The treeless land stretched for miles upon miles in the bright sunlight. But soon this, too, passed beneath the swift wings of the plane.

The waterless landscape gave way to more streams and deep, dark rivers. Villages appeared, dominated by great churches and cathedrals whose towers rose mast-like into the sky. Rows upon rows of tall poplars and silver birches separated cultivated fields and small cottages of gray stone. Then this dropped behind and the plane was flying over what seemed to be an endless plain. But it was green and lush like the earlier hills. Great walnut trees grew everywhere and in their shade grazed large herds of goats and cattle. Many wide streams split the great plain and in them could be seen, splashing, the bodies of young swimmers.

Lower and lower they flew, the plane braking like a giant sled. Just beyond, the land rose in brown ridges and here, on the bank of a river, was the city. It climbed the hills in every direction, sprawling and white against the khaki-colored landscape.

The big plane banked sharply and for the first time during the trip the Black kicked the padding of his stall. Alec spoke to him and rubbed his muzzle.

The brown hills rose on either side of the plane and Alec could see men at work on the sharply tilted patches of cultivated land. Then they fell behind and the landing strip came up to meet the wheels of the plane. There was a hollow thud of rubber grasping the concrete runway and the big plane rolled past the airport buildings.

The dogs barked louder than ever and the Black snorted repeatedly. All the animals seemed to know that the plane had landed. Henry went to the window as the plane turned off the runway and taxied toward the largest building.

“There’s a flashy yellow convertible out there with a horse trailer attached to it,” he said. “That could be our Spanish playboy, all right.”

“John Hudson said we’d like him,” Alec said, snapping on the Black’s lead shank.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Henry grunted.

A few minutes later Alec led the Black from the plane quietly and without fanfare. A man who apparently had been waiting for them said, “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you to Spain.”

His accent was more British than Spanish. He was everything John Hudson had said of him, big and burly and ugly. Even more impressive than his tree-trunk build was his face. It was cleaved by a long deep scar across his right cheek. Alec found that he was making a great effort not to offend their host by recoiling before it. To avoid embarrassment he faced the man more squarely than before, observing the pallor of his skin, the heavy jowls and the dark circles beneath his eyes. And such eyes! As John Hudson had said, they appeared to be black and were as piercing as an eagle’s. They alone in this deathlike face were vitally alive. Here, Alec decided, was a sick man despite his tremendous, powerful bulk.

Henry shook the man’s big hand, saying with a rising inflection—as if he didn’t already know who it was—“Señor González?”

“Angel, por favor,” the man corrected, laughing—and surprisingly his voice was not only cordial but deep and strong as well. “Please,” he added, “there must not be formality for I feel we have known one another for years. May I call you Henry? And you Alec?”

They nodded in answer, their eyes never leaving the man.

His black hair was short and crew cut. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old but one wouldn’t have known that from his face. Only the recklessness in his eyes and his wild laugh betrayed his youthfulness.

“Come, my friends,” he said, waving a magnificent sombrero, “I am most anxious to take you home. There is nothing to detain us here.