hin him.

The night was so dark that it was resolved that the party should leave
their horses behind them in the stables of the deserted farm. They could
then proceed on foot more softly and with more safety to themselves. To
this La Giralda, knowing that they must return that way, readily
assented. For the thought of the dead woman she had left in the
first-floor room haunted her, and even in the darkness of the night she
could see the stark outlines of the sheet she had spread over the body.

So it came to pass that once more horseshoe iron clattered, and there
was a flashing of lights and a noise of voices about the lonely and
stricken farmhouse. But only La Giralda gave a thought to the little
grave in the shady corner of the garden, and only she promised herself
to revisit it when the stern work of the night should be over and the
dawn of a calmer morning should have arisen.

Now, as soon as Sergeant Cardono returned, he placed himself as
completely as formerly under the orders of Rollo. He was no more Jose
Maria the famous gipsy, but Sergeant Cardono of the army of H.M. Carlos
Quinto, and Senor Rollo was his colonel. Like a good scout he was ready
to advise, but to the full as ready to hold his tongue and obey.

And Rollo, though new to his position, was not above benefiting
continually by his wisdom, and as a matter of fact it was the Sergeant
who, in conjunction with La Giralda, led the little expedition down the
perilous goat-track by which the old gipsy had followed her flock in the
morning. As usual Concha kept her place beside Rollo, with Mortimer and
Etienne a little behind, while El Sarria, taciturn but alert as usual,
brought up the rear.

It can hardly be said that they carried with them any extraordinary
elements of success. Indeed, in one respect they were at a manifest
disadvantage. For in an expedition of this kind there ought to be one
leader of dignity, character, and military genius far beyond the others.
But among this little band which stole so quietly along the
mountain-paths of the Guadarrama, beneath the frowning snow-clad brow of
Penalara, there was not one who upon occasion could not have led a
similar forlorn hope. Each member of the party possessed a character
definite and easily to be distinguished from all the others. It was an
army of officers without any privates.

Still, since our Firebrand, Rollo the Scot, held the nominal leadership,
and his quick imperious character made tha