‘How soon can you take the road?’ asked Concha abruptly.
‘Ten minutes—the time for a cup of coffee,’ was the answer, given with a pleasant laugh.
‘Then order your carriage.’
Vincente looked at his old friend, and the smile never left his lips, though his eyes were grave enough. It was hard to say whether aught on earth could disturb this man’s equanimity. Then the General rose and went to the window which opened upon the courtyard. In the quiet corner near the rain-tank, where a vine grows upon trellis-work, the dusty travelling-carriage stood, and upon the step of it, eating a simple meal of bread and dried figs, sat the man who had the reputation of being the fastest driver in Spain.
‘In ten minutes, my good Manuel,’ said the General.
‘Bueno,’ grumbled the driver, with his mouth full—a man of few words.
‘Is it to go far?’ asked the General, turning on his heel and addressing Concha.
‘A long journey.’
‘To take the road, Manuel,’ cried Vincente, leaning out. He closed the window before resuming his seat.
‘And now, have you any more orders?’ he asked with a gay carelessness. ‘I counted on sleeping in a bed to-night.’