No road, however, goes on interminably, and the white aldea of Arucas rose before them when the sun was low. They plodded into it, limping and stumbling over the slippery stones, and frightening the dark‐eyed children with their grim faces; for there was a hum of life behind the lattices now, and a cooking of the comida in the patios and in front of the open doors. Harper sniffed hungrily—for the pungent odors of the dark green oil and garlic hung about the flat‐topped houses—and finally halted before an archway leading into a shadowy patio. There was a legend above it. “‘The Golden Fleece’!” he said. “Well, they’ll have some wine here, and I’ve got five pesetas.” They went in, and when they limped into the guest chamber a man dressed in unstarched linen stared at them aghast. “Madre de Dios!” he said. He would apparently have backed away in consternation had not Harper, who slipped between him and the door, stood with his back to it; while Appleby spoke two words softly in Castilian. They were without connection and apparently meaningless, but they carried weight with those who had any hand in the insurrection, and the landlord sat down, evidently irresolute. “Would you ruin me? The Sin Verguenza are scattered, and Espada Morales is not far away,” he said. “Still,” said Appleby dryly, “they are not dead, my friend, and it is only those who are buried that never come back again.” The innkeeper nodded, for the delicacy of the hint as well as the man’s accent were thoroughly Castilian. “Well,” he said reflectively, “here one is ruined in any case, and what one gives to the friends of liberty Morales will not get. After all, it is but a handful of beans or an omelet, and it is golden onzas those others would have from me.” “If eggs are not too dear here we can pay,” said Appleby, with a laugh, and turned to see that Harper was glancing at him reproachfully. It was evident that the innkeeper saw him, too, for a little smile came into his eyes. “Then it is seldom so with the Sin Verguenza,” he said. “Doubtless your companion is one of them.” “Silver is scarce with the Sin Verguenza,” said Appleby. “Still, there are debts they pay with lead.” The innkeeper set food before them—beans and oil, an omelet, and a bottle of thin red wine from the Canaries. He also somewhat reluctantly produced a few cigars of a most excellent tobacco; and Harper sighed with pure content when he dropped into a big raw‐hide chair when the meal was over. “Now I could ’most be happy if I knew when we would strike another place like this,” he said. “Still, it’s quite plain to me that we can’t stay here. There are too many cazadores prowling up and down this carretera.”