‘Yes; and they will shoot quick enough if we give them the chance,’ said Concepçion. ‘They are Carlists! There is a river between this and Galvez—a little stream such as we have in Andalusia—so small that there is only a ford and no bridge. The bed of the river is soft; the horses will stop, or, at all events, must go at the walking pace. Across the stream are a few trees’ (he paused, illustrating his description with rapid gestures and an imaginary diagram drawn upon the rock with the forefinger), ‘ilex, and here, to the left, some pines. The stream runs thus from north-east to south-west. This bank is high, and over here are low-lying meadows where pigs feed.’ He looked up, and the two soldiers nodded. The position lay before them like a bird’s-eye view; and Concepçion, in whom Spain had perhaps lost a guerilla general, had only set eyes on the spot once as he rode past it. ‘This matter is best settled on foot; is it not so? We cross the stream, and tie our horses to the pine trees. I will recross the water, and come back to meet the carriage at the top of the hill—here. The horsemen will be in advance. We will allow them to cross the stream. The horses will come out of the water slowly, or I know nothing of horses. As they step up the incline, you take their riders, and remember to give them the chance of running away. In midstream I will attack the two on the box, pulling him who is not driving into the water by his legs, and giving him the blade in the right shoulder above the lung. He will think himself dead, but should recover. Then you must join me. We shall be three to three, unless the Englishman’s hands are loose; then we shall be four to three, and need do no man any injury. The Englishman is as strong as two, and quick with it, as big men rarely are.’ ‘Do you take a hand?’ asked the Castilian, fingering the cards. ‘No; I have affairs. Continue your game.’ So the sun went down, and the two soldiers continued their game, while Concepçion sat beside them and slowly, lovingly sharpened his knife on a piece of slate which he carried in his pocket for the purpose. After sunset there usually arises a cold breeze which blows across the table-lands of Castile quite gently and unobtrusively. A local proverb says of this wind that it will extinguish a man but not a candle. When this arose, the three men descended the mountain-side and sat down to a simple if highly-flavoured meal provided by the ancient mistress of the venta. At half-past eight, when there remained nothing of the day but a faint greenish light in the western sky, the little party mounted their horses and rode away towards Galvez. ‘’Tis better,’ said Concepçion, with a meaning and gallant bow to the hostess. ‘’Tis for my peace of mind. I am but a man.’ Then he haggled over the price of the supper.