But on the sun-baked ground, the neat, light feet of the Moor had made no mark.

He looked at the wall, but failed to perceive the hole in it, for the woodbine and the wild rose tree covered it like a curtain.
Marcos had made a round by the summit of the hill and turning to the right rejoined the high road from the Casa Blanca, crossing the canal again by that bridge and returning to Saragossa by the broad avenue known as the Monte Torrero.
He reined in his horse beneath the lamp that hangs from the trees opposite to the gate of the town called the Puerta de Santa Engracia, and unfolded the note that Juanita had written to him.

It was scribbled in pencil on a half sheet torn from an exercise book.
"Dear Marcos," it said.

"Thank you most preposterously for the chocolates.

The next time please put in some almonds.