modern town, and, turning to the right through a high gateway, found
themselves in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles.



CHAPTER VI. AT RONDA.



'Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son
habilete.'

When Conyngham awoke after a night conscientiously spent in that
profound slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a
careless heart, he found the prison attendant at his bedside. A
less easy-going mind would perhaps have leapt to some nervous
conclusion at the sight of this fierce-visaged janitor, who,
however, carried nothing more deadly in his hand than a card.

'It is the Captain-General,' said he, 'who calls at this early hour.
His Excellency's letter has been delivered, and the Captain-General
scarce waited to swallow his morning chocolate.'

'Very much to the Captain-General's credit,' returned Conyngham
rising. 'Cold water,' he went on, 'soap, a towel, and my luggage--
and then the Captain-General.'

The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles,
and when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs. He was a
solemn man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile.