“I suppose your Excellency understands that in all this I am not looking for reward of any kind.”

At this he made a faint, almost ethereal grimace.

“I was speaking of the spiritual blessing which rewards the service of religion and will be of benefit to your soul,” he explained with a slight touch of acidity.  “The other is perfectly understood and your fidelity is taken for granted.  His Majesty—­whom God preserve—­has been already pleased to signify his satisfaction with your services to the most noble and loyal Dona Rita by a letter in his own hand.”

Perhaps he expected me to acknowledge this announcement in some way, speech, or bow, or something, because before my immobility he made a slight movement in his chair which smacked of impatience.  “I am afraid, Senor, that you are affected by the spirit of scoffing and irreverence which pervades this unhappy country of France in which both you and I are strangers, I believe.  Are you a young man of that sort?”

“I am a very good gun-runner, your Excellency,” I answered quietly.

He bowed his head gravely.  “We are aware.  But I was looking for the motives which ought to have their pure source in religion.”

“I must confess frankly that I have not reflected on my motives,” I said.  “It is enough for me to know that they are not dishonourable and that anybody can see they are not the motives of an adventurer seeking some sordid advantage.”

He had listened patiently and when he saw that there was nothing more to come he ended the discussion.

“Senor, we should reflect upon our motives.  It is salutary for our conscience and is recommended (he crossed himself) by our Holy Mother the Church.  I have here certain letters from Paris on which I would consult your young sagacity which is accredited to us by the most loyal Dona Rita.”

The sound of that name on his lips was simply odious.  I was convinced that this man of forms and ceremonies and fanatical royalism was perfectly heartless.  Perhaps he reflected on his motives; but it seemed to me that his conscience could be nothing else but a monstrous thing which very few actions could disturb appreciably.  Yet for the credit of Dona Rita I did not withhold from him my young sagacity.  What he thought of it I don’t know, The matters we discussed were not of course of high policy, though from the point of view of the war in the south they were important enough.  We agreed on certain things to be done, and finally, always out of regard for Dona Rita’s credit, I put myself generally at his disposition or of any Carlist agent he would appoint in his place; for I did not suppose that he would remain very long in Marseilles.  He got out of the chair laboriously, like a sick child might have done.  The audience was over but he noticed my eyes wandering to the portrait and he said in his measured, breathed-out tones: 

“I owe the pleasure of having this admirable work here to the gracious attention of Madame de Lastaola, who, knowing my attachment to the royal person of my Master, has sent it down from Paris to greet me in this house which has been given up for my occupation also through her generosity to the Royal Cause.  Unfortunately she, too, is touched by the infection of this irreverent and unfaithful age.  But she is young yet.  She is young.”