with dignity, "that they are honest traders on the road to Ronda, and would be glad of our company. His excellency is at liberty to shoot if he is so disposed." Conyngham laughed. "No," he answered; "I am not anxious to kill any man, but each must take care of himself in these times." "Not against an honest smuggler." "Are these smugglers?" "They speak as such. I know them no more than does his excellency." The second newcomer was now within hail, and began at once to speak in Spanish. The tale he told was similar in every way to that translated by Concepcion from the Limousin dialect. "Why should we not travel together to Ronda?" he said, coming forward with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect than any protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye and the demeanor of one educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco across the Sierra, though, indeed, he was no better clad than his companion. The two guides instinctively took the road together, Concepcion leading his horse, for the way was such that none could ride over it. Conyngham did the same, and his companion led the mule by a rope, as is the custom in Andalusia. The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving back a puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired, and not too trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully occupied with his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full half hour, when a shout from the rocks above caused them to halt suddenly. The white linen headcoverings of two guardia civile and the glint of the sun on their accoutrements showed at a glance that this was not a summons to be disregarded. In an instant Concepcion's companion was leaping from rock to rock, with an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of death. A report rang out and echoed among the hills. A bullet went "splat" against a rock near at hand, making a frayed blue mark upon the grey stone. The man dodged from side to side, in the panic-stricken irresponsibility of a rabbit seeking covert where none exists. There was not so much as to hide his head. Conyngham looked up toward the foe in time to see a puff of white smoke thrown up against the steely sky. A second report, and the fugitive seemed to trip over a stone; he recovered himself, stood upright for a moment, gave a queer, sputtering cough, and sat slowly down against a boulder. "He is killed!" said Concepcion, throwing down his cigarette. "Mother of God, these guardia civile!" The two guards came clambering down the face of the rock. Concepcion glanced at his late companion writhing in the sharpness of death. "Here or at Ronda; to-day or tomorrow; what matters it?" muttered the quiet-eyed man at Conyngham's side. The Englishman turned and looked at him. "They will shoot me, too; but not now.". Concepcion sullenly awaited the ar rival of the guards. These men ever hunt in couples of a widely different age, for the law has found that an old head and a young arm form the strongest combination. The elder of the two had the face of an old, grey wolf. He muttered some order to his companion and went toward the mule. He cut away the outer covering of the burden suspended from the saddle and nodded his head wisely. These were boxes of cartridges to carry one thousand each. The grey old man turned and looked at him who lay on the ground. "A la longa," he said, with a grim smile. "In the long run, Antonio." The man gave a sickly grin, and opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw dropped instead, and he passed across that frontier which is watched by no earthly sentinel. "This gentleman," said the quieteyed man, whose guide had thus paid for his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word of command, is a stranger to me-an Englishman, I think." "Yes," answered Conyngham. the other. "That may be," he said; "but he sleeps in Ronda prison to-night. Tomorrow the captain-general will see to it." Spain. The people are half-Moorish The old soldier looked from one to still, and from the barred windows look out deep almond eyes and patient faces that have no European feature. The narrow streets were empty as the trayellers entered the town, and the clatter of the mules, slipping and stumbling on the cobble-stones, brought but few to the doors of the low-built houses. To enter Ronda from the south, the traveller must traverse the Moorish town, which is divided from the Spanish quarter by a cleft in the great rock that renders the town impregnable to all attack. Having crossed the bridge spanning the great gorge, into which the sun never penetrates, even at midday, the party emerged into the broader streets of the more modern town, and, turning to the right through a high gateway, found themselves in a barrackyard of the guardia civile. "I have a letter to the captain-general," said Conyngham, who drew from his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the pink, scented envelope given to him by the man called Larralde at Algeciras. He had forgotten its existence, and put it back in his pocket with a smile. Having found that for which he sought, he gave it to the guard, who read the address in silence, and returned the letter. "You I know," he said, turning to the man at Conyngham's side, who merely shrugged his shoulders; "and Concepcion Vara, we all know him." Concepcion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular air with the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect innocence. The old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his comrade, who went toward the dead man and quietly covered his face with the folds of his own faja or waistcloth. This he weighted at the corners with stones, carrying out this simple office to the dead with a suggestive indifference. To this day the guardia civile have plenary power to shoot whomsoever they think fit, flight and resistance being equally fatal. No more heeding the dead body of the man whom he had shot than he would have heeded the carcase of a rat, the elder of the two soldiers now gave the order to march, commanding Concepcion to lead the way. "It will not be worth your while to risk a bullet by running away," he said. "This time it is probably a matter of a few pounds of tobacco only." The evening had fallen ere the silent party caught sight of the town of Ronda, perched, as the Moorish strongholds usually are, on a height. Ronda, as history tells, was the last possession of the brave and gifted Moslems in CHAPTER VI. AT RONDA. "Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son habileté." When Conyngham awoke, after a night conscientiously spent in that profound slumber which awaits on an excellent digestion and a careless heart, he found the prison attendant at his bedside. A less easy-going mind would, perhaps, have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of this fiercevisaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly in his hand than a card. "It is the captain-general," said he, "who calls at this early hour. His excellency's letter has been delivered, and the captain-general scarce waited to swallow his morning chocolate." "Very much to the captain-general's credit," returned Conyngham, rising. "Cold water," he went on, "soap, a towel, and my baggage; and then the captain-general.” The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles, and when the Englishman was ready led the way down-stairs. He was a solemn man from Galicia, where they do not smile. In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted into a barrack for the guardia civile, a small man of fifty years or more stood smoking a cigarette. On perceiving Conyngham he came forward, with outstretched hand and a smile which can only be described as angelic. It was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark eyes between lashes almost closed, parting moustachioed lips to disclose a row of pearly teeth. "My dear sir," said General Vincente, in very tolerable English, "I am at your feet. That such a mistake should have been made in respect to the bearer of a letter of introduction from my old friend, General Watterson-we fought together in Wellington's daythat such a mistake should have occurred overwhelms me with shame." He pressed Conyngham's hand in both of his, which were small and white, looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft laugh. Indeed, his voice was admirably suited to a lady's drawing-room, and suggested nought of the camp or battlefield. From the handkerchief, which he drew from his sleeve and passed across his white moustache, a faint scent floated on the morning air. "Well, yes, if you choose to put it that way,” admitted Conyngham. The general raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace, expressive of deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated by the moisture of the eye for the family of Antonio something or other in their bereavement. "And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow," inquired Conyngham. The general raised one gloved hand, as if to fend off some approaching calamity. "He died this morning at six o'clock." Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light of comprehension. This might, after all, be the General Vincente, whom he had been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish queen's adherents. "Of the same complaint?" "Of the same complaint," answered the general softly. He slipped his hand within Conyngham's arm, and thus affectionately led him across the patio toward the doorway, where sentinels stood at attention. He acknowledged the attitude of his subordinates by a friendly nod; indeed, this rosy-faced warrior seemed to brim over with the "Are you General Vincente?" asked milk of human kindness. Conyngham. "Yes; why not?" And in truth the tone of the Englishman's voice had betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question. "It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been quite comfortable, and they gave me a good supper last night," said Conyngham. "Moreover, the guardia civile are in no way to blame for my arrest. I was in bad company, it seems." "Yes; your companions were engaged in carrying ammunition for the Carlists. We have wanted to lay our hands upon them for some weeks. They have carried former journeys to a successful termination." He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "The guide Antonio something or other died, as I understand." "The English," he said, pressing his companion's arm, "have been too useful to us for me to allow one of them to remain a moment longer in confinement. You say you were comfortable. I hope they gave you a clean towel and all that." "Yes, thanks," answered Conyngham, suppressing a desire to laugh. "That is well. Ronda is a pleasant place, as you will find-most interesting; Moorish remains, you understand. I will send my servant for your baggage, and, of course, my poor house is at your disposition. You will stay with me until we can find some work for you to do. You wish to take service with us, of course?" "Yes," answered Conyngham; "rather thought of it, if you will have me." The general glanced up at his stal wart companion with a measuring make you comfortable; and an English eye. "My house," he said, in a conversational way, as if only desirous of making matters as pleasant as possible in a life which nature had intended to be peaceful and sunny, and perhaps trifling, but which the wickedness of men had rendered otherwise-"my house is, as you would divine, only an official residence, but pleasant enough -pleasant enough. The garden is distinctly tolerable. There are orangetrees now in bloom, so sweet of scent." The street into which they had now emerged was no less martial in appearance than the barrack-yard, and while he spoke the general never ceased to disperse his kindly little nod, on one side or the other, in response to miltary salutations. "We have quite a number of soldiers in Ronda at present," he said, with an affectionate little pressure of Conyngham's arm, as if to indicate his appreciation of such protection amid these rough men. "There is a great talk of some rising in the South-in Andalusia -to support Señor Cabrera, who continually threatens Madrid. A great not-well, not perhaps quite eh?-a caballero, a gentleman. A pity, is it not?" "A great pity," answered Conyngham, taking the opportunity at last afforded him of getting a word in. "One must be prepared," went on the general, with a good-natured little sigh, "for such measures. There are so many mistaken enthusiasts. Is it not so? Such men as your countryman, Señor Flinter. There are so many who are stronger Carlists than Don Carlos himself-eh?" The secret of conversational success is to defer to one's listener. A clever man imparts information by asking questions, and obtains it without doing So. "This is my poor house," continued the soldier, and as he spoke he beamed on the sentries at the door. "I am a widower, but God has given me a daughter, who is now of an age to rule my household. Estella will endeavor to man, a soldier, will surely overlook some small defects." He finished with a good-natured laugh. There was no resisting the sunny good-humor of this rotund little officer or the gladness of his face. His attitude toward the world was one of constant endeavor to make things pleasant and acquit himself to his best in circumstances far beyond his merits or capabilities. He was one who had had good fortune all his days. Those who have greatness thrust upon them are never much impressed by their burden. And General Vincente had the air of constantly assuring his subordinates that they need not mind him. The house to which he conducted Conyngham stood on the broad main street, immediately opposite a cluster of shops where leather bottles were manufactured and sold. It was a large, gloomy house, with a patio devoid of fountain and even of the usual orangetrees in green boxes. "Through there is the garden, most pleasant and shady," said the general, indicating a doorway with the ridingwhip he carried. A troop of servants awaited them at the foot of the broad Moorish staircase, open on one side to the patio, and heavily carved in balustrade and cornice. These gentlemen bowed gravely; indeed, they were so numerous, that the majority of them must have had nothing to do but cultivate this dignified salutation. "The señorita?" inquired the gen eral. "The señorita is in the garden, excellency," answered one with the air of a courtier. "Then let us go there at once," said General Vincente, turning to Conyngham and gripping his arm affectionately. They passed through a doorway, whither two men had hurried to open the heavy doors, and the scent of violets and mignonette, of orange in bloom, and of a hundred opening buds swept across their faces. The brilliant sunlight almost dazzled eyes that had length a single and certain shaft. Conyngham looked at Estella Vincente, his gay blue eyes meeting her dark glance with a frankness which was characteristic, and knew from that instant that his world held no other woman. It came to him as a flash of lightning that left his former life grey and neutral, and yet he was conscious or no surprise, but rather of a feeling of having found something which he had long sought. grown accustomed to the cool shade of He led the way along a path winding among almond and peach trees in full bloom, in the shadow of the weird eucalyptus and the feathery peppertree. Then with a little word pleasure he hurried forward. of Conyngham caught sight of a black dress and a black mantilla, of fair golden hair, and a fan upraised against the rays of the sun. "Estella, here is a guest. Mr. Conyngham, one of the brave Englishmen who remember Spain in her time of trouble." Conyngham bowed with a greater ceremony than we observe to-day, and stood upright to look upon that which was for him, from that moment, the fairest face in the world. As to some men success or failure seems to come early and in one bound, so for some Love lies long in ambush, to shoot at The girl acknowledged his salutation with a little inclination of the head, and a smile which was only of the lips, for her eyes remained grave and deep. She had all the dignity of carriage famous in Castilian women, though her figure was youthful still and slight. Her face was a clean-cut oval, with lips that were still and proud, and a delicately aquiline nose. "My daughter speaks English better than I do," went on the general, in the garrulous voice of an exceedingly domesticated man. "She has been at school in England, at the suggestion of my dear friend Watterson-with his daughters, in fact." "And must have found it dull and grey enough compared to Spain," said "Ah! then you like Spain," said the general eagerly. "It is so with all the English. We have something in common despite the Armada, eh?—something in manner and in appearance, too; is it not so?" He left Conyngham and walked slowly on with one hand at his daughter's waist. "I was very happy in England," said Estella to Conyngham, who walked at her other side; "but happier still to get home to Spain." Her voice was rather low, and Conyngham had an odd sensation of having heard it before. "Why did you leave your home?" she continued, in a leisurely, conversational way, which seemed natural to the environments. The question rather startled the Englishman, for the only answer seemed to be that he had quitted England in |