“You must also say good-bye to Esteban,” said she, as though to gain time.  With her fingers on the door-handle she stopped.  “Tell me,” she exclaimed.  “It was Esteban who advised the army, who helped you to your commission?  You need not deny it!  It was Esteban,” she stood silent, turning over this revelation in her mind.  Then she added, “Did you see Esteban in Ronda this afternoon?”

“No, but I heard that he was there.  I must go.”

He took up his hat, and turning again towards the door saw that Christina stood with her back against the panels and her arms outstretched across them like a barrier.

“You need not fear,” he said to reassure her.  “I shall not quarrel with Esteban.  He is your brother, and the harm is done.  Besides, I do not know that it is all harm when I look back in the years before I wore the uniform.  In those times it was all one’s own dissatisfactions and trivial dislikes and trivial ambitions.  Now I find a repose in losing them, in becoming a little necessary part of a big machine, even though it is not the best machine of its kind and works creakily.  I find a dignity in it too.”

It was the man of extremes who spoke, and he spoke quite sincerely.  Christina, however, neither answered him nor heard.  Her eyes were fixed with a strange intentness upon him; her breath came and went as if she had run a race, and in the silence seemed unnaturally audible.

“You carry orders to Olvera?” she said at length.  Shere fetched the sealed letter out of his pocket.

“So I must go, or fail in my duty,” said he.

“Give me the letter,” said Christina.

Shere stared at her in amazement.  The amazement changed to suspicion.  His whole face seemed to narrow and sharpen out of his own likeness into something foxy and mean.

“I will not,” he said, and slowly replaced the letter.  “There was a man in the road,” he continued slowly, “who whistled as I passed—­a signal, no doubt.  You are Carlist.  This is a trap.”

“A trap not laid for you,” said Christina.  “Be sure of that!  Until you spoke of Olvera I did not know.”

“No,” admitted Shere, “not laid for me to your knowledge, but to Esteban’s.  You were surprised at my coming—­Esteban only at the manner of my coming.  He asked if I had ridden into the gates of my own accord I remember.  He was in Ronda this afternoon.  Very likely it was he who told my colonel of my knowledge of the neighbourhood.  It would suit his purposes well to present me to you suddenly, not merely as an enemy, but an active enemy.  Yes, I understand that.  But,” and his voice hardened again, “even to your knowledge the trap was laid for the man who carries the letter.  You have your share in the trick.”  He repeated the word with a sharp laugh, savouring it, dwelling upon it as upon something long forgotten, and now suddenly remembered.  “A murderous trick, too, it seems!  I wonder what would have happened if I had not turned in at the gates of my own accord.  How much farther should I have ridden towards Olvera, and by what gentle means should I have been stopped?”