“Let us pray,” said Medina with a note of anxiety in his voice, “that they do not become curious about our fishing-boat out there!”

As he spoke the two horsemen halted, and did look out to sea.  They conversed each with the other.

“If I were near enough to hear them!” said Jose Medina, and he suddenly turned in alarm upon Hillyard.  “What are you doing?” he said.

Hillyard had taken a large.38 Colt automatic pistol from his pocket.  His face was drawn and white and very set.

“I am doing nothing—­for the moment,” he answered.  “But those two men must ride on before it is dark and too late for me to see them.”

“But they are of the Guardia Civil,” Jose Medina expostulated in awed tones.

To the Spaniard, the mere name of the Guardia Civil, so great is its prestige, and so competent its personnel, inspires respect.

“I don’t care,” answered Hillyard savagely.  “In this war why should two men on a road count at all?  Let them go on, and nothing will happen.”

Jose Medina, who had been assuming the part of protector and adviser to his young English friend, had now the surprise of his life.  He found himself suddenly relegated to the second place and by nothing but sheer force of character.  Hillyard rested the point of his elbow on the earth and supported the barrel of his Colt upon his left forearm.  He aimed carefully along the sights.

“Let them go on!” he said between his teeth.  “I will give them until the last moment—­until the darkness begins to hide them.  But not a moment longer.  I am not here, my friend, for my health.  I am here because there is a war.”

“The little Marteen” was singularly unapparent at this moment Here was just the ordinary appalling Englishman who had not the imagination to understand what a desperately heinous crime it would be to kill two of the Guardia Civil, who was simply going to do it the moment it became necessary, and would not lose one minute of his sleep until his dying day because he had done it.  Jose Medina was completely at a loss as he looked into the grim indifferent face of his companion.  The two horsemen were covered.  The Colt would kill at more than five hundred yards, and it had no more to do than carry sixty.  And still those two fools sat on their horses, and babbled to one another, and looked out to sea.

“What am I to do with this loco Ingles?” Jose Medina speculated, wringing his hands in an agony of apprehension.  He had no share in those memories which at this moment invaded Martin Hillyard, and touched every fibre of his soul.  Martin Hillyard, though his eye never left the sights of his Colt nor his mind wavered from his purpose, was with a subordinate consciousness stealing in the dark night up the footpath between the big, leafy trees over the rustic railway bridge to the summit of the hill.  He was tramping once more through lanes, between fields, and stood again upon a hillock of Peckham Rye, and saw the morning break in beauty and in wonder over London.  The vision gained from the foolish and romantic days of his boyhood, steadied his finger upon the trigger after all these years.