at's curious," said John Mortimer, "that fellow had a red and
white cloth in his hand. And all the time when I was skirmishing about
after those onions in the nuns' warehouse, they were waving red and
white flags up on the hills over there--_wig wag_ like that!"

And with his hand he illustrated the irregular and arbitrary behaviour
of the flags upon the hills which overlooked the village of Sarria to
the south.

And at the sound of his words Rollo started, and his countenance
changed. It was then no mere delusion of the eye and brain that he had
seen when he entered the precincts of the mill-house of Sarria, as La
Giralda would fain have persuaded him. The thought started a doubt in
his mind.

Who after all was that old woman? And what cause had El Sarria for
trusting her? None at all, so far as Rollo knew, save that she hated the
Tia Elvira. Then that flicker of red and white on the hillside to the
south among the scattered boulders and juniper bushes, and the favour of
the same colour in the muleteer's hand as he went through the gate!

Verily Rollo had some matter for reflection, as, with his comrades, one
on either hand of him, he strolled slowly back to the venta.

"I wonder," said John Mortimer, as if to himself, "if that young woman
who walks like a pussycat will have luncheon ready for us. I told her to
roast the legs of the lamb I bought at the market this morning, and make
an _olla_ of the rest. But I don't believe she understands her own
language--a very ignorant young woman indeed."

"I, on the other hand, think she knows too much," murmured Etienne to
himself.

But Rollo, the red and white flutter of the mysterious signal flags
before his eyes, seen between him and the white-hot sky of day, only
sighed, and wished that the night would anticipate itself by a few
hours.

And so, dinner being over, and even John Mortimer satisfied, the drowsy
afternoon of Sarria wore on, the clack of the mill-wheel down at the
mill, and the clink of the anvil where Jaime Casanovas, the smith, was
shoeing a horse, being the only sounds without; while in the venta
itself the whisk of the skirts of the silent handmaid, who with a
perfectly grave face went about her work, alone broke the silence. But
Monsieur Etienne's ears tingled red, for he was conscious that as often
as she passed behind his chair, she smiled a subtle smile.

He thought on the green lattices and the path so near and so cool. But
with all his courag