'We are not going to Madrid yet,' said Conyngham. 'We are going to
Xeres, where I have business. Do you know the road to Xeres?'

'As well that as any other, Excellency.'

'What do you mean?'

'I know no roads north of Ronda. I am of Andalusia, I,' replied
Concepcion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of
interest which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a
traveller than his reliability as a guide.

'But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.'

'Yes, Excellency--by asking the way,' replied Concepcion with a
light laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse
to light a fresh cigarette.

Thus with an easy heart Frederick Conyngham set out on his journey,
having for companion one as irresponsible as himself. He had
determined to go to Xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to
the westward of his road towards the capital. It would have been
simple enough to destroy the letter entrusted to him by Julia
Barenna, a stranger whom he was likely never to see again--simple
enough and infinitely safer as he suspected, for the billet-doux of
Mr. Larralde smelt of grimmer things than love. But Julia Barenna
wittingly, or in all innocence, appealed to that sense of chivalry
which is essentially the quality of lonely men who have never had
sisters, and Conyngham was ready to help Julia where he would have