m which sprang the
enormous arch of the bridge. The shadows were blue-green and violet. A
pale cobalt haze of supperfires hung over the quarters near the river.
As they started down the hill towards the heavy pile of San Juan
Bautista, that stood under its broad tiled dome outside the nearest
gate, a great volley of bell-ringing swung about their ears. A donkey
brayed; there was a sound of shouting from the town.

"Here we are, gentlemen, I'll look for you to-morrow at the _fonda_,"
shouted Don Alonso. He took off his hat and galloped towards the gate,
leaving Telemachus and Lyaeus standing by the roadside looking out over
the city.

* * * * *

Beyond the zinc bar was an irregular room with Nile-green walls into
which light still filtered through three little round arches high up on
one side. In a corner were some hogsheads of wine, in another small
tables with three-legged stools. From outside came the distant braying
of a brass band and racket of a street full of people, laughter, and
the occasional shivering jangle of a tambourine. Lyaeus had dropped
onto a stool and spread his feet out before him on the tiled floor.

"Never walked so far in my life," he said, "my toes are pulverized,
pulverized!" He leaned over and pulled off his shoes. There were holes
in his socks. He pulled them off in turn, and started wiggling his toes
meditatively. His ankles were grimed with dust.

"Well...." began Telemachus.

The _padron_, a lean man with moustaches and a fancy yellow vest which
he wore unbuttoned over a lavender shirt, brought two glasses of dense
black wine.

"You have walked a long way?" he asked, looking with interest at
Lyaeus' feet.

"From Madrid."

"_!Carai!_"

"Not all in one day."

"You are sailors going to rejoin your ship in Sevilla." The _padron_
looked from one to another with a knowing expression, twisting his
mouth so that one of the points of his moustache slanted towards the
ceiling and the other towards the floor.

"Not exactly...."

Another man drew up his chair to their table, first taking off his wide
cap and saying gravely: "_Con permiso de ustedes._" His broad, slightly
flabby face was very pale; the eyes under his sparse blonde eyelashes
were large and grey. He put his two hands on their shoulders so as to
draw their heads together and said in a whisper:

"You aren't deserters, are you?"

"No."

"I hoped you were. I might have helped you