‘The Padre,’ replied Concha, tenderly drying his chin with a towel, ‘would have all barbers attend to their razors. Many are so busy shouting “Advance!” that they have no breath to ask whither they are going.’ On the whole, perhaps, his autocratic rule was a beneficent one, and contributed to the happiness of the little northern suburb of Ronda over which it extended. At all events, he was a watchful guardian of his flock, and knew every face in his parish. It thus happened one morning that a strange woman, who had come quietly into church to pray, attracted his attention as he passed out after matins. She was a mere peasant and ill clad. The child seated on a chair by her side and staring with wondering eyes at the simple altar and stained-glass window had a hungry look. Concha sat down on the low wall without the doors and awaited the exit of this devotee who was not of his flock. For though, as he often said, the good God had intended him for a soldier, his own strong will and simple faith had in time produced a very passable priest who, with a grim face, went about doing good. The woman presently lifted the heavy leathern curtain and let out into the sunlight a breath of cool, incense-laden air. She curtsied and paused as if expecting recognition. Concha threw away his cigarette and raised his hand to his hat. He had not lifted it except to ladies of the highest quality for some years, out of regard to symptoms of senile decay which had manifested themselves at the junction of the brim and the crown. ‘Have I not seen your face before, my child?’ he said. ‘Yes, reverendo. I am of Ronda but have been living in Xeres.’ ‘Ah! then your husband is no doubt a malcontent?’ The woman burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and leaning against the wall in an attitude that was still girlish. She had probably been married at fifteen. ‘No, reverendo! He is a thief.’ Concha merely nodded his head. He never had been a man to betray much pious horror when he heard of ill-doing. ‘The two are almost identical,’ he said quietly. ‘One does what the other fears to do. And is your husband in prison? Is that why you have come back? Ah! you women—in foolishness you almost equal the men!’ ‘No, reverendo. I am come back because he has left me. Sebastian has run away, and has stolen all his master’s property. It was the Colonel Monreal of Xeres—a good man, reverendo, but a politician.’ ‘Ah!’ ‘Yes, and he was murdered, as your reverence has no doubt seen in the newspapers. A week ago it was—the day that the Englishman came with a letter.’ ‘What Englishman was that?’ inquired Father Concha, brushing some grains of snuff from his sleeve. ‘What Englishman was that, my child?’ ‘Oh, I do not know! His name is unknown to me, but I could tell he was English from his manner of speaking. The Colonel had an English friend who spoke so—one engaged in the sherry in Xeres.’ ‘Ah yes! And this Englishman, what was he like?’