden flash of anger in his eyes. The General laughed pleasantly.

'So should I,' he said. 'Merely as a matter of curiosity.'

And he turned towards the door, which was opened at this moment by a servant.

'A gentleman wishing to see me—an Englishman, as it would appear,' he continued, looking at the card.

'By the way,' said Conyngham, as the General moved away, 'I am instructed to inform you that I am attached to your staff as extra aide-de-camp during your stay in Madrid.'

The General nodded and left Estella and Conyngham alone in the drawing-room. Conyngham turned on Estella.

'So that I have a right to be near you,' he said, 'which is all that I want.'

He spoke lightly enough, as was his habit; but Estella, who was wise in those matters that women know, preferred not to meet his eyes, which were grave and deep.

'Such things are quickly said,' Estella retorted.

'Yes—and it takes a long time to prove them.'

The General had left his gloves on the table. Estella took them up and appeared to be interested in them. 'Perhaps a lifetime,' she suggested.

'I ask no less, senorita.'

'Then you ask much.'

'And I give all—though that is little enough.'

They spoke slowly—not bandying words but exchanging thoughts. Estella was grave. Conyngham's attitude was that which he ever displayed to the world—namely, one of cheerful optimism, as behoved a strong man who had not yet known fear.

'Is it too little, senorita?' he asked.

She was sitting at the table and would not look up—neither would she answer his question. He was standing quite close to her— upright in his bright uniform, his hand on his sword—and all her attention was fixed on the flowers which had called forth the General's unspoken admiration. She touched them with fingers hardly lighter than his.

'Now that I think of it,' said Conyngham after a pause, 'what I give is nothing.'

Estella's face wore a queer little smile, as of a deeper knowledge.

'Nothing at all,' continued the Englishman. 'For I have nothing to give, and you know nothing of me.'

'Three months ago,' answered Estella, 'we had never heard of you— and you had never seen me,' she added, with a little laugh.

'I have seen nothing else since,' Conyngham replied deliberately; 'for I have gone about the world a blind man.'

'In three months one cannot decide matters that affect a whole lifetime,' said the girl.

'This matter decided itself in three minutes, so far as I am concerned, senorita, in the old palace at Ronda. It is a matter that time is powerless to affect one way or the other.'

'With some people; but you are hasty and impetuous. My father said it of you—and he is never mistaken.'

'Then you do not trust me, senorita?'

Estella had turned away her face so that he could only see her mantilla and the folds of her golden hair gleaming through the black lace. She shrugged her shoulders.

'It is not due to yourself, nor to all who know you in Spain, if I do,' she said.

'All who know me?'

'Yes,' she continued; 'Father Concha, Senora Barenna, my father, and others at Ronda.'

'Ah! And what leads them to mistrust me?'

'Your own actions,' replied Estella.

And Conyngham was too simple-minded, too inexperienced in such matters, to understand the ring of anxiety in her voice.

'I do not much mind what the rest of the world thinks of me,' he said; 'I have never owed anything to the world nor asked anything from it. They are welcome to think what they like. But with you it is different. Is it possible, senorita, to make you trust me?'

Estella did not answer at once. After a pause she gave an indifferent jerk of the head.

'Perhaps,' she said.

'If it is possible, I will do it.'

'It is quite easy,' she answered, raising her head and looking out of the window with an air that seemed to indicate that her interests lay without and not in this room at all.

'How can I do it?'

She gave a short, hard laugh, which to experienced ears would have betrayed her instantly.

'By showing me the letter you wrote to Julia Barenna,' she said.

'I cannot do that.'

'No,' she said significantly. A woman fighting for her own happiness is no sparing adversary.

'Will nothing else than the sight of that letter satisfy you, senorita?'

Her profile was turned towards him—delicate and proud, with the perfect chiselling of outline that only comes with a long descent, and bespeaks the blood of gentle ancestors. For Estella Vincente had in her veins blood that was counted noble in Spain—the land of a bygone glory.

'Nothing,' she answered. 'Though the question of my being satisfied is hardly of importance. You asked me to trust you, and you make it difficult by your actions. In return I ask a proof, that is all.'

'Do you want to trust me?'

He had come a little closer to her, and was grave enough now.

'Why do you ask that?' she inquired in a low voice.

'Do you want to trust me?' he asked, and it is to be supposed that he was able to detect an infinitesimal acquiescent movement of her head.

'Then, if that letter is in existence, you shall have it,' he said. 'You say that my actions have borne evidence against me. I shall trust to action and not to words to refute that evidence. But you must give me time—will you do that?'

'You always ask something.'

'Yes, senorita, from you; but from no one else in the world.'

He gave a sudden laugh and walked to the window, where he stood looking at her.

'I suppose,' he said, 'I shall be asking all my life from you. Perhaps that is why we were created, senorita—I to ask, you to give. Perhaps that is happiness, Estella.'

She raised her eyes but did not meet his, looking past him through the open window. The hotel was situated at the lower end of the Puerta del Sol—the quiet end, and farthest removed from the hum of the market and the busy sounds of traffic. These only came in the form of a distant hum, like the continuous roar of surf upon an unseen shore. Below the windows a passing waterseller plied his trade, and his monotonous cry of 'Agua-a-a! Agua-a-a!' rose like a wail—like the voice of one crying in that human wilderness where solitude reigns as surely as in the desert.

For a moment Estella glanced at Conyngham gravely, and his eyes were no less serious. They were not the first, but only two out of many millions, to wonder what happiness is and where it hides in this busy world.

They had not spoken or moved when the door was again opened by a servant, who bowed towards Conyngham and then stood aside to allow ingress to one who followed on his heels. This was a tall man, white-haired, and white of face. Indeed, his cheeks had the dead pallor of paper, and seemed to be drawn over the cheekbones at such tension as gave to the skin a polish like that of fine marble. One sees many such faces in London streets, and they usually indicate suffering, either mental or physical.

The stranger came forward with a perfect lack of embarrassment, which proved him to be a man of the world. His bow to Estella clearly indicated that his business lay with Conyngham. He was the incarnation of the Continental ideal of the polished cold Englishman, and had the air of a diplomate such as this country sends to foreign Courts to praise or blame, to declare friendship or war with the same calm suavity and imperturbable politeness.

'I come from General Vincente,' he said to Conyngham, 'who will follow in a moment, when he has despatched some business which detains him. I have a letter to the General, and am, in fact, in need of his assistance.'

He broke off, turning to Estella, who was moving towards the door.

'I was especially instructed,' he said quickly to her, 'to ask you not to leave us. You were, I believe, at school with my nieces in England, and when my business, which is of the briefest, is concluded, I have messages to deliver to you from Mary and Amy Mainwaring.'

Estella smiled a little and resumed her seat. Then the stranger turned to Conyngham.

'The General told me,' he went on in his cold voice, without a gleam of geniality or even of life in his eyes, 'that if I followed the servant to the drawing-room I should find here an English aide-de- camp who is fully in his confidence, and upon whose good-nature and assistance I could rely.'

'I am for the time General Vincente's aide-de-camp, and I am an Englishman,' answered Conyngham.

The stranger bowed.

'I did not explain my business to General Vincente,' said he, 'who asked me to wait until he came, and then tell the story to you both at one time. In the meantime I was to introduce myself to you.'

Conyngham waited in silence.

'My name is Sir John Pleydell,' said the stranger quietly.



CHAPTER XVI. IN HONOUR.



'He makes no friend who never made a foe.'

Conyngham remembered the name of Pleydell well enough, and glanced sharply at Estella, recollecting that the General received the 'Times' from London. Before he had time to make an answer, and indeed he had none ready, the General came into the room.

'Ah!' said Vincente in his sociable manner, 'I see you know each other already—so an introduction is superfluous. And now we will have Sir John's story. Be seated, my dear sir. But first—a little refreshment. It is a dusty day—a lemonade?'

Sir John declined, his manner strikingly cold and reserved beside the genial empressement of General Vincente. In truth the two men seemed to belong to opposite poles—the one of cold and the other of heat. Sir John had the chill air of one who had mixed among his fellow men only to see their evil side; for the world is a cold place to those that look on it with a chilling glance. General Vincente, on the other hand, whose life had been passed in strife and warfare, seemed ready to welcome all comers as friends and to hold out the hand of good-fellowship to rich and poor alike.

Conyngham shrugged his shoulders with a queer smile. Here was a quandary requiring a quicker brain than his. He did not even attempt to seek a solution to his difficulties, and the only thought in his mind was a characteristic determination to face them courageously. He drew forward a chair for Sir John Pleydell, his heart stirred with that sense of exhilaration which comes to some in moments of peril.

'I will not detain you long,' began the new-comer, with an air slightly suggestive of the law court, 'but there are certain details which I am afraid I must inflict upon you, in order that you may fully understand my actions.'

The remark was addressed to General Vincente, although the speaker appeared to be demanding Conyngham's attention in the first instance. The learned gentlemen of the Bar thus often address the jury through the ears of the judge.

General Vincente had seated himself at the table and was drawing his scented pocket-handkerchief across his moustache reflectively. He was not, it was obvious, keenly interested, although desirous of showing every politeness to the stranger. In truth, such Englishmen as brought their affairs to Spain at this time were not as a rule highly desirable persons or a credit to their country. Estella was sitting near the window, rather behind her father, and Conyngham stood by the fireplace, facing them all.

'You perhaps know something of our English politics,' continued Sir John Pleydell, and the General making a little gesture indicative of a limited but sufficient knowledge, went on to say—'of the Chartists more particularly?'

The General bowed. Estella glanced at Conyngham, who was smiling.

'One cannot call them a party, as I have heard them designated in Spain,' said Sir John parenthetically. 'They are quite unworthy of so distinguished a name. These Chartists consist of the most ignorant people in the land—the rabble, in fact, headed by a few scheming malcontents: professional agitators who are not above picking the pockets of the poor. Many capitalists and landowners have suffered wrong and loss at the hands of these disturbers of the peace, none—' He paused and gave a sharp sigh which seemed to catch him unawares, and almost suggested that the man had, after all, or had at one time possessed, a heart. 'None more severely than myself,' he concluded.

The General's face instantly expressed the utmost concern.

'My dear sir,' he murmured.

'For many years,' continued Sir John hurriedly, as if resenting anything like sympathy, as all good Britons do, 'the authorities acted in an irresolute and foolish manner, not daring to put down the disturbances with a firm hand. At length, however, a riot of a more serious character at a town in Wales necessitated the interference of the military. The ringleaders were arrested, and for some time the authorities were in considerable doubt as to what to do to them. I interested myself strongly in the matter—having practised the law in my younger days—and was finally enabled to see my object carried out. These men were arraigned, not as mere brawlers and rioters, but under a charge of high treason—a much more serious affair for them.'

He broke off with a harsh laugh, which was only a matter of the voice, for his marble face remained unchanged, and probably had not at any time the power of expressing mirth.

'The ringleaders of the Newport riots were sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, which served my purpose excellently.'

Sir John Pleydell spoke with that cynical frankness which seems often to follow upon a few years devoted to practice at the Common Law Bar, where men in truth spend their days in dissecting the mental diseases of their fellow creatures, and learn to conclude that a pure and healthy mind is possessed by none. He moved slightly in his chair, and seemed to indicate that he had made his first point.

'I hope,' he said, addressing Conyngham directly, 'that I am not fatiguing you?'

'Not at all,' returned the younger Englishman coolly; 'I am much interested.'

The General was studying the texture of his pocket-handkerchief. Estella's face had grown cold and set. Her eyes from time to time turned towards Conyngham. Sir John Pleydell was not creating a good impression.

'I will now come to the more personal part of my story,' went on that gifted speaker, 'and proceed to explain my reason for inflicting it upon you.'

He still spoke directly to Conyngham, who bowed his head in silence, with the queer smile still hovering on his lips. Estella saw it and drew a sharp breath. In the course of her short life, which had almost been spent in the midst of warfare, she had seen men in danger more than once, and perhaps recognised that smile.

'I particularly beg your attention,' explained Sir John to Conyngham, 'because I understand from General Vincente that you are in reality attached to the staff of General Espartero, and it is to him that I look for help.'

Sir John paused again. He had established another point. One almost expected to see him raise his hand to his shoulder to throw back the silken gown.

'Some months ago,' he went on, 'these Chartists attacked my house in the North of England, and killed my son.'

There was a short silence, and the General muttered a curt and polite Spanish oath under his breath. But somehow the speaker had failed to make that point, and he hurried on.

'It was not, technically speaking, a murder; my boy, who had a fine spirit, attacked the rioters, and a clever counsel might have got a verdict for the scoundrel who actually struck the blow. I knew this, and awaited events. I did not even take steps against the man who killed my son—an only son and child. It was not, from a legal point of view, worth while.'

He laughed his unpleasant laugh again and presently went on.

'Fortune, however, favoured me. The trouble grew worse, and the Newport riots at last aroused the Government. The sentence upon the ringleaders gave me my opportunity. It was worth while to hunt down the murderer of my son when I could ensure him sixteen or twenty years' penal servitude.'

'Quite,' said the General; 'quite.' And he smiled. He seemed to fail to realise that Sir John Pleydell was in deadly earnest, and really harboured the implacable spirit of revenge with which he cynically credited himself.

'I traced my man to Gibraltar, and thence he appears to have come north,' continued Sir John Pleydell. 'He has probably taken service under Espartero—many of our English outlaws wear the Spanish Queen's uniform. He is, of course, bearing an assumed name; but surely it would be possible to trace him?'

'Oh, yes,' answered Conyngham, 'I think you will be able to find him.'

Sir John's eyes had for a moment a gleam of life in them.

'Ah!' he said, 'I am glad to hear you say that. For that is my object in coming to this country; and although I have during the course of my life had many objects of ambition or desire, none of them has so entirely absorbed my attention as this one. Half a dozen men have gone to penal servitude in order that I might succeed in my purpose.'

There was a cold deliberation in this statement which was more cruel than cynicism, for it was sincere. Conyngham looked at Estella. Her face had lost all colour, her eyes were burning—not with the dull light of fear, for the blood that ran in her veins had no taint of that in it—but with anger. She knew who it was that Sir John Pleydell sought. She looked at Conyngham, and his smile of cool intrepidity made her heart leap within her breast. This lover of hers was at all events a brave man—and that which through all the ages reaches the human heart most surely is courage. The coward has no friends.

Sir John Pleydell had paused, and was seeking something in his pocket. General Vincente preserved his attitude of slightly bored attention.

'I have here,' went on the baronet, 'a list of the English officers serving in the army of General Espartero at the time of my quitting England. Perhaps you will, at your leisure, be kind enough to cast your eye over it, and make a note of such men as are personally unknown to you, and may therefore be bearing assumed names.'

Conyngham took the paper, and, holding it in his hand, spoke without moving from the mantelpiece against which he leant.

'You have not yet made quite clear your object in coming to Spain,' he said. 'There exists between Spain and England no extradition treaty; and even if such were to come in force I believe that persons guilty of political offences would be exempt from its action. You propose to arraign this man for high treason—a political offence according to the law of many countries.'

'You speak like a lawyer,' said Sir John, with a laugh.

'You have just informed us,' retorted Conyngham, 'that all the English in the Spanish service are miscreants. None know the law so intimately as those who have broken it.'

'Ah!' laughed Sir John again, with a face of stone. 'There are exceptions to all rules—and you, young sir, are an exception to that which I laid down as regards our countrymen in Spain, unless my experience of faces and knowledge of men play me very false. But your contention is a just one. I am not in a position to seek the aid of the Spanish authorities in this matter. I am fully aware of the fact. You surely did not expect me to come to Spain with such a weak case as that?'

'No,' answered Conyngham slowly, 'I did not.'

Sir John Pleydell raised his eyes and looked at his fellow countryman with a dawning interest. The General also looked up, from one face to the other. The atmosphere of the room seemed to have undergone a sudden change, and to be dominated by the personality of these two Englishmen. The one will, strong on the surface, accustomed to assert itself and dominate, seemed suddenly to have found itself faced by another as strong and yet hidden behind an easy smile and indolent manner.

'You are quite right,' he went on in his cold voice. 'I have a better case than that, and one eminently suited to a country such as Spain, where a long war has reduced law and order to a somewhat low ebb. I at first thought of coming here to await my chance of shooting this man—his name, by the way, is Frederick Conyngham; but circumstances placed a better vengeance within my grasp—one that will last longer.'

He paused for a moment to reflect upon this long-drawn-out expiation.

'I propose to get my man home to England, and let him there stand his trial. The idea is not my own; it has, in fact, been carried out successfully before now. Once in England I shall make it my business to see that he gets twenty years' penal servitude.'

'And how do you propose to get him to England?' asked Conyngham.

'Oh! that is simple enough. Only a matter of paying a couple of such scoundrels as I understand abound in Spain at this moment—a little bribing of officials, a heavy fee to some English ship- captain. I propose, in short, to kidnap Frederick Conyngham. But I do not ask you to help me in that. I only ask you to put me on his track—to help me to find him, in fact. Will you do it?'

'Certainly,' said Conyngham, coming forward with a card in his hand. 'You could not have come to a better man.'

Sir John Pleydell read the card, and had himself in such control that his face hardly changed. His teeth closed over his lower lip for a second; then he rose. The perspiration stood out on his face- -the grey of his eyes seemed to have faded to the colour of ashes. He looked hard at Conyngham, and then, taking up his hat, went to the door with curious, uneven steps. On the threshold he turned.

'Your insolence,' he said breathlessly, 'is only exceeded by your— daring.'

As the door closed behind him there came, from that part of the room where General Vincente sat, a muffled click of steel, as if a sword half out of its scabbard had been sent softly home again.



CHAPTER XVII. IN MADRID.



'Some keepeth silence knowing his time.'

'Who travels slowly may arrive too late,' said the Padre Concha, with a pessimistic shake of the head, as the carrier's cart in which he had come from Toledo drew up in the Plazuela de la Cebada at Madrid. The careful penury of many years had not, indeed, enabled the old priest to travel by the quick diligences, which had often passed him on the road with a cloud of dust and the rattle of six horses. The great journey had been accomplished in the humbler vehicles plying from town to town, that ran as often as not by night in order to save the horses.

The priest, like his fellow-travellers, was white with dust. Dust covered his cloak so that its original hue of rusty black was quite lost. Dust coated his face and nestled in the deep wrinkles of it. His eyebrows were lost to sight, and his lashes were like those of a miller.

As he stood in the street the dust arose in whirling columns and enveloped all who were abroad; for a gale was howling across the tableland, which the Moors of old had named 'Majerit'—a draught of wind. The conductor, who, like a good and jovial conductor, had never refused an offer of refreshment on the road, was now muddled with drink and the heat of the sun. He was, in fact, engaged in a warm controversy with a passenger. So the Padre found his own humble portmanteau, a thing of cardboard and canvas, and trudged up the Calle de Toledo, bearing the bag in one hand and his cloak in the other—a lean figure in the sunlight.

Father Concha had been in Madrid before, though he rarely boasted of it, or indeed of any of his travels.

'The wise man does not hang his knowledge on a hook,' he was in the habit of saying.

That this knowledge was of that useful description which is usually designated as knowing one's way about, soon became apparent; for the dusty traveller passed with unerring steps through the narrower streets that lie between the Calle de Toledo and the street of Segovia. Here dwell the humbler citizens of Madrid, persons engaged in the small commerce of the marketplace, for in the Plazuela de la Cebada a hundred yards away is held the corn market, which, indeed, renders the dust in this quarter particularly trying to the eyes. Once or twice the priest was forced to stop at the corner of two streets and there do battle with the wind.

'But it is a hurricane,' he muttered; 'a hurricane.'

With one hand he held his hat, with the other clung to his cloak and portmanteau.

'But it will blow the dust from my poor old capa,' he added, giving the cloak an additional shake.

He presently found himself in a street which, if narrower than its neighbours, smelt less pestiferous. The open drain that ran down the middle of it pursued its varied course with a quite respectable speed. In the middle of the street Father Concha paused and looked up, nodding as if to an old friend at the sight of a dingy piece of palm bound to the ironwork of a balcony on the second floor.

'The time to wash off the dust,' he muttered as he climbed the narrow stairs, 'and then to work.'

An hour later he was afoot again in a quarter of the city which was less known to him—namely, in the Calle Preciados, where he sought a venta more or less suspected by the police. The wind had risen, and was now blowing with the force of a hurricane. It came from the north-west with a chill whistle which bespoke its birthplace among the peaks of the Gaudarramas. The streets were deserted; the oil lamps swung on their chains at the street corners, casting weird shadows that swept over the face of the houses with uncanny irregularity. It was an evening for evil deeds, except that when Nature is in an ill-humour human nature is mostly cowed, and those who have bad consciences cannot rid their minds of thoughts of the hereafter.

The priest found the house he sought, despite the darkness of the street and the absence of any from whom to elicit information. The venta was on the ground-floor, and above it towered storey after storey, built with the quaint fantasy of the middle ages, and surmounted by a deep, overhanging gabled roof. The house seemed to have two staircases of stone and two doors—one on each side of the venta. There is a Spanish proverb which says that the rat which has only one hole is soon caught. Perhaps the architect remembered this, and had built his house to suit his tenants. It was on the fifth floor of this tenement that Father Concha, instructed by Heaven knows what priestly source of information, looked to meet with Sebastian, the whilom bodyservant of the late Colonel Monreal of Xeres.

It was known among a certain section of the Royalists that this man had papers and perchance some information of value to dispose of, and more than one respectable, black-clad elbow had brushed the greasy walls of this staircase. Sebastian, it was said, passed his time in drinking and smoking. The boasted gaieties of Madrid had, it would appear, diminished to this sordid level of dissipation.

The man was, indeed, thus occupied when the old priest opened the door of his room.

'Yes,' he answered in a thick voice, 'I am Sebastian of Xeres, and no other; the man who knows more of the Carlist plots than any other in Madrid.'

'Can you read?'

'No.'

'Then you know nothing,' said the Padre. 'You have, however, a letter in a pink envelope which a friend of mine desires to possess. It is a letter of no importance, of no political value—a love letter, in fact.'

'Ah, yes! Ah, yes! That may be, reverendo. But there are others who want it—your love letter.'

'I offer you, on the part of my friend, a hundred pesetas for this letter.'

The priest's wrinkled face wore a grim smile. It was so little—a hundred pesetas, the price of a dinner for two persons at one of the great restaurants on the Puerta del Sol. But to Father Concha the sum represented five hundred cups of black coffee denied to himself in the evening at the cafe—five hundred packets of cigarettes, so- called of Havana, unsmoked—two new cassocks in the course of twenty years—a hundred little gastronomic delights sternly resisted season after season.

'Not enough, your hundred pesetas, reverendo, not enough,' laughed the man. And Concha, who could drive as keen a bargain as any market-woman of Ronda, knew by the manner of saying it that Sebastian only spoke the truth when he said that he had other offers.

'See, reverendo,' the man went on, leaning across the table and banging a dirty fist upon it, 'come to-night at ten o'clock. There are others coming at the same hour to buy my letter in the pink envelope. We will have an auction, a little auction, and the letter goes to the highest bidder. But what does your reverence want with a love letter, eh?'

'I will come,' said the Padre, and, turning, he went home to count his money once more.

There are many living still who remember the great gale of wind which was now raging, and through which Father Concha struggled back to the Calle Preciados as the city clocks struck ten. Old men and women still tell how the theatres were deserted that night and the great cafes wrapt in darkness. For none dare venture abroad amid such whirl and confusion. Concha, however, with that lean strength that comes from a life of abstemiousness and low-living, crept along in the shadow of the houses and reached his destination unhurt. The tall house in the alley leading from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa Maria was dark, as indeed were most of the streets of Madrid this night. A small moon struggled, however, through the riven clouds at times, and cast streaks of light down the narrow streets. Concha caught sight of the form of a man in the alley before him. The priest carried no weapon, but he did not pause. At this moment a gleam of light aided him.

'Senor Conyngham!' he said. 'What brings you here?'

And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel.

'Is that you—Father Concha, of Ronda?' he asked.

'No other, my son.'

Standing in the doorway Conyngham held out his hand with that air of good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards.

'Hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your cloth to be in the streets,' he said; whereat Concha, who had a keen appreciation of such small pleasantries, laughed grimly.

'And I have not even the excuse of my cloth. I am abroad on worldly business, and not even my own. I will be honest with you, Senor Conyngham. I am here to buy that malediction of a letter in a pink envelope. You remember—in the garden at Ronda, eh?'

'Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter?'

'For the sake of Julia Barenna.'

'Ah! I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente.'

Concha laughed shortly.

'Yes,' he said. 'It is only up to the age of twenty-five that men imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world. But we need not bid against each other, my son. Perhaps a sight of the letter before I destroy it would satisfy the senorita.'

'No, we need not bid against each other,' began Conyngham; but the priest dragged him back into the doorway with a quick whisper of 'Silence!'

Someone was coming down the other stairway of the tall house, with slow and cautious steps. Conyngham and his companion drew back to the foot of the stairs and waited. It became evident that he who descended the steps did so without a light. At the door he seemed to stop, probably making sure that the narrow alley was deserted. A moment later he hurried past the door where the two men stood. The moon was almost clear, and by its light both the watchers recognised Larralde in a flash of thought. The next instant Esteban Larralde was running for his life with Frederick Conyngham on his heels.

The lamp at the corner of the Calle Preciados had been shattered against the wall by a gust of wind, and both men clattered through a slough of broken glass. Down the whole length of the Preciados but one lamp was left alight, and the narrow street was littered with tiles and fallen bricks, for many chimneys had been blown down, and more than one shutter lay in the roadway, torn from its hinges by the hurricane. It was at the risk of life that any ventured abroad at this hour and amid the whirl of falling masonry. Larralde and Conyngham had the Calle Preciados to themselves—and Larralde cursed his spurs, which rang out at each footfall, and betrayed his whereabouts.

A dozen times the Spaniard fell, but before his pursuer could reach him, the same obstacle threw Conyngham to the ground. A dozen times some falling object crashed to earth on the Spaniard's heels, and the Englishman leapt aside to escape the rebound. Larralde was fleet of foot despite his meagre limbs, and leapt over such obstacles as he could perceive, with the agility of a monkey. He darted into the lighted doorway—the entrance to the palatial mansion of an upstart politician. The large doors were thrown open, and the hall-porter stood in full livery awaiting the master's carriage. Larralde was already in the patio, and Conyngham ran through the marble-paved entrance hall, before the porter realised what was taking place. There was no second exit as the fugitive had hoped—so it was round the patio and out again into the dark street, leaving the hall-porter dumfoundered.

Larralde turned sharply to the right as soon as he gained the Calle Preciados. It was a mere alley running the whole way round a church—and here again was solitude, but not silence, for the wind roared among the chimneys overhead as it roars through a ship's rigging at sea. The Calle Preciados again! and a momentary confusion among the tables of a cafe that stood upon the pavement, amid upturned chairs and a fallen, flapping awning. The pace was less killing now, but Larralde still held his own—one hand clutched over the precious letter regained at last—and Conyngham was conscious of a sharp pain where the Spaniard's knife had touched his lung.

Larralde ran mechanically with open mouth and staring eyes. He never doubted that death was at his heels, should he fail to distance the pursuer. For he had recognised Conyngham in the patio of the great house, and as he ran the vague wonder filled his mind whether the Englishman carried a knife. What manner of death would it be if that long arm reached him? Esteban Larralde was afraid. His own life—Julia's life—the lives of a whole Carlist section were at stake. The history of Spain, perhaps of Europe, depended on the swiftness of his foot.

The little crescent moon was shining clearly now between the long- drawn rifts of the rushing clouds. Larralde turned to the right again, up a narrow street which seemed to promise a friendly darkness. The ascent was steep, and the Spaniard gasped for breath as he ran—his legs were becoming numb. He had never been in this street before, and knew not whither it led. But it was at all events dark and deserted. Suddenly he fell upon a heap of bricks and rubbish, a whole stack of chimneys. He could smell the soot. Conyngham was upon him, touched him, but failed to get a grip. Larralde was afoot in an instant, and fell heavily down the far side of the barricade. He gained a few yards again, and, before Conyngham's eyes, was suddenly swallowed up in a black mass of falling masonry. It was more than a chimney this time; nothing less than a whole house carried bodily to the ground by the fall of the steeple of the church of Santa Maria del Monte. Conyngham stopped dead, and threw his arms over his head. The crash was terrific, deafening—and for a few moments the Englishman was stunned. He opened his eyes and closed them again, for the dust and powdered mortar whirled round him like smoke. Almost blinded, he crept back by the way he had come, and the street was already full of people. In the Calle Preciados he sat down on a door-step, and there waited until he had gained mastery over his limbs, which shook still. Presently he made his way back to the house where he had left Concha.

The man Sebastian had, a week earlier, seen and recognised Conyngham as the bearer of the letter addressed to Colonel Monreal, and left at that officer's lodging in Xeres at the moment of his death in the streets. Sebastian approached Conyngham, and informed him that he had in his possession sundry papers belonging to the late Colonel Monreal, which might be of value to a Royalist. This was, therefore, not the first time that Conyngham had climbed the narrow stairs of the tall house with two doors.

He found Concha busying himself by the bedside, where Sebastian lay in the unconsciousness of deep drink.

'He has probably been drugged,' said the priest. 'Or, he may be dying. What is more important to us is, that the letter is not here. I have searched. Larralde escaped you?'

'Yes; and of course has the letter.'

'Of course, amigo.'

The priest looked at the prostrate man with a face of profound contempt, and, shrugging his shoulders, went towards the door.

'Come,' he said, 'I must return to Toledo and Julia. It is thither that this Larralde always returns, and she, poor woman, believes in him. Ah, my friend'—he paused and shook his long finger at Conyngham. 'When a woman believes in a man she makes him or mars him; there is no medium.'



CHAPTER XVIII. IN TOLEDO.



'Meddle not with many matters; for if thou meddle much thou shalt not be innocent.'

The Cafe of the Ambassadeurs in the Calle de la Montera was at this time the fashionable resort of visitors to the city of Madrid. Its tone was neither political nor urban, but savoured rather of the cosmopolitan. The waiters at the first-class hotels recommended the Cafe of the Ambassadeurs, and stepped round to the manager's office at the time of the New Year to mention the fact.

Sir John Pleydell had been rather nonplussed by his encounter with Conyngham, and, being a man of the world as well as a lawyer, sat down, as it were, to think. He had come to Spain in the first heat of a great revenge, and such men as he take, like the greater volcanoes, a long time to cool down. He had been prepossessed in the favour of the man who subsequently owned to being Frederick Conyngham. And the very manner in which this admission was made redounded in some degree to the honour of the young Englishman. Here, at least, was one who had no fear, and fearlessness appeals to the heart of every Briton from the peer to the navvy.

Sir John took a certain cold interest in his surroundings, and in due course was recommended to spend an evening at the Cafe des Ambassadeurs, as it styled itself, for the habit of preferring French to Spanish designations for places of refreshment had come in since the great revolution. Sir John went, therefore, to the cafe, and with characteristic scorn of elemental disturbance chose to resort thither on the evening of the great gale. The few other occupants of the gorgeous room eyed his half-bottle of claret with a grave and decorous wonder, but made no attempt to converse with this chill-looking Englishman. At length, about ten o'clock or a few minutes later, entered one who bowed to Sir John with an air full of affable promise. This was Larralde, who called a waiter and bade him fetch a coat-brush.

'Would you believe it, sir?' he said, addressing Sir John in broken English, 'but I have just escaped a terrible death.'

He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and laughed good- humouredly, after the manner of one who has no foes.

'The fall of a chimney—so—within a metre of my shoulder.' He threw back his cloak with a graceful swing of the arm and handed it to the waiter. Then he drew forward a chair to the table occupied by Sir John, who sipped his claret and bowed coldly.

'You must not think that Madrid is always like this,' said Larralde. 'But perhaps you know the city—'

'No—this is my first visit.'

Larralde turned aside to give his order to the waiter. His movements were always picturesque, and in the presence of Englishmen he had a habit of accentuating those characteristics of speech and manner which are held by our countrymen to be native to the Peninsula. There is nothing so disarming as conventionality—and nothing less suspicious. Larralde seemed ever to be a typical Spaniard—indolently polite, gravely indifferent—a cigarette- smoking nonentity.

They talked of topics of the day, and chiefly of that great event, the hurricane, which was still raging. Larralde, whose habit it was to turn his neighbour to account—a seed of greatness this!—had almost concluded that the Englishman was useless when the conversation turned, as it was almost bound to turn between these two, upon Conyngham.

'There are but few of your countrymen in Madrid at the moment,' Larralde had said.

'I know but one,' was the guarded reply.

'And I also,' said Larralde, flicking the ash from his cigarette. 'A young fellow who has made himself somewhat notorious in the Royalist cause—a cause in which I admit I have no sympathy. His name is Conyngham.'

Then a silence fell upon the two men, and over raised glasses they glanced surreptitiously at each other.

'I know him,' said Sir John at length, and the tone of his voice made Larralde glance up with a sudden gleam in his eyes. There thus sprang into existence between them the closest of all bonds—a common foe.

'The man has done me more than one ill-turn,' said Larralde after a pause, and he drummed on the table with his cigarette-stained fingers.

Sir John, looking at him, coldly gauged the Spaniard with the deadly skill of his calling. He noted that Larralde was poor and ambitious—qualities that often raise the devil in a human heart when fate brings them there together. He was not deceived by the picturesque manner of Julia's lover, but knew exactly how much was assumed of that air of simple vanity to which Larralde usually treated strangers. He probably gauged at one glance the depth of the man's power for good or ill, his sincerity, his possible usefulness. In the hands of Sir John Pleydell, Larralde was the merest tool.

They sat until long after midnight, and before they parted Sir John Pleydell handed to his companion a roll of notes, which he counted carefully and Larralde accepted with a grand air of condescension and indifference.

'You know my address,' said Sir John, with a slight suggestion of masterfulness which had not been noticeable before the money changed hands. 'I shall remain at the same hotel.'

Larralde nodded his head.

'I shall remember it,' he said. 'And now I go to take a few hours' rest. I have had a hard day, and am as tired as a shepherd's dog.'

And indeed the day had been busy enough. Senor Larralde hummed an air between his teeth as he struggled against the fierce wind.

Before dawn the gale subsided, and daylight broke with a clear, calm freshness over the city, where sleep had been almost unknown during the night. The sun had not yet risen when Larralde took the road on his poor, thin black horse. He rode through the streets, still littered with the debris of fallen chimneys, slates, and shutters, with his head up and his mind so full of the great schemes which gave him no rest, that he never saw Concepcion Vara going to market with a basket on his arm and a cigarette, unlighted, between his lips. Concepcion turned and watched the horseman, shrugged his shoulders, and quietly followed until the streets were left behind and there could no longer be any doubt that Larralde was bound for Toledo.

Thither, indeed, he journeyed throughout the day with a leisureliness begotten of the desire to enter the ancient city after nightfall only. Toledo was at this time the smouldering hotbed of those political intrigues which some years later burst into flame, and resulted finally in the expulsion of the Bourbons from the throne of Spain. Larralde was sufficiently dangerous to require watching, and, like many of his kind, considered himself of a greater importance than his enemies were pleased to attach to him. The city of Toledo is, as many know, almost surrounded by the rapid Tagus, and entrance to its narrow confine is only to be gained by two gates. To pass either of these barriers in open day would be to court a publicity singularly undesirable at this time, for Esteban Larralde was slipping down the social slope, which gradual progress is the hardest to arrest. If one is mounting there are plenty to help him—those from above seeking to make unto themselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; those from below hoping to tread in the footsteps he may leave. Each step, however, of the upward progress has to be gained at the expense of another. But on the descent there are none to stay and many to push behind, while those in front make room readily enough. Larralde had for the first time accepted a direct monetary reward for his services. That this had been offered and accepted in a polite Spanish manner as an advance of expenses to be incurred was, of course, only natural under the circumstances, but the fact remained that Esteban Larralde was no longer a picturesque conspirator, serving a failing cause with that devotion which can only be repaid later by high honours, and a post carrying with it emoluments of proportionate value. He had, in fact, been paid in advance; which is the surest sign of distrust upon one side or the other.

The Barennas had been established at their house in Toledo some weeks, and, for Julia, life had been dull enough. She had hastened northward, knowing well that her lover's intrigues must necessarily bring him to the neighbourhood of the capital—perhaps to Toledo itself. Larralde had, however, hitherto failed to come near her, and the news of the day reported an increasing depression in the ranks of the Carlists. Indeed, that cause seemed now at such a low ebb that the franker mercenaries were daily drifting away to more promising scenes of warfare, while some cynically accepted commissions in the army of Espartero.

'I always said that Don Carlos would fail if he employed such men— as—well, as he does,' Madame Barenna took more than one opportunity of observing at this time, and her emphatic fan rapped the personal application home.

She had just made this remark for perhaps the sixth time one evening when the door of the patio where she and Julia sat was thrown open, and Larralde—the person indirectly referred to—came towards the ladies. He was not afraid of Madame Barenna, and his tired face lightened visibly at the sight of Julia. Concha was right. According to his lights Larralde loved Julia. She, who knew every expression, noted the look in his face, and her heart leapt within her breast. She had long secretly rejoiced over the failure of the Carlist cause. Such, messieurs, is the ambition of a woman for the man she really loves.

Senora Barenna rose and held out her hand with a beaming smile. She was rather bored that evening, and it was pleasant to imagine herself in the midst of great political intrigues.

'We were wondering if you would come,' she said.

'I am here—there—everywhere—but I always come back to the Casa Barenna,' he said gallantly.

'You look tired,' said Julia quietly. 'Where are you from?'

'At the moment I am from Madrid. The city has been wrecked by a tornado—I myself almost perished.'

He paused, shrugged his shoulders.

'What will you?' he added carelessly. 'What is life—a single life- -in Spain to-day?'

Julia winced. It is marvellous how an intelligent woman may blind herself into absolute belief in one man. Senora Barenna shuddered.

'Blessed Heaven!' she whispered. 'Why does not someone do something?'

'One does one's best,' answered Larralde, with his hand at his moustache.

'But yes!' said Madame eagerly. She had a shrewd common sense, as many apparently foolish women have, and probably put the right value on Senor Larralde's endeavours. Father Concha and the General were, however, far away, and all women are time-servers.

Larralde spoke of general news, and when he at length proposed to Julia that they should take a 'paseo' in the garden the elder lady made no objection. For some moments Julia was quite happy. She had schooled herself into a sort of contentment in the hope that her turn would come when ambition failed. Perhaps this moment had arrived. At all events, Larralde acquitted himself well, and seemed sincere enough in his joy at seeing her again.

'Do you love me?' he asked suddenly.

Julia gave a little laugh. Heaven has been opened by such a laugh ere now, and men have seen for a moment the brightness of it.

'Enough to leave Spain for ever and live in another country?'

'Yes.'

'Enough to risk something now for my sake?'

'Enough to risk everything,' she answered.

'I have tried to gain a great position for you,' went on Larralde, 'and fortune has been against me. I have failed. The Carlist cause is dead, Julia. Our chief has failed us—that is the truth of it. We set him up as a king, but unless we hold him upright he falls. He is a man of straw. We are making one last effort, as you know, but it is a dangerous one, and we have had misfortunes. This pestilential Englishman! No one may say how much he knows. He has had the letter too long in his possession for our safety. But I have outwitted him this time.'

Larralde paused, and drew from his pocket the letter in the pink envelope—somewhat soiled by its passage through the hands of Colonel Monreal's servant.

'It requires two more signatures and will then be complete,' said the upholder of Don Carlos. 'We shall then make our "coup," but we cannot move while Conyngham remains in Spain. It would never do for me to—well, to get shot at this moment.'

Julia breathed hard.

'And that is what Mr. Conyngham is endeavouring to bring about. In the first place he wants this letter to show to Estella Vincente— some foolish romance. In the second place he hates me, and seeks promotion in the Royalist ranks. These Englishmen are unscrupulous. He tried to take my life—only last night. I bear him no ill- feeling. A la guerre comme a la guerre. My only intention is to get him quietly out of Spain. It can be managed easily enough. Will you help me—to save my own life?'

'Yes,' answered Julia.

'I want you to write a letter to Conyngham saying that you are tired of political intrigue.'

'Heaven knows that would be true enough,' put in Julia.

'And that you will give him the letter he desires on the condition that he promises to show it to no one but Estella Vincente and return it to you. That you will also swear that it is the identical letter that he handed to you in the General's garden at Ronda. If Conyngham agrees, he must meet you at the back of the Church of Santo Tome in the Calle Pedro Martir here, in Toledo, next Monday evening at seven o'clock. Will you write this letter, Julia?'

'And Estella Vincente?' inquired Julia.

'She will forget him in a week,' laughed Larralde.



CHAPTER XIX. CONCEPCION TAKES THE ROAD.



'Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.'

After the great storm came a calm almost as startling. It seemed indeed as if Nature stood abashed and silent before the results of her sudden rage. Day after day the sun glared down from a cloudless sky, and all Castile was burnt brown as a desert. In the streets of Madrid there arose a hot dust and the subtle odour of warm earth that rarely meets the nostrils in England. It savoured of India and other sun-steeped lands where water is too precious to throw upon the roads.

Those who could, remained indoors or in their shady patios until the heat of the day was past; and such as worked in the open lay unchallenged in the shade from midday till three o'clock. During those days military operations were almost suspended, although the heads of departments were busy enough in their offices. The confusion of war, it seemed, was past, and the sore-needed peace was immediately turned to good account. The army of the Queen Regent was indeed in an almost wrecked condition, and among the field officers jealousy and backbiting, which had smouldered through the war-time, broke out openly. General Vincente was rarely at home, and Estella passed this time in quiet seclusion. Coming as she did from Andalusia, she was accustomed to an even greater heat, and knew how to avoid the discomfort of it.

She was sitting one afternoon, with open windows and closed jalousies, during the time of the siesta, when the servant announced Father Concha.

The old priest came into the room wiping his brow with simple ill manners.

'You have been hurrying and have no regard for the sun,' said Estella.

'You need not find shelter for an old ox,' replied Concha, seating himself. 'It is the young ones that expose themselves unnecessarily.'

Estella glanced at him sharply but said nothing. He sat, handkerchief in hand, and stared at a shaft of sunlight that lay across the floor from a gap in the jalousies. From the street under the windows came the distant sounds of traffic and the cries of the vendors of water, fruit, and newspapers.

Father Concha looked puzzled, and seemed to be seeking his way out of a difficulty. Estella sat back in her chair, half hidden by her slow-waving, black fan. There is no pride so difficult as that which is unconscious of its own existence, no heart so hard to touch as that which has thrown its stake and asks neither sympathy nor admiration from the outside world. Concha glanced at Estella and wondered if he had been mistaken. There was in the old man's heart, as indeed there is in nearly all human hearts, a thwarted instinct. How many are there with maternal instincts who have no children; how many a poet has been lost by the crying need of hungry mouths! It was a thwarted instinct that made the old priest busy himself with the affairs of other people, and always of young people.

'I came hoping to see your father,' he said at length, blandly untruthful. 'I have just seen Conyngham, in whom we are all interested, I think. His lack of caution is singular. I have been trying to persuade him not to do something most rash and imprudent. You remember the incident in your garden at Ronda—a letter which he gave to Julia?'

'Yes,' answered Estella quietly, 'I remember.'

'For some reason which he did not explain I understand that he is desirous of regaining possession of that letter, and now Julia, writing from Toledo, tells him that she will give it to him if he will go there and fetch it. The Toledo road, as you will remember, is hardly to be recommended to Mr. Conyngham.'

'But Julia wishes him no harm,' said Estella.

'My child, rarely trust a political man and never a political woman. If Julia wished him to have the letter she could have sent it to him by post. But Conyngham, who is all eagerness, must needs refuse to listen to any argument, and starts this afternoon for Toledo—alone. He has not even his servant Concepcion Vara, who has suddenly disappeared, and a woman who claims to be the scoundrel's wife from Algeciras has been making inquiries at Conyngham's lodging. A hen's eyes are where her eggs lie. I offered to go to Toledo with Conyngham, but he laughed at me for a useless old priest, and said that the saddle would gall me.'

He paused, looking at her beneath his shaggy brows, knowing, as he had always known, that this was a woman beyond his reach—cleverer, braver, of a higher mind than her sisters—one to whom he might perchance tender some small assistance, but nothing better. For women are wiser in their generation than men, and usually know better what is for their own happiness. Estella returned his glance with steady eyes.

'He has gone,' said Concha. 'I have not been sent to tell you that he is going.'

'I did not think that you had,' she answered.

'Conyngham has enemies in this country,' continued the priest, 'and despises them—a mistake to which his countrymen are singularly liable. He has gone off on this foolish quest without preparation or precaution. Toledo is, as you know, a hotbed of intrigue and dissatisfaction. All the malcontents in Spain congregate there, and Conyngham would do well to avoid their company. Who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas.'

He paused, tapping his snuffbox, and at that moment the door opened to admit General Vincente.

'Oh! the Padre!' cried the cheerful soldier. 'But what a sun, eh? It is cool here, however, and Estella's room is always a quiet one.'

He touched her cheek affectionately, and drew forward a low chair wherein he sat, carefully disposing of the sword that always seemed too large for him.

'And what news has the Padre?' he asked, daintily touching his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.

'Bad,' growled Concha, and then told his tale over again in a briefer, blunter manner. 'It all arises,' he concluded, 'from my pestilential habit of interfering in the affairs of other people.'

'No,' said General Vincente; 'it arises from Conyngham's pestilential habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes.'

The door was opened again, and a servant entered.

'Excellency,' he said, 'a man called Concepcion Vara, who desires a moment.'

'What did I tell you?' said the General to Concha. 'Another of Conyngham's friends. Spain is full of them. Let Concepcion Vara come to this room.'

The servant looked slightly surprised, and retired. If, however, this manner of reception was unusual, Concepcion was too finished a man of the world to betray either surprise or embarrassment. By good fortune he happened to be wearing a coat. His flowing unstarched shirt was as usual spotless, he wore a flower in the ribbon of the hat carried jauntily in his hand, and about his person in the form of handkerchief and faja were those touches of bright colour by means of which he so irresistibly attracted the eye of the fair.

'Excellency,' he murmured, bowing on the threshold; 'Reverendo,' with one step forward and a respectful semi-religious inclination of the head towards Concha; 'Senorita!' The ceremony here concluded with a profound obeisance to Estella full of gallantry and grave admiration. Then he stood upright, and indicated by a pleasant smile that no one need feel embarrassed, that in fact this meeting was most opportune.

'A matter of urgency, Excellency,' he said confidentially to Vincente. 'I have reason to suspect that one of my friends—in fact, the Senor Conyngham, with whom I am at the moment in service— happens to be in danger.'

'Ah! what makes you suspect that, my friend?'

Concepcion waved his hand lightly, as if indicating that the news had been brought to him by the birds of the air.

'When one goes into the cafe,' he said, 'one is not always so particular—one associates with those who happen to be there— muleteers, diligencia-drivers, bull-fighters, all and sundry, even contrabandistas.'

He made this last admission with a face full of pious toleration, and Father Concha laughed grimly.

'That is true, my friend,' said the General, hastening to cover the priest's little lapse of good manners, 'and from these gentlemen— honest enough in their way, no doubt—you have learnt—?'

'That the Senor Conyngham has enemies in Spain.'

'So I understand; but he has also friends?'

'He has one,' said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque attitude, with his right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was concealed in the rolls of his faja.

'Then he is fortunate,' said the General, with his most winning smile; 'why do you come to me, my friend.'

'I require two men,' answered Concepcion airily, 'that is all.'

'Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?'

'The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please your Excellency. The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.'

He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards, fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity.

'A brutal set of men,' he continued; 'with the finger ever on the trigger and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and a life is taken—many of my friends—at least, many persons I have met—in the cafe!'

'It is better to give him his two men,' put in Father Concha, in his atrocious English, speaking to the General. 'The man is honest in his love of Conyngham, if in nothing else.'

'And if I accord you these two men, my friend,' said the General, from whose face Estella's eyes had never moved, 'will you undertake that Mr. Conyngham comes to no harm?'

'I will arrange it,' replied Concepcion, with an easy shrug of the shoulders. 'I will arrange it, never fear.'

'You shall have two men,' said General Vincente, drawing a writing- case towards himself and proceeding to write the necessary order. 'Men who are known to me personally. You can rely upon them at all times.'

'Since they are friends of his Excellency's,' interrupted Concepcion with much condescension, 'that suffices.'

'He will require money,' said Estella in English—her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. For she came of a fighting race, and her repose of manner, the dignity which sat rather strangely on her slim young shoulders, were only signs of that self-control which had been handed down to her through the ages.

The General nodded as he wrote.

'Take that to headquarters,' he said, handing the papers to Concepcion, 'and in less than half an hour your men will be ready. Mr. Conyngham is a friend of mine, as you know, and any expenses incurred on his behalf will be defrayed by myself—'

Concepcion held up his hand.

'It is unnecessary, Excellency,' he said. 'At present Mr. Conyngham has funds. Only yesterday he gave me money. He liquidated my little account. It has always been a jest between us—that little account.'

He laughed pleasantly, and moved towards the door.

'Vara,' said Father Concha.

'Yes, reverendo.'

'If I meet your wife in Madrid, what shall I say to her?'

Concepcion turned and looked into the smiling face of the old priest.

'In Madrid, reverendo? How can you think of such a thing? My wife lives in Algeciras, and at times, see you—' he stopped, casting his eyes up to the ceiling and fetching an exaggerated sigh, 'at times my heart aches. But now I must get to the saddle. What a thing is Duty, reverendo! Duty! God be with your Excellencies.'

And he hurried out of the room.

'If you would make a thief honest, trust him,' said Concha, when the door was closed.

In less than an hour Concepcion was on the road accompanied by two troopers, who were ready enough to travel in company with a man of his reputation. For in Spain, if one cannot be a bull-fighter it is good to be a smuggler. At sunset the great heat culminated in a thunderstorm, which drew a veil of heavy cloud across the sky, and night fell before its time.

The horsemen had covered two-thirds of their journey when he whom they followed came in sight of the lights of Toledo, set upon a rock like the jewels in a lady's ring, and almost surrounded by the swift Tagus. Conyngham's horse was tired, and stumbled more than once on the hill by which the traveller descends to the great bridge and the gate that Wamba built thirteen hundred years ago.

Through this gate he passed into the city, which was a city of the dead, with its hundred ruined churches, its empty palaces and silent streets. Ichabod is written large over all these tokens of a bygone glory; where the Jews flying from Jerusalem first set foot; where the Moor reigned unmolested for nearly four hundred years; where the Goth and the Roman and the great Spaniard of the middle ages have trod on each other's heels. Truly these worn stones have seen the greatness of the greatest nations of the world.

A single lamp hung slowly swinging in the arch of Wamba's Gate, and the streets were but ill lighted with an oil lantern at an occasional corner. Conyngham had been in Toledo before, and knew his way to the inn under the shadow of the great Alcazar, now burnt and ruined. Here he left his horse; for the streets of Toledo are so narrow and tortuous, so ill-paved and steep, that wheel traffic is almost unknown, while a horse can with difficulty keep his feet on the rounded cobble stones. In this city men go about their business on foot, which makes the streets as silent as the deserted houses.

Julia had selected a spot which was easy enough to find, and Conyngham, having supped, made his way thither without asking for directions.

'It is at all events worth trying,' he said to himself, 'and she can scarcely have forgotten that I saved her life on the Garonne as well as at Ronda.'

But there is often in a woman's life one man who can make her forget all. The streets were deserted, for it was a cold night, and the cafes were carefully closed against the damp air. No one stirred in the Calle Pedro Martir, and Conyngham peered into the shadow of the high wall of the Church of San Tome in vain. Then he heard the soft tread of muffled feet, and turning on his heel realised Julia's treachery in a flash of thought. He charged to meet the charge of his assailants. Two of them went down like felled trees, but there were others—four others—who fell on him silently like hounds upon a fox, and in a few moments all was quiet again in the Calle Pedro Martir.



CHAPTER XX. ON THE TALAVERA ROAD.



'Les barrieres servent a indiquer ou il faut passer.'

An hour's ride to the west of Toledo, on the road to Torrijos and Talavera, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the village of Galvez, two men sat in the shadow of a great rock, and played cards. They played quietly and without vociferation, illustrating the advantages of a minute coinage. They had gambled with varying fortune since the hour of the siesta, and a sprinkling of cigarette ends on the bare rocks around them testified to the indulgence in a kindred vice.

The elder of the two men glanced from time to time over his shoulder, and down towards the dusty high road which lay across the arid plain beneath them like a tape. The country here is barren and stone-ridden, but to the west, where Torrijos gleamed whitely on the plain, the earth was green with lush corn and heavy blades of maize, now springing into ear. Where the two soldiers sat the herbage was scant and of an aromatic scent, as it mostly is in hot countries and in rocky places. That these men belonged to a mounted branch of the service was evident from their equipment, and notably from the great rusty spurs at their heels. They were clad in cotton—dusky white breeches, dusky blue tunics—a sort of undress, tempered by the vicissitudes of a long war and the laxity of discipline engendered by political trouble at home.

They had left their horses in the stable of a venta, hidden among ilex trees by the roadside, and had clambered to this point of vantage above the highway, to pass the afternoon after the manner of their race. For the Spaniard will be found playing cards amid the wreck of the world and in the intervals between the stupendous events of the last day.

'He comes,' said the elder man at length, as he leisurely shuffled the greasy cards. 'I hear his horse's hoofs.'

And, indeed, the great silence which seems to brood over the uplands of Spain—the silence, as it were, of an historic past and a dead present—was broken by the distant regular beat of hoofs.

The trooper who had spoken was a bullet-headed Castilian, with square jaw and close-set eyes. His companion, a younger man, merely nodded his head, and studied the cards which had just been dealt to him. The game progressed, and Concepcion Vara, on the Toledo road, approached at a steady trot. This man showed to greater advantage on horseback and beneath God's open sky than in the streets of a city. Here, in the open and among the mountains, he held his head erect and faced the world, ready to hold his own against it. In the streets he wore a furtive air, and glanced from left to right fearing recognition.

He now took his tired horse to the stable of the little venta, where, with his usual gallantry, he assisted a hideous old hag to find a place in the stalls. While uttering a gay compliment, he deftly secured for his mount a feed of corn which was much in excess of that usually provided for the money.

'Ah!' he said, as he tipped the measure; 'I can always tell when a woman has been pretty; but with you, senora, no such knowledge is required. You will have your beauty for many years yet.'

Thus Vara and his horse fared ever well upon the road. He lingered at the stable door, knowing perhaps that corn poured into the manger may yet find its way back to the bin, and then turned his steps towards the mountain.

The cards were still falling with a whispering sound upon the rock selected as a table, and, with the spirit of a true sportsman, Concepcion waited until the hand was played out before imparting his news.

'It is well,' he said at length. 'A carriage has been ordered from a friend of mine in Toledo to take the road to-night to Talavera— and Talavera is on the way to Lisbon. What did I tell you?'

The two soldiers nodded. One was counting his gains, which amounted to almost threepence. The loser wore a brave air of indifference, as behoved a reckless soldier taking loss or gain in a Spartan spirit.

'There will be six men,' continued Concepcion. 'Two on horseback, two on the box, two inside the carriage with their prisoner—my friend.'

'Ah!' said the younger soldier thoughtfully.

Concepcion looked at him.

'What have you in your mind?' he asked.

'I was wondering how three men could best kill six.'

'Out of six,' said the older man, 'there is always one who runs away. I have found it so in my experience.'

'And of five there is always one who cannot use his knife,' added Concepcion.

Still the younger soldier, who had medals all across his chest, shook his head.

'I am afraid,' he said. 'I am always afraid before I fight.'

Concepcion looked at the man whom General Vincente had selected from a brigade of tried soldiers, and gave a little upward jerk of the head.

'With me,' he said, 'it is afterwards—when all is over. Then my hand shakes, and the wet trickles down my face.'

He laughed, and spread out his hands.

'And yet,' he said gaily, 'it is the best game of all—is it not so?'

The troopers shrugged their shoulders. One may have too much of even the best game.

'The carriage is ordered for eight o'clock,' continued the practical Concepcion, rolling a cigarette, which he placed behind his ear where a clerk would carry his pen. 'Those who take the road when the night-birds come abroad have something to hide. We will see what they have in their carriage, eh? The horses are hired for the journey to Galvez, where a relay is doubtless ordered. It will be a fine night for a journey. There is a half moon, which is better than the full for those who use the knife; but the Galvez horses will not be required, I think.'

The younger soldier, upon whose shoulder gleamed the stars of a rapid promotion, looked up to the sky, where a few fleecy clouds were beginning to gather above the setting sun like sheep about a gate.

'A half moon for the knife and a full moon for firearms,' he said.

'Yes; and they will shoot quick enough if we give them the chance,' said Concepcion. 'They are Carlists! There is a river between this and Galvez—a little stream such as we have in Andalusia—so small that there is only a ford and no bridge. The bed of the river is soft; the horses will stop, or, at all events, must go at the walking pace. Across the stream are a few trees' (he paused, illustrating his description with rapid gestures and an imaginary diagram drawn upon the rock with the forefinger), 'ilex, and here, to the left, some pines. The stream runs thus from north-east to south-west. This bank is high, and over here are low-lying meadows where pigs feed.'

He looked up, and the two soldiers nodded. The position lay before them like a bird's-eye view; and Concepcion, in whom Spain had perhaps lost a guerilla general, had only set eyes on the spot once as he rode past it.

'This matter is best settled on foot; is it not so? We cross the stream, and tie our horses to the pine trees. I will recross the water, and come back to meet the carriage at the top of the hill— here. The horsemen will be in advance. We will allow them to cross the stream. The horses will come out of the water slowly, or I know nothing of horses. As they step up the incline, you take their riders, and remember to give them the chance of running away. In midstream I will attack the two on the box, pulling him who is not driving into the water by his legs, and giving him the blade in the right shoulder above the lung. He will think himself dead, but should recover. Then you must join me. We shall be three to three, unless the Englishman's hands are loose; then we shall be four to three, and need do no man any injury. The Englishman is as strong as two, and quick with it, as big men rarely are.'

'Do you take a hand?' asked the Castilian, fingering the cards.

'No; I have affairs. Continue your game.'

So the sun went down, and the two soldiers continued their game, while Concepcion sat beside them and slowly, lovingly sharpened his knife on a piece of slate which he carried in his pocket for the purpose.

After sunset there usually arises a cold breeze which blows across the table-lands of Castile quite gently and unobtrusively. A local proverb says of this wind that it will extinguish a man but not a candle. When this arose, the three men descended the mountain-side and sat down to a simple if highly-flavoured meal provided by the ancient mistress of the venta. At half-past eight, when there remained nothing of the day but a faint greenish light in the western sky, the little party mounted their horses and rode away towards Galvez.

''Tis better,' said Concepcion, with a meaning and gallant bow to the hostess. ''Tis for my peace of mind. I am but a man.'

Then he haggled over the price of the supper.

They rode forward to the ford described by Concepcion, and there made their preparations—carefully and coolly—as men recognising the odds against them. The half moon was just rising as the soldiers splashed through the water leading Concepcion's horse, he remaining on the Toledo side of the river.

'The saints protect us!' said the nervous soldier, and his hand shook on the bridle. His companion smiled at the recollection of former fights passed through together. It is well, in love and war, to beware of him who says he is afraid.

Shortly after nine o'clock the silence of that deserted plain was broken by a distant murmur, which presently shaped itself into the beat of horses' feet. To this was added soon the rumble of wheels. The elder soldier put a whole cigarette into his mouth and chewed it. The younger man made no movement now. They crouched low at their posts one on each side of the ford. Concepcion was across the river, but they could not see him. In Andalusia they say that a contrabandist can conceal himself behind half a brick.

The two riders were well in front of the carriage, and, as had been foreseen, the horses lingered on the rise of the bank as if reluctant to leave the water without having tasted it. In a moment the younger soldier had his man out of the saddle, raising his own knee sharply as the man fell, so that the falling head and the lifted knee came into deadly contact. It was a trick well known to the trooper, who let the insensible form roll to the ground, and immediately darted down the bank to the stream. The other soldier was chasing his opponent up the hill, shelling him, as he rode away, with oaths and stones.

In mid-stream the clumsy travelling carriage had come to a standstill. The driver on the box, having cast down his reins, was engaged in imploring the assistance of a black-letter saint, upon which assistance he did not hesitate to put a price, in candles. There was a scurrying in the water, which was about two feet deep, where Concepcion was settling accounts with the man who had been seated by the driver's side. A half-choked scream of pain appeared to indicate that Concepcion had found the spot he sought, above the right lung, and that amiable smuggler now rose dripping from the flood and hurried to the carriage.

'Conyngham!' he shouted, laying aside that ceremony upon which he never set great store.

'Yes,' answered a voice from within. 'Is that you, Concepcion?'

'Of course; throw them out.'

'But the door is locked,' answered Conyngham in a muffled voice. And the carriage began to rock and crack upon its springs, as if an earthquake were taking place inside it.

'The window is good enough for such rubbish,' said Concepcion. As he spoke a man, violently propelled from within, came head foremost, and most blasphemously vociferous, into Concepcion's arms, who immediately, and with the rapidity of a terrier, had him by the throat and forced him under water.

'You have hold of my leg—you, on the other side,' shouted Conyngham from the turmoil within.

'A thousand pardons, senor!' said the soldier, and took a new grip of another limb.

Concepcion, holding his man under water, heard the sharp crack of another head upon the soldier's kneecap, and knew that all was well.

'That is all?' he inquired.

'That is all,' replied the soldier, who did not seem at all nervous now. 'And we have killed no one.'

'Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box there,' said Concepcion judicially. 'This is no time for prayer. Just where the neck joins the shoulder—that is a good place.'

And a sudden silence reigned upon the box.

'Pull the carriage to the bank,' commanded Concepcion. 'There is no need for the English Excellency to wet his feet. He might catch a cold.'

They all made their way to the bank, where, in the dim moonlight, one man sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite still, upon the pebbles.

The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside him, while Concepcion patted his foe kindly on the back.

'It is well,' he said, 'you have swallowed water. You will be sick, and then you will be well. But if you move from that spot I will let the water out another way.'

And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned to help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window.

'Whom have you with you?' asked Conyngham.

'Two honest soldiers of General Vincente's division. You see, senor, you have good friends.'

'Yes, I see that.'

'One of them,' said Concepcion meaningly, 'is at Toledo at the moment, journeying after you.

'Ah!'

'The Senor Pleydell.'

'Then we will go back to meet him.'

'I thought so,' said Concepcion.



CHAPTER XXI. A CROSS-EXAMINATION.



'Wherein I am false I am honest—not true to be true.'

'I will sing you a contrabandista song,' said Concepcion, as the party rode towards Toledo in the moonlight. 'The song we—they sing when the venture has been successful. You may hear it any dark night in the streets of Gaucin.'

'Sing,' said the older soldier, 'if it is in your lungs. For us—we prefer to travel silent.'

Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist rider had been dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front. The carriage had been left behind at the venta, where no questions were asked, and the injured men revived readily enough.

'It is well,' answered Concepcion, in no way abashed. 'I will sing. In Andalusia we can all sing. The pigs sing better there than the men of Castile.'

It was after midnight when the party rode past the Church of the Cristo de la Vega, and faced the long hill that leads to the gate Del Cambron. Above them towered the city of Toledo—silent and dreamlike. Concepcion had ceased singing now, and the hard breathing of the horses alone broke the silence. The Tagus, emerging here from rocky fastness, flowed noiselessly away to the west—a gleaming ribbon laid across the breast of the night. In the summer it is no uncommon thing for travellers to take the road by night in Spain, and although many doubtless heard the clatter of horses' feet on the polished cobble stones of the city, none rose from bed to watch the horsemen pass.

At that time Toledo possessed, and indeed to the present day can boast of, but one good inn—a picturesque old house in the Plaza de Zocodover, overhung by the mighty Alcazar. Here Cervantes must have eaten and Lazarillo de Tormes no doubt caroused. Here those melancholy men and mighty humorists must have delighted the idler by their talk. Concepcion soon aroused the sleeping porter, and the great doors being thrown open, the party passed into the courtyard without quitting the saddle.

'It is,' said Concepcion, 'an English Excellency and his suite.'

'We have another such in the house,' answered the sleepy doorkeeper, 'though he travels with but one servant.'

'We know that, my friend, which is the reason why we patronise your dog-hole of an inn. See that the two Excellencies breakfast together at a table apart in the morning.'

'You will have matters to speak about with the Senor Pleydell in the morning,' said Concepcion, as he unpacked Conyngham's luggage a few minutes later.

'Yes, I should like to speak to Senor Pleydell.'

'And I,' said Concepcion, turning round with a brush in his hand, 'should like a moment's conversation with Senor Larralde.'

'Ah!'

'Yes, Excellency, he is in this matter too. But the Senor Larralde is so modest—so modest! He always remains in the background.'

In the tents of Kedar men sleep as sound as those who lie on soft pillows, and Conyngham was late astir the next morning. Sir John Pleydell was, it transpired, already at his breakfast, and had ordered his carriage for an early hour to take the road to Talavera. It was thus evident that Sir John knew nothing of the arrival of his fellow-countryman at midnight.

The cold face of the great lawyer wore a look of satisfaction as he sat at a small table in the patio of the hotel and drank his coffee. Conyngham watched him for a moment from the balcony of the courtyard, himself unseen, while Concepcion stood within his master's bedroom, and rubbed his brown hands together in anticipation of a dramatic moment. Conyngham passed down the stone steps and crossed the patio with a gay smile. Sir John recognised him as he emerged from the darkness of the stairway, but his face betrayed neither surprise nor fear. There was a look in the grey eyes, however, that seemed to betoken doubt. Such a look a man might wear who had long travelled with assurance upon a road which he took to be the right one, and then at a turning found himself in a strange country with no landmark to guide him.

Sir John Pleydell had always outwitted his fellows. He had, in fact, been what is called a successful man—a little cleverer, a little more cunning than those around him.

He looked up now at Conyngham, who was drawing forward a chair to the neighbouring table, and the cold eye, which had been the dread of many a criminal, wavered.

'The waiter has set my breakfast near to yours,' said Conyngham, unconcernedly seating himself.

And Concepcion in the balcony above cursed the English for a cold- blooded race. This was not the sort of meeting he had anticipated. He could throw a knife very prettily, and gave a short sigh of regret as he turned to his peaceful duties.

Conyngham examined the simple fare provided for him, and then looked towards his companion with that cheerfulness which is too rare in this world; for it is born of a great courage, and outward circumstances cannot affect it. Sir John Pleydell had lost all interest in his meal, and was looking keenly at Conyngham— dissecting, as it were, his face, probing his mind, searching through the outward manner of the man, and running helplessly against a motive which he failed to understand.

'I have in my long experience found that all men may be divided into two classes,' he said acidly.

'Fools and knaves?' suggested Conyngham.

'You have practised at the Bar,' parenthetically.

Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.

'Unsuccessfully—anybody can do that.'

'Which are you—a fool or a knave?' asked Sir John.

And suddenly Conyngham pitied him. For no man is proof against the quick sense of pathos aroused by the sight of man, or dumb animal, baffled. At the end of his life Sir John had engaged upon the greatest quest of it—an unworthy quest, no doubt, but his heart was in it—and he was an old man, though be bore his years well enough.

'Perhaps that is the mistake you have always made,' said Conyngham gravely. 'Perhaps men are not to be divided into two classes. There may be some who only make mistakes, Sir John.'

Unconsciously he had lapsed into the advocate, as those who have once played the part are apt to do. This was not his own cause, but Geoffrey Horner's. And he served his friend so thoroughly that for the moment he really was the man whose part he had elected to play. Sir John Pleydell was no mean foe. Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in turning aside the public suspicion, and in the eternal march of events, of which the sound is louder as the world grows older and hollower, the murder of Alfred Pleydell had been forgotten by all save his father. Conyngham saw the danger, and never thought to avoid it. What had been undertaken half in jest would be carried out in deadly earnest.

'Mistakes,' said Sir John sceptically. In dealing with the seamy side of life men come to believe that it is all stitches.

'Which they may pass the rest of their lives in regretting.'

Sir John looked sharply at his companion, with suspicion dawning in his eyes again. It was Conyngham's tendency to overplay his part. Later, when he became a soldier, and found that path in life for which he was best fitted, his superior officers and the cooler tacticians complained that he was over-eager, and in battle outpaced the men he led.

'Then you see now that it was a mistake?' suggested Sir John. In cross-examinations the suggestions of Sir John Pleydell are remembered in certain courts of justice to this day.

'Of course.'

'To have mixed yourself in such an affair at all?'

'Yes.'

Sir John seemed to be softening, and Conyngham began to see a way out of this difficulty which had never suggested itself to him before.

'Such mistakes have to be paid for—and the law assesses the price.'

Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.

'It is easy enough to say you are sorry—the law can make no allowance for regret.'

Conyngham turned his attention to his breakfast, deeming it useless to continue the topic.

'It was a mistake to attend the meeting at Durham—you admit that?' continued Sir John.

'Yes—I admit that, if it is any satisfaction to you.'

'Then it was worse than a mistake to actually lead the men out to my house for the purpose of breaking the windows. It was almost a crime. I would suggest to you, as a soldier for the moment, to lead a charge up a steep hill against a body of farm labourers and others entrenched behind a railing.'

'That is a mere matter of opinion.'

'And yet you did that,' said Sir John. 'If you are going to break the law you should insure success before embarking on your undertaking.'