They were approaching Toledo, and passed through a village from time to time, where the cafés were still lighted up, and people seemed to be astir in the shadow of the houses. At last, in the main thoroughfare of a larger village within a stage of Toledo, a final halt was made to change horses. The street, dimly lighted by a couple of oil lamps swinging from gibbets at the corners of a crossroad, seemed to be peopled by shadows surreptitiously lurking in doorways. There was a false air of quiet in the houses, and peeping eyes looked out from behind the bars that covered every window, for even modern Spanish houses are barred as if for a siege, and in the ancient villages every man’s house is indeed his castle. The driver had left the box, and seemed to be having some trouble with the ostlers and stable-helps; for his voice could be heard raised in anger and urging them to greater haste. Conyngham, motionless in the saddle, touched his horse with his heel, advancing a few paces so as to screen the window. Concepçion, on the other side, did the same, so that the travellers in the interior of the vehicle saw but the dark shape of the horses and the long cloaks of their riders. They could perceive Conyngham quickly throw back his cape in order to have a free hand. Then there came the sound of scuffling feet and an indefinable sense of strife in the very air. ‘But we will see—we will see who is in the carriage!’ cried a shrill voice, and a hoarse shout from many bibulous throats confirmed the desire. ‘Quick!’ said Conyngham’s voice. ‘Quick—take your reins—never mind the lamps.’ And the carriage swayed as the man leapt to his place. Estella made a movement to look out of the window, but Concha had stood up against it, opposing his broad back alike to curious glances or a knife or a bullet. At the other window the General, better versed in such matters, held the leather cushion upon which he had been sitting across the sash. With his left hand he restrained Estella. ‘Keep still,’ he said. ‘Sit back. Conyngham can take care of himself.’ The carriage swayed forward, and a volley of stones rattled on it like hail. It rose jerkily on one side, and bumped over some obstacle. ‘One who has his quietus,’ said Concha; ‘these royal carriages are heavy.’ The horses were galloping now. Concha sat down rubbing his back. Conyngham was galloping by the window, and they could see his spur flashing in the moonlight as he used it. The reins hung loose, and both his hands were employed elsewhere, for he had a man half across the saddle in front of him, who held to him with one arm thrown round his neck, while the other was raised and a gleam of steel was at the end of it. Concepçion, from the other side, threw a knife over the roof of the carriage—he could hit a cork at twenty paces but he missed this time.