During his servant’s absence, Conyngham had written a short note in French, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the news that Julia Barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that her letter had been delivered to him whose address it bore. ‘I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said to Concepçion. ‘Your horse is feeding. Make good use of your time, for when I return I shall want you to take the road again at once. You must make ten miles before you sleep to-night, and then an early start in the morning.’ ‘For where, señor?’ ‘For Ronda.’ Concepçion shrugged his shoulders. His life had been spent upon the road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained in a saddle-bag, and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of Ishmael. They are a homeless race, and lay them down to sleep, when fatigue overtakes them, under a tree or in the shade of a stone wall. It often happens that a worker in the fields will content himself with the lee side of a haystack for his resting-place when his home is only a few hundred yards up the mountain side. ‘And his Excellency?’ inquired Concepçion. ‘I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow, by way of Cordova, where I will wait for you. I have a letter here which you must deliver to the Señorita Barenna at Ronda without the knowledge of anyone. It will be well that neither General Vincente nor any other who knows you should catch sight of you in the streets of Ronda.’ Concepçion nodded his head with much philosophy. ‘Ah! these women,’ he said, turning to the steaming dish of mutton and vegetables which is almost universal in the South, ‘these women, what shoe leather they cost us!’ Leaving his servant thus profitably employed, Conyngham set out to find the barber’s shop in the Plaza de Cadiz. This he did without difficulty, but on presenting himself at the door of Colonel Monreal’s apartment learnt that that gentleman was out. ‘But,’ added the servant, ‘the Colonel is a man of regular habits. He will return within the next fifteen minutes, for he dines at five.’ Conyngham paused. He had no desire to make Colonel Monreal’s acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly judged that Señor Larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone. ‘I have a letter for the Colonel,’ he said to the servant, a man of stupid countenance. ‘I will place it here upon his table, and can no doubt trust you to see that he gets it.’ ‘That you can, Excellency,’ replied the man, with a palm already half extended to receive a gratuity. ‘If the Colonel fails to receive the letter I shall certainly know of it,’ said Conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase, and well pleased to have accomplished his mission. He returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he had elected to pass the night, and found Concepçion still at table.