the afternoon, and a certain drowsiness of the atmosphere made
conversation, even between comparative strangers, a slower, easier
matter than with us in the brisk North. After a moment the
Englishman turned with, perhaps, the intention of studying his
companion's face, only to find the deep grey eyes fixed on his own.

'Spain,' said the Padre, 'is a wonderful country, rich, beautiful,
with a climate like none in Europe; but God and the devil come to
closer quarters here than elsewhere. Still for a traveller, for
pleasure, I think this country is second to none.'

'I am not exactly a traveller for pleasure, my father.'

'Ah!' and Concha drummed idly on the table with his fingers.

'I left England in haste,' added Conyngham lightly.

'Ah!'

'And it will be inexpedient for me to return for some months to
come. I thought of taking service in the army, and have a letter to
General Vincente, who lives at Ronda, as I understand, sixty miles
from here across the mountains.'

'Yes,' said the priest thoughtfully, 'Ronda is sixty miles from
here--across the mountains.'

He was watching a boat which approached the shore from the direction
of Gibraltar. The wind having dropped, the boatmen had lowered the
sail and were now rowing, giving voice to a song which floated