‘You have hold of my leg—you, on the other side,’ shouted Conyngham from the turmoil within. ‘A thousand pardons, señor!’ said the soldier, and took a new grip of another limb. Concepçion, holding his man under water, heard the sharp crack of another head upon the soldier’s kneecap, and knew that all was well. ‘That is all?’ he inquired. ‘That is all,’ replied the soldier, who did not seem at all nervous now. ‘And we have killed no one.’ ‘Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box there,’ said Concepçion judicially. ‘This is no time for prayer. Just where the neck joins the shoulder—that is a good place.’ And a sudden silence reigned upon the box. ‘Pull the carriage to the bank,’ commanded Concepçion. ‘There is no need for the English Excellency to wet his feet. He might catch a cold.’ They all made their way to the bank, where, in the dim moonlight, one man sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite still, upon the pebbles. The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside him, while Concepçion patted his foe kindly on the back. ‘It is well,’ he said, ‘you have swallowed water. You will be sick, and then you will be well. But if you move from that spot I will let the water out another way.’ And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned to help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window. ‘Whom have you with you?’ asked Conyngham. ‘Two honest soldiers of General Vincente’s division. You see, señor, you have good friends.’ ‘Yes, I see that.’ ‘One of them,’ said Concepçion meaningly, ‘is at Toledo at the moment, journeying after you. ‘Ah!’ ‘The Señor Pleydell.’ ‘Then we will go back to meet him.’ ‘I thought so,’ said Concepçion. CHAPTER XXI A CROSS-EXAMINATION ‘Wherein I am false I am honest—not true to be true.’ ‘I WILL sing you a contrabandista song,’ said Concepçion, as the party rode towards Toledo in the moonlight. ‘The song we—they sing when the venture has been successful. You may hear it any dark night in the streets of Gaucin.’ ‘Sing,’ said the older soldier, ‘if it is in your lungs. For us—we prefer to travel silent.’ Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist rider had been dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front. The carriage had been left behind at the venta, where no questions were asked, and the injured men revived readily enough. ‘It is well,’ answered Concepçion, in no way abashed. ‘I will sing. In Andalusia we can all sing. The pigs sing better there than the men of Castile.’