‘No. But this time they will succeed, and it is to be here—to-morrow night—in Toledo. After the Queen Regent’s death, and in the confusion that will supervene, the little Queen will disappear, and then upon the rubbish-heap will spring up the mushrooms as they did in France; and this rubbish-heap, like the other, will foul the whole air of Europe.’ He shook his head pessimistically till the long, wispy grey hair waved from side to side, and his left hand, resting on the wrist-bone on the table, made an indescribable gesture that showed a fœtid air tainted by darksome growths. There was a silence in the room broken by no outside sound but the chink of champed bits as the horses stood in their traces below. Indeed, the city of Toledo seemed strangely still this evening, and the very air had a sense of waiting in it. The priest sat and looked at his lifelong friend, his furrowed face the incarnation of cynical hopelessness. ‘What is, is worst,’ he seemed to say. His yellow, wise old eyes watched the quick face with the air of one who, having posed an insoluble problem, awaits with a sarcastic humour the admission of failure. General Vincente, who had just finished his wine, wiped his moustache delicately with his table-napkin. He was thinking—quickly, systematically, as men learn to think under fire. Perhaps, indeed, he had the thoughts half matured in his mind—as the greatest general the world has seen confessed that he ever had—that he was never taken quite by surprise. Vincente smiled as he thought: a habit he had acquired on the field, where a staff, and perhaps a whole army, took its cue from his face and read the turn of fortune there. Then he looked up straight at Estella, who was watching him. ‘Can you start on a journey, now—in five minutes?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she answered, rising and going towards the door. ‘Have you a white mantilla among your travelling things?’ he asked again. Estella turned at the doorway and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘Then take it with you, and a cloak, but no heavy luggage.’ Estella closed the door. ‘You can come with us?’ said the General to Concha, half command, half interrogation. ‘If you wish it.’ ‘You may be wanted. I have a plan—a little plan,’ and he gave a short laugh. ‘It may succeed.’ He went to a side table, where some cold meats still stood, and, taking up a small chicken daintily with a fork, he folded it in a napkin. ‘It will be Saturday,’ he said simply, ‘before we have reached our journey’s end, and you will be hungry. Have you a pocket?’ ‘Has a priest a pocket?’ asked Concha, with a grim humour, and he slipped the provisions into the folds of his cassock. He was still eating a biscuit hurriedly. ‘I believe you have no money?’ said the General suddenly. ‘I have only enough,’ admitted the old man, ‘to take me back to Ronda; whither, by the way, my duty calls me.’ ‘I think not. Your Master can spare you for a while; my mistress cannot do without you.’