"My secret, senor," said the other, bluntly, adding "_muchos gracias_," as Quentin smilingly proffered his canteen, the contents of which he declined to taste. "The well of our Blessed Lady will suffice for me," he said, and proceeded to twist up another cigarito. "You are very curious about me, senor; but pray what are you?" "What my uniform declares me," said Quentin, showing the scarlet uniform, which his grey coat had concealed; "a British soldier." "Bueno! Your hand. And whither go you?" "On duty." "Where--to whom?" "That is _my secret_," retorted Quentin, laughing. But a dark expression began to gather in the Spaniard's face, and he looked searchingly at the young volunteer. "Are you going to the front?" he asked. "Yes, senor." "Strange!" "How so?" "The British troops have not yet begun to cross the frontier into Spain. They are still in quarters." "Yes." "You are not going to the French head-quarters?" "No." "Still monosyllables!" said the Spaniard, impetuously. "I must be plain, I find. You are a deserter!" "I have said that I am going on duty," replied Quentin, haughtily. "You need question me no further. I am not bound to satisfy the curiosity of every wayfarer I may meet." "_Morte de Dios!_" swore the Spaniard, with a scowl in his deep eye, and a hand on his stiletto. "I, too, have arms to repress insolence," said Quentin, grasping his sword. On this the Spaniard laughed, and said-- "Come--don't let us quarrel. You are a brave boy, and your little breakfast came to me most opportunely. Let us enjoy the present without thinking of the future. _Demonio!_ Neither of us may be what we seem. We more often look like spits than swords in this world!" "Senor, excuse me; but I don't understand your proverb." "It means simply, that all men are not what they seem. To you I appear a _gitano_, a _mendigo_--it may be, a _ladrone_; you appear to me a deserter; so our circumstances may change--you prove the spit, and I the sword." "Spit again!" said Quentin, angrily, as he conceived there was some sarcasm concealed in the word. "It is a fable. Listen while I read to you what, I suppose, you never heard before." And, opening his book, which proved to be the little pocket edition of the quaint old literary fables of Don Tomaso de Yriarte, he rapidly read over the story of the "Spit and Espada." "Once upon a time there was a rapier of Toledo; a better was never seen in the Alcazar, or tempered in the waters of the Tagus. After having been in many battles, and belonging to many brave cavaliers, by one of the vicissitudes of fortune which lay the greatest low, it came at length to lie forgotten in the corner of a scurvy posada.