He pressed Conyngham’s hand in both of his, which were small and white—looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft laugh. Indeed his voice was admirably suited to a lady’s drawing-room, and suggested nought of the camp or battle field. From the handkerchief which he drew from his sleeve and passed across his white moustache a faint scent floated on the morning air. ‘Are you General Vincente?’ asked Conyngham. ‘Yes—why not?’ And in truth the tone of the Englishman’s voice had betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question. ‘It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been quite comfortable, and they gave me a good supper last night,’ said Conyngham. ‘Moreover, the Guardias Civiles are in no way to blame for my arrest. I was in bad company, it seems.’ ‘Yes; your companions were engaged in conveying ammunition to the Carlists; we have wanted to lay our hands upon them for some weeks. They have carried former journeys to a successful termination.’ He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The guide, Antonio something-or-other, died, as I understand.’ ‘Well, yes; if you choose to put it that way,’ admitted Conyngham. The General raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace expressive of deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated by a moisture of the eye, for the family of Antonio something-or-other in their bereavement. ‘And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow . . .’ inquired Conyngham. The General raised one gloved hand as if to fend off some approaching calamity. ‘He died this morning—at six o’clock.’ Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light of comprehension. This might after all be the General Vincente whom he had been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish Queen’s adherents. ‘Of the same complaint?’ ‘Of the same complaint,’ answered the General softly. He slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm, and thus affectionately led him across the patio towards the doorway where sentinels stood at attention. He acknowledged the attitude of his subordinates by a friendly nod; indeed, this rosy-faced warrior seemed to brim over with the milk of human kindness. ‘The English,’ he said, pressing his companion’s arm, ‘have been too useful to us for me to allow one of them to remain a moment longer in confinement. You say you were comfortable. I hope they gave you a clean towel and all that.’ ‘Yes, thanks,’ answered Conyngham, suppressing a desire to laugh. ‘That is well. Ronda is a pleasant place, as you will find. Most interesting—Moorish remains, you understand. I will send my servant for your baggage, and of course my poor house is at your disposal. You will stay with me until we can find some work for you to do. You wish to take service with us, of course?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Conynghamn. ‘Rather thought of it—if you will have me.’ The General glanced up at his stalwart companion with a measuring eye.