“Fire!”

The little flames shot out and crackled among the vines.  He saw gaps in the Prussian ranks, he saw the men waver, surprised at the proximity of the attack.

“Charge,” he shouted, and crashing through the few yards of shelter, they burst out upon the repli, and across the open space to the Prussian bayonets.  But not one of the number reached the bayonets.

“Fire!” shouted the Prussian officer, in his turn.

The volley flashed out, the smoke cleared away, and showed a little heap of men silent between the bonfire and the Prussian ranks.

The Prussians loaded again and stood ready, waiting for the main attack.  The morning was just breaking.  They stood silent and motionless till the sky was flooded with light and the hills one after another came into view, and the files of poplars were seen marching on the plains.  Then the Colonel approached the little heap.  A rifle caught his eye, and he picked it up.

“They are all mad,” said he.  Forced to the point of the bayonet was a gaudy little linen tri-colour flag.

THE CROSSED GLOVES.

“Although you have not been near Ronda for five years,” said the Spanish Commandant severely to Dennis Shere, “the face of the country has not changed.  You are certainly the most suitable officer I can select, since I am told you are well acquainted with the neighbourhood.  You will ride therefore to-day to Olvera and deliver this sealed letter to the officer commanding the temporary garrison there.  But it is not necessary that it should reach him before eleven at night, so that you will still have an hour or two before you start in which you can renew your acquaintanceships, as I can very well understand you are anxious to do.”

Dennis Shere’s reluctance, however, was now changed into alacrity.  For the road to Olvera ran past the gates of that white-walled, straggling residencia where he had planned to spend this first evening that he was stationed at Ronda.  On his way back from his colonel’s quarters he even avoided those squares and streets where he would be likely to meet with old acquaintances, foreseeing their questions as to why he was now a Spanish subject and wore the uniform of a captain of Spanish cavalry and by seven o’clock he was already riding through the Plaza de Toros upon his mission.  There, however, a familiar voice hailed him, and turning about in his saddle he saw an old padre who had once gained a small prize for logic at the University of Barcelona, and who had since made his inferences and deductions an excuse for a great deal of inquisitiveness.  Shere had no option but to stop.  He broke in, however, at once on the inevitable questions as to his uniform with the statement that he must be at Olvera by eleven.

“Fifteen miles,” said the padre.  “Does it need four hours and a fresh horse to journey fifteen miles?”

“But I have friends to visit on the way,” and to give convincing details to an excuse which was plainly disbelieved, Shere added, “Just this side of Setenil I have friends.”