‘I have destroyed no letter, I have concealed no letter, and I have no letter,’ said the girl quietly. Estella moved uneasily in the chair. Her face was colourless and her eyes shone. She watched her cousin’s face intently, and beneath his shaggy brows the old priest’s eyes went from one fair countenance to the other. ‘Then,’ cried the General, rising to his feet with an air of relief, ‘you have but to assure the Alcalde of this, and the whole incident is terminated. Blown over, my dear Concha—blown over!’ He tapped the priest on the shoulder with great good nature. Indeed, the world seemed sunny enough and free from cares when General Vincente had to deal with it. ‘Yes—yes,’ said the Padre, snuff-box in hand. ‘Blown over—of course.’ ‘Then I may send the Alcalde to you, Julia—and you will tell him what you have told us? He cannot but take the word of a lady.’ ‘Yes—if you like,’ answered Julia. The General’s joy knew no bounds. ‘That is well,’ he cried, ‘I knew we could safely rely upon your good sense. Kiss me, Julia—that is well! Come, Estella—we must not keep the horses waiting.’ With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door. ‘Blown over, my dear Concha,’ he said over his shoulder. A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut trees alone. The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an autocratic shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock. The sun had set, and in the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of night already lay like a blue veil. The priest walked on and presently reached the high road. A single figure was upon it—the figure of a man sitting in the shadow of an ilex tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla. The man crouched low against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer. His face was concealed in the folds of his cloak. ‘Blown over,’ muttered the Padre as he turned his back upon Bobadilla and went on towards his church. ‘Blown over, of course; but what is Concepçion Vara doing in the neighbourhood of Ronda to-night?’ CHAPTER XII ON THE TOLEDO ROAD ‘Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.’ CONYNGHAM made his way without difficulty or incident from Xeres to Cordova, riding for the most part in front of the clumsy diligencia wherein he had bestowed his luggage. The road was wearisome enough, and the last stages, through the fertile plains bordering the Guadalquivir, dusty and monotonous.