‘It is well. Then serve this gentleman well, or else—’ The General paused, and laughed in his most deprecating manner. Concepçion seemed to understand, for he took off his hat and turned gravely away. The General and Conyngham walked rapidly through the streets of Ronda, than which there are none cleaner in the whole world, and duly bought a great black horse at a price which seemed moderate enough to the Englishman, though the vendor explained that the long war had made horseflesh rise in value. Conyngham, at no time a keen bargainer, hurried the matter to an end, and scarce examined the saddle. He was anxious to get back to the garden of the great house in the Calle Mayor before the cool of evening came to drive Estella indoors. ‘You will doubtless wish to pack your portmanteau,’ said the General rather breathlessly, as he hurried along with small steps beside Conyngham. ‘Yes,’ answered the Englishman ingenuously, ‘yes, of course.’ ‘Then I will not detain you,’ said General Vincente. ‘I have affairs at headquarters. We meet at dinner, of course.’ He waved a little salutation with his whip and took a side turning. The sun had not set when Conyngham with a beating heart made his way through the house into the garden. He had never been so serious about anything in his life. Indeed, his life seemed only to have begun in that garden. Estella was there. He saw her black dress and mantilla through the trees, and the gleam of her golden hair made his eyes almost fierce for the moment. ‘I am going to-morrow morning,’ he said bluntly when he reached her where she sat in the shade of a mimosa. She raised her eyes for a moment—deep velvet eyes with something in them that made his heart leap within his breast. ‘And I love you, Estella,’ he added. ‘You may be offended—you may despise me—you may distrust me. But nothing can alter me. I love you—now and ever.’ She drew a deep breath and sat motionless. ‘How many women does an Englishman love at once?’ she asked coldly at length. ‘Only one, señorita.’ He stood looking at her for a moment. Then she rose and walked past him into the house. CHAPTER X THE CITY OF DISCONTENT ‘En paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est s’abstenir.’ ‘THERE is,’ observed Frederick Conyngham to himself as he climbed into the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning, ‘there is a certain picturesqueness about these proceedings which pleases me.’ Concepçion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic atmosphere, for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion, with a bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath his black hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower in the ribbon of his hat.