‘It is a comfort to have one’s duty clearly defined,’ said the General suddenly, in a clear voice. He was evidently addressing Conyngham. ‘One of the advantages of a military life. We have done our best, and this time we have succeeded. But—it is only deferred. It will come at length, and Spain will be a republic. It is a failing cause—because, at the head of it, is a bad woman.’
Conyngham nodded, but no one spoke. No one seemed capable of following his thoughts. Already he seemed to look at them as from a distance, as if he had started on a journey and was looking back. During this silence there came a great clatter in the streets, and a sharp voice cried ‘Halt!’ The General turned his eyes towards the window.
‘The cavalry,’ said Conyngham, ‘from Madrid.’
‘I did not expect—them,’ said Vincente slowly, ‘before the dawn.’
The sound of the horses’ feet and the clatter of arms died away as the troop passed on towards the Calle de la Ciudad, and the quiet of night was again unbroken.
Then Concha, getting down on to his knees, began reciting from memory the office—which, alas! he knew too well.
When it was finished, and the gruff voice died away, Vincente opened his eyes.
‘Every man to his trade,’ he said, with a little laugh.
Then suddenly he made a grimace.
‘A twinge of pain,’ he said deprecatingly, as if apologising for giving them the sorrow of seeing it. ‘It will pass—before the dawn.’