Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the English against
Napoleon's armies.

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

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

'For where, senor?'

'For Ronda.'

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

'And his Excellency?' inquired Concepcion.

'I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow, by way