the matter than might serve him to
speculate upon what sort of _anisete_ they might chance to find at the
village venta.

By favour of the Abbot the three voyagers into the unknown had most
gallant steeds under them, and were in all things well appointed, with
English and French passports in their own several names and styles as
gentlemen travelling for pleasure, to see strange lands, and especially
this ancient, restless, war-distracted country of Spain.

Their servant, Jaime de Lugo, was appropriately horsed on a little
round-barrelled Asturian pony, able to carry any weight, which padded on
its way with a quiet persistence that never left its master far behind
the most gallant galloper of the cavalcade.

So these three rode on towards the camp of the most redoubted and
redoubtable General Cabrera.

This chief of all the armies of Don Carlos was then at the height of his
fame. His fear was on all the land. He was brave, cruel, perfectly
unscrupulous, this "Killer of Aragon," this "Butcher of Tortosa." In a
few months he had achieved a fame greater almost than that of
Zumalacarregui, the prince of _guerrilleros_, himself.

At this time Cabrera was holding half a dozen of the Cristino generals
at bay, including Minos himself, the chief of all. His tactics consisted
in those immemorial rapid movements and unexpected appearances which
have characterised Spanish guerilla warfare ever since the Carthagenians
invaded the land, and the aboriginal Celtiberians took to the mountains
of Morella and the wild passes of Aragon, just as Cabrera and El
Serrador were doing at this date.

Meanwhile southward out of the pleasant hills of Montblanch, our three
lads were riding, each with his own hopes and fears in his heart. Rollo
of course was the keenest of the party; for not only was the work to his
liking, but he was the natural as well as the actual leader. He alone
knew the Abbot's purposes, or at least as much of them as Don Baltasar
had thought it wise to reveal to his emissary--which after all was not a
great deal.

But John Mortimer had failed to rouse himself to any enthusiasm even
under the spur of Rollo's defiant optimism.

They would return to Montblanch in a week or two, the latter averred. By
that time the passes would be cleared. John's wine would be safe. The
Abbot's seven-year undertaking in his pocket was good for the face of it
at any wine-shipper's in Barcelona. In a month he (Rollo) would be a
colonel--pe