were so numerous that the majority of them must have had nothing to
do but cultivate this dignified salutation.

'The senorita?' inquired the General.

'The senorita is in the garden, Excellency,' answered one with the
air of a courtier.

'Then let us go there at once,' said General Vincente, turning to
Conyngham, and gripping his arm affectionately.

They passed through a doorway whither two men had hurried to open
the heavy doors, and the scent of violets and mignonette, of orange
in bloom, and of a hundred opening buds swept across their faces.
The brilliant sunlight almost dazzled eyes that had grown accustomed
to the cool shade of the patio, for Ronda is one of the sunniest
spots on earth, and here the warmth is rarely oppressive. The
garden was Moorish, and running water in aqueducts of marble, yellow
with stupendous age, murmured in the shade of tropical plants. A
fountain plashed and chattered softly, like the whispering of
children. The pathways were paved with a fine white gravel of
broken marble. There was no weed amid the flowers. It seemed a
paradise to Conyngham, fresh from the grey and mournful northern
winter, and no part of this weary, busy world. For here were rest
and silence, and that sense of eternity which is only conveyed by
the continuous voice of running or falling water. It was hard to
believe that this was real and earthly. Conyngham rubbed his eyes
and instinctively turned to look at his companion, who was as unreal
as his surroundings--a round-faced, chubby little man, with a tender
mouth and moist dark eyes looking kindly out upon the world, who