white moustache and imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-
for-nothings and sons of pigs.

Conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man
and rush at the victim of their humour. The old man with his back
to the wall repelled his assailants with a sort of fierce joy in his
attitude which betokened the soldier.

'Come on, Concepcion!' cried Conyngham, with a dig of the spurs that
made his tired horse leap into the air. He charged down upon the
gathering crowd, which scattered right and left before the wild
onslaught. But he saw the flash of steel, and knew that it was too
late. The old man, with an oath and a gasp of pain, sank against
the wall with the blood trickling through the fingers clasped
against his breast. Conyngham would have reined in, but Concepcion
on his heels gave the charger a cut with his heavy whip that made
him bound forward and would have unseated a short-stirruped rider.

'Go on,' cried the Spaniard; 'it is no business of ours. The police
are behind.'

And Conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without
looking back. In the day of which the present narrative treats, the
streets of Xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to the
depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and
facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this
time of daily occurrence in Spain. Riding on at random, Conyngham
and his companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and
were able to satisfy themselves that none had followed them. Here
in a quiet alley Conyngham read again the address of the letter of