“For twenty years, more or less, I have presided at the public disputations in the Sala del Claustro of our University.”

“Then perhaps you will resolve me the moral difference between hiding in a truss of hay and hiding under a wig?  For, in faith, I can see none.”

“That is matter for the private conscience,” broke in Captain Alan.

“Pardon me,” suggested the Doctor; “you promised me a narrative, I believe.”

“We’ll proceed, then.  Our methods—­this, at least, is important—­were different:  which made it the more distressing that the similarity of our names confused us in our enemies’ minds, who grossly mistook us for one and the same person:  which not only humiliated us as artists but ended in positive inconvenience.  At Sabugal, in April last, after a bewildering comedy of errors, the Duke of Ragusa captured my kinsman here, and held him to account for some escapade of mine, of which, as a matter of fact, he had no knowledge whatever.  You follow me?”

The Doctor nodded gravely.

“Well, Marmont showed no vindictiveness, but said in effect, ’You have done, sir, much damage to our arms, and without stretching a point I might have you hanged for a spy.  I shall, however, treat you leniently, and send you to France into safe keeping, merely exacting your promise that you will not consent to be released by any of the partidas on the journey through Spain.’  My cousin might have answered that he had never done an hour’s scouting in his life save in the uniform of a British officer, and nothing whatever to deserve the death of a spy.  Suspecting, however, that I might be mixed up in the business, he gave his parole and set out for the frontier under the guard of a young cavalry officer and one trooper.

“Meanwhile I had word of his capture:  and knowing nothing of this parole, I posted to Lord Wellington, obtained a bond for twelve thousand francs payable for my kinsman’s rescue, sought out the guerilla chief, Mina, borrowed two men on Wellington’s bond—­the scoundrel would lend no more—­and actually brought off the rescue at Beasain, a few miles on this side of the frontier.  One of our shots broke the young officer’s sword-arm, the trooper was pitched from his horse and stunned, and behold! my kinsman in our hands, safe and sound.

“It was then, reverend father, that I first heard of his parole.  He informed me of it, and while thanking me for my succour, refused to accept it.  ‘Very well done,’ say you as a Doctor of Morality.  But meanwhile I was searching the young officer, and finding a letter upon him from the Duke of Ragusa, broke the seal.  ‘Not so well done,’ say you:  but again wait a moment.  This letter was addressed to the Governor of Bayonne, and gave orders that Captain McNeill, as a spy and a dangerous man, should be forwarded to Paris in irons.  There was also a hint that a request for his execution might accompany him to Paris.  And this was a prisoner who, on promise of clemency, had given his parole!  Now what, in your opinion, was a fair course for our friend here, on proof of this dirty treachery?”