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the church door, or a peasant transporting eggs, cheeses and chestnuts to market on donkeyback. Picture me as a sergeant posting sentries outside the powder magazine, or a dragoon leading the regimental commander's charger to the horse-pond."
    The captain laughed.
    "Yours is not the kind of face one readily forgets, My Lord Marquis. I could recognize you in any disguise, I feel sure."
    "Could you indeed?" said the Marquis, and pondered in silence for a while. "Are you acquainted with General Rowland Hill, Captain?"
    "I have been privileged to see General the Lord Hill of Hawkstone on many occasions, the last one being at Salamanca four months ago, when I was making some purchases in the neighbourhood of his headquarters." The captain broke off. "Have you lost something, My Lord Marquis?"
    The Marquis had bent down. When he straightened up, Lieutenant von Röhn saw that he had draped the captain's scarlet cloak around his shoulders. Röhn failed to perceive any other difference in him until his attention was aroused by the Britisher's look of boundless amazement.
    From one moment to the next, the Marquis's face had taken on a wholly strange and unfamiliar appearance. Röhn had never before set eyes on those gaunt,- furrowed cheeks, those mobile orbs that darted so restlessly in all directions, that hard, firm mouth, and that massive chin which gave evidence of vigour and grim determination. Then the unfamiliar face opened its mouth and a snarling, drawling voice emerged.
    "The next time your assault exposes you to such heavy fire, Captain —"
    The Britisher grasped the Marquis roughly by the shoulders and uttered an oath or imprecation whose meaning was lost on Lieutenant von Röhn. "What hell-hound of a playactor taught you that accursed trick?" he cried. "If I didn't happen to know that Lord Hill speaks no word of Spanish . . . Give me back my cloak, it's devilish cold!"
    The guerrillas laughed at his annoyance and astonishment, but one of them crossed himself and said, with a timid glance at the Marquis, "Our gracious lord the Señor Marques can do other things as well. Give him two measures of blood, twelve pounds of flesh and a sack of bones, and he'll make you a man - Christian or Moor, it's all the same to him."
    "Well, Captain," said the Marquis, who had reverted to his previous appearance, "do you still believe the Germans will arrest me if I decide to disappear? I shall pass through the Puerta del Sol at vespers this very day, and not a soul will prevent me from doing so."
    "I wish you would tell me your chosen disguise," the captain said anxiously. "Should my men fail to recognize you while storming La Bisbal, I fear they may do you harm."
    "My one desire," exclaimed the Marquis, "is to be buried unrecognized. In losing my life, I shall also lose a name that has for ever been stained with dishonour."
    The fire in their midst had dwindled and begun to go out. The wind blew cold and damp, and a pale dawn was rising beyond the gloomy woods. The captain stared into the dying embers.
    "The glory your exploit will bring you —" he ventured.
    "Glory?" the Marquis broke in angrily. "Know this, Captain: no glory derives from battle and conquest. I despise war, which for ever compels us to do evil. The humble peasant who innocently tills his field is more glorious than any general or marshal, for his poor hands tend soil which the rest of us have profaned and defiled with our blood-letting."
    At these words, all who stood round the dying fire fell silent and stared with surprise and respect at the man who despised war, yet took it upon himself to perform war's bloody work in expiation of the treason committed by someone of his name.
    "I am a soldier," Saracho said at long last, "and I shall persuade you of the glory that war can bring a gallant soldier when our venture is successfully concluded, Señor Marques, for I shall recognize you."
    "If you recognize me, have pity and refrain from addressing me by my name, which is