w stop to trick himself out as for a _festa_?"

Concha looked over her shoulder, presumably at El Sarria, though why the
maiden's glances were so sprightly and her lips so provokingly pouted is
a question hard enough to be propounded for the doctorial thesis at
Salamanca. For Ramon Garcia was stolid as an ox of his native Aragon,
and arch glances and pretty gestures were as much wasted on him as if he
chewed the cud. Still he was not even in these matters so dull and
unobservant as he looked, that is, when he had any reason for observing.

"Here comes that young ass of Alava," he murmured. "Well, he is at least
getting his money's worth. By the saints favourable to my native parish,
the holy Narcissus and Justus, but the _burro_ is tightening his
girths!"

And El Sarria laughed out suddenly and sardonically. For he could see
the lad pulling his leathern belt a few holes tighter, in order that he
might present his most symmetrical figure to the eyes of this dazzling
Andalucian witch who had dropped so suddenly into the Carlist camp from
the place whence all witches come.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE RED BOINAS OF NAVARRE

Concha and El Sarria sat down on an outcrop of red sandstone rock, and
gazed back at the prospect. There below them lay the camp and the house
in which was imprisoned the reigning branch of the royal family of
Spain. A couple of sentries paced to and fro in front. A picket had
established itself for the night in the back courtyard. Beyond that
again stood the tent in which the General was at present engaged in
drinking himself from his usual sullen ferocity into unconsciousness.

A little nearer, and not far from their own camp-fire, at which the
Sergeant was busily preparing the evening meal, sat Rollo, sunk in
misery, revolving a thousand plans and ready for any desperate venture
so soon as night should fall. Concha gave a quick little sigh whenever
her eye fell on him. Perhaps her conscience pricked her--perhaps not!
With the heart of such a woman doth neither stranger nor friend
intermeddle with any profit.

The sauntering Vitorian halted within speaking distance of the pair.

"A fine evening," he said affably. "Can you give me a light for my
cigarette?"

It was on the tip of El Sarria's tongue to inquire whether there were
not plenty of lights for his cigarette back at the camp-fires where he
had rolled it. But that most excellent habit, which Don Ramon had used
from boyhood, of never in