unfolded his cloak, for in Spain it is considered ill-mannered to
address a stranger and remain cloaked.

'Senor,' he said, with a gesture of the hat, courteous and yet manly
enough to savour more of the camp than the court, 'senor, I
understand you are journeying to Ronda.'

'Yes.'

'I, too, intended to go across the mountains, and hoped to arrive
here in time to accompany friends who I learn have already started
on their journey. But I have received letters which necessitate my
return to Malaga. You have already divined that I come to ask a
favour.'

He brought forward a chair and sat down, drawing from his pocket a
silver cigarette case, which he offered to the Englishman. There
was a certain picturesqueness in the man's attitude and manner. His
face and movements possessed a suggestion of energy which seemed out
of place here in the sleepy South, and stamped him as a native not
of dreamy Andalusia, but of La Mancha perhaps, where the wit of
Spain is concentrated, or of fiery Catalonia, where discontent and
unrest are in the very atmosphere of the brown hills. This was a
Spanish gentleman in the best sense of the word, as scrupulous in
personal cleanliness as any Englishman, polished, accomplished,
bright and fascinating, and yet carrying with him a subtle air of
melancholy and romance which lingers still among the men and women
of aristocratic Spain.

''Tis but to carry a letter,' he explained, 'and to deliver it into