Two hours’ riding carried them beyond the point to which the botanical excursions had led them in that direction.  They were leaving the valley, and entering on the high and broken uplands, when Lady Mabel spied a low cross by the roadside.  Though rudely formed, it was of stone, and not of wood, like most of those in such places, and a short inscription was carved upon it.  Faintly cut, badly spelt, and with many abbreviations, it was an enigma to her scholarship, and L’Isle had to decipher it for her:  “Andreo Savaro was murdered here.  Pray for his soul.”  “It is only one of those monumental crosses,” said he, “of which you see so many along the roads throughout the peninsula.”

“Do they always add murder to robbery here?” she asked.

“Too often, but not always,” answered L’Isle.  “Nor is robbery the only motive which leads to the taking of life.  A solitary cross by the roadside is usually in memory of the victim of robbers, or, occasionally, of fatal accident; but when you see crosses, two or three together, in villages or towns, or their immediate neighborhood, they oftener mark the scene of some deed of bloodshed prompted by revenge, not lucre.”

“They are certainly very numerous,” said she, “and form a shocking feature on the face of the country, indicating a dreadful state of society.”

“I wonder these people persist in putting them up,” said the commissary, “for they are of no manner of use.”

“Use!” said Lady Mabel, “what is the use of a tomb-stone?”

“If you mean real use, I am sure I don’t know,” said Shortridge.

“I see that you are a thorough utilitarian,” she replied; “and since these people will continue to commit murder on the high road, I suppose you would have them do it at regular intervals, so that by aid of these monumental crosses we might measure our journey by murders instead of miles.  Come, Mrs. Shortridge, road-side murder is rife here, so the less we loiter on our way the better.”

This remark had the effect mischievously intended.  Mrs. Shortridge, turning somewhat pale, and twitching her bridle convulsively, urged her mule close up to the party.

They went on some miles across a desolate country, covered with heath, rosemary, and gum cistus, more fragrant than the many rank bulbous plants, which disputed possession of the soil with them.  The road was rough with slaty rock, the air became beaming hot, and L’Isle told the guide to lead them to some place of shelter from the noon-day sun.  Before them lay a high open plain, on which a large flock of sheep, dusky, and many of them black in hue, were feeding, and filling the air with their bleatings.  On the right, beyond the plain, there was a grove of the Quercus Ilex, rugged, stunted, thirsty-looking trees, yet whose evergreen boughs gave promise of at least a partial shade.  The arriero led the party toward it, but just as they approached the wood, several large and savage dogs flew out, and charged them with a ferocity that might have cost a solitary traveler his life.  They were busy repelling this assault, when five or six men showed themselves from behind a thicket.  Dark, sunburnt, smoke-dried fellows they were, with shaggy hair, and rudely clad, each man having a sheep-skin thrown over his shoulders, and most of them grasping long, rusty guns in their hands.