In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted
into a barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years
or more stood smoking a cigarette. On perceiving Conyngham he came
forward with outstretched hand and a smile which can only be
described as angelic. It was a smile at once sympathetic and
humorous, veiling his dark eyes between lashes almost closed,
parting moustached lips to disclose a row of pearly teeth.

'My dear sir,' said General Vincente in very tolerable English, 'I
am at your feet. That such a mistake should have been made in
respect to the bearer of a letter of introduction from my old friend
General Watterson--we fought together in Wellington's day--that such
a mistake should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.'

He pressed Conyngham's hand in both of his, which were small and
white--looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft
laugh. Indeed his voice was admirably suited to a lady's drawing-
room, and suggested nought of the camp or battle field. From the
handkerchief which he drew from his sleeve and passed across his
white moustache a faint scent floated on the morning air.

'Are you General Vincente?' asked Conyngham.

'Yes--why not?' And in truth the tone of the Englishman's voice had
betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question.

'It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been quite
comfortable, and they gave me a good supper last night,' said
Conyngham. 'Moreover, the Guardias Civiles are in no way to blame