“There is no lady here, sir; the lady died a hundred years ago. Oh, say, the lovely yellow candles, and the priest he go Do diddy diddy oh do.”
“Then there is no lady?”
“All put into the grave: ring a bell: Do.”
“Is anyone at the house at all?”
“All in the grave. Do. Ring the bell. Do.”
A square-faced man, riding sideways on a heavily-laden mule, stopped in the road.
“Sir,” he said to Sard, “can I be of service to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Sard said. “Can you tell me if any Spanish lady came, or is coming, to this house to-day?”
“The house is shut up, sir. No one will come to this house for some weeks. I, who am Paco, know this, since I have this day talked with Ramón, the caretaker of the General. It may be that in some weeks’ time, when the English, who are to be here, have come, Tio Ramón may know more.”
Sard thanked him and walked on; he came to a little bridge over the river, crossed it, and continued through the forest for half a mile, when he came to a cleared patch where a forge stood beside the road with an inn (of sorts) alongside it. Here a grey old Italian, who said that his name was Enobbio, confirmed what Paco had said: the house of Los Xicales was shut up, in the care of Tio Ramón and his wife Eusebia: no visitor would come there for some weeks.