to see about
the chocolate!"

And Rollo Blair, with a slight singing in his ears, and a chill
emptiness about the pit of his stomach, stood on his feet critically
rolling a cigarette in a leaf of Etienne's Alcoy paper.

John Mortimer said nothing, but looked after the man who had gone for
the chocolate.

"I wish it had been coffee," he said; "chocolate is always bad for my
digestion!"

Then he smiled a little grimly. His sufferings from indigestion produced
by indulgence in this particular chocolate would in all probability not
be prolonged, seeing that the glow of the sun-rising was already
reddening the sky to the east.

Etienne was secretly fingering his beads. And El Sarria thought with
satisfaction of the safety of Dolores; he had given up hope of Concha a
full hour ago. The ex-Miguelete had doubtless again played the traitor.
He took a cigarette from Rollo without speaking and followed him across
the uneven floor between the heaps of trodden grain.

They were led down the stairway one by one, and as they passed through
the ground floor, with its thick woolly coating of grey flour dust, a
trumpet blew without, and they heard the trampling of horses in the
courtyard.

"Quick!" said a voice at Rollo's elbow, "here is your chocolate. Nothing
like it for strengthening the knee-joints at a time like this. I've seen
men die on wine and on rum and on brandy; but for me, give me a cup of
chocolate as good as that, when my time comes!"

Rollo drank the thick sweet strength-giving stuff to the accompaniment
of clattering hoofs and jingling accoutrements.

"Come!" said a voice again, "give me the cup. Do not keep the general
waiting. He is in no good temper this morning, and we are to march
immediately."

The young man stepped out of the mill-door into the crisp chill of the
dawn. All the east was a glory of blood-red cloud, and for the second
time Rollo and his companions stood face to face with General Cabrera.

It was within a quarter of an hour of the sun-rising.

CHAPTER XXII

HIS MOTHER'S ROSARY

It was, as the soldier had said most truly, a cold morning to be shot
in. But the Carlists, accustomed to Cabrera's summary methods, appeared
to think but little of the matter, and jested as the firing parties were
selected and drawn out. Ragged and desolate they looked as they stood on
a slight slope between the foreigners and the red dawn, biting their
cartridges and fingering the pulls of their rif