“No; all I am is patriotic; really, Quentin. How many times at night have I ventured out in disguise, sometimes along the Gran Capitán, or through any of the sally-ports on the left, and reached the bridge by encircling the wall! There I used to glide along the fosses of the Calahorra castle, climb down to the other bank of the Guadalquivir, and continue down stream until I struck the Montilla turnpike. At other times I crossed the river by the Adalid ford, to come out later behind the Campo de la Verdad in a bit of land called Los Barreros, where a guard received me most informally.”
“Why all these masquerades, Don Paco?”
“You may believe that they were all necessary.”
Don Paco and Quentin were walking toward the river, when suddenly, between the Puerta de Seville, and the Cementerio de la Salud, they heard a loud, harsh voice that rang out powerfully in the silence of the night.
“Two men,” answered Quentin sarcastically, “at least that’s what we look like.”
“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed Don Paco. “They might shoot.”
The voice, louder and more threatening than before, shouted again:
“Halt, in the name of the guardia civil!”
“We are halted,” stammered Don Paco, trembling.