Concepcion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic
atmosphere, for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista
fashion, with a bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head
underneath his black hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt,
and a flower in the ribbon of his hat.

He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing
as he threw his leg across his horse. A dark-eyed maiden had come
to the corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with
mournful eyes. He waved her a salutation as he passed.

'It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda--what
will you?' he explained to Conyngham with a modest air as he cocked
his hat farther on one side.

The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open
country that borders the road to Bobadilla. A pastoral country
this, where the land needs little care to make it give more than man
requires for his daily food. The evergreen oak studded over the
whole plain supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the
herdsmen may dream away the sunny days. The rich soil would yield
two or even three crops in the year, were the necessary seed and
labour forthcoming. Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the
richness of the surface, but national indolence leaves it
unexplored.

'Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,' said
Concepcion, urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of
Conyngham's huge mount.