‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a letter from Madrid. You have only to proceed to the capital, and there I hope a post awaits you. Your duties will at present be of a semi-military character, but later I hope we can show you some fighting. This pestilential Cabrera is not yet quelled, and Morella still holds out. Yes, there will be fighting.’ He closed the letter and looked at Conyngham. ‘If that is what you want,’ he added. ‘Yes, that is what I want.’ The General nodded and rose, pausing to brush a few grains of dust from his dapper riding-breeches. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have seen a horse which will suit you at the cavalry quarters in the Calle de Bobadilla. Shall we go and look at him?’ Conyngham expressed his readiness to do as the General proposed. ‘When shall I start for Madrid?’ he asked. ‘Oh, to-morrow morning will be time enough,’ was the reply, uttered in an easy-going, indolent tone, ‘if you are early astir. You see, it is now nearly five o’clock, and you could scarcely be in saddle before sunset.’ ‘No,’ laughed Conyngham, ‘scarcely, considering that I have not yet bought the saddle or the horse.’ The General led the way into the house, and Conyngham thought of the letter in his pocket. He had not yet read the address. Julia relied upon him to deliver it, and her conduct towards the Alcalde had the evident object of gaining time for him to do so. She had unhesitatingly thrust herself into a position of danger to screen him and further her own indomitable purpose. He thought of her—still as from a distance at which Estella had placed him—and knew that she not only had a disquieting beauty, but cleverness and courage, which are qualities that outlast beauty and make a woman powerful for ever. When he and his companion emerged from the great doorway of the house into the sunlight of the Calle Mayor, a man came forward from the shade of a neighbouring porch. It was Concepçion Vara, leisurely and dignified, twirling a cigarette between his brown fingers. He saluted the General with one finger to the brim of his shabby felt hat as one great man might salute another. He nodded to Conyngham. ‘When does his Excellency take the road again?’ he said. ‘I am ready. The Guardia Civil was mistaken this time—the judge said there was no stain on my name.’ He shrugged his shoulders and waved away the slight with the magnanimity of one who can forgive and forget. ‘I take the road to-morrow; but our contract ceased at Ronda. I had no intention of taking you on.’ ‘You are not satisfied with me?’ inquired Concepçion, offering his interlocutor the cigarette he had just made. ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘Buen! We take the road together.’ ‘Then there is nothing more to be said?’ inquired Conyngham with a good-natured laugh. ‘Nothing, except the hour at which your Excellency starts.’ ‘Six o’clock,’ put in General Vincente quietly. ‘Let me see, your name is Concepçion Vara.’ ‘Yes, Excellency—of Algeciras.’