Estella was about to attend a service at the Church of Santa Maria,
and could not have stayed longer in the garden.

The hour of the siesta was scarce over, and as Conyngham rode
through the cleanly streets of the ancient town more than one idler
roused himself from the shadow of a doorway to see him pass. There
are few older towns in Andalusia than Ronda, and scarce anywhere the
habits of the Moors are so closely followed. The streets are clean,
the houses whitewashed within and without. The trappings of the
mules and much of the costume of the people are Oriental in texture
and brilliancy.

Conyngham asked a passer-by to indicate the way to the Cordova road,
and the polite Spaniard turned and walked by his stirrup until a
mistake was no longer possible.

'It is not the most beautiful approach to Ronda,' said this
garrulous person, 'but well enough in the summer, when the flowers
are in bloom and the vineyards green. The road is straight and
dusty until one arrives at the possession of the Senora Barenna--a
narrow road to the right leading up into the mountain. One can
perceive the house--oh, yes--upon the hillside, once beautiful, but
now old and decayed. Mistake is now impossible. It is a straight
way. I wish you a good journey.'

Conyngham rode on, vaguely turning over in his mind a half-matured
plan of effecting a seemingly accidental entry to the house of
Senora Barenna, in the hope of meeting that lady's daughter in the
garden or grounds. Once outside the walls of the town he found the
country open and bare, consisting of brown hills, of which the lower