Before long Conyngham appeared, having paid an iniquitous bill with
the recklessness that is only thoroughly understood by the poor. He
appeared as usual to be at peace with all men, and returned his
guide's grave salutation with an easy nod.

'These the horses?' he inquired.

Concepcion Vara spread out his hands. 'They have no equal in
Andalusia,' he said.

'Then I am sorry for Andalusia,' answered Conyngham with a pleasant
laugh.

They mounted and rode away in the dim cool light of the morning.
The sea was of a deep blue, and rippled all over as in a picture.
Gibraltar, five miles away, loomed up like a grey cloud against the
pink of sunrise. The whole world wore a cleanly look as if the
night had been passed over its face like a sponge, wiping away all
that was unsightly or evil. The air was light and exhilarating, and
scented by the breath of aromatic weeds growing at the roadside.

Concepcion sang a song as he rode--a song almost as old as his
trade--declaring that he was a smuggler bold. And he looked it,
every inch. The road to Ronda lies through the cork woods of
Ximena, leaving St. Roque on the right hand--such at least was the
path selected by Conyngham's guide; for there are many ways over the
mountains, and none of them to be recommended. Beguiling the
journey with cigarette and song, calling at every venta on the road,
exchanging chaff with every woman and a quick word with all men,
Concepcion faithfully fulfilled his contract, and, as the moon rose