For the spring was at hand with its wild march "solano" and hard, blue skies.
There was no moon.

But Marcos had good eyes, and those whom he sought were men who, after a long siesta, traveled or worked during half the night.
The dust was astir on the Paseo del Ebro, where it lies four inches deep on the broad space in front of the Posada de los Reyes where the carts stand.

There were carts here now with dim, old-fashioned lanterns, and long teams of mules waiting patiently to be relieved of their massive collars.
The first man he met told him that Evasio Mon must have arrived in Saragossa at sunset, for he had passed him on the road, going at a good pace on horseback.
From another he heard the rumour that the Carlists had torn up the line between Pampeluna and Castejon.
"Go to the station," this informant added.

"They will tell you there, because you are a rich man.

To me they will tell nothing." At the station he learnt that this rumour was true; and one who was in the telegraph service gave him to understand that the Carlists had driven the outpost back from the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, which was now cut off.
"He thinks I am at Torre Garda," reflected Marcos, as he returned to the city, fighting the wind on the bridge.
Chance favoured him, for a man with tired horses stopped his carriage to inquire if that were the Count Marcos de Sarrion.