‘Her name is Barenna, the Señorita Barenna; that is sufficient in Ronda.’ Conyngham took up the letter and examined it. ‘It is of importance?’ he said. ‘Of the utmost.’ ‘And of value?’ ‘Of the greatest value in the world to me.’ The Spaniard rose and took up his cloak, which he had thrown over the back of the nearest chair, not forgetting to display a picturesque corner of its bright lining. ‘You swear you will deliver it, only with your own hand, only to the hand of the Señorita Barenna? And—you will observe the strictest secrecy?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham carelessly, ‘if you like.’ The Spaniard turned, and, leaning one hand on the table, looked almost fiercely into his companion’s face. ‘You are an Englishman,’ he said, ‘and an Englishman’s word—is it not known all the world over? In the North, in my country, where Wellington fought, the peasants still say “word of an Englishman” instead of an oath.’ He threw his cloak over his shoulder, and stood looking down at his companion with a little smile as if he were proud of him. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Adios. My name is Larralde, but that is of no consequence. Adios!’ With a courteous bow he took his leave, and Conyngham presently saw him walking down to the landing stage. It seemed that this strange visitor was about to depart as abruptly as he had come. Conyngham rose and walked to the edge of the verandah, where he stood watching the departure of the boat in which his new friend had taken passage. While he was standing there, the old priest came quietly out of the open window of the dining room. He saw the letter lying on the table where Conyngham had left it. He approached, his shabby old shoes making no sound on the wooden flooring, and read the address written on the pink and scented envelope. When the Englishman at length turned, he was alone on the verandah, with the wine bottle, the empty glasses, and the letter. CHAPTER V CONTRABAND ‘What rights are his that dares not strike for them?’