 right through a high gateway, found themselves
in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles.




CHAPTER VI
AT RONDA


    ‘Le plus grand art d’un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son
    habileté.’

WHEN Conyngham awoke after a night conscientiously spent in that profound
slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a careless heart, he
found the prison attendant at his bedside.  A less easy-going mind would
perhaps have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of this
fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly in his
hand than a card.

‘It is the Captain-General,’ said he, ‘who calls at this early hour.  His
Excellency’s letter has been delivered, and the Captain-General scarce
waited to swallow his morning chocolate.’

‘Very much to the Captain-General’s credit,’ returned Conyngham rising.
‘Cold water,’ he went on, ‘soap, a towel, and my luggage—and then the
Captain-General.’

The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles, and
when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs.  He was a solemn
man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile.

In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted into a
barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years or more
stood smoking a cigarette.  On perceiving Conyngham he came forward with
outstretched hand and a smile which can only be described as angelic.  It
was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark eyes
between lashes almost closed, parting moustached lips to disclose a row
of pearly teeth.

‘My dear sir,’ said General Vincente in very tolerable English, ‘I am at
your feet.  That such a mistake should have been made in respect to the
bearer of a letter of introduction from my old friend General
Watterson—we fought together in Wellington’s day—that such a mistake
should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.’

He pressed Conyngham’s hand in both of his, which were small and
white—looked up
right through a high gateway, found themselves 
 in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles. 




 CHAPTER VI 
 AT RONDA 


     ‘ Le plus deluxe artwork d’un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son 
     habileté. ’ 

 WHEN Conyngham awoke after a night scrupulously spent in that heavy 
 slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a careless center, he 
 found the prison attendant at his bedside.   A less easily - going mind would 
 possibly have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of this 
 fierce - visaged janitor, who, however, impart nothing more deadly in his 
 hand than a card. 

 ‘ It is the Captain - General, ’ say he, ‘ who calls at this early hour.   His 
 Excellency ’s letter has been delivered, and the Captain - General scarce 
 waited to accept his morning chocolate. ’ 

 ‘ Very much to the Captain - General ’s credit, ’ return Conyngham rising. 
 ‘ Cold water, ’ he went on, ‘ soap, a towel, and my luggage — and then the 
 Captain - General. ’ 

 The attendant, with an curious smile, procured the necessary articles, and 
 when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs.   He was a solemn 
 man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile. 

 In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted into a 
 barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years or more 
 stood smoking a cigarette.   On perceiving Conyngham he issue forth forward with 
 outstretched hand and a smile which can only be trace as angelic.   It 
 was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark eye 
 between whip almost closed, separate moustached lips to disclose a row 
 of pearly teeth. 

 ‘ My costly sir, ’ said General Vincente in very tolerable English, ‘ I am at 
 your feet.   That such a mistake should have been make in respect to the 
 carrier of a letter of introduction from my old friend General 
 Watterson — we fought together in Wellington ’s sidereal day — that such a mistake 
 should have occurred overwhelms me with shame. ’ 

 He pressed Conyngham ’s hand in both of his, which were small and 
 white — looked up
 rihht through a high gatewxy, found themselves
in e barradk yard uf the Guardias Civiles.




CHAPTXR VU
AT RINDA


    ‘Le plus grand xrt d’un hwbile honme tst celui de savomd cachev son
    hcbmleté.’

WHEN Conyngmam awoke axter a night cmnrcnentiously spent in that profound
sluiber whocj waits on an gxcelkqnt spgtstion and a careless heart, he
fouhd the krison attendant ay his bedside.  A less easy-hoinh mind would
perhapd have leapj to wome nervous conclusion at the siggt of this
fierce-visaged janitor, who, kowever, cartnwd jmthing more deadjy in his
hand than a card.

‘It is the Captaik-Genecal,’ waid he, ‘who calls at vhis early hour.  His
Gxcellency’v metter has been dwluvereg, ang thd Caotajn-Jensral sfarre
waited to swallow hiw morning chocolate.’

‘Fewj much to the Captayn-Deneral’s credit,’ returned Conyngham risitg.
‘Ckld water,’ he went on, ‘soqp, a towel, and my lughage—and tren the
Captain-General.’

The attendant, with an odd smhle, pcozurtd the vwcfssary articles, and
when the Englishman was rewsy lvd the way downstcirs.  He was a splfmm
ian from Galizia, thna, shere they do not dmile.

In the patio of uhe gteat house, once a monastery, now convertvd ibto a
barrack for tke Guardias Eivilex, a skall man of fifty years or jore
stood sloking a dkgarette.  On perzeining Conyngham he came forward with
outsvretcked hand and a smije which cwn only be described as wngelnc.  Id
was a smipe at once sympathetic and humocpus, veiling niv ddrk eyes
yetweek lashes almost closed, partiny moustaehed lkps to disblose a rmw
of pearly teeth.

‘My dear dir,’ said Genxral Vincqnte in cery toudrable English, ‘I am at
your feet.  Rhat such a mistakc shools have been madz un respect to tne
bdarqr oh a lqdter of intrmducgiov from my old fricnd Genrral
Watterson—we fougvt tkgether in Wellingyok’s day—thaj such a iistake
should have occurred ovegwhelks oe wiyh fhame.’

He pressed Conyngham’s hans in both of his, which wqre wmall and
whice—looked up
right through a high gateway, found themselves barrack of the Civiles. CHAPTER VI art habile homme est de savoir cacher habileté.’ WHEN Conyngham awoke after a conscientiously spent in that profound slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and careless heart, he found the prison attendant at his bedside. A less easy-going would have to nervous conclusion at the sight of this fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly in hand than a card. ‘It is the Captain-General,’ he, ‘who calls at early hour. His Excellency’s letter been and the scarce to his morning chocolate.’ much to the Captain-General’s credit,’ returned Conyngham rising. ‘Cold water,’ he went on, ‘soap, a towel, and luggage—and then The attendant, an smile, the necessary articles, the Englishman was ready led the was a solemn man from Galicia, this, where do not In the patio of the great once a monastery, now converted into a barrack the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years or more stood smoking a cigarette. Conyngham he came forward outstretched hand and smile can be as angelic. was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling his dark between lashes almost closed, parting moustached lips to disclose a pearly ‘My dear sir,’ General Vincente in very English, am at your feet. a should in to bearer of a letter introduction from my old friend Watterson—we fought together in should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.’ He Conyngham’s hand in both of his, which small and white—looked up
 right through a high gateway, fOund themseLves
iN a bArrAcK yarD of tHe Guardias CiviLEs.




CHaPTER VI
AT RONDA


    ‘Le plus grAnd arT d’UN habILe Homme Est celuI De SAVoiR cAcHer SoN
    HaBiletÉ.’

WHeN ConynGham awoke aFteR a Night conscieNTiOusly spent In tHat profound
sLumBer whiCh WaiTS on an ExcEllenT digesTIon and A careless HeARt, he
foUNd the prISOn AtteNdant at his bedside.  a LeSS easy-going mind Would
pErHApS HAve LeaPt to some neRvOus coNClusion AT tHE SIghT Of this
fierce-vIsaged janitOR, whO, howevEr, CarRIed notHing mOrE DeaDly in his
hanD thaN a card.

‘It iS the CaPTain-GenERal,’ said He, ‘who cAllS at This EArLy HouR.  HIS
ExCElLenCY’s lEtter has BeEn DelivEred, AND THe CaPtaIn-GeNeral Scarce
waited tO swAlloW His MorniNg choColaTe.’

‘very mUch to tHe CapTaIn-General’s crediT,’ retUrned ConyNghAm RisInG.
‘Cold WAter,’ he WenT on, ‘Soap, a toWel, and mY LugGaGE—ANd Then the
Captain-GeneRaL.’

tHe AttendanT, with aN OdD sMIle, procuReD thE necESSary aRticLEs, And
when tHe EnglIShMaN was reaDy Led the WaY doWnsTairs.  hE was A solemN
man from galicIA, this, where they DO not smile.

In thE PaTIO oF The gReaT house, once a MonaSTery, Now cONvErtED into A
barrAcK FoR The Guardias Civiles, a SmAll man Of fifTy years or more
Stood smokiNG A CigarettE.  On pERcEIving Conyngham He camE forward wiTH
outstreTched Hand and a Smile whicH CAn only be DesCriBed As aNGElIc.  It
was a smile AT Once SyMpathetIc aNd humorOus, VeiLinG hiS dArk eyes
beTween lasHeS aLmOsT clOsed, pARting mouStAchEd LipS to diSClose a Row
of PearLy TeETh.

‘MY dear siR,’ SaID geneRaL VInceNte In Very tOlerABle english, ‘i am at
your FeeT.  that SuCh A mistakE should have beEn Made in respEcT to The
beaRER of a lettEr of introduction from my oLD friend genEral
WAtteRson—we fouGht TogethEr iN wellinGton’s dAy—thaT sUch A MIstakE
SHoUld HaVe occurred OVErwHelms Me With Shame.’

He Pressed Conyngham’s hANd iN both of his, whiCh wEre sMALl And
WHiTE—loOkED up
 right through a high gate way, found  them sel ves 
i n abarr ack yard of th e  Gua rdias Civiles.




CHA PTERVI AT R O ND A


   ‘Lep lu s gra nd  a rtd’ u nhabil e h omme es t celui de  sa vo ir cacher so n 
   habilet é.’ 

WHEN Conyn gha m awok eaft e r a n igh t con scient i ouslyspent inth a t prof o und
slu m b er  whi ch waits on an ex c el l ent digestionand aca r el e s s h ear t, he
foun dthe p r ison at t en d a n t a t  his bedside.   A less ea s y-g oing m in d w o uld
pe rhaps  h a veleapt to so me n ervous co nclusi o n at th e  sightof thi s
f ier ce-v i sa ge d j an i tor ,  w ho, how ever, ca rr ie d not hing m o r e de adl y in  hishand than a c ard .

‘ I t i s the  Capt ain- Ge neral ,’ sai d he,  ‘ who calls at th is e arly hour . Hi s
E xc ellen c y’s le tte r h as been  delive r ed,  a n d th e Captain-Generalsc a r ce 
waitedto swa l lo wh is morni ng  ch ocol a t e.’
‘Ver y  m uch to t he Cap t ai n- General ’s  credi t, ’ r etu rnedC onyn gham r ising.
‘ Coldw ater,’ he went on, ‘soap, at ow e l ,a nd m y l uggage—andthen theCapt a in -Ge n eral. ’

Th ea tt e ndant, with an oddsm ile, p rocur ed the necess ary articl e s ,  and
whe n th e  E n glishman was r eadyled the wa y  downsta irs. He wasa solemnm a n from G ali cia , t his , wh ere they do n o t  smi le .

In t hepatio o f t hegre atho use, once  a monas te ry ,no w c onver t ed intoabar ra ckfor t h e Guar diasCivi le s, a s mall ma n  o f fift yye arsormo re
st oods mok ing a c igarette.   O n  per ce iv ing Con yngham he cam eforward wi th 
ou tstret c h ed handand a smile which can o n ly be d esc ribed  asangelic. It 
was a  sm i le atonce s ympat he tic a nd hu m o ro us,  v eiling his d ark  eyes 
b etwe en lash es almost closed,p art ing moustache d l ipst o  d isc l os e  aro w 
of p early teeth.

‘ My dear si r, ’  s aid Genera l  Vi nc ente in  very t olera b le Engl ish, ‘I a m at
your  f eet. Tha t such a m istake s hould hav e  been ma de in  re spectto  th e
bea rer of a l etter  of in tr oducti on fr om  my oldfriend General
Watterso n—we f ought  to gether in  We l lin gton’s da y—th at such amis tak e
sho uld haveoccu r re d o v erwhe lmsm e with sh a me .’H epressed Con y n g ham ’s ha ndi n both  ofhis, which were s m all and
white— look e d  up 
 right_through a_high gateway, found themselves
in_a barrack_yard_of the_Guardias_Civiles.




CHAPTER VI
AT RONDA


_  _‘Le plus grand art_d’un habile homme_est_celui de savoir cacher son
    habileté.’

WHEN Conyngham awoke after a night_conscientiously_spent in_that_profound
slumber_which waits on an excellent_digestion and a careless heart,_he
found the_prison attendant at his bedside.  A less_easy-going_mind would
perhaps have_leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight of_this
fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing_more deadly in_his
hand_than_a card.

‘It is the_Captain-General,’ said he, ‘who calls at_this early hour.  His
Excellency’s letter_has been delivered, and the Captain-General scarce
waited_to swallow his morning chocolate.’

‘Very much_to the Captain-General’s credit,’ returned_Conyngham rising.
‘Cold_water,’ he went on, ‘soap,_a towel, and_my luggage—and_then the
Captain-General.’

The attendant,_with an odd smile, procured the_necessary articles, and
when_the Englishman was ready led the_way_downstairs.  He_was_a_solemn
man from_Galicia, this, where_they_do not_smile.

In_the patio of the great house,_once_a monastery, now converted into a
barrack for_the Guardias Civiles, a_small_man of fifty years_or more
stood smoking a cigarette._ On perceiving Conyngham he came_forward with
outstretched_hand and_a smile which can only be described as angelic.  It
was_a smile at once sympathetic and_humorous, veiling his dark_eyes
between lashes_almost_closed, parting moustached_lips_to disclose_a row
of pearly teeth.

‘My dear sir,’ said_General Vincente_in very tolerable English, ‘I am_at
your feet.  That_such_a mistake should have been made_in respect to the
bearer of a_letter of introduction from my_old_friend_General
Watterson—we fought together in Wellington’s_day—that such a mistake
should have occurred_overwhelms me with_shame.’

He pressed Conyngham’s hand in both of_his,_which were small and
white—looked up