slopes were dotted with evergreen oaks. The road soon traversed a
village which seemed to be half deserted, for men and women alike
were working in the fields. On the balcony of the best house a
branch of palm bound against the ironwork balustrade indicated the
dwelling of the priest, and the form of that village despot was
dimly discernible in the darkened room behind. Beyond the village
Conyngham turned his horse's head towards the mountain, his mind
preoccupied with a Macchiavellian scheme of losing his way in this
neighbourhood. Through the evergreen oak and olive groves he could
perceive the roof of an old grey house which had once been a mere
hacienda or semi-fortified farm.

Conyngham did not propose to go direct to Senora Barenna's house,
but described a semicircle, mounting from terrace to terrace on his
sure-footed horse.

When at length he came in sight of the high gateway where the ten-
foot oaken gates still swung, he perceived someone approaching the
exit. On closer inspection he saw that this was a priest, and on
nearing him recognised the Padre Concha, whose acquaintance he had
made at the Hotel of the Marina at Algeciras.

The recognition was mutual, for the priest raised his shabby old hat
with a tender care for the insecurity of its brim.

'A lucky meeting, Senor Englishman,' he said; 'who would have
expected to see you here?'

'I have lost my way.'