Conyngham rode on, vaguely turning over in his mind a half-matured plan of effecting a seemingly accidental entry to the house of Señora Barenna, in the hope of meeting that lady’s daughter in the garden or grounds. Once outside the walls of the town he found the country open and bare, consisting of brown hills, of which the lower slopes were dotted with evergreen oaks. The road soon traversed a village which seemed to be half deserted, for men and women alike were working in the fields. On the balcony of the best house a branch of palm bound against the ironwork balustrade indicated the dwelling of the priest, and the form of that village despot was dimly discernible in the darkened room behind. Beyond the village Conyngham turned his horse’s head towards the mountain, his mind preoccupied with a Macchiavellian scheme of losing his way in this neighbourhood. Through the evergreen oak and olive groves he could perceive the roof of an old grey house which had once been a mere hacienda or semi-fortified farm. Conyngham did not propose to go direct to Señora Barenna’s house, but described a semicircle, mounting from terrace to terrace on his sure-footed horse. When at length he came in sight of the high gateway where the ten-foot oaken gates still swung, he perceived someone approaching the exit. On closer inspection he saw that this was a priest, and on nearing him recognised the Padre Concha, whose acquaintance he had made at the Hotel of the Marina at Algeciras. The recognition was mutual, for the priest raised his shabby old hat with a tender care for the insecurity of its brim. ‘A lucky meeting, Señor Englishman,’ he said; ‘who would have expected to see you here?’ ‘I have lost my way.’ ‘Ah!’ And the grim face relaxed into a smile. ‘Lost your way?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then it is lucky that I have met you. It is so easy to lose one’s way—when one is young.’ He raised his hand to the horse’s bridle. ‘You are most certainly going in the wrong direction,’ he said; ‘I will lead you right.’ It was said and done so quietly that Conyngham had found no word to say before his horse was moving in the opposite direction. ‘This is surely one of General Vincente’s horses,’ said the priest; ‘we have few such barbs in Ronda. He always rides a good horse, that Miguel Vincente.’ ‘Yes, it is one of his horses. Then you know the General?’ ‘We were boys together,’ answered the Padre; ‘and there were some who said that he should have been the priest and I the soldier.’ The old man gave a little laugh.