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hands and knees grazed and bleeding, Jose was staggering now, eyes half closed. The night sky was lightening, the first chinks of the dawn appearing in the east, when he paused, pointing unsteadily.
    â€œThere, do you see?”
    Ghostlike in the first pale rays of the rising sun, the mountain soared, misty and nebulous. He stumbled on and I trailed after him … down into the valley … skirting a cottage with hens and geese waiting for their morning feed … then up into a forest of cork oaks, no longer seeing anything clearly, my whole strength and effort being in putting one foot in front of the other … in keeping upright.
    The sun came through the trees in patches of pale gold, but gave little warmth. I found it impossible to stop shivering as my slip clung clammily to my body and in ice-cold misery I trudged on, walking across more fields on a sandy path, then deep in the heart of the woods again. The cattle were up in the hills and we could hear the faint sound of their bells as we floundered on, hands grasped together, heaving weighted legs over ditches and through scrub and tangled thickets.
    Swaying exhaustedly, Jose pointed. A hundred yards away across the hillside, was the ribbon of track and beyond it, safe and inviolate, huddling beneath the sweep of the mountain, the cottage.
    I sobbed with relief, weaving dizzily across the open countryside, my eyes fixed on the blue of the cottage door. Eternities later I leaned thankfully against the wall as Jose pushed open the door, then I pitched forward, the light wavering, the blackness pressing in on me. Jose crashed against the stout wooden table and I called weakly: “Miss Daventry, Miss Daventry.…”
    There was no reply.

Chapter Six
    The echoing emptiness of the cottage seemed the final mockery. If Luis and Miss Daventry had been arrested by the police, then not only Jose’s future looked black, mine did too. With difficulty I pushed the thought of Spanish jails to the back of my mind and wearily concentrated on making hot coffee. Jose was silent, immersed in thought, the bandages on his shoulder still wet with the dark stain of blood seeping through.
    We drank the reviving coffee and then I braced myself for the task of removing the sodden dressing and re-bandaging his shoulder.
    â€œDon’t be nervous,” Jose said comfortingly. “It doesn’t hurt.”
    â€œI’m not nervous,” I said. If he could lie, so could I.
    For a minute I thought he was smiling, then I pulled the last swab away and he sucked his breath in sharply. It looked raw and open and my stomach muscles tightened as I washed the dried blood away, sponging gently till the wound was clean. He flinched once, staring determinedly out through the window as I gingerly re-bound it. At last I leaned back on my heels saying hopefully: “It looks as if it is healing. How does it feel?”
    â€œBloody awful.”
    â€œYes, I suppose it does,” I said unhelpfully. “What do we do now?”
    â€œWe can’t do anything till we have some rest.”
    There was only one bed in the cottage. Jose heaved himself up from the table, reading my thoughts. “The bed is big enough for two. Perhaps you will feel better if you put some of Maria’s clothes on.”
    I nodded, knowing what a fright I looked, my underslip muddy and torn, my bare feet black and bleeding. Wearily I searched through Maria’s clothes till I found a scarlet dress, that apart from being two sizes too big, was wearable. Jose had dragged himself into the other room and fallen onto the bed. Tired beyond belief, I washed myself as best I could and then tied a scarf round my waist to gather the dress in. It wasn’t what the best dressed woman of the year was wearing but it would have to do. Hesitantly I walked into the bedroom. Jose was already asleep and he had been right, the bed was big enough for both of us. I gazed round the spartan room, there was