In Kedar's Tents

‘En paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est s’abstenir.’

‘There is,’ observed Frederick Conyngham to himself as he climbed into the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning, ‘there is a certain picturesqueness about these proceedings which pleases me.’

Concepçion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic atmosphere, for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion, with a bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath his black hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower in the ribbon of his hat.

He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing as he threw his leg across his horse.  A dark-eyed maiden had come to the corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with mournful eyes.  He waved her a salutation as he passed.

‘It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda—what will you?’ he explained to Conyngham with a modest air as he cocked his hat farther on one side.

The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open country that borders the road to Bobadilla.  A pastoral country this, where the land needs little care to make it give more than man requires for his daily food.  The evergreen oak studded over the whole plain supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen may dream away the sunny days.  The rich soil would yield two or even three crops in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming.  Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface, but national indolence leaves it unexplored.

‘Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,’ said Concepçion, urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of Conyngham’s huge mount.

‘Ah!’

‘No,’ pursued Concepçion.  ‘And yet it is simple.  In Algeciras I have a wife.  It is well that a man should travel at times.  So,’ he paused and bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, ‘so—we take the road together.’

‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said Conyngham, ‘I am sure I can but feel honoured.  You know I have no money.’

The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.

‘What matter?’ he said.  ‘What matter?  We can keep an account—a mere piece of paper—so: “Concepçion Vara, of Algeciras, in account current with F. Conyngham; Englishman.  One month’s wages at one hundred pesetas.” It is simple.’

‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham.  ‘It is only when pay-day comes that things will get complicated.’

Concepçion laughed.

‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said.  ‘We shall enjoy ourselves in Madrid.  I see that.’

Conyngham did not answer.  He had remembered the letter and Julia Barenna’s danger.  He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him.  Ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.

‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham.  ‘We are going to Xeres, where I have business.  Do you know the road to Xeres?’

‘As well that as any other, Excellency.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know no roads north of Ronda.  I am of Andalusia, I,’ replied Concepçion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of interest which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a traveller than his reliability as a guide.

‘But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.’

‘Yes, Excellency—by asking the way,’ replied Concepçion with a light laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse to light a fresh cigarette.

Thus with an easy heart Frederick Conyngham set out on his journey, having for companion one as irresponsible as himself.  He had determined to go to Xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to the westward of his road towards the capital.  It would have been simple enough to destroy the letter entrusted to him by Julia Barenna, a stranger whom he was likely never to see again—simple enough and infinitely safer as he suspected, for the billet-doux of Mr. Larralde smelt of grimmer things than love.  But Julia Barenna wittingly, or in all innocence, appealed to that sense of chivalry which is essentially the quality of lonely men who have never had sisters, and Conyngham was ready to help Julia where he would have refused his assistance to a man, however hard pressed.

‘Cannot leave the girl in a hole,’ he said to himself, and proceeded to act upon this resolution with a steadiness of purpose for which some may blame him.

It was evening when the two travellers reached Xeres after some weary hours of monotonous progress through the vine-clad plains of this country.

‘It is no wonder,’ said Concepçion, ‘that the men of Xeres are malcontents, when they live in a country as flat as the palm of my hand.’

It happened to be a fête day, which in Spain, as in other countries farther North, is synonymous with mischief.  The men of Xeres had taken advantage of this holiday to demonstrate their desire for more.  They had marched through the streets with banner and song, arrayed in their best clothes, fostering their worst thoughts.  They had consumed marvellous quantities of that small Amontillado which is as it were a thin fire to the blood, heating and degenerating at once.  They had talked much nonsense and listened to more.  Carlist or Christino—it was all the same to them, so long as they had a change of some sort.  In the meantime they had a desire to break something, if only to assert their liberty.

A few minutes before Conyngham and his guide rode into the market-place, which in Xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of Spain had thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a passer-by.  With a fire too bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white moustache and imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-for-nothings and sons of pigs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Concepçion went away in a pessimistic humour.  He was one of those men who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but lack the stamina to fight when hungry.  He returned presently with the required information.  The Plaza de Cadiz was, it appeared, quite close.  Indeed, the town of Xeres is not large, though the intricacies of its narrow streets may well puzzle a new-comer.  No. 84 was the house of the barber, and on his first floor lived Colonel Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the English against Napoleon’s armies.

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

‘I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said to Concepçion.  ‘Your horse is feeding.  Make good use of your time, for when I return I shall want you to take the road again at once.  You must make ten miles before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.’

‘For where, señor?’

‘For Ronda.’

Concepçion shrugged his shoulders.  His life had been spent upon the road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle-bag, and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of Ishmael.  They are a homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them, under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall.  It often happens that a worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the mountain side.

‘And his Excellency?’ inquired Concepçion.

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

Concepçion nodded his head with much philosophy.

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

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

‘But,’ added the servant, ‘the Colonel is a man of regular habits.  He will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Wherein I am false, I am honest—not true to be true.’

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

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

‘Well, they have swords,’ persisted the lady.

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

‘Ah, that Alcalde!’ she whispered between her teeth.

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

‘Love letters!’ ejaculated Señora Barenna.  She evidently had a keen sense of the romantic, and hoped for something more tragic than a mere flirtation begotten of idleness at sea.

‘Yes,’ said Concha, crossing his legs and looking at his companion with a queer cynicism.  ‘Young people mostly pass that way.’

He had had a tragedy, this old man.  One of those grim tragedies of the cassock which English people rarely understand.  And his tragedy sat beside him on the cane chair, stout and eminently worldly, while he had journeyed on the road of life with all his illusions, all his half-fledged aspirations, untouched by the cold finger of reality.  He despised the woman now, the contempt lurked in his cynical smile, but he clung with a half-mocking, open-eyed sarcasm to his memories.

‘But,’ he said reassuringly, ‘Julia is a match for the Alcalde, you may rest assured of that.’

Señora Barenna turned with a gesture of her plump hand indicative of bewilderment.

‘I do not understand her.  She laughs at the soldiers—the policemen, I mean.  She laughs at me.  She laughs at everything.’

‘Yes, it is the hollow hearts that make most noise in the world,’ said Concha, folding his handkerchief upon his knee.  He was deadly poor, and had a theory that a folded handkerchief remains longer clean.  His whole existence was an effort to do without those things that make life worth living.

‘Why did you send for me?’ he asked.

‘But to advise me—to help me.  I have been, all my life, cast upon the world alone.  No one to help me—no one to understand.  No one knows what I have suffered—my husband—’

‘Was one of the best and most patient of mortals, and is assuredly in heaven, where I hope there are a few mansions reserved for men only.’

Señora Barenna fetched one of her deepest sighs.  She had a few lurking in the depth of her capacious being, reserved for such occasions as this.  It was, it seemed, no more than her life had led her to expect.

‘You have had,’ went on her spiritual adviser, ‘a life of ease and luxury, a husband who denied you nothing.  You have never lost a child by death, which I understand is—one of the greatest sorrows that God sends to women.  You are an ungrateful female.’

Señora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very earliest of the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm should pass.

‘Do you wish me to see Julia?’ asked Concha abruptly.

‘Yes—yes!  And persuade her to conciliate the Alcalde—to tell him some story or another.  It does not surely matter if it be not the strict truth.  Anything to get these men out of the house.  My maid Maria is so flighty.  Ah—these young people!  What a trial—my dear Padre, what a trial!’

‘Of course,’ said Father Concha.  ‘But what a dull world it would be if our neighbour knew how to manage his own affairs!  Shall we go to Julia?’

The perturbed lady preferred that the priest should see her daughter alone.  A military-looking individual in white trousers and a dark green tunic stood guard over the door of Julia’s apartment, seeking by his attitude and the curl of his moustache to magnify his office in the eyes of a maid who happened to have an unusual amount of cleaning to do in that particular corridor.

‘Ah!’ said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the sentinel’s sword.  ‘Ah, it is you, Manuel.  Your wife tells me you have objections to the christening of that last boy of yours, number five, I think.  Bring number five on Sunday, after vespers—eh?  You understand—and a little something for the poor.  It is pay day on Saturday.  And no more nonsense about religion, Manuel, eh?’

He shook his lean finger in the official’s face and walked on unchallenged.

‘May I come in?’ he said, tapping at the door; and Julia’s voice bade him enter.

He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat.  Then he stood upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia with the humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple twitching in his lean cheek.  Then he began to feel his pockets, passing his hands down his worn cassock.

‘Let me see, I had a love letter—was it from Don Carlos?  At all events, I have lost it!’

He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his blessing.  Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by machinery at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down.

Julia looked worn and eager.  Her eyes seemed to search his face for news.

‘Yes, my dear child,’ he said.  ‘Politics are all very well as a career.  But without a distinct profit they are worth the attention of few men, and never worth the thought of a woman.’

He looked at her keenly, and she turned to the window, which was open to admit the breath of violets and other flowers of the spring.  She shrugged her shoulders and gave a sharp sigh.

‘See here, my child,’ said Padre Concha abruptly.  ‘For reasons which concern no one, I take a great interest in your happiness.  You resemble some one whose welfare was once more important to me than my own.  That was long ago, and I now consider myself first, as all wise men should.  I am your friend, Julia, and much too old to be over-scrupulous.  I peep and pry into my neighbours’ affairs, and I am uneasy about you, my child.’

He shook his head and drummed upon the table with his dirty fingers.

‘Thank you,’ answered the girl with her defiant little laugh, ‘but I can manage my own affairs.’

The priest nodded reflectively.

‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘It is natural that you should say that.  One of the chief blessings of youth is self confidence.  Heaven forbid that I should shake yours.  But, you see, there are several people who happen to be anxious that this little affair should blow over and be forgotten.  The Alcalde is a mule, we know that, and anything that serves to magnify himself and his office is likely to be prolonged.  Do not play into his hand.  As I tell you, there are some who wish to forget this incident, and one of them is coming to see you this afternoon.’

‘Ah!’ said the girl indifferently.

‘General Vincente.’

Julia changed colour and her eyelids flickered for a moment as she looked out of the open window.

‘A good friend,’ continued Concha, ‘but—’

He finished the phrase with an eloquent little gesture of the hand.  At this moment they both heard the sound of an approaching carriage.

‘He is coming now,’ said Concha.  ‘He is driving, so Estella is with him.’

‘Estella is of course jealous.’

The priest looked at her with a slow wise smile and said nothing.

‘She—’ began Julia, and then closed her lips—true to that esprit de sexe which has ruled through all the ages.  Then Julia Barenna gave a sharp sigh as her mind reverted from Estella’s affairs to her own.

Sitting thus in silence, the two occupants of the quiet room heard the approach of steps and the clink of spurs in the corridor.

‘It is the reverendo who visits the señorita,’ they heard the voice of the sentinel explain deprecatingly.

The priest rose and went to the door, which he opened.

‘Only as a friend,’ he said.  ‘Come in, General.’

General Vincente entered the room followed by Estella.  He nodded to Concha and kissed his niece affectionately.

‘Still obdurate?’ he said, with a semi-playful tap on her shoulder.  ‘Still obdurate?  My dear Julia, in peace and war the greatest quality in the strong is mercy.  You have proved yourself strong—you have worsted that unfortunate Alcalde—be merciful to him now, and let this incident finish.’

He drew forward a chair, the others being seated, and laid aside his gloves.  The sword which he held upright between his knees, with his two hands resting on the hilt, looked incongruously large and reached the level of his eyes.  He gave a little chuckling laugh.

‘I saw him last night at the Café Real—the poor man had the air of a funeral, and took his wine as if it were sour.  Ah! these civilians, they amuse one—they take life so seriously.’

He laughed and looked round at those assembled as if inviting them to join him in a gayer and easier view of existence.  The Padre’s furrowed face answered the summons in a sudden smile, but it was with grave eyes that he looked searchingly at the most powerful man in Andalusia; for General Vincente’s word was law south of the Tagus.

The two men sat side by side in strong contrast.  Fate indeed seems to shake men together in a bag, and cast them out upon the world heedless where they may fall; for here was a soldier in the priest’s habit, and one carrying a sword who had the keen heart and sure sympathy for joy or sorrow that should ever be found within a black coat if the Master’s work is to be well done.

General Vincente smiled at Estella with sang-froid and an unruffled good nature, while the Padre Concha, whose place it surely was to take the lead in such woman’s work as this, slowly rubbed his bony hands together, at a loss and incompetent to meet the urgency of the moment.

‘Our guest left us yesterday morning,’ said the General, ‘and of course the Alcalde placed no hindrance on his departure.’

He did not look at Julia, who drew a deep breath and glanced at Estella.

‘I do not know if Señor Conyngham left any message for you with Estella—to me he said nothing,’ continued Estella’s father; and that young lady shook her head.

‘No,’ she put in composedly.

‘Then it remains for us to close this foolish incident, my dear Julia; and for me to remind you, seeing that you are fatherless, that there are in Spain many adventurers who come here seeking the sport of love or war, who will ride away when they have had their fill of either.’

He ceased speaking with a tolerant laugh, as one who, being a soldier himself, would beg indulgence for the failings of his comrades, examined the hilt of his sword, and then looked blandly round on three faces which resolutely refused to class the absent Englishman in this category.

‘It remains, my dear niece, to satisfy the Alcalde—a mere glance at the letter—sufficient to satisfy him as to the nature of its contents.’

‘I have no letter,’ said Julia quietly, with her level red lips set hard.

‘Not in your possession, but perhaps concealed in some place near at hand—unless it is destroyed.’

‘I have destroyed no letter, I have concealed no letter, and I have no letter,’ said the girl quietly.  Estella moved uneasily in the chair.  Her face was colourless and her eyes shone.  She watched her cousin’s face intently, and beneath his shaggy brows the old priest’s eyes went from one fair countenance to the other.

‘Then,’ cried the General, rising to his feet with an air of relief, ‘you have but to assure the Alcalde of this, and the whole incident is terminated.  Blown over, my dear Concha—blown over!’

He tapped the priest on the shoulder with great good nature.  Indeed, the world seemed sunny enough and free from cares when General Vincente had to deal with it.

‘Yes—yes,’ said the Padre, snuff-box in hand.  ‘Blown over—of course.’

‘Then I may send the Alcalde to you, Julia—and you will tell him what you have told us?  He cannot but take the word of a lady.’

‘Yes—if you like,’ answered Julia.

The General’s joy knew no bounds.

‘That is well,’ he cried, ‘I knew we could safely rely upon your good sense.  Kiss me, Julia—that is well!  Come, Estella—we must not keep the horses waiting.’

With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door.  ‘Blown over, my dear Concha,’ he said over his shoulder.

A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut trees alone.  The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an autocratic shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock.  The sun had set, and in the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of night already lay like a blue veil.

The priest walked on and presently reached the high road.  A single figure was upon it—the figure of a man sitting in the shadow of an ilex tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla.  The man crouched low against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer.  His face was concealed in the folds of his cloak.

‘Blown over,’ muttered the Padre as he turned his back upon Bobadilla and went on towards his church.  ‘Blown over, of course; but what is Concepçion Vara doing in the neighbourhood of Ronda to-night?’

‘Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.’

Conyngham made his way without difficulty or incident from Xeres to Cordova, riding for the most part in front of the clumsy diligencia wherein he had bestowed his luggage.  The road was wearisome enough, and the last stages, through the fertile plains bordering the Guadalquivir, dusty and monotonous.

At Cordova the traveller found comfortable quarters in an old inn overlooking the river.  The ancient city was then, as it is now, a great military centre, and the headquarters of the picturesque corps of horse-tamers, the ‘Remonta,’ who are responsible for the mounting of the cavalry and the artillery of Spain.  Conyngham had, at the suggestion of General Vincente, made such small changes in his costume as would serve to allay curiosity and prevent that gossip of the stable and kitchen which may follow a traveller to his hurt from one side of a continent to the other.

‘Wherever you may go learn your way in and out of every town, and you will thus store up knowledge most useful to a soldier,’ the General had said in his easy way.

‘See you,’ Concepçion had observed, wagging his head over a cigarette; ‘to go about the world with the eyes open is to conquer the world.’

From his guide, moreover, whose methods were those that Nature teaches to men who live their daily lives in her company, Conyngham learnt much of that road craft which had raised Concepçion Vara to such a proud eminence among the rascals of Andalusia.  Cordova was a good object upon which to practise, for Roman and Goth, Moor and Christian, have combined to make its tortuous streets well-nigh incomprehensible to the traveller’s mind.

Here Conyngham wandered, or else he sat somnolently on a seat in the Paseo del Gran Capitan in the shade of the orange trees, awaiting the arrival of Concepçion Vara.  He made a few acquaintances, as every traveller who is not a bear must needs do in a country where politeness and hospitality and a grave good fellowship are the natural habit of high and low alike.  A bullfighter or two, who beguiled the long winter months, when the rings are closed, by a little innocent horse dealing, joined him quietly in the streets and offered him a horse—as between gentlemen of undoubted honour—at a price much below the current value.  Or it was perhaps a beggar who came to him on the old yellow marble seat under the orange trees, and chatted affably about his business as being bad in these times of war.  Once, indeed, it was a white-haired gentleman, who spoke in English, and asked some very natural questions as to the affairs that brought an Englishman to the town of Cordova.  This sweet-spoken old man explained that strangers would do well to avoid all questions of politics and religion, which he classed together in one dangerous whole.  Nevertheless, Conyngham thought that he perceived his ancient friend the same evening hurrying up the steps of the Jesuit College of La Campania.

Two days elapsed and Concepçion Vara made neither appearance nor sign.  On the second evening Conyngham decided to go on alone, prosecuting his journey through the sparsely populated valley of the Alcadia to Ciudad Real, Toledo, and Madrid.

‘You will ride,’ the innkeeper told him, ‘from the Guadalquivir to the Guadiana, and if there is rain you may be a month upon the road.’

Conyngham set out in the early morning, and as he threw his leg across the saddle the sun rose over the far misty hills of Ronda, and Concepçion Vara awoke from his night’s rest under the wall of an olive terrace above the Bobadilla road, to begin another day of patient waiting and watching to get speech with the maid or the mistress; for he had already inaugurated what he lightly called ‘an affair’ with Julia’s flighty attendant.  The sun rose also over the plains of Xeres, and lighted up the picturesque form of Esteban Larralde, in the saddle this hour and more, having learnt that Colonel Monreal’s death took place an hour before Conyngham’s arrival in the town of Xeres de la Frontera.  The letter, therefore, had not been delivered to Colonel Monreal, and was still in Conyngham’s possession.

Larralde bestrode a shocking steed, and had but an indifferent seat in the saddle.  Nevertheless, the dust rose beneath his horse’s feet, and his spurs flashed in the sunlight as this man of many parts hurried on towards Utrera and Cordova.

In the old Moorish palace in Ronda, General Vincente, summoned to a great council of war at Madrid, was making curt military preparations for his journey and the conveyance of his household to the capital.  Señora Barenna was for the moment forgetful of her nerves in the excitement of despatching servants in advance to Toledo, where she owned a summer residence.  Julia was nervously anxious to be on the road again, and showed by every word and action that restlessness of spirit which is the inheritance of hungry hearts.  Estella, quiet and self-contained, attended to the details of moving a vast and formal household with a certain eagerness which in no way resembled Julia’s feverish haste.  Estella seemed to be one of those happy people who know what they want.

Thus Frederick Conyngham, riding northward alone, seemed to be a pilot to all these persons into whose lives he had suddenly stepped as from a side issue, for they were one and all making ready to follow him to the colder plains of Castile, where existence was full of strife and ambition, of war and those inner wheels that ever jar and grind where politicians contend together for the mastery of a moment.

As he rode on, Conyngham left a message from time to time for his self-appointed servant.  At the offices of the diligencias in various towns on the great road from Cordova to Madrid he left word for Concepçion Vara to follow, should the spirit of travel be still upon him, knowing that at these places where travellers were ever passing, the tittle-tattle of the road was on the tongue of every ostler and stable help.  And truly enough there followed one who made careful inquiries as to the movements of the Englishman, and heard his messages with a grim smile.  But this was not Concepçion Vara.

It was late one evening when Conyngham, who had quitted Toledo in the morning, began to hunger for the sight of the towers and steeples of Madrid.  He had ridden all day through the bare country of Cervantes, where to this day Spain rears her wittiest men and plainest women.  The sun had just set behind the distant hills of Old Castile, and from the east, over Aranjuez, where the great river cuts Spain in two parts from its centre to the sea, a grey cloud—a very shade of night—was slowly rising.  The aspect of the brown plains was dismal enough, and on the horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt away into eternity and infinite space.

Conyngham reined in and looked around him.  So far as eye could reach, no house arose to testify to the presence of man.  No labourer toiled home to his lonely hut.  For, in this country of many wars and interminable strife, it has, since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of the people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common danger secured some protection against a lawless foe.  The road rose and fell in a straight line across the table-land without tree or hedge, and Madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the horizon, which was distant enough, bore no sign of cathedral spire or castle height.

Conyngham turned in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile away, the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty road.  There was something weird and disturbing in this figure, a suggestion of pursuit in every line.  For this was not Concepçion Vara.  Conyngham would have known him at once.  This was one wearing a better coat; indeed Concepçion preferred to face life and the chances of the world in shirt sleeves.

Conyngham sat in his saddle awaiting the new-comer.  To meet on such a road in Spain without pausing to exchange a salutation would be a gratuitous insult, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller were to excite or betray the deepest distrust.  It was characteristic of Conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion in the world.

Esteban Larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and jerked the reins of his tired horse.  He himself wore a weary look, as if the fight he had in hand were an uphill one.  He had long recognised Conyngham; indeed the chase had been one of little excitement, but rather an exercise of patience and dogged perseverance.  He raised his hat to indicate that the Englishman’s gay salutations were perceived, and pulled the wide brim well forward again.

‘He will change his attitude when it becomes apparent who I am,’ he muttered.

But Conyngham’s first word would appear to suggest that Esteban Larralde was a much less impressive person than he considered himself.

‘Why, it’s the devout lover!’ he cried.  ‘Señor Larralde, you remember me, Algeciras, and your pink love letter—deuced fishy love letter, that; nearly got me into a devil of a row, I can tell you.  How are you, eh?’

And the Englishman rode forward with a jolly laugh and his hand held out.  Larralde took it without enthusiasm.  It was rather difficult to pick a picturesque quarrel with such a person as this.  Moreover, the true conspirator never believes in another man’s honesty.

‘Who would have expected to meet you here?’ went on Conyngham jovially.

‘It is not so surprising as you think.’

‘Oh!’

There was no mistaking Larralde’s manner, and the Englishman’s gay blue eyes hardened suddenly and rather surprisingly.

‘No, I have followed you.  I want that letter.’

‘Well, as it happens, Señor Larralde, I have not got your letter, and if I had I am not quite sure that I would give it to you.  Your conduct in the matter has not been over-nice, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t think much of a man who gets strangers and women to do his dirty work for him.’

Larralde stroked his moustache with a half-furtive air of contempt.

‘I should have given the confounded letter to the Alcalde of Ronda if it had not been that a lady would have suffered for it, and let you take your chance, Señor Larralde.’

Larralde shrugged his shoulders.

‘You would not have given it to the Alcalde of Ronda,’ he said in a sneering voice, ‘because you want it yourself.  You require it in order to make your peace with Estella Vincente.’

‘We are not going to talk of Señorita Vincente,’ said Conyngham quietly.  ‘You say you followed me because you wanted that letter.  It is not in my possession.  I left it in the house of Colonel Monreal at Xeres.  If you are going on to Madrid, I think I will sit down here and have a cigarette.  If, on the other hand, you propose resting here, I shall proceed, as it is getting late.’

Conyngham looked at his companion with a nod and a smile which was not in the least friendly and at the same time quite cheerful.  He seemed to recognise the necessity of quarrelling, but proposed to do so as light-heartedly as possible.  They were both on horseback in the middle of the road, Larralde a few paces in the direction of Madrid.

Conyngham indicated the road with an inviting wave of the hand.

‘Will you go on?’ he asked.

Larralde sat looking at him with glittering eyes, and said nothing.

‘Then I will continue my journey,’ said the Englishman, touching his horse lightly with the spur.  The horse moved on and passed within a yard of the other.  At this moment Larralde rose in his stirrups and flung himself on one side.

Conyngham gave a sharp cry of pain and threw back his head.  Larralde had stabbed him in the back.  The Englishman swayed in the saddle as if trying to balance himself, his legs bent back from the knee in the sharpness of a biting pain.  The heavy stirrups swung free.  Then, slowly, Conyngham toppled forward and rolled out of the saddle, falling to the road with a thud.

Larralde watched him with a white face and staring eyes.  Then he looked quickly round over the darkening landscape.  There was no one in sight.  This was one of the waste places of the world.  Larralde seemed to remember the Eye that seeth even there, and crossed himself as he slipped from the saddle to the ground.  He was shaking all over.  His face was ashen, for it is a terrible thing to kill a man and be left alone with him.

Conyngham’s eyes were closed.  There was blood on his lips.  With hands that shook like leaves Esteban Larralde searched the Englishman, found nothing, and cursed his ill fortune.  Then he stood upright, and in the dim light his face shone as if he had dipped it in water.  He crept into the saddle and rode on towards Madrid.

It was quite dark when Conyngham recovered consciousness.  In turning him over to search his pockets Larralde had perhaps, unwittingly, saved his life by placing him in a position that checked the internal hæmorrhage.  What served to bring back the Englishman’s wandering senses was the rumbling of heavy wheels and the crack of a great whip as a cart laden with hay and drawn by six mules approached him from the direction of Toledo.

The driver of the team was an old soldier, as indeed were most of the Castilians at this time, and knew how to handle wounded men.  With great care and a multitude of oaths he lifted Conyngham on to his cart and proceeded with him to Madrid.

‘God help me!  I know nothing—can but pray.’

It was Father Concha’s custom to attend, at his church between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, to such wants spiritual or temporal as individual members of his flock chose to bring to him.

Thus it usually happened that the faithful found the old priest at nine o’clock sunning himself at the front door of the sacred edifice, smoking a reflective cigarette and exchanging the time of day with passers-by or such as had leisure to pause a moment.

‘Whether it is body or soul that is in trouble—come to me,’ he would say.  ‘For the body I can do a little—a very little.  I have twenty pounds a year, and it is not always paid to me, but I sometimes have a trifle for charity.  For the soul I can do a little more.’  After a storm of wind and rain, such as come in the winter-time, it was no uncommon sight to see the priest sweeping the leaves and dust from the church steps and using the strongest language at the bootmaker over the way whose business this was supposed to be.

‘See!’ he would cry to some passer-by.  ‘See!—it is thus that our sacristan does his work.  It is for this that the Holy Church pays him fifteen—or is it twenty?—pesetas each year.’

And the bootmaker would growl and shake his head over his last; for, like most who have to do with leather, he was a man of small humour.

Here, too, mothers would bring their children—little girls cowering under their bright handkerchiefs, the mantilla of the poor, and speak with the Padre of the Confirmation and first Communion which had lately begun to hang like a cloud over the child’s life.  Father Concha would take the child upon his knee as he sat on the low wall at the side of the steps, and when the mother had left them, would talk quietly with the lines of his face wonderfully softened, so that before long the little girl would run home quite happy in mind and no longer afraid of the great unknown.  Here, in the spring time, came the young men with thoughts appropriate to the season, and sheepish exceedingly; for they knew that Father Concha knew all about them, and would take an unfair advantage of his opportunities, refusing probably to perform the ceremony until he was satisfied as to the ways and means and prudence of the contracting parties—which of course he had no right to do.  Here came the halt, the lame, the blind, the poor, and also the rich.  Here came the unhappy.  They came naturally and often.  Here, so the bootmaker tells, came one morning a ruined man, who after speaking a few words to the Padre, produced a revolver and tried to shoot himself.  And the Padre fell on him like a wild beast.  And they fought, and fell, and rolled down the steps together into the road, where they still fought till they were white like millers with dust.  Then at last the Padre got the strong man under him and took the revolver away and threw it into the ditch.  Then he fell to belabouring the would-be suicide with his fists, until the big man cried for mercy and received it not.

‘You saved his life,’ the people said.

‘It was his soul that I was caring for,’ replied the Padre with his grim smile.

Concha was not a clever man, but he was wise.  Of learning he had but little.  It is easy, however, to be wise without being learned.  It is easier still to be learned without being wise.  The world is full of such persons to-day when education is too cheap.  Concha steered his flock as best he could through the stormy paths of insurrection and civil war.  He ruled with a rod of iron whom he could, and such as were beyond his reach he influenced by ridicule and a patient tolerance.  True to his cloth, he was the enemy of all progress and distrusted every innovation.

‘The Padre,’ said the barber, who was a talker and a radical, ‘would have the world stand still.’

‘The Padre,’ replied Concha, tenderly drying his chin with a towel, ‘would have all barbers attend to their razors.  Many are so busy shouting “Advance!” that they have no breath to ask whither they are going.’

On the whole, perhaps, his autocratic rule was a beneficent one, and contributed to the happiness of the little northern suburb of Ronda over which it extended.  At all events, he was a watchful guardian of his flock, and knew every face in his parish.

It thus happened one morning that a strange woman, who had come quietly into church to pray, attracted his attention as he passed out after matins.  She was a mere peasant and ill clad.  The child seated on a chair by her side and staring with wondering eyes at the simple altar and stained-glass window had a hungry look.

Concha sat down on the low wall without the doors and awaited the exit of this devotee who was not of his flock.  For though, as he often said, the good God had intended him for a soldier, his own strong will and simple faith had in time produced a very passable priest who, with a grim face, went about doing good.

The woman presently lifted the heavy leathern curtain and let out into the sunlight a breath of cool, incense-laden air.

She curtsied and paused as if expecting recognition.  Concha threw away his cigarette and raised his hand to his hat.  He had not lifted it except to ladies of the highest quality for some years, out of regard to symptoms of senile decay which had manifested themselves at the junction of the brim and the crown.

‘Have I not seen your face before, my child?’ he said.

‘Yes, reverendo.  I am of Ronda but have been living in Xeres.’

‘Ah! then your husband is no doubt a malcontent?’

The woman burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and leaning against the wall in an attitude that was still girlish.  She had probably been married at fifteen.

‘No, reverendo!  He is a thief.’

Concha merely nodded his head.  He never had been a man to betray much pious horror when he heard of ill-doing.

‘The two are almost identical,’ he said quietly.  ‘One does what the other fears to do.  And is your husband in prison?  Is that why you have come back?  Ah! you women—in foolishness you almost equal the men!’

‘No, reverendo.  I am come back because he has left me.  Sebastian has run away, and has stolen all his master’s property.  It was the Colonel Monreal of Xeres—a good man, reverendo, but a politician.’

‘Ah!’

‘Yes, and he was murdered, as your reverence has no doubt seen in the newspapers.  A week ago it was—the day that the Englishman came with a letter.’

‘What Englishman was that?’ inquired Father Concha, brushing some grains of snuff from his sleeve.  ‘What Englishman was that, my child?’

‘Oh, I do not know!  His name is unknown to me, but I could tell he was English from his manner of speaking.  The Colonel had an English friend who spoke so—one engaged in the sherry in Xeres.’

‘Ah yes!  And this Englishman, what was he like?’

‘He was very tall and straight, like a soldier, and had a moustache quite light in colour, like straw.’

‘Ah yes.  The English are so.  And he left a letter?’

‘Yes, reverendo.’

‘A rose-coloured letter—?’

‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him with surprise.

‘And tell me what happened afterwards.  I may perhaps be able to help you, my child, if you tell me all you know.’

‘And then, reverendo, the police brought back the Colonel who had been murdered in the streets—and I who had his Excellency’s dinner on the table waiting for him!’

‘And—’

‘And Sebastian ate the dinner, reverendo.’

‘Your husband appears to be a man of action,’ said Concha with a queer smile.  ‘And then—’

‘Sebastian sent me on a message to the town, and when I came back he was gone and all his Excellency’s possessions were gone—his papers and valuables.’

‘Including the letter which the Englishman had left for the Colonel?’

‘Yes, reverendo.  Sebastian knew that in these times the papers of a politician may perhaps be sold for money.’

Concha nodded his head reflectively and took a pinch of snuff with infinite deliberation and enjoyment.

‘Yes—assuredly, Sebastian is one of those men who get on in the world—up to a certain point—and at that point they get hanged.  There is in the universe a particular spot for each man—where we all think we should like to go if we had the money.  For me it is Rome.  Doubtless Sebastian had some such spot, of which he spoke when he was intoxicated.  Where is Sebastian’s earthly paradise, think you, my child?’

‘He always spoke of Madrid, reverendo.’

‘Yes—yes, I can imagine he would.’

‘And I have no money to follow him,’ sobbed the woman, breaking into tears again.  ‘So I came to Ronda, where I am known, to seek it.’

‘Ah, foolish woman!’ exclaimed the priest severely, and shaking his finger at her.  ‘Foolish woman to think of following such a person.  More foolish still is it to weep for a worthless husband, especially in public, thus, on the church steps, where all may see.  All the other women will be so pleased.  It is their greatest happiness to think that their neighbour’s husband is worse than their own.  Failure is the royal road to popularity.  Dry your tears, foolish one, before you make too many friends.’

The woman obeyed him mechanically with a sort of dumb hopelessness.

At this moment a horseman clattered past, coming from Ronda and hastening in the direction of Bobadilla or perhaps to the Casa Barenna.  He wore his flat-brimmed hat well forward over the eyes, and kept his gaze fixed upon the road in front.  There was a faint suggestion of assumed absorption in his attitude, as if he knew that the priest was usually at the church door at this hour, and had no desire to meet his eye.  It was Larralde.

A few minutes later Julia Barenna, who was sitting at her window watching and waiting—her attitude in life—suddenly rose with eyes that gleamed and trembling hands.  She stood and gazed down into the valley below, her attention fixed on the form of a horseman slowly making his way through the olive groves.  Then breathlessly she turned to her mirror.

‘At last!’ she whispered, her fingers busy with her hair and mantilla, a thousand thoughts flying through her brain, her heart throbbing in her breast.  In a moment the aspect of the whole world had changed—in a moment Julia herself was another woman.  Ten years seemed to have rolled away from her heart, leaving her young and girlish and hopeful again.  She gave one last look at herself and hurried to the door.

It was yet early in the day, and the air beneath the gnarled and ancient olive trees was cool and fresh as Julia passed under them to meet her lover.  He threw himself out of the saddle when he saw her, and, leaving his horse loose, ran to meet her.  He took her hands and raised her fingers to his lips with a certain fervour which was sincere enough.  For Larralde loved Julia according to his lights, though he had another mistress, Ambition, who was with him always and filled his thoughts, sleeping or waking.  Julia, her face all flushed, her eyes aglow, received his gallant greeting with a sort of breathless eagerness.  She knew she had not Larralde’s whole heart, and, woman-like, was not content with half.

‘I have not seen you for nearly a fortnight,’ she said.

‘Ah!’ answered Larralde, who had apparently not kept so strict an account of the days.  ‘Ah! yes—I know.  But, dearest, I have been burning the high-roads.  I have been almost to Madrid.  Ah! Julia, why did you make such a mistake?’

‘What mistake?’ she asked with a sudden light of coquetry in her eyes.  She thought he was about to ask her why she loved him.  In former days he had had a pretty turn for such questions.

‘In giving the letter to that scoundrel Conyngham—he has betrayed us, and Spain is no longer safe for me.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Julia, alert.  Had she possessed Larralde’s whole heart she would have been happy enough to take part in his pursuits.

Larralde gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Heaven only knows where the letter is now,’ he answered.  Julia unfolded a note and handed it to him.  She had received it three weeks earlier from Concepçion Vara, and it was from Conyngham, saying that he had left her note at the house of the Colonel.

‘The Colonel was dead before Conyngham arrived at Xeres,’ said Larralde shortly.  ‘And I do not believe he ever left the letter.  I suspected that he had kept it as a little recommendation to the Christinos under whom he takes service.  It would have been the most natural thing to do.  But I have satisfied myself that the letter is not in his possession.’

‘How?’ asked Julia with a sudden fear that blanched her face.

Larralde smiled in rather a sickly way and made no answer.  He turned and looked down the avenue.

‘I see Father Concha approaching,’ he said; ‘let us go towards the house.’