hand, gazing indifferently out over the marble tables of the Cafe
Carmona. The men seated there interchanged glances. They knew from
the fierce old face, from the free and dramatic gestures, that old
Pedro Roldos was already telling his story to the stranger.

"Santa Maria!" the old man was saying. "It is not a pleasant story.
I lived at Algeciras--I and my little girl, Lorenza. Too near the
Rock--too near the Rock. You know what we are there. I had a
business--the contraband, of course--and sometimes I was absent for
days together. But Lorenza was a favourite with the neighbours--
good women who had known my wife when she was the beauty of St.
Roque--just such a girl as Lorenza. And I trusted Lorenza; for we
are all so. We trust and trust, and yet we know that love and money
will kill honesty and truth at any moment. These two are sacred--
more sacred than honesty or truth. Diavolo! What a fool I was. I
ought to have known that Lorenza was too pretty to be left alone--
ignorant as she was of the ways of the world.

"Then the neighbours began to throw out hints. They spoke of the
English Caballero, who was so fond of riding round the Bay, and they
hinted that it was not to see our old town of Algeciras that he
came.

"One night I came home after a successful journey. I had been as
far as Buceita with a train of five mules--a clear run. When I
opened the door Lorenza was gone. Mother of God! gone--gone without
a word! I went and fetched Nino--Nino, whose father had been my
partner until he was shot by the Guardia Civile one night in the
mountain behind Gaucin. There was no one like Nino for mule work in
the mountains or for the handling of a boat when the west wind blew