Conyngham bowed with a greater ceremony than we observe to-day, and stood upright to look upon that which was for him from that moment the fairest face in the world. As, to some men, success or failure seems to come early and in one bound, so, for some, Love lies long in ambush, to shoot at length a single and certain shaft. Conyngham looked at Estella Vincente, his gay blue eyes meeting her dark glance with a frankness which was characteristic, and knew from that instant that his world held no other woman. It came to him as a flash of lightning that left his former life grey and neutral, and yet he was conscious of no surprise, but rather of a feeling of having found something which he had long sought. The girl acknowledged his salutation with a little inclination of the head and a smile which was only of the lips, for her eyes remained grave and deep. She had all the dignity of carriage famous in Castilian women, though her figure was youthful still, and slight. Her face was a clean-cut oval, with lips that were still and proud, and a delicately aquiline nose. ‘My daughter speaks English better than I do,’ went on the General in the garrulous voice of an exceedingly domesticated man. ‘She has been at school in England—at the suggestion of my dear friend Watterson—with his daughters, in fact.’ ‘And must have found it dull and grey enough compared with Spain,’ said Conyngham. ‘Ah! Then you like Spain?’ said the General eagerly. ‘It is so with all the English. We have something in common, despite the Armada, eh? Something in manner and in appearance, too; is it not so?’ He left Conyngham, and walked slowly on with one hand at his daughter’s waist. ‘I was very happy in England,’ said Estella to Conyngham, who walked at her other side; ‘but happier still to get home to Spain.’ Her voice was rather low, and Conyngham had an odd sensation of having heard it before. ‘Why did you leave your home?’ she continued in a leisurely conversational way which seemed natural to the environments. The question rather startled the Englishman, for the only answer seemed to be that he had quitted England in order to come to Ronda and to her, following the path in life that fate had assigned to him. ‘We have troubles in England also—political troubles,’ he said, after a pause. ‘The Chartists,’ said the General cheerfully. ‘We know all about them, for we have the English newspapers. I procure them in order to have reliable news of Spain.’ He broke off with a little laugh, and looked towards his daughter. ‘In the evening Estella reads them to me. And it was on account of the Chartists that you left England?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Ah, you are a Chartist, Mr. Conyngham.’ ‘Yes,’ admitted the Englishman after a pause, and he glanced at Estella. CHAPTER VII IN A MOORISH GARDEN ‘When love is not a blasphemy, it is a religion.’