rned towards Marcos with his pleasant smile, but did not attempt the
extended hand here.

"I shall take a lesson from Marcos," he said.

Marcos made no reply, but passed on. And Mon, turning on his heel, looked
after him with a sudden misgiving, like one who hears the sound of a
distant drum.

"Judging from the persons in his immediate vicinity, our friend has money
in his pocket," said Sarrion, as they descended those palace stairs which
had streamed with blood a few years earlier.

"Or promises in his mouth. Was that General Pacheco who turned away as we
came?"

"Yes," answered Sarrion. "Why do you ask?"

"I have heard that he is to receive a command in the army of the North."

Sarrion made a grimace, uncomplimentary to that very smart soldier
General Pacheco, and at the foot of the stairs he stopped to speak to a
friend. He spoke in French and named the man by his baptismal name; for
this was a Frenchman, named Deulin, a person of mystery, supposed to be
in the diplomatic service in some indefinite position. With him was an
Englishman, who greeted Marcos as a friend.

"What do you make of all this?" asked Sarrion, addressing himself to the
Englishman, who, however, rather cleverly passed the question on to the
older man with a slow, British gesture.

"I make of it--that they only want a little money to make Don Carlos
king," said Deulin.

"What is Evasio Mon doing in Madrid?" asked Sarrion.

"Raising the money, or spending it," replied the Frenchman, with a shrug
of the shoulders, as if it were no business of his.

They passed up-stairs together, but had not gone far when Marcos said the
Englishman's name without raising his voice.

"Cartoner."

He turned, and Marcos ran up three steps to meet him.

"Who is the prelate with the face of a fox-terrier?" he asked.

"He represents the Vatican. Is he with Mon?"

Marcos nodded an affirmative, and, turning, descended the stairs.

"I had better get back to Pampeluna," he said to his father.

The train for the Northern frontier leaves Madrid in the evening, and at
this time no man knew who might be the next to take a ticket for France.
The Sarrions made their preparations to depart the same evening, and,
arriving early, secured a compartment to themselves. Marcos, however, did
not take his seat, but stood on the platform looking towards the gate
through which the passengers must come.

"Are you looking for some one?" asked Sarrion.

"General Pacheco,