him. His great height, his angular
build, the grim humour of his mouth, the beady blackness of eyes which
twinkled with a fleck of fire in each, as a star might be reflected in a
deep well on a moonless night--these all gave him a certain distinction
in a country of brick-dusty men of solemn exterior and rare speech.

Also there was something indescribably daring about the man, his air and
carriage. There was the swagger as of a famous _matador_ about the way
he carried himself. He gave a cock to his plain countryman's cap which
betokened one of a race at once quicker and more gay--more passionate
and more dangerous than the grave and dignified inhabitants of Old
Castile through whose country they were presently journeying.

As Cardono and La Giralda departed out of the camp, the Sergeant driving
before him a donkey which he had picked up the night before wandering by
the wayside, El Sarria looked after them with a sardonic smile which
slowly melted from his face, leaving only the giant's usual placid good
nature apparent on the surface. The mere knowledge that Dolores was
alive and true to him seemed to have changed the hunted and desperate
outlaw almost beyond recognition.

"Why do you smile, El Sarria?" said Concha, who stood near by, as the
outlaw slowly rolled and lighted a _cigarrillo_. "You do not love this
Sergeant. You do not think he is a man to be trusted?"

El Sarria shrugged his shoulders, and slowly exhaled the first long
breathing of smoke through his nostrils.

"Nay," he said deliberately, "I have been both judged and misjudged
myself, and it would ill become me in like manner to judge others. But
if that man is not of your country and my trade, Ramon Garcia has lived
in vain. That is all."

Concha nodded a little uncertainly.

"Yes," she said slowly, "yes--of my country. I believe you. He has the
Andalucian manner of wearing his clothes. If he were a girl he would
know how to tie a ribbon irregularly and how to place a bow-knot a
little to the side in the right place--things which only Andalucians
know. But what in the world do you mean by 'of your profession'?"

El Sarria smoked a while in silence, inhaling the blue cigarette smoke
luxuriously, and causing it to issue from his nostrils white and
moisture-laden with his breath. Then he spoke.

"I mean of my late profession," he explained, smiling on Concha; "it
will not do for a man on the high-road to a commission to commit himself
to the st