‘But you have no right to despise me,’ she interrupted passionately.
‘If I despised you, should I be here now—should I be doing you this service?’
‘I do not know. I tell you I do not understand you.’
And the Queen looked hard at the man who, for this very reason, interested one who had all her life dealt and intrigued with men of obvious motive and unblushing ambition.
So strong is a ruling passion that even in sight of death (for the Queen Regent knew that Spain was full of her enemies and rendered callous to bloodshed by a long war) vanity was alert in this woman’s breast. Even while General Vincente, that unrivalled strategist, detailed his plans, she kept harking back to the question that puzzled her, and but half listened to his instructions.
Those desirous of travelling without attracting attention in Spain are wise to time their arrival and departure for the afternoon. At this time, while the sun is yet hot, all shutters are closed, and the business of life, the haggling in the market-place, the bustle of the barrack yard, the leisurely labour of the fields, are suspended. It was about four o’clock—indeed, the city clocks were striking that hour—when the two carriages in the inn yard at Ciudad Real were made ready for the road. Father Concha, who never took an active part in passing incidents while his old friend and comrade was near, sat in a shady corner of the patio and smoked a cigarette. An affable ostler had in vain endeavoured to engage him in conversation. Two small children had begged of him, and now he was left in meditative solitude.
‘In a short three minutes,’ said the ostler, ‘and the Excellencies can then depart. In which direction, reverendo, if one may ask?’
‘One may always ask, my friend,’ replied the priest. ‘Indeed, the holy books are of opinion that it cannot be overdone. That chin strap is too tight.’
At this moment the General emerged from the shadow of the staircase, which was open and of stone. He was followed by Estella, as it would appear, and they hurried across the sunlighted patio, the girl carrying her fan to screen her face.
‘Are you rested, my child?’ asked Concha at the carriage door.
The lady lowered the fan for a moment and met his eyes. A quick look of surprise flashed across Concha’s face and he half bowed. Then he repeated his question in a louder voice: