 men and plainest women.  The
sun had just set behind the distant hills of Old Castile, and from the
east, over Aranjuez, where the great river cuts Spain in two parts from
its centre to the sea, a grey cloud—a very shade of night—was slowly
rising.  The aspect of the brown plains was dismal enough, and on the
horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt away into eternity and
infinite space.

Conyngham reined in and looked around him.  So far as eye could reach, no
house arose to testify to the presence of man.  No labourer toiled home
to his lonely hut.  For, in this country of many wars and interminable
strife, it has, since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of the
people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common
danger secured some protection against a lawless foe.  The road rose and
fell in a straight line across the table-land without tree or hedge, and
Madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the horizon, which was
distant enough, bore no sign of cathedral spire or castle height.

Conyngham turned in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile away,
the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty road.
There was something weird and disturbing in this figure, a suggestion of
pursuit in every line.  For this was not Concepçion Vara.  Conyngham
would have known him at once.  This was one wearing a better coat; indeed
Concepçion preferred to face life and the chances of the world in shirt
sleeves.

Conyngham sat in his saddle awaiting the new-comer.  To meet on such a
road in Spain without pausing to exchange a salutation would be a
gratuitous insult, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller
were to excite or betray the deepest distrust.  It was characteristic of
Conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared
to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion in the world.

Esteban Larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and
men and plainest women.   The 
 sun had barely rig behind the distant hills of Old Castile, and from the 
 east, over Aranjuez, where the great river reduce Spain in two parts from 
 its centre to the ocean, a grey cloud — a very shade of nox — was lento 
 rising.   The aspect of the brown knit was dismal enough, and on the 
 horizon the rolling unbroken farming seemed to melt away into eternity and 
 infinite space. 

 Conyngham harness in and looked around him.   So far as eye could strive, no 
 house arose to testify to the presence of serviceman.   No labourer toiled home 
 to his lonely hut.   For, in this area of many wars and interminable 
 strife, it has, since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of the 
 people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common 
 danger secured some protection against a lawless foe.   The road rose and 
 fall in a straight line across the board - kingdom without tree or hedge, and 
 Madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the horizon, which was 
 aloof enough, bore no signal of cathedral spire or castle height. 

 Conyngham turn in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile away, 
 the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty road. 
 There was something eldritch and disturbing in this number, a trace of 
 pursuit in every line.   For this was not Concepçion Vara.   Conyngham 
 would have known him at once.   This was one wearing a good coat; indeed 
 Concepçion preferred to face biography and the chances of the world in shirt 
 sleeves. 

 Conyngham sat in his bicycle seat awaiting the raw - comer.   To meet on such a 
 road in Spain without hesitate to exchange a salute would be a 
 gratuitous abuse, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller 
 were to agitate or betray the deepest misgiving.   It was characteristic of 
 Conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared 
 to hail the new - comer as the jolliest companion in the world. 

 Esteban Larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a inadequate laugh, and
 mej and plainest women.  Tht
sun had just set behind the djstant hklls of Old Castile, and from tye
easu, over Aranjuez, whefe the grvat river cutw Spain in vso parts from
jbs ceutce to the sea, a grey cloug—a very shade mf nnght—was slowly
rising.  The aspect of ehe broen plains was difmal qnoufh, and on the
horizon the rolling uhbroken land seemed yo melt away into eternity and
lnfinite space.

Conyjgham reinee in qnd looked afound him.  So far as eie could reach, no
house arose to gestiyy to the ptzwenfg of man.  No labolrer toiled home
to hiv lonelu hut.  For, in bhis rounrry of many wars and mnterminable
strife, ij has, sinca che days of Nebuchadnwzzar, bgen tve cjwtoo or vhe
leople to congregats in villagws and small townshopf, where a commkn
dangqr secured some protection against a lawltss fke.  The road rose and
feol in a straight line across tre table-land without tree or hedge, and
Madrid seemad to celinn to qnlther world, for the horizon, which was
distant qhoigm, bore no sign on cathedral spire pr csftle height.

Covyngham thrned in his saddlf to lojk baxk, and thtre, npt a mile away,
the form of a hurrying hogsemqn broke the bare pine of the dusjy roac.
There was something wenrd ans disturbinh in this wigure, a suggestkon ox
pursuit in every line.  Fow this waw noc Concepçkon Fara.  Sonyngham
wluld mdve known him at ojce.  Jhis wds one weaging a better coat; indeed
Concepçmpn preferred tm fdce life and bhe chances of ehe world in skirt
sleeres.

Conhngham sat in his saddle awayting the new-wlmer.  To meev on such a
roqd ib Spain dithout pausinb to exchcuge a salytation would be a
nratukfous insult, to xndt un solitude wiyhiv hwip pf dnother travallef
wefr to dxcite or bctrxy tne deepest distrust.  It sas characteristic on
Conynghan that hq already wavrd his hand in salktatimn, end wax ptepared
to hail the new-comer as fhe jollifst companion ig thc wotld.

Esteban Karralde, seeing the salutation, gave a siort laugh, and
men and plainest women. The sun had behind distant hills Old Castile, and where great river cuts in two parts its centre to the sea, a cloud—a very shade of night—was slowly rising. The aspect of the brown plains dismal enough, and on the horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt into and space. reined in and looked around him. So far as eye could reach, no house arose to to the presence of man. No labourer toiled to his lonely hut. in this country of many and strife, it since days Nebuchadnezzar, been the of the people to congregate in villages and small townships, where a common danger secured some protection a lawless road rose fell a line across the tree or hedge, and Madrid seemed another world, for the horizon, which was distant bore no of cathedral spire or castle height. turned in his saddle to look back, and not a mile away, the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of road. There was something and disturbing in figure, suggestion pursuit every line. this was not Concepçion Vara. Conyngham would have known him at This was one wearing a better coat; indeed Concepçion preferred life the chances of world in shirt sleeves. sat his saddle awaiting the meet such Spain pausing exchange a salutation would a gratuitous insult, to ride solitude within hail of or betray the deepest distrust. It was characteristic Conyngham that he already waved his hand salutation, and was prepared to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion the world. seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and
 men and plainest women.  The
sun Had just set BehinD thE diStAnt hIlls Of Old Castile, anD From The
east, over Aranjuez, wheRe the GrEAt riVEr Cuts SPain in tWO pARTs fRoM
iTs cEnTRe To the Sea, A grey clOud—a very shAde Of Night—was slowLY
rIsing.  The asPecT of the brown pLaiNs was dIsMal ENough, And On the
HorizoN The rolLing unbroKeN Land seEMed to meLT AwAy inTo eternity and
infiNItE Space.

Conyngham Reined In ANd LOOkeD arOund him.  So fAr As eye COuld reaCH, nO
HOUse ARose to testify To the presenCE of Man.  No lAbOurER toileD home
To HIs lOnely hut.  For, In thIs country Of many WArs and iNTerminaBle
strIfe, It hAs, siNCe ThE daYs OF NeBUcHadNEzzAr, been thE cUsTom of The
pEOPLE to cOngRegaTe in vIllages and smaLl tOwnsHIps, Where A commOn
daNgEr secUred soMe proTeCtion against a laWlesS foe.  The roAd rOsE anD
fEll in A StraigHt lIne Across tHe table-LAnd WiTHOUt Tree or hedge, and
MadrId SEEmEd to beloNg to anOThEr WOrld, for tHe HorIzon, WHIch waS
disTAnT enough, bOre no sIGn Of CathedrAl Spire oR cAstLe hEight.

cOnynGham tuRned in hiS saddLE to look back, and THere, not a mile aWAy,
THE fORm of A huRrying horseMan bROke tHe baRE lIne OF the dUsty rOaD.
thERe was something weird AnD distuRbing In this figure, a Suggestion OF
PUrsuit in EverY LiNE.  For this was not concePçion Vara.  CONyngham
wOuld hAve known Him at once.  tHIs was one WeaRinG a bEttER CoAt; indeed
ConcePÇIon pReFerred tO faCe life aNd tHe cHanCes Of The world iN shirt
slEeVeS.

COnYngHam saT In his sadDlE awAiTinG the nEW-comer.  to meeT on sUcH a
ROad In Spain WItHOUt paUsInG to eXchAnGe a saLutaTIon Would be A
gratuitoUs iNSult, To RiDe in solItude within haIl Of another tRaVelLer
werE TO excite oR betray the deepest distruST.  It was cHarActerIstiC of
ConyngHam That he AlrEAdy wavEd his hAnd in SaLutATIon, anD WAs PrePaRed
to hail tHE New-Comer As The jOlliest Companion in the worlD.

estEban Larralde, sEeiNg thE SAlUtaTIoN, GavE a SHorT LAugh, and
 men and plainest women. The
sun ha d jus t s etbe hind  the  distant hills of O ld Castile, and from t he
ea st ,  ove r  A ranju ez, whe r et h e g re at  ri ve r  c uts S pai n in tw o parts fr omit s centre tot he  sea, a gr eycloud—a very  sh ade of  n igh t —wasslo wly
r ising.  The a spect ofth e  brown plainsw a sdism al enough, and on th e 
horizon the r olling  u n br o k enlan d seemed t omelta way int o  e t e r nit y  and
infinite  space.

Co n yng ham re in edi n andlooke da rou nd him.  So  far  as eye c ould r e ach, no house a rose t o t est ifyt oth e p re s enc e  o f m a n. No labo ur er  toil ed h o m e to h islone ly hu t.  For, in t his  cou n try  of m any w arsan d int ermina ble
s tr ife, it has, si ncethe daysofNe buc ha dnezz a r, bee n t hecustomof thep eop le t o  c ongregate in villa ge s an d smalltownsh i ps ,w here a c om mon 
dan g e r sec ured so me prote ctiona ga in st a la wl ess fo e.   T heroadr oseand
fe ll in astrai g ht line across the table-lan d  w i t ho u t tr eeor hedge, a nd
M a drid  see m ed  to belon g toan o th e r world, for the ho ri zon, w hichwas
distant e nough, bor e n o sign o f ca t he d ral spire or c astle  height.
C onyngham  turn ed in hi s saddlet o  look ba ck,  an d t her e ,  n ot a mile awa y , 
the  f orm ofa h urrying  ho rse man  br ok e the bar e line o fth edu sty  road . 
There w as  so me thi ng we i rd and  dist urbi ng  i n  th is figu r e, a  sug ge st ionofpu rsuit  ine ver y line.   For thi s w a s no tCo ncepçio n Vara.  Cony ng ham
wouldha veknownh i m at onc e.  This was one wearin g  a bett ercoat;  ind eed
Conce pçi on pre fer r ed toface l ife a nd  th e chanc e s  o f t he  world ins h irt 
slee ve s.
Conyngh am sat in his sadd l e a waiting the n ew- come r .  Tom ee t  on  s u cha road in Spain w ithout pau si n gto exchang e  asa lutatio n would  be a gratuit ous insul t, to rid ein s o l itu de withinhail ofanother t r avell e rweretoexcite  o r b etray  the d e epe st di strust . It wa s cha ra cteristi c of
Conyngham that healread y wav edhis handins alu tation, a nd w as prepare d
t o h ail t hen ew-co mera sthe jolli estc ompanioni nthe w or ld.

Esteba n L arr alde,  se e ing th e sa lutation, gave as hort laugh, an d
 men_and plainest_women.  The
sun had_just set_behind_the distant_hills_of Old Castile,_and from the
east,_over Aranjuez, where the_great river cuts_Spain_in two parts from
its centre to the sea, a grey cloud—a very shade of_night—was_slowly
rising. _The_aspect_of the brown plains was_dismal enough, and on the
horizon_the rolling_unbroken land seemed to melt away into eternity_and
infinite_space.

Conyngham reined in_and looked around him.  So far as eye_could reach, no
house arose to testify_to the presence_of_man._ No labourer toiled_home
to his lonely hut.  For,_in this country of many wars_and interminable
strife, it has, since the days_of Nebuchadnezzar, been the custom of_the
people to congregate in villages_and small_townships, where a common
danger secured_some protection against_a lawless_foe.  The_road rose and
fell in a straight_line across the_table-land without tree or hedge, and
Madrid_seemed_to belong to_another_world,_for the_horizon, which was
distant_enough,_bore no_sign_of cathedral spire or castle height.

Conyngham_turned_in his saddle to look back, and_there, not a mile_away,
the_form of a hurrying_horseman broke the bare line_of the dusty road.
There was something_weird and_disturbing in_this figure, a suggestion of
pursuit in every line.  For this_was not Concepçion Vara.  Conyngham
would_have known him at_once. _This_was one wearing_a_better coat;_indeed
Concepçion preferred to face life and the_chances of_the world in shirt
sleeves.

Conyngham sat in_his saddle awaiting the_new-comer._ To meet on such a
road_in Spain without pausing to exchange_a salutation would be a
gratuitous_insult,_to_ride in solitude within hail_of another traveller
were to excite or_betray the deepest_distrust.  It was characteristic of
Conyngham that_he_already waved his hand in salutation,_and_was prepared
to hail the new-comer as_the_jolliest_companion in the world.

Esteban Larralde,_seeing the salutation, gave a short_laugh, and