mist had descended the mountain side, the air was cold. There at
the Puente, leaning against the wall, cloaked and quiet--was
Bernaldez. 'Ah!' he said to me, 'you have come, too?' 'Yes,
Amigo,' I answered, 'but I do not give the word for two friends to
let go at each other. Your little clock can do that.' He nodded
and said nothing. Senorita, I was sorry for the man. Who was I
that I should judge? You remember, you, who read your Bible, the
writing on the ground? Bernaldez led the way, and we climbed up
into the mountains in the morning mist. Somewhere above us there
was a little waterfall singing its eternal song. In the cloud,
where we could not see him, a curlew hung on his heavy wings, and
gave forth his low warning whistle. 'Have a care--have a care,' he
seemed to cry. Presently Bernaldez stopped, and looked around him.
It was a desolate place. 'This will do,' he said. 'And he who
drops may be left here. The other may turn on his heel, say "A
Dios," and go in safety. 'Yes,' answered Mateo. 'This will do as
well as any other place.' Bernaldez looked at him, with a laugh.
'Ah,' he said, 'you think that you are sure to kill me--but I shall,
at all events, have a shot for my money. Who knows? I may kill
you.' 'That is quite possible,' answered Mateo. Bernaldez threw
back his cloak. He carried the little travelling clock in one hand-
-a gilt thing made in Paris. 'We will stand it here,' he said, 'on
a rock between us.' We were in a little hollow far up the mountain
side, and the mist wrapped us round like a cloak. I know these
mountains, Senorita, for it was here that the fiercest of the
fighting in the last Carlist War took place. There are many dead up
there even now, who have never been found. I also was in that
trouble--ah, no, I was not always an innkeeper!"

"Go on with your story," said Miss Cheyne, curtly, and closed her