Shere laughed aloud in assured confidence.

“No, indeed,” said he.  “I did not know Esteban was dependent on his sister, but what difference would her marriage make?  Esteban is my best friend.  For instance, you questioned me about my uniform.  It is by Esteban’s advice and help that I wear it.”

“Indeed!” said the padre, quickly.  “Tell me.”

“That June, in London, two years ago—­it was by the way the last time I saw the senora—­we three dined at the same house.  As the ladies rose from the table I said to Christina quietly, ’I want to speak to you to-night,’ and she answered very simply and quietly, ’With all my heart.’  She was not so quiet, however, but that Esteban overheard her.  He hitched his chair up to mine; I asked him what my chances were, and whether he would second them?  He was most cordial, but he thought with his Spaniard’s pride that I ought—­I use my words, not his—­in some way to repair my insufficiency in station and the rest; and he pointed out this way of the uniform.  I could not resist his argument; I did not speak that night.  I took out my papers and became a Spaniard; with Esteban’s help I secured a commission.  That was two years ago.  I have not seen her since, nor have I written, but I ride to her to-night with my two years’ silence and my two years’ service to prove the truth of what I say.  So you see I have reason to thank Esteban.”  And since they were now come to the edge of the town they parted company.  Shere rode smartly down the slope of the hill, the padre stood and watched him with a feeling of melancholy.

It was not merely that he distrusted Esteban, but he knew Shere, the cadet of an impoverished family, who had come out from England to a small estate in the Ronda valley, which had belonged to his house since the days of the Duke of Wellington in Spain.  He knew him for a man of tempests and extremes, and as he thought of his ardent words and tones, of his ready acceptance of Esteban’s good faith, of his description of Christina, he fell to wondering whether so sudden and violent a conversion from passionate cynic to passionate believer would not lack permanence.  There was that little instructive accident of the dropped fan.  Even in the moment of conversion so small a thing had almost sufficed to dissuade Shere.

Shere, however, was quite untroubled—­so untroubled, indeed, that he even rode slowly that he might not waste the luxury of anticipating the welcome which his unexpected appearance would surely provoke.  He rode into the groves of almond and walnut trees and out again into a wild and stony country.  It was just growing dusk when he saw ahead of him the square white walls of the enclosure, and the cluster of buildings within, glimmering at the foot of a rugged hill.  The lights began to move in the windows as he approached, and then a man suddenly appeared at his side on the roadway and whistled twice loudly as though he were calling his dog.  Shere rode