"You have forgotten to cry," she whispered, dropping back from the ox's head. "We have passed two alleys without a warning!"
And so once more there rang down the streets of the town of San Ildefonso that dolorous and terrible cry which was to be heard in the dread plague-years, not only in the Iberian peninsula but also in England and Rollo's own Scotland, "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!"
It chanced that in the next street, the last of the little town, they made up their full complement. The heads of the oxen were directed once more towards the Hermitage. They turned this corner and that slowly and decorously till, with a quickening of pace and a forward inclination of the meek, moist nostrils, the pair struck into the woodland path towards their stable at the Hermitage.
Not one word either of love or of reproach had Rollo spoken since those into which he had been startled by the fear lest the girl should set her hand upon the dead of the plague. Nor did they speak even now. Rollo only put out his gloved hand to steady the cart here and there in the deeper ruts, motioning Concha to remain at the head of the oxen, where no breath of the dead might blow upon her.
Thus, no man saying them nay, they arrived at the Hermitage of San Ildefonso. It was quiet even as they had left it.
As they came round to the front of the building, the Basque at the door was before them. He met them on the steps, a lantern in his hand.
"Who is this?" he asked, with a significant gesture towards Concha.
"Carlos—a lad of our company, an Andalucian," said Rollo, in answer. "I met him by chance in the town, and he has helped me with the oxen."
The friar nodded and, letting down the rear flap of the cart, he surveyed the melancholy harvest.
"Twelve!" he said. "Not many, but enough. The dead will guard us well from the evil men! Ay, better than an army of twelve thousand living!"