‘It is the Queen’s courier,’ said the innkeeper grandly, ‘who takes the road before her Majesty in order to secure horses.’
‘Ah,’ said the General, breaking his bread and dropping it into his cup. ‘Is that so? The Queen Regent, you mean?’
‘Queen or Queen Regent, she requires four horses this evening, Excellency—that is all my concern.’
‘True, my friend; true. That is well said. And the horses will be forthcoming, no doubt.’
‘They will be forthcoming,’ said the man. ‘And the Excellency’s carriage is ready.’
In the early morning light they drove on, now descending towards the great valley of the Guadiana, and at midday, as Vincente had foreseen, gained a sight of the ancient city of Ciudad Real lying amid trees below them. Ciudad Real is less interesting than its name, and there is little that is royal about its dirty streets and ill-kept houses. No one gave great heed to the travelling-carriage, for this is a great centre where travellers journeying east or west, north or south, must needs pause for a change of horses. At the inn there were vacant rooms, and that hasty welcome accorded to the traveller at wayside houses where none stay longer than they can help.
‘No,’ said the landlord, in answer to the General’s query. ‘We are not busy, though we expect a lady who will pass the hour of the siesta here and then proceed northward.’
CHAPTER XXVI
WOMANCRAFT
‘Il est rare que la tête des rois soit faite à la mesure de leur couronne.’
In the best room of the inn where Vincente and his tired companions sought a few hours’ rest there sat alone, and in thought, a woman of middle age. Somewhat stout, she yet had that air which arouses the attention without being worthy of the name of beauty. This lady had doubtless swayed men’s hearts by a word or a glance, for she still carried herself with assurance, and a hundred little details of her dress would have told another woman that she still desired to please. She wore a white mantilla.