“It's painted glass-window country,” I said. “Old glass, painted by some famous artist who died in the fourteenth century, and a little faded—no, subdued by time.”
“You've hit it,” said Dick. “There is an old-glass-window-in-a-dim-cathedral look about the sky. It gives one a religious kind of feeling, or anyway, as if you'd be thrown out of the picture if you were too frivolous.”
“I feel far from frivolous,” said I. “But I'm excited. Look here; we'll be in San Sebastian and out of San Sebastian soon, if we keep on. But we mustn't keep on; for if we do we may miss [pg 53]the other car, and then I should be as badly off as if I were in Ropes' place at Irun.”
“We know they're going to Seville,” said Dick.
“It's a long cry to Seville. And Carmona may mean to travel by way of Madrid, through Vitoria and Burgos, or he may mean to take a road which Levavasseur in Biarritz told me was better, steering for Seville via Santander and Salamanca. It depends on whether he wants to stop at the capital, I suppose. Anyhow, as he's unconsciously making our arrangements as well as his own, there's nothing for it but we must halt until he passes and gives us our lead.”
“It's all the same to me whether we halt or scorch,” said Dick. “I've got more time than anything else. This is your circus; I'm only the ‘prisoner's best friend,’ as they say in a court-martial. But if we should go to Burgos, I've got an errand to do, if you don't mind.”
“Why should I mind?” I asked.
“It's to call on a young lady.”
“You never mentioned having friends there.”
“She's Angèle de la Mole's friend. All I know is that she's Irish, name O'Donnel; that she's got a harmless, necessary father, and a brother in whom my prophetic soul tells me Angèle is interested; that Papa and Daughter are visiting Brother, who's in the Spanish army for some weird unexplained reason, and stationed in Burgos. I promised to take a package with a present from Angèle to Miss O'Donnel if we stopped long enough at Burgos, or, if we didn't go there, to post it. I've also a letter introducing us to Papa. Angèle said it was possible he might have known your father, so probably he's lived a good deal in Spain at one time or another, or the idea wouldn't have occurred to her. She thought, if we went to see the O'Donnels, Papa might be useful in case you told him who you really were; but I wasn't to bother you about going out of your way for their sakes; which is the reason I didn't mention them until now, when you spoke of Burgos.”