is party need. And so far as I can see, unless
Concha hurries, a dead Carlist or so more or less will not make much
difference to us!"

But Rollo soon found that the men who were opposed to him knew all there
was to know about _guerrilla_ warfare. They pushed forward steadily from
rock to rock, and as they came on in overwhelming numbers the dauntless
six were compelled to retire upwards till they gained the rugged brink
of the _barranco_, from which the uplands swell away in broad unclothed
downs in the direction of the gorge of Vera.

Here they took up their several posts in a position of great natural
strength, if only they had had a sufficiency of men to defend it.

Already the morning was growing manifestly lighter. The red peaks of
Moncayo above their heads began to emerge out of the grey uncoloured
night. They could see each other now, and Rollo looked down his line
with some pride.

There they were, each behind his shelter, loading and firing according
to his liking and the bowels that were in him. The Sergeant was sternly
winging each shot with intent to slay, Munoz firing as if he had been
practising at a target for sport and feeling bored for the want of a
cigarette, Etienne with swift and contagious gaiety of mood, while John
Mortimer did his work with a plain and businesslike devotion to the
matter in hand that argued well for his father's spinning mills at
Chorley if ever he should return thither--a chance which at present
seemed somewhat remote.

La Giralda, like the Sergeant, fired to kill her man, and as for Rollo
himself, he did not fire at all unless he could plant a bullet where it
would induce a Carlist to alter his mind about advancing further.

The end, however, was clearly only a matter of time. The light came
faster up out of the east. Rollo stood on his feet, and heedless of the
bullets that buzzed like bees about him looked eagerly towards the gorge
of Vera. He could see nothing of Ramon Garcia or of the Queen, and his
heart gave a bound of thankful joy.

But there were ups and downs on the rolling moorland country that
stretched away to the right. El Sarria and his companions might only be
temporarily hidden in the trough of one of these waves.

"We can hold on a while yet, lads!" he cried, and dropped down behind
his rock, shaking his rifle into its nook beside his ear to be ready for
the next spot of red or white crawling towards them through the dusty
_arroyo_.

But at that mome