"It is a very difficult path—a mere mountain track in places—and we must go cautiously and slowly; but it is the only one," said the lad. He trotted back to the foot of the hill, where he put his horse at a low gate, and led us at a smart gallop—he could ride like a centaur, and his horse seemed as fearless as he was—across two or three fields, and away up the hill by the side of some vineyards; behind a wood, where the shadows were as dark as night, and the path absolutely indistinguishable. "This is ominous news, Cabrera," I said, when the pace slackened. "About the worst it could be," he answered, gloomily. "I read it that Rubio has set the telegraph to work, having learnt, or guessed, that we were making for Daroca. And this is the reception prepared for us." "True; but what are all these soldiers doing round Daroca? It means more than you fear, senor. They are going to strike, and strike hard at our very heart. If the headquarters in Daroca are seized, what hope is there for the cause?" "We cannot tell yet. It may not be so bad as that. The cause is the cause of righteousness, and must succeed. We must wait." "Wait, aye, it is always wait, till one’s stomach sickens and pines on the diet," he cried, bitterly. "We must get into Daroca before the night’s many hours older, let the soldiers swarm where they please." "My intention is this—to go to this Calvarro’s house, join the senorita, and either make a dash for the town with her, or send in on the chance of help getting out to us." "One plan is as good as another, I fear. The Fates are fighting against us, senor; and when that’s so, the best is no better than the worst, and the worst no worse than the best," he replied, growing more and more despondent as matters grew more threatening. That is ever the way with fatalists. "These Fates have a human shape and a name well known in Spain, Cabrera—the name of Sebastian Quesada. It is his brain, and not fate, that is engineering the destruction of the cause." "Then why wasn’t he dealt with? Are there no arms strong to strike, no blades sharp to pierce, no wit cunning to find the means, no courage ready to give life for life? By the Holy Virgin, are we all cowards? Had I had my way, the young Pretender had never escaped! This comes of woman’s work and silly fears and sickly sentiment. What is his life, or Quesada’s, or of any one of them, more than that of the meanest of us? My arm, aye, and my life, too, could have been had for the asking. As if you could drive the wild beast of revolution with a silken thread; with your senorita here, and your senorita there! And now, the force we were afraid to use is to be turned to crush us."