Just beyond the second line of fortifications is a halting-place by a low wall where the country women (whom one may meet riding in the plain—­dignified, cloaked and hooded figures, startlingly suggestive of a sacred picture) on mule or donkey, stop to descend from their perch between the saddle-bags or panniers.  It is a sort of al fresco cloakroom where these ladies repair the ravages of wind or storm, where they assemble in the evening to pack their purchases on their beasts of burden, and finally climb to the top of all themselves.  For it is not etiquette to ride in or out of the gates upon one’s wares; and a breach of this unwritten law would immediately arouse the suspicion of the courteous toll-officer, who fingers delicately with a tobacco-stained hand the bundles and baskets submitted to his inspection.

Here also Marcos had friends, and was able to tell the latest news from Cuba, where some had husband, son or lover; a so-called volunteer to put down the hopeless rebellion, attracted to a miserable death, by the forty-pound bounty paid by Government.  There were old women who chaffed him, and young ones with fine-cut classic features and crinkled hair, who lay in wait for a glance from his grave eyes.

“It is a pity there are not more like you, Senor Conde,” said one old peasant; “for it is you that keeps the men from fighting among themselves and makes them tend the sheep or take in the crops.  Carlist or Royalist, the land comes before either, say I.”

“For it is the land that feeds the children,” added another, who carried a pair of small espradrillas in her apron pocket.

Marcos went back to his father with such information as he had been able to gather.

“Leon is here,” he said.  “He is in Retreat at the monastery of the Redemptionists, which stands half-empty on the road to Villaba.  Sor Teresa and Juanita are both well and in the school in the Calle de la Dormitaleria.  Mon has been here for some weeks, but went to Madrid four days ago.  It is an open secret that Pacheco will go over to the Carlists with his whole army corps for cash down—­but he will not take a promise.  The Carlists think that their opportunity has come.”

“And so do I,” said Sarrion.  “The Duke of Aosta is the son of Victor Emmanuel, we must remember that.  And no son of the man who overthrew the Pope can hope to be tolerated by the clerical party here.  The new king will be assassinated, Marcos.  I give him six months.”

“Will you come this afternoon to the old monastery on the Villaba road and see Leon?” asked Marcos.

“Oh, yes,” laughed his father.  “I shall enjoy it.”  It was the hour of the siesta when they quitted the town on horseback by the Puerta de Rochapea which gives exit to the city on the northern side.  It had been sunny since morning, and the snow had melted from the roads, but the hills across the plain were still white and great drifts were piled against the ramparts, forming a natural buttress from the summit of the steep river bank almost to the deep embrasures of the wall.