‘no man i fear can effect great benefits for his country without some sacrifice of the minor virtues.’

the se?ora barenna was a leading social light in toledo, insomuch as she never refused an invitation.

‘one has one’s duties towards society,’ she would say with a sigh. ‘though the saints know that i take no pleasure in these affairs.’

then she put on her best seville mantilla and bustled off to some function or another, where she talked volubly and without discretion.

julia had of late withdrawn more and more from that life of continued and mild festivity of which it is to be feared the existence of many women is composed. this afternoon she sat alone in the great gloomy house in toledo, waiting for larralde. for she, like thousands of her sisters, loved an unworthy object—faute de mieux—with open eyes and a queer philosophy that bade her love larralde rather than love none. she had lately spent a large part of her existence in waiting for larralde, who, indeed, was busy enough at this time, and rarely stirred abroad while the sun was up.

‘julia,’ said se?ora barenna to concha, ‘is no longer a companion to me. she does not even attempt to understand my sensitive organisation. she is a mere statue, and thinks of nothing but politics.’

‘for her, madame, as for all women, there would be no politics if there were no politicians,’ the priest replied.

this afternoon julia was more restless than ever. larralde had not been to see her for many days, and had only written a hurried note from time to time in answer to her urgent request, telling her that he was well and in no danger.

she now no longer knew whether he was in toledo or not, but had sufficient knowledge of the schemes in which he was engaged to be aware of the fact that these were coming to a crisis. esteban larralde had indeed told her more than was either necessary or discreet, and it was his vanity that led him into this imprudence. we are all ready enough to impart information which will show our neighbours that we are more important than we appear.

after a broiling day the sun was now beginning to lose a little of his terrific power, and, in the shade of the patio upon which the windows of julia’s room opened, the air was quite cool and pleasant. a fountain plashed continuously in a little basin that had been white six centuries ago, when the moors had brought the marble across the gulf of lyons to build it. the very sound of the water was a relief to overstrained nerves, and seemed to diminish the tension of the shimmering atmosphere.

julia was alone, and barely made pretence to read the book she held in her hand. from her seat she could see the bell suspended on the opposite wall of the courtyard, of which the deep voice at any time of day or night had the power of stirring her heart to a sudden joy. at last the desired sound broke the silence of the great house, and julia stood breathless at the window while the servant leisurely crossed the patio and threw open the great door, large enough to admit a carriage and pair. it was not larralde, but father concha, brought hither by a note he had received from sir john pleydell earlier in the afternoon.

‘i shall have the letter in a week from now,’ the englishman had written.

‘which will be too late,’ commented concha pessimistically.

the se?ora was out, they told him, but the se?orita had remained at home.

‘it is the se?orita i desire to see.’

and julia, at the window above, heard the remark with a sinking heart. the air seemed to be weighted with the suggestion of calamity. concha had the manner of one bringing bad news. she forgot that this was his usual mien.

‘ah, my child,’ he said, coming into the room a minute later and sitting down rather wearily.

‘what?’ she asked, her two hands at her breast.

he glanced at her beneath his brows. the wind was in the north-east, dry and tingling. the sun had worn a coppery hue all day. such matters affect women and those who are in mental distress. after such a day as had at last worn to evening, the mind is at a great tension, the nerves are strained. it is at such times that men fly into sudden anger and whip out the knife. at such times women are reckless, and the stories of human lives take sudden turns.

concha knew that he had this woman at a disadvantage.

‘what?’ he echoed. ‘i wish i knew. i wish at times i was no priest.’

‘why?’

‘because i could help you better. sometimes it is the man and not the priest who is the truest friend.’

‘why do you speak like this?’ she cried. ‘is there danger? what has happened?’

‘you know best, my child, if there is danger; you know what is likely to happen.’

julia stood looking at him with hard eyes—the eyes of one in mortal fear.

‘you have always been my friend,’ she said slowly, ‘my best friend.’

‘yes. a woman’s lover is never her best friend.’

‘has anything happened to esteban?’

the priest did not answer at once, but paused, reflecting, and dusting his sleeve, where there was always some snuff requiring attention at such moments.

‘i know so little,’ he said. ‘i am no politician. what can i say? what can i advise you when i am in the dark? and the time is slipping by—slipping by.’

‘i cannot tell you,’ she answered, turning away and looking out of the window.

‘you cannot tell the priest—tell the man.’

then, suddenly, she reached the end of her endurance. standing with her back towards him, she told her story, and concha listened with a still, breathless avidity as one who, having long sought knowledge, finds it at last when it seemed out of reach. the little fountain plashed in the courtyard below; a frog in the basin among the water-lilies croaked sociably while the priest and the beautiful woman in the room above made history. for it is not only in kings’ palaces nor yet in parliaments that the story of the world is shaped.

concha spoke no word, and julia, having begun, left nothing unsaid, but told him every detail in a slow mechanical voice, as if bidden thereto by a stronger will than her own.

‘he is all the world to me,’ she said simply, in conclusion.

‘yes; and the happiest women are those who live in a small world.’

a silence fell upon them. the old priest surreptitiously looked at his watch. he was essentially a man of action.

‘my child,’ he said, rising, ‘when you are an old woman with children to harass you and make your life worth living, you will probably look back with thankfulness to this moment. for you have done that which was your only chance of happiness.’

‘why do you always help me?’ she asked, as she had asked a hundred times.

‘because happiness is so rare that i hate to see it wasted,’ he answered, going towards the door with a grim laugh.

he passed out of the room and crossed the patio slowly. then, when the great door had closed behind him, he gathered up the skirts of his cassock and hurried down the narrow street. in such thoroughfares as were deserted he ran with the speed and endurance of a spare, hard-living man. woman-like, julia had, after all, done things by half. she had timed her confession too late.

at the hotel they told the padre that general vincente was at dinner and could not be disturbed.

‘he sees no one,’ the servant said.

‘you do not know who i am,’ said concha, in an irony which, under the circumstances, he alone could enjoy. then he passed up the stairs and bade the waiter begone.

‘but i carry the general’s dessert,’ protested the man.

‘no,’ said concha half to himself, ‘i have that.’

vincente was indeed at table with estella. he looked up as the priest entered, fingering a cigarette delicately.

‘how soon can you take the road?’ asked concha abruptly.

‘ten minutes—the time for a cup of coffee,’ was the answer, given with a pleasant laugh.

‘then order your carriage.’

vincente looked at his old friend, and the smile never left his lips, though his eyes were grave enough. it was hard to say whether aught on earth could disturb this man’s equanimity. then the general rose and went to the window which opened upon the courtyard. in the quiet corner near the rain-tank, where a vine grows upon trellis-work, the dusty travelling-carriage stood, and upon the step of it, eating a simple meal of bread and dried figs, sat the man who had the reputation of being the fastest driver in spain.

‘in ten minutes, my good manuel,’ said the general.

‘bueno,’ grumbled the driver, with his mouth full—a man of few words.

‘is it to go far?’ asked the general, turning on his heel and addressing concha.

‘a long journey.’

‘to take the road, manuel,’ cried vincente, leaning out. he closed the window before resuming his seat.

‘and now, have you any more orders?’ he asked with a gay carelessness. ‘i counted on sleeping in a bed to-night.’

‘you will not do that,’ replied concha, ‘when you hear my news.’

‘ah!’

‘but first you must promise me not to make use of the information i give you against any suspected persons—to take, in fact, only preventive measures.’

‘you have only to name it, my friend. proceed.’

the old priest paused and passed his hand across his brow. he was breathless still, and looked worn.

‘it is,’ he said, ‘a very grave matter. i have not had much experience in such things, for my path has always lain in small parochial affairs—dealings with children and women.’

estella was already pouring some wine into a glass. with a woman’s instinct she saw that the old man was overwrought and faint. it was a friday, and in his simple way there was no more austere abstinent than father concha, who had probably touched little food throughout the long hot day.

‘take your time, my friend; take your time,’ said the general, who never hurried and was never too late. ‘a pinch of snuff now—it stimulates the nerves.’

‘it is,’ said concha at length—breaking a biscuit in his long bony fingers and speaking unembarrassedly with his mouth full—’it is that i have by the merest accident lighted upon a matter of political importance.’

the general nodded, and held his wine up to the light.

‘there are matters of much political importance,’ he said, ‘in the air just now.’

‘a plot,’ continued concha, ‘spreading over all spain; the devil is surely in it, and i know the carlists are. a plot, believe me, to assassinate and rob and kidnap.’

‘yes,’ said the general with his tolerant little smile. ‘yes, my dear padre. some men are so bloodthirsty; is it not so?’

‘this plot is directed against the little queen; against the queen regent; against many who are notable royalists occupying high posts in the government or the army.’

he glanced at estella, and then looked meaningly at the general, who could scarcely fail to comprehend. ‘let us deal with the queen and the queen regent,’ said vincente; ‘the others are probably able to take care of themselves.’

‘none can guard himself against assassination.’

the general seemed for a moment inclined to dispute this statement, but shrugged his shoulders and finally passed it by.

‘the queen,’ he said. ‘what of her?’

in response, concha took a newspaper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. after a brief search up and down the ill-printed columns, he found the desired paragraph, and read aloud:

‘the queen is in madrid. the queen regent journeys from seville to rejoin her daughter in the capital, prosecuting her journey by easy stages and accompanied by a small guard. her majesty sleeps at ciudad real to-night, and at toledo to-morrow night.’

‘this,’ said concha, folding the newspaper, ‘is a carlist and revolutionary rag whose readers are scarcely likely to be interested for a good motive in the movements of the queen regent.’

‘true, my dear padre—true,’ admitted vincente, half reluctantly.

‘many kiss hands they would fain see chopped off. in the streets and on the plaza i have seen many reading this newspaper and talking over it with unusual interest. like a bad lawyer, i am giving the confirmation of the argument before the argument itself.’

‘no matter—no matter.’

‘ah! but we have no time to do things ill or carelessly,’ said the priest. ‘my story is a long one, but i will tell it as quickly as i can.’

‘take your time,’ urged the general soothingly. ‘this great plot, you say, which is to spread over all spain—’

‘is for to-morrow night, my friend.’