ect of their pursuit rapidly increasing, gradually
abandoned the race. One man alone continued stanch, and seemed not
unlikely to overtake the dragoon. This was no other than the
sergeant's former opponent in the ball-court, Paco the muleteer, now
converted into a Carlist lancer, and who, his sharp-rowelled spurs
goring his horse's sides, his lance in his hand, his body bent forward
as though he would fain have outstripped in his eagerness the speed of
the animal he bestrode, dashed onward with headlong and reckless
violence. His lean and raw-boned but swift and vigorous horse,
scarcely felt the light weight of its rider; whilst Velasquez'
charger, in addition to the solid bulk of the dragoon, was encumbered
with a well-filled valise and heavy trappings. The distance between
pursued and pursuer was rapidly diminishing; and the sergeant, hearing
the clatter of hoofs each moment drawing nearer, looked over his
shoulder to see by how many of his enemies he was so obstinately
followed. Paco immediately recognised him, and with a shout of
exultation again drove the rowels into his horse's belly.

"_Halto! traidor! infame!_" yelled the ex-muleteer. "Stop, coward, and
meet your death like a man!"

His invitation was not long disregarded. Velasquez, having ascertained
that he had but a single pursuer, and that pursuer a man to whom he
owed a grudge and was by no means sorry to give a lesson, pulled up
his horse and confronted Paco, who, nothing daunted, came tearing
along, waving his lance above his head like a mad Cossack, and
shouting imprecations and defiance. As he came up, Velasquez, who had
steadily awaited his charge, parried the furious thrust that was aimed
at him, and at the same time, by a movement of leg and rein which he
had often practised in the _manege_, caused his horse to bound aside.
Unable immediately to check his steed, Paco passed onwards; but as he
did so, Velasquez dealt him a back-handed blow of his sabre, and the
unlucky Carlist fell bleeding and senseless from the saddle. His
horse, terrified at its rider's fall, galloped wildly across the
country.

"That makes the half-dozen," said the sergeant coolly, as he looked
down on his prostrate foe; "if every one of us had done as much, the
day's work would have been better."

And sheathing his sabre, he resumed, but at a more moderate pace, the
flight which had for a moment been interrupted.

WHITE'S THREE YEARS IN CONSTANTINOPLE.

The title