z expressed his complete satisfaction. Stoically Antonia
lowered her veil, resisting the longing to inquire about Decoud's
escape. But Ignacio leered morosely over his shoulder.

"Take a good look at the mules, mi amo," he grumbled. "You shall never
see them again!"

CHAPTER FOUR

Charles Gould turned towards the town. Before him the jagged peaks
of the Sierra came out all black in the clear dawn. Here and there a
muffled lepero whisked round the corner of a grass-grown street before
the ringing hoofs of his horse. Dogs barked behind the walls of the
gardens; and with the colourless light the chill of the snows seemed to
fall from the mountains upon the disjointed pavements and the shuttered
houses with broken cornices and the plaster peeling in patches between
the flat pilasters of the fronts. The daybreak struggled with the
gloom under the arcades on the Plaza, with no signs of country people
disposing their goods for the day's market, piles of fruit, bundles of
vegetables ornamented with flowers, on low benches under enormous mat
umbrellas; with no cheery early morning bustle of villagers,
women, children, and loaded donkeys. Only a few scattered knots of
revolutionists stood in the vast space, all looking one way from under
their slouched hats for some sign of news from Rincon. The largest of
those groups turned about like one man as Charles Gould passed, and
shouted, "Viva la libertad!" after him in a menacing tone.

Charles Gould rode on, and turned into the archway of his house. In the
patio littered with straw, a practicante, one of Dr. Monygham's native
assistants, sat on the ground with his back against the rim of the
fountain, fingering a guitar discreetly, while two girls of the lower
class, standing up before him, shuffled their feet a little and waved
their arms, humming a popular dance tune.

Most of the wounded during the two days of rioting had been taken away
already by their friends and relations, but several figures could be
seen sitting up balancing their bandaged heads in time to the music.
Charles Gould dismounted. A sleepy mozo coming out of the bakery door
took hold of the horse's bridle; the practicante endeavoured to conceal
his guitar hastily; the girls, unabashed, stepped back smiling; and
Charles Gould, on his way to the staircase, glanced into a dark corner
of the patio at another group, a mortally wounded Cargador with a woman
kneeling by his side; she mumbled prayers rapidly, tr