He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing as he threw his leg across his horse. A dark-eyed maiden had come to the corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with mournful eyes. He waved her a salutation as he passed. ‘It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda—what will you?’ he explained to Conyngham with a modest air as he cocked his hat farther on one side. The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open country that borders the road to Bobadilla. A pastoral country this, where the land needs little care to make it give more than man requires for his daily food. The evergreen oak studded over the whole plain supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen may dream away the sunny days. The rich soil would yield two or even three crops in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming. Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface, but national indolence leaves it unexplored. ‘Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,’ said Concepçion, urging his horse to keep pace with the trot of Conyngham’s huge mount. ‘Ah!’ ‘No,’ pursued Concepçion. ‘And yet it is simple. In Algeciras I have a wife. It is well that a man should travel at times. So,’ he paused and bowed towards his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, ‘so—we take the road together.’ ‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said Conyngham, ‘I am sure I can but feel honoured. You know I have no money.’ The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. ‘What matter?’ he said. ‘What matter? We can keep an account—a mere piece of paper—so: “Concepçion Vara, of Algeciras, in account current with F. Conyngham; Englishman. One month’s wages at one hundred pesetas.” It is simple.’ ‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham. ‘It is only when pay-day comes that things will get complicated.’ Concepçion laughed. ‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said. ‘We shall enjoy ourselves in Madrid. I see that.’ Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and Julia Barenna’s danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked behind him. Ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and the bare line of the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller. ‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham. ‘We are going to Xeres, where I have business. Do you know the road to Xeres?’ ‘As well that as any other, Excellency.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I know no roads north of Ronda. I am of Andalusia, I,’ replied Concepçion easily, and he looked round about him with an air of interest which was more to the credit of his intelligence as a traveller than his reliability as a guide. ‘But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.’ ‘Yes, Excellency—by asking the way,’ replied Concepçion with a light laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his horse to light a fresh cigarette.