‘I am afraid, Excellency, that I hurt one,’ answered Vara. ‘Where the neck joins the shoulder. It is a pretty spot for the knife—nothing to turn a point.’
He rubbed a sulphur match on the leg of his trouser, and lighted a cigarette as he rode along.
‘On our side no accidents,’ continued Vara, with a careless grandeur, ‘unless the reverendo received a kick in the face.’
‘The reverendo received a stone in the small of the back,’ growled Concha pessimistically, ‘where there was already a corner of lumbago.’
Conyngham, standing in his stirrups, was looking back. A man lay motionless on the road, and beyond, at the cross-roads, another was riding up a hill to the right at a hand gallop.
‘It is the road to Madrid,’ said Concepçion, noting the direction of the Englishman’s glance.
The General, leaning out of the carriage window, was also looking back anxiously.
‘They have sent a messenger to Madrid, Excellency, with the news that the Queen is on the road to Toledo,’ said Concepçion.
‘It is well,’ answered Vincente, with a laugh.
As they journeyed, although it was nearly midnight, there appeared from time to time, and for the most part in the neighbourhood of a village, one who seemed to have been awaiting their passage, and immediately set out on foot or horseback by one of the shorter bridle-paths that abound in Spain. No one of these spies escaped the notice of Concepçion, whose training amid the mountains of Andalusia had sharpened his eyesight and added keenness to every sense.