A moment later Concha came into the room dragging on his cassock. ‘My child, we are in God’s hand,’ he said, with a break in his gruff voice. And then came the heavy step of one carrying sorrow. Conyngham laid his burden on the sofa. General Vincente was holding his handkerchief to his side, and his eyes, which had a thoughtful look, saw only Estella’s face. ‘I have sent for a doctor,’ said Conyngham. ‘Your father is wounded.’ ‘Yes,’ said Vincente immediately; ‘but I am in no pain, my dear child. There is no reason, surely, for us to distress ourselves.’ He looked round and smiled. ‘And this good Conyngham,’ he added, ‘carried me like a child.’ Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in her hands. ‘My dear Julia,’ he said, ‘why this distress?’ ‘Because all of this is my doing,’ she answered, lifting her drawn and terror-stricken face. ‘No, no!’ said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry. ‘You take too much upon yourself. All these things are written down for us beforehand. We only add the punctuation—delaying a little or hurrying a little.’ They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the shadows that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding his hand, knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering silently that sympathy which is woman’s greatest gift. Concepçion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any present, looked at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning his cassock, and began to seek something in his pocket. ‘Your breviary?’ whispered Concepçion; ‘I saw it lying out there—among the dead.’ ‘It is a comfort to have one’s duty clearly defined,’ said the General suddenly, in a clear voice. He was evidently addressing Conyngham. ‘One of the advantages of a military life. We have done our best, and this time we have succeeded. But—it is only deferred. It will come at length, and Spain will be a republic. It is a failing cause—because, at the head of it, is a bad woman.’ Conyngham nodded, but no one spoke. No one seemed capable of following his thoughts. Already he seemed to look at them as from a distance, as if he had started on a journey and was looking back. During this silence there came a great clatter in the streets, and a sharp voice cried ‘Halt!’ The General turned his eyes towards the window. ‘The cavalry,’ said Conyngham, ‘from Madrid.’ ‘I did not expect—them,’ said Vincente slowly, ‘before the dawn.’ The sound of the horses’ feet and the clatter of arms died away as the troop passed on towards the Calle de la Ciudad, and the quiet of night was again unbroken. Then Concha, getting down on to his knees, began reciting from memory the office—which, alas! he knew too well. When it was finished, and the gruff voice died away, Vincente opened his eyes. ‘Every man to his trade,’ he said, with a little laugh. Then suddenly he made a grimace.