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 haemorrhage. 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.