‘The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please your Excellency. The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.’ He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards, fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity. ‘A brutal set of men,’ he continued; ‘with the finger ever on the trigger and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and a life is taken—many of my friends—at least, many persons I have met—in the café!’ ‘It is better to give him his two men,’ put in Father Concha, in his atrocious English, speaking to the General. ‘The man is honest in his love of Conyngham, if in nothing else.’ ‘And if I accord you these two men, my friend,’ said the General, from whose face Estella’s eyes had never moved, ‘will you undertake that Mr. Conyngham comes to no harm?’ ‘I will arrange it,’ replied Concepçion, with an easy shrug of the shoulders. ‘I will arrange it, never fear.’ ‘You shall have two men,’ said General Vincente, drawing a writing-case towards himself and proceeding to write the necessary order. ‘Men who are known to me personally. You can rely upon them at all times.’ ‘Since they are friends of his Excellency’s,’ interrupted Concepçion with much condescension, ‘that suffices.’ ‘He will require money,’ said Estella in English—her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. For she came of a fighting race, and her repose of manner, the dignity which sat rather strangely on her slim young shoulders, were only signs of that self-control which had been handed down to her through the ages. The General nodded as he wrote. ‘Take that to headquarters,’ he said, handing the papers to Concepçion, ‘and in less than half an hour your men will be ready. Mr. Conyngham is a friend of mine, as you know, and any expenses incurred on his behalf will be defrayed by myself—’ Concepçion held up his hand. ‘It is unnecessary, Excellency,’ he said. ‘At present Mr. Conyngham has funds. Only yesterday he gave me money. He liquidated my little account. It has always been a jest between us—that little account.’ He laughed pleasantly, and moved towards the door. ‘Vara,’ said Father Concha. ‘Yes, reverendo.’ ‘If I meet your wife in Madrid, what shall I say to her?’ Concepçion turned and looked into the smiling face of the old priest. ‘In Madrid, reverendo? How can you think of such a thing? My wife lives in Algeciras, and at times, see you—’ he stopped, casting his eyes up to the ceiling and fetching an exaggerated sigh, ‘at times my heart aches. But now I must get to the saddle. What a thing is Duty, reverendo! Duty! God be with your Excellencies.’ And he hurried out of the room. ‘If you would make a thief honest, trust him,’ said Concha, when the door was closed.