hair like an Andalusian. Now, it was one of
his many grudges against fate that he had never been in Andalusia and
seen the women there. For certain, they were handsome; a _Sevillana_,
for instance! Would they wear flowers in their hair--over the
ear--unless they dared be looked at? Manuela was of Valencia, more
than half _gitana_: a wonderfully supple girl. When she danced the
_jota_ it was like nothing so much as a snake in an agony. Her hair
was tawny yellow, and very long. She wore no flower in it, but bound a
red handkerchief in and out of the plaits. She was vain of her
hair--heart of God, how he hated her!

Then the priest came out of church, fat, dewlapped, greasy, very short
of breath, but benevolent. "Good-day, good-day to you," he said. "You
are a stranger. From the North?"

"My reverence, from Burgos."

"Ha, from Burgos this morning! A fine city, a great city."

"Yes, sir, it's true. It is where they buried our lord the Campeador."

"So they say. You are lettered! And early afoot."

"Yes, sir. I am called to be early. I still go South."

"Seeking work, no doubt. You are honest, I hope?"

"Yes, sir, a very honest Christian. But I seek no work. I find it."

"You are lucky," said the priest, and took snuff. "And where is your
work? In Valladolid, perhaps?"

Esteban blinked hard at that last question. "No, sir," he said. "Not
there." Do what he might he could not repress the bitter gleam in his
eyes.

The old priest paused, his fingers once more in the snuff-box. "There
again you have a great city. Ah, and there was a time when Valladolid
was one of the greatest in Castile. The capital of a kingdom! Chosen
seat of a king! Pattern of the true Faith!" His eyelids narrowed
quickly. "You do not know it?"

"No, sir," said Esteban gently. "I have never been there."

The priest shrugged. "_Vaya_! it is no affair of mine," he said. Then
he waved his hand, wagging it about like a fan. "Go your ways," he
added, "with God."

"Always at the feet of your reverence," said Esteban, and watched him
depart. He stared after him, and looked sick.

Altogether he delayed for an hour and a quarter in this village: a
material time. The sun was up as he left it--a burning globe, just
above the limits of the plain.

CHAPTER II

THE TRAVELLER AT LARGE

Ahead of Esteban some five or six hours, or, rather converging upon a
common centre so far removed from him, was one Osmun