“There were two carts,” he agreed, and a change was just faintly audible in his voice—­a change for which up till now Hillyard had listened with both his ears in vain.  A ring of cordiality, a suggestion that the barriers of reserve were breaking down.

“Yes, senor, there were two carts.”

Medina was listening intently now.  Would his visitor go on with the history of that night!

And Hillyard did go on.

“The tobacco barrels were packed very quickly into the carts, and the carts were driven up the beach and across the Royal road, and into a track which led back to the hills.”

Jose Medina suddenly laughed.  He could hear the groaning and creaking of those thin-wheeled springless carts which had carried all his fortunes on that night thirteen years ago, the noise of them vibrating for miles in the air of that still spring night!  What terror they had caused him!  How his heart had leaped when—­and lo!  Hillyard was carrying on the tale.

“Two of the Guardia Civil stepped from behind a tree, arrested your carts, and told the drivers to turn back to the main road and the village.”

“Yes.”

“You ran in front of the leading cart, and stood there blocking the way.  The Guardia told you to move or he would fire.  You stood your ground.”

“Yes.”

“Why the Guardia did not fire,” continued Hillyard, “who shall say?  But he did not.”

“No, he did not,” Jose Medina repeated with a smile.  “Why?  It was Fate—­Fortune—­what you will.”

“You sent every one aside, and remained alone with the guards—­for a long time.  Oh, for a long time!  Then you called out, and your men came back, and found you alone with your horses and your carts.  How you had persuaded the guards to leave you alone——­”

“Quien sabe?” said Medina, with a smile.

“But you had persuaded them, even on that first venture.  So,” and now Hillyard smiled.  “So we took your carts up in to the mountains.”

“We?” exclaimed Jose.  He took a step forward, and gazed keenly into Martin Hillyard’s face.  Hillyard nodded.

“I was one of your companions on that first night venture of yours thirteen years ago.”

“Claro! You were certainly there,” returned Jose Medina, and he was no longer speaking either with doubt or with the exaggerated politeness of a Spaniard towards a stranger.  He was not even speaking as caballero to caballero the relationship to which, in the beginning, Hillyard had most wisely invited him.  He was speaking as associate to associate, as friendly man to friendly man.  “On that night you were certainly with me!  No, let me think!  There were five men, yes, five and a boy from Valencia—­Martin.”

He pronounced the word in the Spanish way as Marteen.

“Who led the horse in the first cart,” said Hillyard, and he pointed to his visiting card which Jose Medina still held in his hand.  Jose Medina read it again.