'How did you learn all this war business?' I asked him, after he had told me his plans.
'Common sense, Billums, common sense!'
There was no need for me to ask him why he'd left his rubber plantation.
'Getting enough excitement?' I asked.
'Not yet,' he said, stopping for me to fill his pipe again.
'Do you know,' he said presently, 'that, nearly three hundred years ago, twenty-two Spanish cavaliers rode along this road, as we are riding to-night, to capture Santa Cruz city. San Fernando was a fortified Spanish settlement then, and a native ruled in Santa Cruz. He'd collared the Governor's daughter; she'd been shipwrecked somewhere up the coast whilst on her way to Spain, and the twenty-two in their armour—fancy armour in this climate—riding their big Spanish horses, with a couple of hundred native bowmen in their quilted cotton armour[#] to help them, actually sacked the town. They stopped there, too, and built the fort of San Sebastian.'
[#] In those days the natives wore thick quilted coats, stuffed with cotton fibre, as a defence against sword-cuts.
'Did they rescue the girl?'
'Yes,' Gerald told me. He was full of such stories—the good news about La Buena Presidente had made him quite talkative—and you can imagine how the glamour of the past chivalry excited me. I almost imagined to myself that I was in armour, and should presently have to put lance in rest and charge through crowded ranks of archers and swordsmen.
At about nine o'clock that night we crossed a small stream, and stopped at a Posada, or wayside inn—very cheerful it looked under the trees, with a blazing log-fire gleaming through the open windows. People came hurrying out to take our horses, and Gerald and I had a grand feed. They cooked a ripping omelette, and their home-made bread was grand.