ng like glass
and radiant with quivering air, Manvers was shot at from a distance, so
far as he could judge, of thirty yards. He heard the ball go shrilling
past him and then splash and flatten upon a church wall beyond. He
turned quickly, but could see nothing. Not a sign of life was upon the
broad way, not a curtain was lifted, not a shutter swung apart. To all
intents and purposes he was upon the Castilian plains.

Unarmed though he was, he went back upon his traces down the hill,
expecting at any moment that the assassin would flare out upon him and
shoot him down at point-blank. He went back in all some fifty yards.
There was no man in lurking that he could discover. After a few
moments' irresolution--whether to stand or proceed--he decided that the
sooner he was within walls the better. He turned again and walked
briskly towards the Puerta del Sol.

Sixty yards or so from the great _plaza_, within sight of it, he was
fired at again, and this time he was hit in the muscles of the left
arm. He felt the burning sting, the shock and the aching. The welling
of blood was a blessed relief. On this occasion he pushed forward, and
reached his inn without further trouble. He sent for Gil Perez, who
whisked off for the surgeon; by the time he brought one in Manvers was
feverish, and so remained until the morning, tossing and jerking
through the fervent night, with his arm stiff from shoulder to
finger-points.

"That a dam thief, sir, 'e count on you never looka back," said Gil
Perez, nodding grimly. "Capitan Rodney, 'e all the same as you. Walka
'is blessed way, never taka no notice of anybody. See 'im at
Sevastopol do lika that all the time. So then this assassin 'e creep
after you lika one o'clock up Calle Mayor, leta fly at you twice, three
time, four time--so longa you let 'im. You walka backward, 'e never
shoot--you see."

Manvers felt that to walk backwards would be at least as tiresome as to
walk forwards and be shot at in a city which now held little for him
but danger and _ennui_. Not even Manuela's fortunes could prevail
against boredom. As he lay upon his hateful bed, disgust with Spain
grew upon him hand over hand. He became irritable. To Gil Perez he
announced his determination. This sort of thing must end.

Gil bowed and rubbed his hands. "You go 'ome, sir? Is besta place for
you. Don Luis, 'e kill you for sure. You go, 'e go 'ome, esleep on
'is olda bed--too mucha satisfy." Unde