an doubtful if even the
Carlists themselves would spare El Sarria, whose hand was against every
man, be he King's man or Queen's man.

The evening darkened apace. Ramon made his way slowly to the bottom of
the cleft. There was the wide _arroyo_ beneath him, brick-red and hot, a
valley of dry bones crossed here and there by rambling goat tracks, and
strewn with boulders of all sizes, from that of a chick-pea to that of a
cathedral.

It was very still there. An imperial eagle, serenely adrift across the
heavens, let his shadow sail slowly across the wide marled trough of the
glen. There could be no fear now.

"Well," thought Ramon, with philosophy, "we must wait--none knows of
this place. Here I am secure as God in his Heaven. Let us roll a
cigarette!"

So, patiently, as only among Europeans a Spaniard can, El Sarria waited,
stretching his fingers out to the sun and drawing them in, as a tiger
does with his claws, and meanwhile the afternoon wore to evening.

At last it was time.

Very cautiously, for now it was life or death, yet with perfect
assurance that none knew of his path of safety, Ramon stole onward. He
was in the jaws now. He was out. He rushed swiftly for the first huge
boulder, his head drawn in between his shoulders, his gun held in his
left hand, his knife in his right.

But from the very mouth of the pass six men sprang after him, and as
many more fronted him and turned him as he ran.

"Take him alive! A hundred duros to the man who takes El Sarria alive!"

He heard the voice of the officer of Migueletes. He saw the short,
businesslike sword bayonets dance about him like flames. The uniforms
mixed themselves with the rocks. It was all strange and weird as in a
dream.

But only one face he saw crystal clear. One man alone inevitably barred
his way. He dropped his gun. He could run better without it. They were
too many for that, and it was not needed. He tore his way through a
brace of fellows who had closed in upon him eager for the reward.

But through all the pother he still dashed full at the man whose face he
knew. This time his knife made no mistake. For assuredly no enemy, but a
friend, had done this--even Luis Fernandez, the brother of his heart.

And leaving the wounded strewn among the grey boulders and all the
turmoil of shouting men, Ramon the hunted, broke away unscathed, and the
desolate wilderness of Montblanch swallowed him up. Yet no wilderness
was like this man's heart as he