Cousin Peligros’ delicate hearing had not been deceived.  The firing was now close at hand.  The valley takes a turn to the left below the ridge and upon the hillside above this corner the white irregular line of smoke now became visible.

In a few minutes the dark mass of Zeneta’s men appeared on the road at the corner.  He was before his time.  The men were running.  They raised the dust like a troop of sheep and moved in a halo of it.  Every hundred yards they stopped and fired a volley.  They were acting with perfect regularity and from a distance looked like toy soldiers.  They were retreating in good order and the sound of their volleys came at regular intervals.  On the bridge they halted.  They were going to make a stand here, as would seem natural.  Had they had artillery they could have effectually held this strong and narrow place.

It now became apparent that they were a woefully small detachment.  They could not spare men to take up positions on the rocky hillside behind them.

There was a pause.  The Carlists were waiting for their skirmishers to come in from heights above the road.

Sarrion and Juanita stood at the edge of the terrace.  Sarrion was watching with a quick and comprehensive glance.

“Is General Pacheco a good general?” asked Juanita.

“Excellent.”

Sarrion did not comment further on this successful soldier.

“They played me false,” the General had told him indignantly a few hours earlier.  “They promised me a good sum—­yes a sufficient sum.  But when the time came the money was not forthcoming.  An awkward position; but I found a way out of it.”

“By being loyal,” suggested Sarrion with a short laugh and there the conversation ceased.

Juanita looked across the valley towards Pedro’s mill.  There was no flag there.  All the valley was peaceful enough, giving in the brilliant sunshine no glint of sword or bayonet.

On the bridge, the little knot of men awaited the advent of the Carlists forming up round the corner.  In a moment these came, swarming over the road and the hillside.  The roadway was packed with them, the rocks and the bushes above the river seemed alive with them.  They fired independently, and the hillside was white in a moment.  The royalist troops on the bridge fired one volley and then turned.  They ran straight along the road.  Some threw down their knapsacks.  One or two stopped, seemed to hesitate and then laid them down on the road like a tired child.  Others limped to the side and sat there.

All the while the Carlists came on.  The rear ranks were still coming round the corner.  The skirmishers were already across the bridge.  There was only one place for Zeneta’s men to run to now—­the castle of Torre Garda.  They were already at the foot of the slope.  Juanita and Sarrion could distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the road behind his men, sword in hand.  Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for the most part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men.