it
stopped all at once. You know how a distant bell stops suddenly. I
never knew before what stillness meant. While I was wondering at it the
fellow holding our horses was moved to uplift his voice. He was a
Spaniard, not a Basque, and he trolled out in Castilian that song you
know,

"'Oh bells of my native village,
I am going away . . . good-bye!'

He had a good voice. When the last note had floated away I remounted,
but there was a charm in the spot, something particular and individual
because while we were looking at it before turning our horses' heads away
the singer said: 'I wonder what is the name of this place,' and the other
man remarked: 'Why, there is no village here,' and the first one
insisted: 'No, I mean this spot, this very place.' The wounded trooper
decided that it had no name probably. But he was wrong. It had a name.
The hill, or the rock, or the wood, or the whole had a name. I heard of
it by chance later. It was--Lastaola."

A cloud of tobacco smoke from Mills' pipe drove between my head and the
head of Mr. Blunt, who, strange to say, yawned slightly. It seemed to me
an obvious affectation on the part of that man of perfect manners, and,
moreover, suffering from distressing insomnia.

"This is how we first met and how we first parted," he said in a weary,
indifferent tone. "It's quite possible that she did see her uncle on the
way. It's perhaps on this occasion that she got her sister to come out
of the wilderness. I have no doubt she had a pass from the French
Government giving her the completest freedom of action. She must have
got it in Paris before leaving."

Mr. Blunt broke out into worldly, slightly cynical smiles.

"She can get anything she likes in Paris. She could get a whole army
over the frontier if she liked. She could get herself admitted into the
Foreign Office at one o'clock in the morning if it so pleased her. Doors
fly open before the heiress of Mr. Allegre. She has inherited the old
friends, the old connections . . . Of course, if she were a toothless old
woman . . . But, you see, she isn't. The ushers in all the ministries
bow down to the ground therefore, and voices from the innermost sanctums
take on an eager tone when they say, '_Faites entrer_.' My mother knows
something about it. She has followed her career with the greatest
attention. And Rita herself is not even surprised. She accomplishes
most extraordinary things, as naturally as buyi