The Spaniard looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah! you do not understand," he said, "in that cold country of the North. If you stay in Spain, perhaps some dark-eyed one will teach you. But," and his manner changed with theatrical rapidity, as he laid his slim hand on the letter, "if, when you see her you love her, I will kill you."
Conyngham laughed and held out his hand for the letter.
"It is insufficiently addressed," he said practically. "How shall I find the lady?"
"Her name is Barenna, the Senorita Barenna; that is sufficient in Ronda."
Conyngham took up the letter and examined it. "It is of importance?" he said.
"Of the utmost."
"And of value?"
"Of the greatest value in the world to me."
The Spaniard rose and took up his cloak, which he had thrown over the back of the nearest chair, not forgetting to display a picturesque corner of its bright lining.
"You swear you will deliver it, only with your own hand, only to the hand of the Senorita Barenna? And--you will observe the strictest secrecy?"
"Oh, yes," answered Conyngham carelessly, "if you like."
The Spaniard turned, and, leaning one hand on the table, looked almost fiercely into his companion"s face. "You are an Englishman,"
he said, "and an Englishman"s word--is it not known all the world over? In the North, in my country, where Wellington fought, the peasants still say "word of an Englishman" instead of an oath."
He threw his cloak over his shoulder, and stood looking down at his companion with a little smile as if he were proud of him.
"There!" he said. "Adios. My name is Larralde, but that is of no consequence. Adios!"
With a courteous bow he took his leave, and Conyngham presently saw him walking down to the landing stage. It seemed that this strange visitor was about to depart as abruptly as he had come. Conyngham rose and walked to the edge of the verandah, where he stood watching the departure of the boat in which his new friend had taken pa.s.sage.
While he was standing there, the old priest came quietly out of the open window of the dining room. He saw the letter lying on the table where Conyngham had left it. He approached, his shabby old shoes making no sound on the wooden flooring, and read the address written on the pink and scented envelope. When the Englishman at length turned, he was alone on the verandah, with the wine bottle, the empty gla.s.ses, and the letter.
CHAPTER V. CONTRABAND.
"What rights are his that dares not strike for them?"
An hour before sunrise two horses stood shuffling their feet and chewing their bits before the hotel of the Marina at Algeciras, while their owner, a short and thick-set man of an exaggeratedly villanous appearance, attended to such straps and buckles as he suspected of latent flaws. The horses were lean and loose of ear, with a melancholy thoughtfulness of demeanour that seemed to suggest the deepest misgivings as to the future. Their saddles and other accoutrements were frankly theatrical, and would have been at once the delight of an artist and the despair of a saddler. Fringes and ta.s.sels of bright-coloured worsted depended from points where fringes and ta.s.sels were distinctly out of place. Where the various straps should have been strong they looked weak, and scarce a buckle could boast an innocence of knotted string. The saddles were of wood, and calculated to inflict serious internal injuries to the rider in case of a fall. They stood at least a foot above the horse"s backbone, raised on a thick cushion upon the ribs of the animal, and leaving a s.p.a.ce in the middle for the secretion of tobacco and other contraband merchandise.
"I"ll take the smallest cut-throat of the crew," Conyngham had said on the occasion of an informal parade of guides the previous evening. And the host of the Fonda, in whose kitchen the function had taken place, explained to Concepcion Vara that the English Excellency had selected him on his--the host"s--a.s.surance that Algeciras contained no other so honest.
"Tell him," answered Concepcion with a cigarette between his lips and a pardonable pride in his eyes, "that my grandfather was a smuggler and my father was shot by the Guardia Civil near Algatocin."
Concepcion, having repaired one girth and shaken his head dubiously over another, lighted a fresh cigarette and gave a little shiver, for the morning air was keen. He discreetly coughed. He had seen Conyngham breakfasting by the light of a dim oil lamp of a shape and make unaltered since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, and, without appearing impatient, wished to convey to one gentleman the fact that another awaited him.
Before long Conyngham appeared, having paid an iniquitous bill with the recklessness that is only thoroughly understood by the poor. He appeared as usual to be at peace with all men, and returned his guide"s grave salutation with an easy nod.
"These the horses?" he inquired.
Concepcion Vara spread out his hands. "They have no equal in Andalusia," he said.
"Then I am sorry for Andalusia," answered Conyngham with a pleasant laugh.
They mounted and rode away in the dim cool light of the morning.
The sea was of a deep blue, and rippled all over as in a picture.
Gibraltar, five miles away, loomed up like a grey cloud against the pink of sunrise. The whole world wore a cleanly look as if the night had been pa.s.sed over its face like a sponge, wiping away all that was unsightly or evil. The air was light and exhilarating, and scented by the breath of aromatic weeds growing at the roadside.
Concepcion sang a song as he rode--a song almost as old as his trade--declaring that he was a smuggler bold. And he looked it, every inch. The road to Ronda lies through the cork woods of Ximena, leaving St. Roque on the right hand--such at least was the path selected by Conyngham"s guide; for there are many ways over the mountains, and none of them to be recommended. Beguiling the journey with cigarette and song, calling at every venta on the road, exchanging chaff with every woman and a quick word with all men, Concepcion faithfully fulfilled his contract, and, as the moon rose over the distant snow-clad peaks of the Sierra Nevada, pointed forward to the lights of Gaucin, a mountain village with an evil reputation.
The dawn of the next day saw the travellers in the saddle again, and the road was worse than ever. A sharp ascent led them up from Gaucin to regions where foliage grew scarcer at every step, and cultivation was unknown. At one spot they turned to look back, and saw Gibraltar like a tooth protruding from the sea. The straits had the appearance of a river, and the high land behind Ceuta formed the farther bank of it.
"There is Africa," said Concepcion gravely, and after a moment turned his horse"s head uphill again. The people of these mountain regions were as wild in appearance as their country. Once or twice the travellers pa.s.sed a shepherd herding sheep or goats on the mountain side, himself clad in goatskin, with a great brown cloak floating from his shoulders--a living picture of Ishmael or those sons of his who dwelt in the tents of Kedar. A few muleteers drew aside to let the horses pa.s.s, and exchanged some words in an undertone with Conyngham"s guide. Fine-looking brigands were these, with an armoury of knives peeping from their bright-coloured waistbands. The Andalusian peasant is for six days in the week calculated to inspire awe by his clothing and general appearance.
Of a dark skin and hair, he usually submits his chin to the barber"s office but once a week, and the timid traveller would do well to take the road on Sundays only. Towards the end of the week, and notably on a Sat.u.r.day, every pa.s.ser-by is an unshorn brigand capable of the darkest deeds of villany, while twenty-four hours later the land will be found to be peopled by as clean and honest and smart, and withal as handsome, a race of men as any on earth.
Before long all habitations were left behind, and the horses climbed from rock to rock like cats. There was no suggestion of pathway or landmark, and Concepcion paused once or twice to take his bearings.
It was about two in the afternoon when, after descending the bed of a stream long since dried up, Concepcion called a halt, and proposed to rest the horses while he dined. As on the previous day, the guide"s manner was that of a gentleman, conferring a high honour with becoming modesty when he sat down beside Conyngham and untied his small sack of provisions. These consisted of dried figs and bread, which he offered to his companion before beginning to eat.
Conyngham shared his own stock of food with his guide, and subsequently smoked a cigarette which that gentleman offered him.
They were thus pleasantly engaged when a man appeared on the rocks above them in a manner and with a haste that spoke but ill of his honesty. The guide looked up knife in hand, and made answer to a gesture of the arm with his own hand upraised.
"Who is this?" said Conyngham. "Some friend of yours? Tell him to keep his distance, for I don"t care for his appearance."
"He is no friend of mine, Excellency. But the man is, I dare say, honest enough. In these mountains it is only of the Guardia Civil that one must beware. They have ever the finger on the trigger and shoot without warning."
"Nevertheless," said the Englishman, now thoroughly on the alert, "let him state his business at a respectable distance. Ah! he has a comrade and two mules."
And indeed a second man of equally unprepossessing exterior now appeared from behind a great rock leading a couple of heavily laden mules.
Concepcion and the first traveller, who was now within a dozen yards, were already exchanging words in a patois not unlike the Limousin dialect, of which Conyngham understood nothing.
"Stop where you are," shouted the Englishman in Spanish, "or else I shoot you! If there is anything wrong, Senor Vara," he added to the guide, "I shoot you first, understand that."
"He says," answered Concepcion with dignity, "that they are honest traders on the road to Ronda, and would be glad of our company. His Excellency is at liberty to shoot if he is so disposed."
Conyngham laughed.
"No," he answered, "I am not anxious to kill any man, but each must take care of himself in these times."
"Not against an honest smuggler."
"Are these smugglers?"
"They speak as such. I know them no more than does his Excellency."