When the horses were brought out for the parade, Mrs. Wilders, still persisting in her intention of walking alone, said, gaily—­

“Well, gentlemen, while you are playing at soldiers I shall go off on my own devices.  If I get tired, Bill, I shall go back to the yacht.”

And with this Mrs. Wilders walked off.

“Here, sergeant!” cried the general to his orderly, McKay.  “I don’t want you; you may be of use to Mrs. Wilders.  Go after her.”

“Shall I report myself to her, sir?”

“I don’t advise you, my man.  She’d send you about your business double-quick.  But you can keep your eye on her, and see she comes to no harm.”

Sergeant McKay saluted and hastened out of the courtyard.  Mrs. Wilders had already disappeared down Convent Lane, and was just turning into the main street.  McKay followed quickly, keeping her in sight.

It was evident that the best part of Gibraltar had no charms for Mrs. Wilders; she did not want to look into the shop windows, such as they were; nor did she pause to admire the architectural beauties of the Garrison Library or other severely plain masterpieces of our military engineers.  Her course was towards the upper town, and she pressed on with quick, unfaltering steps, as though she knew every inch of the ground.

Ten minutes’ sharp walking, sometimes by steep lanes, sometimes up long flights of stone steps, brought her to the upper road leading to the Moorish castle.  This was essentially a native quarter; Spanish was the only language heard from the children who swarmed about the doorways, or their slatternly mothers quarreling over their washtubs, or combing out and cleansing, in a manner that will not bear description, their children’s hair.  Spanish colour prevailed, and Spanish smells.

Still pursuing her way without hesitation, Mrs. Wilders presently turned up another steep alley bearing the historic name of “Red Hot Shot Ramp,” and paused opposite a gateway leading into a dirty courtyard.  The place was a kind of livery or bait stable patronised by muleteers and gipsy dealers, who brought in horses from Spain.

Picking her steps carefully, Mrs. Wilders entered the stable-yard.

“Benito Villegas?” she asked in fluent Spanish, of the ostler, who stared with open-mouthed surprise at this apparition of a fine lady in such a dirty locality.

“Benito, the commission agent and guide?  Yes, senora, he is with his horses inside,” replied the ostler, pointing to the stable-door.

“Call him, then!” cried Mrs. Wilders, imperiously.  “Think you that I will cross the threshold of your piggery?” and she waited, stamping her foot impatiently whilst the man did her bidding.

In another minute he came out with Benito Villegas, the man in the brown suit, who had spoken to Mrs. Wilders in the Commercial Square.

“Cypriana,” he began at once, in a half-coaxing, half-apologetic tone.