translated by Concepcion from the Limousin dialect.

'Why should we not travel together to Ronda?' he said, coming
forward with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect
than any protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye, and the
demeanour of one educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco
across the Sierra, though indeed, he was no better clad than his
companion. The two guides instinctively took the road together,
Concepcion leading his horse, for the way was such that none could
ride over it. Conyngham did the same, and his companion led the
mule by a rope, as is the custom in Andalusia.

The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving
back a puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired and
not too trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully
occupied with his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full
half-hour when a shout from the rocks above caused them to halt
suddenly. The white linen head coverings of the Guardia Civil and
the glint of the sun on their accoutrements showed at a glance that
this was not a summons to be disregarded.

In an instant Concepcion's companion was leaping from rock to rock
with an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of death. A
report rang out and echoed among the hills. A bullet went 'splat'
against a rock near at hand, making a frayed blue mark upon the grey
stone. The man dodged from side to side in the panic-stricken
irresponsibility of a rabbit seeking covert where none exists.
There was not so much as to hide his head. Conyngham looked up
towards the foe in time to see a puff of white smoke thrown up
against the steely sky. A second report, and the fugitive seemed to