THE VELVET GLOVE

By

Henry Seton Merriman(HUGH STOWELL SCOTT)

Contents:

I. IN THE CITY OF THE WINDSII. EVASIO MONIII. WITHIN THE HIGH WALLSIV. THE JADE--CHANCEV. A PILGRIMAGEVI. PILGRIMSVII. THE ALTERNATIVEVIII. THE TRAILIX. THE QUARRYX. THISBEXI. THE ROYAL ADVENTUREXII. IN A STRONG CITYXIII. THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVEXIV. IN THE CLOISTERXV. OUR LADY OF THE SHADOWSXVI. THE MATTRESS BEATERXVII. AT THE INN OF THE TWO TREESXVIII. THE MAKERS OF HISTORYXIX. COUSIN PELIGROSXX. AT TORRE GARDAXXI. JUANITA GROWS UPXXII. AN ACCIDENTXXIII. KIND INQUIRIESXXIV. THE STORMY PETRELXXV. WAR'S ALARMXXVI. AT THE FORDXXVII. IN THE CLOUDSXXVIII. LE GANT DE VELOURSXXIX. LA MAIN DE FERXXX. THE CASTING VOTE

List of Illustrations:"'ARE YOU SURE YOU HAVE NOT HEARD FROM PAPA?'""A MOMENT LATER THE TRAVELER WAS LYING THERE ALONE. ""ALL TURNED AND LOOKED AT HIM IN WONDER. ""'DO YOU INTEND TO PUNISH YOUR FATHER'S ASSASSINS?'""MARCOS WAS ESSENTIALLY A MAN OF HIS WORD. ""THE DOOR WAS OPENED BY A STOUT MONK. ""'HE IS NOT KILLED, ' SAID MARCOS, BREATHLESSLY. ""HE LEFT JUANITA ALONE WITH MARCOS. "

CHAPTER I

IN THE CITY OF THE WINDSThe Ebro, as all the world knows--or will pretend to know, being anignorant and vain world--runs through the city of Saragossa. It is ariver, moreover, which should be accorded the sympathy of thisgeneration, for it is at once rapid and shallow. 

On one side it is bordered by the wall of the city. The left bank is lowand sandy, liable to flood; a haunt of lizards in the summer, of frogs inwinter-time. The lower bank is bordered by poplar trees, and here andthere plots of land have been recovered from the riverbed for tillage andthe growth of that harsh red wine which seems to harden and thicken themen of Aragon. 

One night, when a half moon hung over the domes of the Cathedral of thePillar, a man made his way through the undergrowth by the riverside andstumbled across the shingle towards the open shed which marks thelanding-place of the only ferry across the Ebro that Saragossa possesses. The ferry-boat was moored to the landing-stage. It is a high-prowed, high-sterned vessel, built on Viking lines, from a picture the observantmust conclude, by a landsman carpenter. It swings across the river on awire rope, with a running tackle, by the force of the stream and the aidof a large rudder. 

The man looked cautiously into the vine-clad shed. It was empty. He crepttowards the boat and found no one there. Then he examined the chain thatmoored it. There was no padlock. In Spain to this day they bar the windowheavily and leave the door open. To the cunning mind is given in thiscustom the whole history of a great nation. 

He stood upright and looked across the river. He was a tall man with aclean cut face and a hard mouth. He gave a sharp sigh as he looked atSaragossa outlined against the sky. His attitude and his sigh seemed todenote along journey accomplished at last, an object attained perhaps orwithin reach, which is almost the same thing, but not quite. For most menare happier in striving than in possession. And no one has yet decidedwhether it is better to be among the lean or the fat. 

Don Francisco de Mogente sat down on the bench provided for those thatawait the ferry, and, tilting back his hat, looked up at the sky. Thenorthwest wind was blowing--the Solano--as it only blows in Aragon. Thebridge below the ferry has, by the way, a high wall on the upper side ofit to break this wind, without which no cart could cross the river atcertain times of the year. It came roaring down the Ebro, bending thetall poplars on the lower bank, driving before it a cloud of dust on theSaragossa side. It lashed the waters of the river to a gleaming whitebeneath the moon. And all the while the clouds stood hard and sharp ofoutline in the sky. They hardly seemed to move towards the moon. Theyscarcely changed their shape from hour to hour. This was not a wind ofheaven, but a current rushing down from the Pyrenees to replace the hotair rising from the plains of Aragon. 

Nevertheless, the clouds were moving towards the moon, and must soon hideit. Don Francisco de Mogente observed this, and sat patiently beneath thetrailing vines, noting their slow approach. He was a white-haired man, and his face was burnt a deep brown. It was an odd face, and theexpression of the eyes was not the usual expression of an old man's eyes. They had the agricultural calm, which is rarely seen in drawing-rooms. For those who deal with nature rarely feel calm in a drawing-room. Theywant to get out of it, and their eyes assume a hunted look. This seemedto be a man who had known both drawing-room and nature; who must haveturned quietly and deliberately to nature as the better part. Thewrinkles on his face were not those of the social smile, which sodisfigure the faces of women when the smile is no longer wanted. Theywere the wrinkles of sunshine. 

"I will wait, " he said placidly to himself in English, with, however, astrong American accent. "I have waited fifteen years--and she doesn'tknow I am coming. "

He sat looking across the river with quiet eyes. The city lay before him, with the spire of its unmatched cathedral, the domes of its secondcathedral, and its many towers outlined against the sky just as he hadseen them fifteen years before--just as others had seen them a hundredyears earlier. 

The great rounded cloud was nearer to the moon now. Now it touched it. And quite suddenly the domes disappeared. Don Francisco de Mogente roseand went towards the boat. He did not trouble to walk gently or to loosenthe chains noiselessly. The wind was roaring so loudly that a listenertwenty yards away could have heard nothing. He cast off and then hastenedto the stern of the boat. The way in which he handled the helm showedthat he knew the tricks of the old ferryman by wind and calm, by high andlow river. He had probably learnt them with the photographic accuracyonly to be attained when the mind is young. 

The boat swung out into the river with an odd jerking movement, which thesteersman soon corrected. And a man who had been watching on the bridgehalf a mile farther down the river hurried into the town. A secondwatcher at an open window in the tall house next to the Posada de losReyes on the Paseo del Ebro closed his field-glasses with a thoughtfulsmile. 

It seemed that Don Francisco de Mogente had purposely avoided crossingthe bridge, where to this day the night watchman, with lantern and spear, peeps cautiously to and fro--a startlingly mediaeval figure. It seemedalso that the traveler was expected, though he had performed the laststage of his journey on foot after nightfall. 

It is characteristic of this country that Saragossa should be guardedduring the day by the toll-takers at every gate, by sentries, and by thenew police, while at night the streets are given over to the care of ahandful of night watchmen, who call monotonously to each other allthrough the hours, and may be avoided by the simplest-minded ofmalefactors. 

Don Francisco de Mogente brought the ferry-boat gently alongside thelanding-stage beneath the high wall of the Quay, and made his way throughthe underground passage and up the dirty steps that lead into one of thenarrow streets of the old town. 

The moon had broken through the clouds again and shone down upon thebarred windows. The traveler stood still and looked about him. Nothinghad changed since he had last stood there. Nothing had changed just herefor five hundred years or so; for he could not see the domes of theCathedral of the Pillar, comparatively modern, only a century old. 

Don Francisco de Mogente had come from the West; had known the newness ofthe new generation. And he stood for a moment as if in a dream, breathingin the tainted air of narrow, undrained streets; listening to the cry ofthe watchman slowly dying as the man walked away from him on sandaled, noiseless feet; gazing up at the barred windows, heavily shadowed. Therewas an old world stillness in the air, and suddenly the bells of fiftychurches tolled the hour. It was one o'clock in the morning. The travelerhad traveled backwards, it would seem, into the middle ages. As he heardthe church bells he gave an angry upward jerk of the head, as if thesound confirmed a thought that was already in his mind. The bells seemedto be all around him; the towers of the churches seemed to dominate thesleeping city on every side. There was a distinct smell of incense in theair of these narrow streets, where the winds of the outer world rarelyfound access. 

The traveler knew his way, and hurried down a narrow turning to the left, with the Cathedral of the Pillar between him and the river. He had made adé tour in order to avoid the bridge and the Paseo del Ebro, a broadroad on the river bank. In these narrow streets he met no one. On thePaseo there are several old inns, notably the Posada de los Reyes, usedby muleteers and other gentlemen of the road, who arise and start at anyhour of the twenty-four and in summer travel as much by night as by day. At the corner, where the bridge abuts on the Paseo, there is always awatchman at night, while by day there is a guard. It is the busiest anddustiest corner in the city. 

Francisco de Mogente crossed a wide street, and again sought a darkalley. He passed by the corner of the Cathedral of the Pillar, and wenttowards the other and infinitely grander Cathedral of the Seo. Beyondthis, by the riverside, is the palace of the archbishop. Farther on isanother palace, standing likewise on the Paseo del Ebro, backing likewiseon to a labyrinth of narrow streets. It is called the Palacio Sarrion, and belongs to the father and son of that name. 

It seemed that Francisco de Mogente was going to the Palacio Sarrion; forhe passed the great door of the archbishop's dwelling, and was alreadylooking towards the house of the Sarrions, when a slight sound made himturn on his heels with the rapidity of one whose life had been passedamid dangers--and more especially those that come from behind. 

There were three men coming from behind now, running after him onsandaled feet, and before he could do so much as raise his arm the moonbroke out from behind a cloud and showed a gleam of steel. Don Franciscode Mogente was down on the ground in an instant, and the three men fellupon him like dogs on a rat. One knife went right through him, and gratedwith a harsh squeak on the cobble-stones beneath. 

A moment later the traveler was lying there alone, half in the shadow, his dusty feet showing whitely in the moonlight. The three shadows hadvanished as softly as they came. 

Almost instantly from, strangely enough, the direction in which they hadgone the burly form of a preaching friar came out into the light. He waswalking hurriedly, and would seem to be returning from some mission ofmercy, or some pious bedside to one of the many houses of religionlocated within a stone's throw of the Cathedral of the Seo in one of thenarrow streets of this quarter of the city. The holy man almost fell overthe prostrate form of Don Francisco de Mogente. 

"Ah! ah!" he exclaimed in an even and quiet voice. "A calamity. "

"No, " answered the wounded man with a cynicism which even the near sightof death seemed powerless to effect. "A crime. "

"You are badly hurt, my son. "

"Yes; you had better not try to lift me, though you are a strong man. "

"I will go for help, " said the monk. 

"Lay help, " suggested the wounded man curtly. But the friar was alreadyout of earshot. 

In an astonishingly short space of time the friar returned, accompaniedby two men, who had the air of indoor servants and the quiet movements ofstreet-bred, roof-ridden humanity. 

Mindful of his cloth, the friar stood aside, unostentatiously and firmlyrefusing to take the lead even in a mission of mercy. He stood withhumbly-folded hands and a meek face while the two men lifted DonFrancisco de Mogente on to a long narrow blanket, the cloak of Navarreand Aragon, which one of them had brought with him. 

They bore him slowly away, and the friar lingered behind. The moon shonedown brightly into the narrow street and showed a great patch of bloodamid the cobblestones. In Saragossa, as in many Spanish cities, certainold men are employed by the municipal authorities to sweep the dust ofthe streets into little heaps. These heaps remain at the side of thestreets until the dogs and the children and the four winds disperse thedust again. It is a survival of the middle ages, interesting enough inits bearing upon the evolution of the modern municipal authority and thetransmission of intellectual gifts. 

The friar looked round him, and had not far to look. There was a dustheap close by. He plunged his large brown hands into it, and with a fewquick movements covered all traces of the calamity of which he had sonearly been a witness. 

Then, with a quick, meek look either way, he followed the two men, whohad just disappeared round a corner. The street, which, by the way, iscalled the Calle San Gregorio, was, of course, deserted; the tall houseson either side were closely shuttered. Many of the balconies bore abranch of palm across the iron railings, the outward sign of priesthood. For the cathedral clergy live here. And, doubtless, the holy men withinhad been asleep many hours. 

Across the end of the Calle San Gregorio, and commanding that narrowstreet, stood the Palacio Sarrion--an empty house the greater part of theyear--a vast building, of which the windows increased in size as theymounted skywards. There were wrought-iron balconies, of which the windowembrasures were so deep that the shutters folded sideways into the wallinstead of swinging back as in houses of which the walls were of normalthickness. 

The friar was probably accustomed to seeing the Palacio Sarrion rigidlyshut up. He never, in his quick, humble scrutiny of his surroundingsglanced up at it. And, therefore, he never saw a man sitting quietlybehind the curiously wrought railings, smoking a cigarette--a man who hadwitnessed the whole incident from beginning to end. Who had, indeed, seenmore than the friar or the two quiet men-servants. For he had seen astick--probably a sword-stick, such as nearly every Spanish gentlemancarries in his own country--fly from the hand of Don Francisco de Mogenteat the moment when he was attacked, and fall into the gutter on thedarker side of the street, where it lay unheeded. Where, indeed, it stillremained when the friar with his swinging gait had turned the corner ofthe Calle San Gregorio. 

CHAPTER II

EVASIO MONThere are some people whose presence in a room seems to establish amental centre of gravity round which other minds hover uneasily, conscious of the dead weight of that attraction. 

"I have known Evasio all my life, " the Count de Sarrion once said to hisson. "I have stood at the edge of that pit and looked in. I do not knowto this day whether there is gold at the bottom or mud. I have neverquarreled with him, and, therefore, we have never made it up. "

Which, perhaps, was as good a description of Evasio Mon as any man hadgiven. He had never quarreled with any one. He was, in consequence, alonely man. For the majority of human beings are gregarious. They meettogether in order to quarrel. The majority of women prefer to sit andsquabble round one table to seeking another room. They call it thedomestic circle, and spend their time in straining at the family tie inorder to prove its strength. 

It was Evasio Mon who, standing at the open window of his apartment inthe tall house next door to the Posada de los Reyes on the Paseo delEbro, had observed with the help of a field-glass, that a traveler wascrossing the river by the ferry-boat after midnight. He noted the unusualproceeding with a tolerant shrug. It will be remembered that he closedhis glasses with a smile--not a smile of amusement or of contempt--noteven a deep smile such as people wear in books. It was merely a smile, and could not be construed into anything else by any physiognomist. Thewrinkles that made it were deeply marked, which suggested that Evasio Monhad learnt to smile when he was quite young. He had, perhaps, beentaught. 

And, after all, a man may as well show a smile to the world as a worriedlook, or a mean look, or one of the countless casts of countenance thatare moulded by conceit and vanity. A smile is frequently misconstrued bythe simple-hearted into the outward sign of inward kindness. Many thinkthat it conciliates children and little dogs. But that which the manythink is usually wrong. 

If Evasio Mon's face said anything at all, it warned the world that ithad to deal with a man of perfect self-control. And the man who controlshimself is usually able to control just so much of his surrounding worldas may suit his purpose. 

There was something in the set of this man's eyes which suggested no easyvictory over self. For his eyes were close together. His hair was almostred. His face was rather narrow and long. It was not the face of aneasy-going man as God had made it. But years had made it the face of aman that nothing could rouse. He was of medium height, with rather narrowshoulders, but upright and lithe. He was clean shaven and of a pleasantruddiness. His eyes were a bluish gray, and looked out upon the worldwith a reflective attention through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, with whichhe had a habit of amusing himself while talking, examining theirmechanism and the knot of the fine black cord with a bat-like air ofblindness. 

In body and mind he seemed to be almost a young man. But Ramon de Sarrionsaid that he had known him all his life. And the Count de Sarrion hadspoken with Christina when that woman was Queen of Spain. 

Mon was still astir, although the bells of the Cathedral of the Virgin ofthe Pillar, immediately behind his house, had struck the half hour. Itwas more than thirty minutes since the ferry-boat had sidled across theriver, and Mon glanced at the clock on his mantelpiece. He expected, itwould seem, a sequel to the arrival which had been so carefully noted. 

And at last the sequel came. A soft knock, as of fat fingers, made Monglance towards the door, and bid the knocker enter. The door opened, andin its darkened entry stood the large form of the friar who had renderedsuch useful aid to a stricken traveler. The light of Mon's lamp showedthis holy man to be large and heavy of face, with the narrow forehead ofthe fanatic. With such a face and head, this could not be a clever man. But he is a wise worker who has tools of different temper in his bag. Toofine a steel may snap. Too delicately fashioned an instrument may turn inthe hand when suddenly pressed against the grain. 

Mon held out his hand, knowing that there would be no verbal message. From the mysterious folds of the friar's sleeves a letter instantlyemerged. 

"They have blundered. The man is still living. You had better come, " itsaid; and that was all. 

"And what do you know of this affair, my brother?" asked Mon, holding theletter to the candle, and, when it was ignited, throwing it on to thecold ashes in the open fireplace, where it burnt. 

"Little enough, Excellency. One of the Fathers, praying at his window, heard the sound of a struggle in the street, and I was sent out to seewhat it signified. I found a man lying on the ground, and, according toinstructions, did not touch him, but went back for help. "

Mon nodded his compact head thoughtfully. 

"And the man said nothing?"

"Nothing, Excellency. "

"You are a wise man, my brother. Go, and I will follow you. "

The friar's meek face was oily with that smile of completeself-satisfaction which is only found when foolishness and fervour meetin one brain. 

Mon rose slowly from his chair and stretched himself. It was evident thathad he followed his own inclination he would have gone to bed. He perhapshad a sense of duty. He had not far to go, and knew the shortest waysthrough the narrow streets. He could hear a muleteer shouting at hisbeasts on the bridge as he crossed the Calle Don Jaime I. The streetswere quiet enough otherwise, and the watchman of this quarter could beheard far away at the corner of the Plaza de la Constitucion calling tothe gods that the weather was serene. 

Evasio Mon, cloaked to the eyes against the autumn night, hurried downthe Calle San Gregorio and turned into an open doorway that led into thepatio of a great four-sided house. He climbed the stone stair and knockedat a door, which was instantly opened. 

"Come!" said the man who opened it--a white-haired priest of benevolentface. "He is conscious. He asks for a notary. He is dying! I thoughtyou--"

"No, " replied Mon quickly. "He would recognise me, though he has not seenme for twenty years. You must do it. Change your clothes. "

He spoke as with authority, and the priest fingered the silken cordaround his waist. 

"I know nothing of the law, " he said hesitatingly. 

"That I have thought of. Here are two forms of will. They are written sosmall as to be almost illegible. This one we must get signed if we can;but, failing that, the other will do. You see the difference. In this onethe pin is from left to right; in that, from right to left. I will waithere while you change your clothes. As emergencies arise we will meetthem. "

He spoke the last sentence coldly, and followed with his narrow gaze themovements of the old priest, who was laying aside his cassock. 

"Let us have no panics, " Evasio Mon's manner seemed to say. And his airwas that of a quiet pilot knowing his way through the narrow waters thatlay ahead. 

In a small room near at hand, Francisco de Mogente was facing death. Helay half dressed upon a narrow bed. On a table near at hand stood abasin, a bottle, and a few evidences of surgical aid. But the doctor hadgone. Two friars were in the room. One was praying; the other was thebig, strong man who had first succoured the wounded traveler. 

"I asked for a notary, " said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him. He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeplyand quickly. At times his expression was one of wonder, as if aconviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his willand despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste inwondering. 

"The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming, " replied thefriar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries. "

"Mind your own business, " replied Mogente quietly. As he spoke the dooropened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand. 

"You sent for me--a notary, " he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway ayard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that inlooking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also theface of Evasio Mon. 

"You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary. 

"A statement--no. It is useless since they have killed me. I will make astatement ... Elsewhere. "

And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear. 

"A will--yes, " he continued--and hearing the notary dip his pen--

"My name, " he said, "is Francisco de Mogente. "

"Of?" inquired the notary, writing. 

"Of this city. You cannot be a notary of Saragossa or you would knowthat. "

"I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on. "

"Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave. "

One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love ofmoney perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The manwho spoke was dying; already his breath came short. 

"Give me, " he said, "some cordial, or I shall not last. "

After a pause he went on. 

"There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was ayounger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughterJuanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will infavour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran overthe paper--"on one condition. "

"On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but satupright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in thedoorway. He had forgotten his tonsure. 

"That he does not go into religion--that he devotes no part of it to thebenefit or advantage of the church. "

The notary sat very straight while he wrote this down. 

"My son is in Saragossa, " said Mogente suddenly, with a change of manner. "I will see him. Send for him. "

The notary glanced up at Evasio Mon, who shook his head. 

"I cannot send for him at two in the morning. "

"Then I will sign no will. "

"Sign the will now, " suggested the lawyer, with a look of doubt towardsthe dark doorway behind the sick man's head. "Sign now, and see your sonto-morrow. "

"There is no to-morrow, my friend. Send for my son at once. "

Mon grudgingly nodded his head. 

"It is well, I will do as you wish, " said the notary, only too glad, itwould seem, to rise and go into the next room to receive further minuteinstructions from his chief. 

The dying man laid with closed eyes, and did not move until his son spoketo him. Leon de Mogente was a sparely-built man, with a white andoddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely anyemotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight. 

"Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?"

"Not yet, " answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort ofsuppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiledfaintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say. 

"But you wish to become one?"

"It is my dearest desire. "

The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother, " he said. "She was afool. You may go back to bed, my friend. "

"But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside, " pleaded the son. He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room. 

"Then stay and pray if you want to, " answered Mogente, without eventroubling himself to show contempt. 

The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by anupward glance. 

"You will, perhaps, leave your fortune, " he suggested at length, "to--tosome good work. "

But Evasio Mon was shaking his head. 

"To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzledsilence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He layquite still, looking straight in front of him. 

"The Count Ramon de Sarrion, " he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?"

"No, " answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door. "No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. Youwish to leave your money to your son?"

"No, no. "

"Then to--your daughter?"

And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behindit. 

"To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is itnot? To your daughter?"

Mogente nodded his head. 

"Write it out shortly, " he said in a low and distinct voice. "For I willsign nothing that I have not read, word for word, and I have but littletime. "

The notary took a new sheet of paper and wrote out in bold and, it is tobe presumed, unlegal terms that Francisco de Mogente left his earthlypossessions to Juanita de Mogente, his only daughter. Being no notary, this elderly priest wrote out a plain-spoken document, about which therecould be no doubt whatever in any court of law in the world, which isprobably more than a lawyer could have done. 

Francisco de Mogente read the paper, and then, propped in the arms of thebig friar, he signed his name to it. After this he lay quite still, sostill that at last the notary, who stood watching him, slowly knelt downand fell to praying for the soul that was gone. 

CHAPTER III

WITHIN THE HIGH WALLSIn these degenerate days Saragossa has taken to itself a suburb--thefirst and deadliest sign of a city's progress. Thirty years ago, however, Torrero did not exist, and those terrible erections of white stone andplaster which now disfigure the high land to the south of the city hadnot yet burst upon the calm of ancient architectural Spain. Here, onMonte Torrero, stood an old convent, now turned into a barrack. Herealso, amid the trees of the ancient gardens, rises the rounded dome ofthe church of San Fernando. 

Close by, and at a slightly higher level, curves the Canal Imperial, 400years old, and not yet finished; assuredly conceived by a Moorish love ofclear water in high places, but left to Spanish enterprise and incompleteness when the Moors had departed. 

Beyond the convent walls, the canal winds round the slope of the brownhill, marking a distinctive line between the outer desert and the greenoasis of Saragossa. Just within the border line of the oasis, just belowthe canal, on the sunny slope, lies the long low house of the ConventSchool of the Sisters of the True Faith. Here, amid the quiet oforchards--white in spring with blossom, the haunt of countlessnightingales, heavy with fruit in autumn, at all times the home of aluxuriant vegetation--history has surged to and fro, like the tidesdrawn hither and thither, rising and falling according to the dictates ofa far-off planet. And the moon of this tide is Rome. 

For the Sisters of the True Faith are a Jesuit corporation, and theirConvent School is, now a convent, now a school, as the tide may rise orfall. The ebb first came in 1555, when Spain threw out the Jesuits. Theflow was at its height so late as 1814, when Ferdinand VII--a Bourbon, of course--restored Jesuitism and the Inquisition at one stroke. Andbefore and after, and through all these times, the tide of prosperity hasrisen and fallen, has sapped and sagged and undermined with a noiselessenergy which the outer world only half suspects. 

In 1835 this same long, low, quiet house amid the fruit-trees was sackedby the furious populace, and more than one Sister of the True Faith, itis whispered, was beaten to the ground as she fled shrieking down thehill. In 1836 all monastic orders were rigidly suppressed by Mendizabal, minister to Queen Christina. In 1851 they were all allowed to live againby the same Queen's daughter, Isabel II. So wags this world into whichthere came nineteen hundred years ago not peace, but a sword; a world allstirred about by a reformed rake of Spain who, in his own words, came "tosend fire throughout the earth;" whose motto was, "Ignem veni metteri interram, et quid volo nisi ut accendatur. "

The road that runs by the bank of the canal was deserted when the Countde Sarrion turned his horse's head that way from the dusty high roadleading southwards out of Saragossa. Sarrion had only been in Saragossatwenty-four hours. His great house on the Paseo del Ebro had not beenthrown open for this brief visit, and he had been content to inhabit tworooms at the back of the house. From the balcony of one he had seen theincident related in the last chapter; and as he rode towards the conventschool he carried in his hand--not a whip--but the delicately-wroughtsword-stick which had fallen from the hand of Francisco de Mogente intothe gutter the night before. 

In the grassy sedge that bordered the canal the frogs were calling toeach other with that conversational note of interrogation in theirthroats which makes their music one of Nature's most sociable andcompanionable sounds. In the fruit-trees on the lower land thenightingales were singing as they only sing in Spain. It was nearly dark, a warm evening of late spring, and there was no wind. Amid the thousandscents of blossom, of opening buds, and a hundred flowering shrubs therearose the subtle, soft odour of sluggish water, stirred by frogs, tellingof cool places beneath the trees where the weary and the dusty might liein oblivion till the morning. 

The Count of Sarrion rode with a long stirrup, his spare form, six feetin height, a straight line from heel to shoulder. His seat in the saddleand something in his manner, at once gentle and cold, something mysticthat attracted and yet held inexorably at arm's length, lent at once adeeper meaning to his name, which assuredly had a Moorish ring in it. Thelittle town of Sarrion lies far to the south, on the borders of Valencia, in the heart of the Moorish country. And to look at the face of Ramon deSarrion and of his son, the still, brown-faced Marcos de Sarrion, was toconjure up some old romance of that sun-scorched height of theJavalambre, where history dates back to centuries before Christ--whereassuredly some Moslem maiden in the later time must have forsaken all forlove of a wild yet courteous Spanish knight of Sarrion, bequeathing toher sons through all the ages the deep, reflective eyes, the impenetrabledignity, of her race. 

Sarrion's hair was gray. He wore a moustache and imperial in the Frenchfashion, and looked at the world with the fierce eyes and somewhat of theair of an eagle, which resemblance was further accentuated by afinely-cut nose. As an old man he was picturesque. He must have been veryhandsome in his youth. 

It seemed that he was bound for the School of the Sisters of the TrueFaith, for as he approached its gate, built solidly within the thicknessof the high wall, without so much as a crack or crevice through which thecurious might peep, he drew rein, and sat motionless on his well-trainedhorse, listening. The clock at San Fernando immediately vouchsafed theinformation that it was nine o'clock. There was no one astir, no one onthe road before or behind him. Across the narrow canal was a bare field. The convent wall bounded the view on the left hand. 

Sarrion rode up to the gate and rang a bell, which clanged with a sort ofsurreptitiousness just within. He only rang once, and then waited, posting himself immediately opposite a little grating let into the solidwood of the door. The window behind the grating seemed to open and shutwithout sound, for he heard nothing until a woman's voice asked who wasthere. 

"It is the Count Ramon de Sarrion who must without fail speak to theSister Superior to-night, " he answered, and composed himself again in thesaddle with a southern patience. He waited a long time before the heavydoors were at length opened. The horse passed timorously within, withjerking ears and a distended nostril, looking from side to side. Heglanced curiously at the shadowy forms of two women who held the door, and leant their whole weight against it to close it again as soon aspossible. 

Sarrion dismounted, and drew the bridle through a ring and hook attachedto the wall just inside the gates. No one spoke. The two nuns noiselesslyreplaced the heavy bolts. There was a muffled clank of large keys, andthey led the way towards the house. 

Just over the threshold was the small room where visitors were asked towait--a square, bare apartment with one window set high in the wall, withone lamp burning dimly on the table now. There were three or four chairs, and that was all. The bare walls were whitewashed. The Convent School ofthe Sisters of the True Faith did not err, at all events, in the heathenindiscretion of a too free hospitality. The visitors to this room werebarely beneath the roof. The door had in one of its panels the usualgrating and shutter. 

Sarrion sat down without looking round him, in the manner of a man whoknew his surroundings, and took no interest in them. 

In a few minutes the door opened noiselessly--there was a too obtrusivenoiselessness within these walls--and a nun came in. She was tall, andwithin the shadow of her cap her eyes loomed darkly. She closed the door, and, throwing back her veil, came forward. She leant towards Sarrion, andkissed him, and her face, coming within the radius of the lamp, was theface of a Sarrion. 

There was in her action, in the movement of her high-held head, a suddenand startling self-abandonment of affection. For Spanish women understandabove all others the calling of love and motherhood. And it seemed thatSor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--had, like many women, bestowed a thwarted love--faute de mieux--upon her brother. 

"You are well?" asked Sarrion, looking at her closely. Her face, framedby a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy. 

She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his faceand person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words. A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she is reallyinterested. She knows without asking. She stood before him with her handscrossed within the folds of her ample sleeves. Her face was lost again inthe encircling shadow of her cap and veil. She was erect and motionlessin her stiff and heavy clothing. The momentary betrayal of womanhood andaffection was passed, and this was the dreaded Sister Superior of theConvent School again. 

"I suppose, " she said, "you are alone as usual. Is it safe, afternightfall--you, who have so many enemies?"

"Marcos is at Torre Garda, where I left him three days ago. The snows aremelting and the fishing is good. It is unusual to come at this hour, Iknow, but I came for a special purpose. "

He glanced towards the door. The quiet of this house seemed to arouse asense of suspicion and antagonism in his mind. 

"I wished, of course, to see you also, though I am aware that theaffections are out of place in this--holy atmosphere. "

She winced almost imperceptibly and said nothing. 

"I want to see Juanita de Mogente, " said the Count. "It is unusual, Iknow, but in this place you are all-powerful. It is important, or Ishould not ask it. "

"She is in bed. They go to bed at eight o'clock. "

"I know. Is not that all the better? She has a room to herself, Irecollect. You can arouse her and bring her to me and no one need knowthat she has had a visitor--except, I suppose, the peeping eyes thathaunt a nunnery corridor. "

He gave a shrug of the shoulder. 

"Mother of God!" he exclaimed. "The air of secrecy infects one. I am nota secretive man. All the world knows my opinions. And here am I plottinglike a friar. Can I see Juanita?"

And he laughed quietly as he looked at his sister. 

"Yes, I suppose so. "

He nodded his thanks. 

"And, Dolores, listen!" he said. "Let me see her alone. It may savecomplications in the future. You understand?"

Sor Teresa turned in the doorway and looked at him. 

He could not see the expression of her eyes, which were in deep shadow, and she left him wondering whether she had understood or not. 

It would seem that Sor Teresa, despite her slow dignity of manner, was aquick person. For in a few moments the door of the waiting-room was againopened and a young girl hastened breathlessly in. She was not more thansixteen or seventeen, and as she came in she threw back her dark hairwith one hand. 

"I was asleep, Uncle Ramon, " she exclaimed with a light laugh, "and thegood Sister had to drag me out of bed before I would wake up. And then, of course, I thought it was a fire. We have always hoped for a fire, youknow. "

She was continuing to attend to her hasty dress as she spoke, tying theribbon at the throat of her gay dressing-gown with careless fingers. 

"I had not even time to pull up my stockings, " she concluded, making goodthe omission with a friendly nonchalance. Then she turned to look at SorTeresa, but her eyes found instead the closed door. 

"Oh!" she cried, "the good Sister has forgotten to come back with me. Andit is against the rules. What a joke! We are not allowed to see visitorsalone--except father or mother, you know. I don't care. It was not myfault. "

And she looked doubtfully from the door to Sarrion and back again to thedoor. She was very young and gay and careless. Her cheeks still flushedby the deep sleep of childhood were of the colour of a peach that hasripened quickly in the glow of a southern sun. Her eyes were dark andvery bright; the bird-like shallow vivacity of childhood still sparkledin them. It seemed that they were made for laughing, not for tears orthought. She was the incarnation of youth and springtime. To find suchignorance of the world, such innocence of heart, one must go to a nunneryor to Nature. 

"I came to see you to-night, " said Sarrion, "as I may be leavingSaragossa again to-morrow morning. "

"And the good Sister allowed me to see you. I wonder why! She has beencross with me lately. I am always breaking things, you know. "

She spread out her hands with a gesture of despair. 

"Yesterday it was an altar-vase. I tripped over the foot of that stupidSt. Andrew. Have you heard from papa?"

Sarrion hesitated for a moment at the sudden question. 

"No, " he answered at length. 

"Oh! I wish he would come home from Cuba, " said the girl, with a passinggravity. "I wonder what he will be like. Will his hair be gray? Not thatI dislike gray hair you know, " she added hurriedly. "I hope he will benice. One of the girls told me the other day that she disliked herfather, which seems odd, doesn't it? Milagros de Villanueva--do you knowher? She was my friend once. We told each other everything. She has redhair. I thought it was golden when she was my friend. But one can seewith half an eye that it is red. "

Sarrion laughed rather shortly. 

"Have you heard from your father?" he asked. 

"I had a letter on Saint Mark's Day, " she answered. "I have not heardfrom him since. He said he hoped to give me a surprise, he trusted apleasant one, during the summer. What did he mean? Do you know?"

"No, " answered Sarrion, thoughtfully. "I know nothing. "

"And Marcos is not with you?" the girl went on gaily. "He would not dareto come within the walls. He is afraid of all nuns. I know he is, thoughhe denies it. Some day, in the holidays, I shall dress as a nun, and youwill see. It will frighten him out of his wits. "

"Yes, " said Sarrion looking at her, "I expect it would. Tell me, " he wenton after a pause, "Do you know this stick?"

And he held out, under the rays of the lamp, the sword-stick he hadpicked up in the Calle San Gregorio. 

She looked at it and then at him with startled eyes. 

"Of course, " she said. "It is the sword-stick I sent papa for the NewYear. You ordered it yourself from Toledo. See, here is the crest. Wheredid you get it? Do not mystify me. Tell me quickly--is he here? Has hecome home?"

In her eagerness she laid her hands on his dusty riding coat and lookedup into his face. 

"No, my child, no, " answered Sarrion, stroking her hair, with atenderness unusual enough to be remembered afterwards. "I think not. Thestick must have been stolen from him and found its way back to Saragossain the hand of the thief. I picked it up in the street yesterday. It is acoincidence, that is all. I will write to your father and tell him ofit. "

Sarrion turned away, so that the shade of the lamp threw his face intodarkness. He was afraid of those quick, bright eyes--almost afraid thatshe should divine that he had already telegraphed to Cuba. 

"I only came to ask you whether you had heard from your father and tohear that you were well. And now I must go. "

She stood looking at him, thoughtfully pulling at the delicate embroideryof her sleeves, for all that she wore was of the best that Saragossacould provide, and she wore it carelessly, as if she had never knownother, and paid little heed to wealth---as those do who have always hadit. 

"I think there is something you are not telling me, " she said, with theever-ready laugh twinkling beneath her dusky lashes. "Some mystery. "

"No, no. Good-night, my child. Go back to your bed. "

She paused with her hand on the door, looking back, her face all shadedby her tumbled hair hanging to her waist. 

"Are you sure you have not heard from papa?"

"Quite sure--! I wish I had, " he added when the door was closed behindher. 

CHAPTER IV

THE JADE--CHANCEThe same evening, by the light of his solitary lamp, in the smallroom--which had been a lady's boudoir in olden days--the Count de Sarrionsat down to write a letter to his son. He despatched it at once by arider to Torre Garda, far beyond Pampeluna, on the southern slope of thePyrenees. 

"I am growing too old for this work, " he said to himself as he sealed theletter. "It wants a younger man. Marcos will do it, though he hates thepavement. There is something of the chase in it, and Marcos is a hunter. "

At his call a man came into the room, all dusty and sunburnt, a typicalman of Aragon, dry and wrinkled, burnt like a son of Sahara. Hisclothing, like his face, was dust-coloured. He wore knee-breeches ofhomespun, brown stockings, a handkerchief that had once been colouredbound round his head, with the knot over his left ear. He was startlinglyrough and wild in appearance, but his features, on examination, wererefined, and his eyes intelligent. 

"I want you to go straight to Torre Garda with this letter, and give itinto the hand of my son with your own hand. It is important. You may bewatched and followed; you understand?"

The man nodded. They are a taciturn people in Aragon and Navarre--sotaciturn that in politely greeting the passer on the road they cut downthe curt good-day. "Buenas, " they say, and that is all. 

"Go with God, " said the Count, and the messenger left the roomnoiselessly, for they wear no shoe-leather in this dry land. 

There was a train in those days to Pampeluna and a daily post, but then, as now, a letter of any importance is better sent by hand, while therailway is still looked upon with suspicion by the authorities as a meansof circulating malcontents and spreading crime. Every train is stillinspected at each stopping place by two of the civil guards. 

The Count was early astir the next morning. He knew that a man such asMarcos, possessing the instinct of the chase and that deep insight intothe thoughts and actions of others, even into the thoughts and actions ofanimals, which makes a great hunter or a great captain, would never havelet slip the feeble clue that he had of the incident in the Calle SanGregorio. The Count had been a politician in his youth, and his positionentailed a passive continuance of the policy he had actively advocated inearlier days. But as an old sailor, weary with the battle of many storms, learns at last to treat the thunder and the tempest with a certaintolerant contempt, so he, having passed through evil monarchies andcorrupt regencies, through the storm of anarchy and the humiliation of abrief and ridiculous republic, now stood aside and watched the waves gopast him with a semi-contemptuous indifference. 

He was too well known in the streets of Saragossa to wander hither andthither in them, making inquiry as to whether any had seen his lifelongfriend Francisco de Mogente back in the city of his birth from which hehad been exiled in the uncertain days of Isabella. Francisco de Mogentehad been placed in one of those vague positions of Spanish political lifewhere exile had never been commuted, though friend and enemy would alikehave welcomed the return of a scapegoat on their own terms. But Mogentehad never been the man to make terms--any more than this grim Spanishnobleman who now sat wondering what his next move must be. 

After his early coffee Sarrion went out into the Calle San Gregorio. Thesound of deep voices chanting the matins came to him through the opendoors of the Cathedral of the Seo. A priest hurried past, late, and yetin time to save his record of services attended. The beggars wereleisurely making their way to the cathedral doors, too lazy to make anearlier start, philosophically reflecting that the charitable are aslikely to give after matins as before. 

The Count went over the ground of the scene that he had witnessed in thefitful moonlight. Here the man who might have been Francisco de Mogentehad turned on his heel. Here, at the never opened door of a desertedpalace, he had stood for a moment fighting with his back to the wall. Here he had fallen. From that corner had come aid in the person--Sarrionwas sure--of a friar. It was an odd coincidence, for the Church had neverbeen the friend of the exiled man, and it was in the days of apriest-ridden Queen that his foes had triumphed. 

They had carried the stricken man back to the corner of the Calle SanGregorio and the Plazuela San Bruno, and from the movements of thebearers Sarrion had received the conviction that they had entered thehouse immediately beyond the angle of the high building opposite to theEpiscopal Palace. 

Sarrion followed his memory step by step. He determined to go into thehouse--a huge building--divided into many small apartments. The door hadnever particularly attracted his attention. Like many of the doorways ofthese great houses, it was wide and high, giving access to a darkstairway of stone. The doors stood open night and day. For this stairwaywas a common one, as its dirtiness would testify. 

There was some one coming down the stairs now. Sarrion, remembering thathis face was well known, and that he had no particular business in any ofthe apartments into which the house was divided, paused for a moment, andwaited on the threshold. He looked up the dark stairs, and slowlydistinguished the form and face of the newcomer. It was his old friendEvasio Mon--smart, well-brushed, smiling a good-morning to all the worldthis sunny day. 

They had not met for many years. Their friendship had been one of thosebegun by parents, and carried on in after years by the children more fromhabit than from any particular tie of sympathy. For we all find at lengththat the nursery carpet is not the world. Their ways had parted soonafter the nursery, and, though they had met frequently, they had nevertrodden the same path again. For Evasio Mon had been educated as apriest. 

"I have often wondered why I have never clashed--with Evasio Mon, "Sarrion once said to his son in the reflective quiet of their life atTorre Garda. 

"It takes two to clash, " replied Marcos at length in his contemplativeway, having given the matter his consideration. And perhaps that was theonly explanation of it. 

Sarrion looked up now and met the smile with a grave bow. They took offtheir hats to each other with rather more ceremony than when they hadlast met. A long, slow friendship is the best; a long, slow enmity thedeadliest. 

"One does not expect to see you in Saragossa, " said Mon gently. A manbears his school mark all through life. This layman had learnt somethingin the seminary which he had never forgotten. 

"No, " replied the other. "What is this house? I was just going into it. "

Mon turned and looked up at the building with a little wave of the hand, indicating lightly the stones and mortar. 

"It is just a house, my friend, as you see--a house, like another. "

"And who lives in it?"

"Poor people, and foolish people. As in any other. People one must pityand cannot help despising. "

He laughed, and as he spoke he led the way, as it were, unconsciouslyaway from this house which was like another. 

"Because they are poor?" inquired Sarrion, who did not move a step inresponse to Evasio Mon's lead. 

"Partly, " admitted Mon, holding up one finger. "Because, my friend, nonebut the foolish are poor in this world. "

"Then why has the good God sent so many fools into the world?"

"Because He wants a few saints, I suppose. "

Mon was still trying to lead him away from that threshold and Sarrionstill stood his ground. Their half-bantering talk suddenly collapsed, andthey stood looking at each other in silence for a moment. Both were whatmay be called "ready" men, quick to catch a thought and answer. 

"I will tell you, " said Sarrion quietly, "why I am going into this house. I have long ceased to take an interest in the politics of this poorcountry, as you know. "

Mon's gesture seemed to indicate that Sarrion had only done what was wiseand sensible in a matter of which it was no longer any use to talk. 

"But to my friends I still give a thought, " went on the Count. "Twonights ago a man was attacked in this street--by the usual streetcutthroats, it is to be supposed. I saw it all from my balcony there. See, from this corner you can perceive the balcony. "

He drew Mon to the corner of the street, and pointed out the SarrionPalace, gloomy and deserted at the further end of the street. 

"But it was dark, and I could not see much, " he added, seemingunconsciously to answer a question passing in his companion's mind; forMon's pleasant eyes were measuring the distance. 

"I thought they brought him in here; for before I could descend helpcame, and the cutthroats ran away. "

"It is like your good, kind heart, my friend, to interest yourself in thefate of some rake, who was probably tipsy, or else he would not have beenabroad at that hour. "

"I had not mentioned the hour. "

"One presumes, " said Mon, with a short laugh, "that such incidents do nothappen in the early evening. However, let us by all means make inquiriesafter your dissipated protege. "

He moved with alacrity to the house, leading the way now. 

"By an odd chance, " said Sarrion, following him more slowly, "I haveconceived the idea that this man is an old friend of mine. "

"Then, my good Ramon, he must be an old friend of mine, too. "

"Francisco de Mogente. "

Mon stopped with a movement of genuine surprise, followed instantly by aquick sidelong glance beneath his lashes. 

"Our poor, wrong-headed Francisco, " he said, "what made you think of himafter all these years? Have you heard from him?"

He turned on the stairs as he asked this question in an indifferent voiceand waited for the answer; but Sarrion was looking at the steps with adeep attention. 

"See, " he said, "there are drops of blood on the stairs. There was bloodin the street, but it had been covered with dust. This also has beencovered with dust--but the dust may be swept aside--see!"

And with the gloves which a Spanish gentleman still carries in his handwhenever he is out of doors, he brushed the dust aside. 

"Yes, " said Mon, examining the steps, "yes; you may be right. Come, letus make inquiries. I know most of the people in this house. They are poorpeople. In my small way I help some of them, when an evil time comes inthe winter. "

He was all eagerness now, and full of desire to help. It was he who toldthe Count's story, and told it a little wrong as a story is usuallyrelated by one who repeats it, while Sarrion stood at the door and lookedaround him. It was Mon who persisted that every stone should be turned, and every denizen of the great house interrogated. But nothing resultedfrom these inquiries. 

"I did not, of course, mention Francisco's name, " he said, confidentially, as they emerged into the street again. "Nothing was to begained by that. And I confess I think you are the victim of your ownimagination in this. Francisco is in Santiago de Cuba, and will probablynever return. If he were here in Saragossa surely his own son would knowit. I saw Leon de Mogente the day before yesterday, by the way, and hesaid nothing of his father. And it is not long since I spoke withJuanita. We could make inquiry of Leon--but not to-day, by the way. Itis a great Retreat, organised by some pilgrims to the Shrine of our Ladyof the Pillar, and Leon is sure to be of it. The man is half a monk, youknow. "

They were walking down the Calle San Gregorio, and, as if in illustrationof the fact that chance will betray those who wait most assiduously uponher, the curtain of the great door of the cathedral was drawn aside, andLeon de Mogente came out blinking into the sunlight. The meeting wasinevitable. 

"There is Leon--by a lucky chance, " said Mon almost immediately. 

Leon de Mogente had seen them and was hurrying to meet them. Seen thus inthe street, under the sun, he was a pale and bloodless man--food for thecloister. He bowed with an odd humility to Mon, but spoke directly to theCount de Sarrion. He knew, and showed that he knew, that Mon was not gladto see him. 

"I did not know that you were in Saragossa, " he said. "A terrible thinghas happened. My father is dead. He died without the benefits of theChurch. He returned secretly to Saragossa two days ago and was attackedand robbed in the streets. "

"And died in that house, " added Sarrion, indicating with his stick thebuilding they had just quitted. 

"Ye--es, " answered Leon hesitatingly, with a quick and frightened glanceat Mon. "It may have been. I do not know. He died without the consolationof the Church. It is that that I think of. "

"Yes, " said Sarrion rather coldly, "you naturally would. "

CHAPTER V

A PILGRIMAGEEvasio Mon was a great traveler. In Eastern countries a man who makes thepilgrimage to Mecca adds thereafter to his name a title which carrieswith it not only the distinction conferred upon the dullest by the sightof other men and countries, but the bearer stands high among the elect. 

If many pilgrimages could confer a title, this gentle-mannered Spaniardwould assuredly have been thus decorated. He had made almost everypilgrimage that the Church may dictate--that wise old Church, which fillsso well its vocation in the minds of the restless and the unsatisfied. Hehad been many times to Rome. He could tell you the specific properties ofevery shrine in the Roman Catholic world. He made a sort of speciality inlatter-day miracles. 

Did this woman want a son to put a graceful finish to her family ofdaughters, he could tell her of some little-known pilgrimage in themountains which rarely failed. 

"Go, " he would say. "Go there, and say your prayer. It is the right thingto do. The air of the mountains is delightful. The journey diverts themind. "

In all of which he was quite right. And it was not for him, any more thanit is for the profane reader, to inquire why latter-day miracles arenearly always performed at or near popular health resorts. 

Was another in grief, Evasio Mon would send him on a long journey to agay city, where the devout are not without worldly diversion in theevenings. 

Neither was it upon hearsay only that he prescribed. He had been to allthese places, and tested them perhaps, which would account for his serenedemeanour and that even health which he seemed to enjoy. He had traveledwithout perturbment, it would seem, for his journeys had left no wrinkleson his bland forehead, neither was the light of restlessness in his quieteyes. 

He must have seen many cities, but cities are nearly all alike, and theygrow more alike every day. Many men also must he have met, but theyseemed to have rubbed against him and left him unmarked--as sandstone mayrub against a diamond. It is upon the sandstone that the scratch remains. He was not part of all that he had seen, which may have meant that helooked not at men or cities, but right through them, to something beyond, upon which his gaze was always fixed. 

Living as he did, in a city possessing so great a shrine as that of the"Virgen del Pilar, " the scene of a vision accorded to St. James whentraveling through Spain, Mon naturally interested himself in thepilgrims, who came from all parts of the world to worship in thecathedral, who may be seen at any hour kneeling in the dim light offlickering candles before the altar rails. 

Mon's apartment, indeed, in the tall house next door to the Posada de losReyes on the Paseo del Ebro was a known resort of the more cultured ofthe pilgrims, of these who came from afar; from Rome and from thefarthest limits of the Roman Church--from Warsaw to Minnesota. 

Evasio Mon had friends also among the humble and such as sheltered in thePosada de los Reyes, which itself was a typical Spanish hostelry, and oneof those houses of the road in which the traveler is lucky if he findsthe bedrooms all occupied; for then he may, without giving offense, sleepmore comfortably in the hayloft. Here, night and day, the clink of bellsand the gruff admonition of refractory mules told of travel, and theconstant come and go of strange, wild-looking men from the remotercorners of Aragon, far up by the foothills of the Pyrenees. The hugetwo-wheeled carts drawn by six, eight or ten mules, came lumberingthrough the dust at all hours of the twenty-four, bringing the produce ofthe greener lands to this oasis of the Aragonese desert. Some came fromother oases in the salt and stony plains where once an inland sea coveredall, while the others hailed from the north where the Sierras de Guararise merging into the giant Pyrenees. 

Many of these drivers made their way up the stairs of the house whereEvasio Mon lived his quiet life, and gave a letter or merely a verbalmessage, remembered faithfully through the long and dusty journey, to theman who, though no priest himself, seemed known to every priest in Spain. These letters and messages were nearly always from the curate of somedistant village, and told as often as not of a cheerful hopefulness inthe work. 

Sometimes the good men themselves would come, sitting humbly beneath thehood of the great cart, or riding a mule, far enough in front to avoidthe dust, and yet near enough for company. This was more especially inthe month of February, at the anniversary of the miraculous appearance, at which time the graven image set up in the cathedral is understood tobe more amenable to supplication than at any other. And, havingaccomplished their pilgrimage, the simple churchmen turned quitenaturally to the house that stood adjoining the cathedral. There, theywere always sure of a welcome and of an invitation to lunch or dinner, when they were treated to the very best the city could afford, and, whilekeeping strictly within the letter of the canonical law, could feasttheir hearty country appetites even in Lent. 

Mon so arranged his journeys that he should be away from Saragossa in thegreat heats of the summer and autumn, which wise precaution was renderedthe easier by the dates of the other great festivals which he usuallyattended. For it will be found that the miracles and other eventsattractive to the devout nearly always happen at that season of the yearwhich is most suitable to the environments. Thus the traditions of theMiddle Ages fixed the month of February for Saragossa when it is pleasantto be in a city, and September for Montserrat--to quote only oneinstance--at which time the cool air of the mountains is most to beappreciated. 

Evasio Mon, however, was among those who deemed it wise to avoid thegreat festival at Montserrat by making his pilgrimage earlier in thesummer, when the number of the devout was more restricted and theirquality more select. Scores of thousands of the very poorest in the landflock to the monastery in September, turning the mountain into a picnicground and the festival into a fair. 

Mon never knew when the spirit would move him to make this pleasantjourney, but his preparations for it must have been made in advance, andhis departure by an early train the day after meeting his old friend theCount de Sarrion was probably sudden to every one except himself. 

He left the train at Lerida, going on foot from the station to the town, but he did not seek an hotel. He had a friend, it appeared, whose housewas open to him, in the Spanish way, who lived near the church in thelong, narrow street which forms nearly the whole town of Lerida. InNavarre and Aragon the train service is not quite up to modernrequirements. There is usually one passenger train in either directionduring the day, though between the larger cities this service has of lateyears been doubled. It was afternoon, and the hour of the siesta, whenEvasio Mon walked through the narrow streets of this ancient city. 

Although the sun was hot, and all nature lay gasping beneath it, thestreets were unusually busy, and in the shades of the arcades at thecorner of the market-place, at the corner of the bridge, and by the bankof the river, where the low wall is rubbed smooth by the trousers of theindolent, men stood in groups and talked in a low voice. It is not toomuch to state that the only serene face in the streets was that of EvasioMon, who went on his way with the absorbed smile which is usually takenin England to indicate the Christian virtues, and is associated as oftenas not with Dissent. 

The men of Lérida--a simpler, more agricultural race than theNavarrese--were disturbed; and, indeed, these were stirring times inSpain. These men knew what might come at any moment, for they had beenborn in stirring times and their fathers before them. Stirring times hadreigned in this country for a hundred years. Ferdinand VII--the beloved, the dupe of Napoleon the Great, the god of all Spain from Irun to SanRoque, and one of the thorough-paced scoundrels whom God has permitted tosit on a throne--had bequeathed to his country a legacy of strife, whichwas now bearing fruit. 

For not only Aragon, but all Spain was at this time in the mostunfortunate position in which a nation or a man--and, above all, awoman--can find herself--she did not know what she wanted. 

On one side was Catalonia, republican, fiery, democratic, andindependent; on the other, Navarre, more priest-ridden than Rome herself, with every man a Carlist and every woman that which her confessor toldher to be. In the south, Andalusia only asked to be left alone to go herown sunny, indifferent way to the limbo of the great nations. Which wayshould Aragon turn? In truth, the men of Aragon knew not themselves. 

Stirring times indeed; for the news had just penetrated to far remoteLérida that the two greatest nations of Europe were at each other'sthroats. It was a long cry from Ems to Lérida, and the talkers on theshady side of the market-place knew little of what was passing on thebanks of the Rhine. 

Stirring times, too, were nearer at hand across the Mediterranean. Forthings were approaching a deadlock on the Tiber, and that river, too, must, it seemed, flow with blood before the year ran out. For thegreatest catastrophe that the Church has had to face was preparing in thenew and temporary capital of Italy; and all men knew that the word mustsoon go forth from Florence telling the monarch of the Vatican that hemust relinquish Rome or fight for it. 

Spain, in her awkward search for a king hither and thither over Europe, had thrown France and Germany into war. And Evasio Mon probably knew ofthe historic scene at Ems as soon as any man in the Peninsula; forhistory will undoubtedly show, when a generation or so has passed away, that the latter stages of Napoleon's declaration of war were hurried onby priestly intrigue. It will be remembered that Bismarck was thedeadliest and cleverest foe that Jesuitism has had. 

Mon knew what the talkers in the market-place were saying to each other. He probably knew what they were afraid to say to each other. For Spainwas still seeking a king--might yet set other nations by the ears. TheRepublic had been tried and had miserably failed. There was yet a DonCarlos, a direct descendant of the brother whom Ferdinand the belovedcheated out of his throne. There was a Don Carlos. Why not Don Carlos, since we seek a king? the men in the Phrygian caps were saying to eachother. And that was what Mon wanted them to say. 

After dark he came out into the streets again, cloaked to the lipsagainst the evening air. He went to the large cafe by the river, andthere seemed to meet many acquaintances. 

The next morning he continued his journey, by road now, and on horseback. He sat a horse well, but not with that comfort which is begotten of alove of the animal. For him the horse was essentially a means oftransport, and all other animals were looked at in a like utilitarianspirit. 

In every village he found a friend. As often as not he was the first tobring the news of war to a people who have scarcely known peace thesehundred years. The teller of news cannot help telling with his tidingshis own view of them; and Evasio Mon made it known that in his opinionall who had a grievance could want no better opportunity of airing it. 

Thus he traveled slowly through the country towards Montserrat; andwherever his slight, black-clad form and serene face had passed, thespirit of unrest was left behind. In remote Aragonese villages, as inbusy Catalan towns where the artisan (that disturber of ancient peace)was already beginning to add his voice to things of Spain, Evasio Monalways found a hearing. 

Needless to say he found in every village Venta, in every Posada of thetowns, that which is easy to find in this babbling world--a talker. 

And Evasio Mon was a notable listener. 

CHAPTER VI

PILGRIMSIt is not often that nature takes the trouble to stir the heart of maninto any emotion stronger than a quiet admiration or a peaceful wonder. Here and there on the face of the earth, however, the astonishing work ofGod gives pause to the most casual observer, the most thoughtlesstraveler. 

"Why did He do this?" one wonders. And no geologist--not even a Frenchgeologist with his quick imagination and lively sense of thepicturesque--can answer the question. 

On first perceiving the sudden, uncouth height of Montserrat the travelermust assuredly ask in his own mind, "Why?"

The mountain is of granite, where no other granite is. It belongs to noneighbouring formation. It stands alone, throwing up its rugged peaksinto a cloudless sky. It is a piece from nothing near it---from nothingnearer, one must conclude, than the moon. No wonder it stirred theimagination of mediæval men dimly groping for their God. 

Ignatius de Loyola solved the question with that unbounded assurancewhich almost always accompanies the greatest of human blunders. It is theself-confident man who compasses the finest wreck, Loyola, wounded in thedefense of that strongest little city in Europe, Pampeluna--wounded, alas! and not killed--jumped to the conclusion that God had reared upMontserrat as a sign. For it was here that the Spanish soldier, who wasto mould the history of half the world, dedicated himself to Heaven. 

Within sight of the Mediterranean and of the Pyrenees, towering above thebrown plains of Catalonia, this shrine is the greatest in Christendomthat bases its greatness on nothing but tradition. Thousands of pilgrimsflock here every year. Should they ask for history, they are given alegend. Do they demand a fact, they are told a miracle. On payment of asufficient fee they are shown a small, ill-carved figure in wood. Themonastery is not without its story; for the French occupied it and burntit to the ground. For the rest, its story is that of Spain, torn hitherand thither in the hopeless struggle of a Church no longer able to meetthe demands of an enlightened religious comprehension, and endeavouringto hold back the inevitable advance of the human understanding. 

To-day a few monks are permitted to live in the great houses teachingmusic and providing for the wants of the devout pilgrims. Without themonastery gate, there is a good and exceedingly prosperous restaurantwhere the traveler may feed. In the vast houses, is accommodation forrich and poor; a cell and clean linen, a bed and a monastic basin. Themonks keep a small store, where candles may be bought and matches, andeven soap, which is in small demand. 

Evasio Mon arrived at Montserrat in the evening, having driven in opencarriage from the small town of Monistrol in the valley below. It was thehour of the table d'hôte, and the still evening air was ambient withculinary odours. Mon went at once to the office of the monastery, andthere received his sheets and pillow-case, his towel, his candle, and thekey of his cell in the long corridor of the house of Santa Maria de Jesu. He knew his way about these holy houses, and exchanged a nod ofrecognition with the lay brother on duty in the office. 

Then this traveler hurried across the courtyard and out of the great gateto join the pilgrims of the richer sort at table in the dining-room ofthe restaurant. There were four who looked up from their plates and bowedin the grave Spanish way when he entered the room. Then all fell to theirfish again in silence; for Spain is a silent country, and only babbles inthat home of fervid eloquence and fatal verbosity, the Cortes. It isalways dangerous to enter into conversation with a stranger in Spain, forthere is practically no subject upon which the various nationalities areunable to quarrel. A Frenchman is a Frenchman all the world over, andpolitics may be avoided by a graceful reference to the Patrie, for whichRepublican and Legitimist are alike prepared to die. But the Spaniard maybe an Aragonese or a Valencian, an Andalusian or a Guipuzcoan, andpatriotism is a flower of purely local growth and colour. 

Thus men, meeting in public places have learnt to do so in silence; and atable d'hôte is a wordless function unless the inevitable Andalusian--hewho takes the place of the Gascon in France--is present with his babbleand his laugh, his fine opinion of himself, and his faculty for making asacrifice of his own dignity at that over-rated altar--the shrine ofsociability. 

There was no Andalusian at this small table to serve at once as a link ofsympathy between the quiet men, who would fain silence him, and a meansof making unsociable persons acquainted with each other. The five menwere thus permitted to dine in a silence befitting their surroundings andtheir station in life. For they were obviously gentlemen, and obviouslyof a thoughtful and perhaps devout habit of mind. A keen observer who hashad the cosmopolitan education, say, of an attaché, is usually able toassign a nationality to each member of a mixed assembly; but there was asubtle resemblance to each other in these diners, which would have madethe task a hard one. These were citizens of the world, and their likenesslay deeper than a mere accident of dress. In fact, the most remarkablething about them was that they were all alike studiously unremarkable. 

After the formal bow, Evasio Mon gave his attention to the fare setbefore him. Once he raised his narrow gaze, and, with a smile ofrecognition, acknowledged the grave and very curt nod of a man seatedopposite. A second time he met the glance of another diner, a stout, puffy man, who breathed heavily while he ate. Both men alike avertedtheir eyes at once, and both looked towards a little wizened man, doubledup in his chair, who ate sparingly, and bore on his wrinkled face andbent form, the evidence of such a weight of care as few but kings andministers ever know. 

So absorbed was he that after one glance at Evasio Mon he lapsed againinto his own thoughts. The very manner in which he crumbled his bread andhandled his knife and fork showed that his mind was as busy as a mill. Hewas oblivious to his surroundings; had forgotten his companions. His mindhad more to occupy it than one brief lifetime could hope to compass. Yethe was so clearly a man in authority that a casual observer couldscarcely have failed to perceive that these devout pilgrims, from Italy, from France, from far-off Poland, and Saragossa close at hand inCatalonia, had come to meet him and were subordinate to him. 

It was probably no small task to command such men as Evasio Mon--and theother four seemed no less pliable behind their gentle smile. 

When the dessert had been placed on the table and one or two hadreflectively eaten a baked almond, more from habit than desire, thelittle wizened man looked round the table with the manner of a ratherabsent-minded host. 

"It is eight o'clock, " he said in French. "The monastery gate closes athalf-past. We have no time to discuss our business at this table. Shallwe go within the monastery gates? There is a seat by the wall, near thefountain, in the courtyard--"

He rose as he spoke, and it became at once apparent that this was a greatman. For all stood aside as he passed out, and one opened the door as toa prince; of which amenities he took no heed. 

The monastery is built against the sheer side of the mountain, perched ona cornice, like a huge eagle's nest. The buildings have no pretense toarchitectural beauty, and consist of barrack-like houses built around aquadrangle. The chapel is at the farther end, and is, of course, thecentre of interest. Here is kept the sacred image, which has survived somany chances and changes; which, hidden for a hundred and fifty years ina cavern on the mountainside, made itself known at last by a miraculousillumination at night, and for the further guidance of the faithful gaveforth a sweet scent. It, moreover, selected this spot for its shrine byjibbing under the immediate eye of a bishop, and refusing to be carriedfurther up the mountain. 

The house of Santa Maria de Jesu has the advantage of being at the outerend of the quadrangle, and thus having no house opposite to it, faces asheer fall of three thousand feet. A fountain splashes in the courtyardbelow, and a low wall forms a long seat where the devout pass the eveninghours in that curt and epigrammatic conversation, which is more peacefulthan the quick talk of Frenchmen, and deeper than the babble of Italy. 

It was to this wall that the little wizened man led the way, and hereseated himself with a gesture, inviting his companions to do the same. Had any idle observer been interested in their movements he would haveconcluded that these were four travelers, probably pilgrims of the betterclass, who had made acquaintance at the table d'hôte. 

"I have come a long way, " said the little man at once, speaking in therather rounded French of the Italian born, "and have left Rome at a timewhen the Church requires the help of even the humblest of her servants--Ihope our good Mon has something important and really effective this timeto communicate. "

Mon smiled at the implied reproach. 

"And I, too, have come from far--from Warsaw, " said the stout man, breathing hard, as if to illustrate the length of his journey. "Let ushope that there is something tangible this time. "

He spoke with the gaiety and lightness of a Frenchman; for this was thatFrenchman of the North, a Pole. 

Mon lighted a cigarette, with a gay jerk of the match towards the lastspeaker, indicative of his recognition of a jest. 

"Something, " continued the Pole, "more than great promises--somethingmore stable than a castle--in Spain. Ha, ha! You have not taken Pampelunayet, my friend. One does not hear that Bilboa has fallen into the handsof the Carlists. Every time we meet you ask for money. You must arrangeto give us something--for our money, my friend. "

"I will arrange, " answered Mon in his quiet, neat enunciation, "to giveyou a kingdom. "

And he inclined his head forward to look at the Pole through the upperhalf of his gold-rimmed glasses. 

"And not a vague republic in the region of the North Pole, " said thestout man with a laugh. "Well, who lives shall see. "

"You want more money--is that it?" inquired the little wizened man, whoseemed to be the leader though he spoke the least--a not unusualcharacteristic. 

"Yes, " replied the Spaniard. 

"Your country has cost us much this year, " said the little man, blinkinghis colourless eyes and staring at the ground as if making a mentalcalculation. "You have forced Germany and France into war. You have madeFrance withdraw her troops from Rome, and you gave Victor Emmanuel thechance he awaited. You have given all Europe--the nerves. "

"And now is the moment to play on those nerves, " said Mon. 

"With your clumsy Don Carlos?"

"It is not the man--it is the Cause. Remember that we are an ignorantnation. It is the ignorant and the half educated who sacrifice all for acause. "

"It is a pity you cannot buy a new Don Carlos with our money, " put in thePole. 

"This one will serve, " was the reply. "One must look to the future. Manyhave been ruined by success, because it took them by surprise. In case wesucceed, this one will serve. The Church does not want its kings to becapable--remember that. "

"But what does Spain want?" inquired the leader. 

"Spain doesn't know. "

"And this Prince of ours, whom you have asked to be your king. Is notthat a spoke in your wheel?" asked the man of few words. 

"A loose spoke which will drop out. No one--not even Prim--thinks that hewill last ten years. He may not last ten months. "

"But you have to reckon with the man. This son of Victor Emmanuel isclever and capable. One can never tell what may arise in a brain thatworks beneath a crown. "

"We have reckoned with him. He is honest. That tells his tale. No honestking can hope to reign over this country in their new Constitution. Itneeds a Bourbon or a woman. "

The quick, colourless eyes rested on Mon's face for a moment, and--whoknows?--perhaps they picked up Mon's secret in passing. 

"Something dishonest, in a word, " put in the Pole. 

But nobody heeded him; for the word was with the leader. 

"When last we met, " he said at length, "and you received a large sum ofmoney, you made a distinct promise; unless my memory deceives me. "

He paused, and no one suggested that his memory had ever made slip orlapse in all his long career. 

"You said you would not ask for money again unless you could showsomething tangible--a fortress taken and held, a great General bought, aProvince won. Is that so?"

"Yes, " answered Mon. 

"Or else, " continued the speaker, "in order to meet the very justcomplaint from other countries, such as Poland for instance, that Spainhas had more than her share of the common funds--you would lay before ussome proposal of self-help, some proof that Spain in asking for help isprepared to help herself by a sacrifice of some sort. "

"I said that I would not ask for any sum that I could not double, " saidMon. 

The little man sat blinking for some minutes silent in that absolutestillness which is peculiar to great heights--and is so marked atMontserrat that many cannot sleep there. 

"I will give you any sum that you can double, " he said, at length. 

"Then I will ask you for three million pesetas. "

All turned and looked at him in wonder. The fat man gave a gasp. Withthree million pesetas he could have made a Polish republic. Mon onlysmiled. 

"For every million pesetas that you show me, " said the little man, "Iwill hand you another million--cash for cash. When shall we begin?"

"You must give me time, " answered Mon, reflectively. "Say six monthshence. "

The little man rose in response to the chapel bell, which was slowlytolling for the last service of the day. 

"Come, " he said, "let us say a prayer before we go to bed. "

CHAPTER VII

THE ALTERNATIVEThe letter written by the Count de Sarrion to his son was delivered toMarcos, literally from hand to hand, by the messenger to whose care itwas entrusted. 

So fully did the mountaineer carry out his instructions, that afterstanding on the river bank for some minutes, he deliberately walkedknee-deep into the water and touched Marcos on the elbow. For the riveris a loud one, and Marcos, intent on his sport, never turned his head tolook about him. 

This, the last of the Sarrions, was a patient looking man, with the quieteyes of one who deals with Nature, and the slow movements of thefar-sighted. For Nature is always consistent, and never hurries those whowatch her closely to obey the laws she writes so large in the instinctsof man and beast. 

The messenger gave his master the letter and then stood with the waterrustling past his woollen stockings. There was an odd suggestion ofbrotherhood between these men of very different birth. For as men areequal in the sight of God, so are those dimly like each other who live inthe open air and cast their lives upon the broad bosom of Nature. 

Marcos handed his rod to the messenger, whose face, wrinkled like awalnut by the sun of Aragon, lighted up suddenly with pleasure. 

"There, " he said, pointing to a swirling pool beneath some alders. "Thereis a big one there, I have risen him once. "

He waded slowly back to the bank where a second crop of hay was alreadyshowing its new green, and sat down. 

It seemed that Marcos de Sarrion was behind the times--these new andwordy times into which Spain has floundered so disastrously since CharlesIII was king--for he gave a deeper attention to the matter in hand thanmost have time for. He turned from the hard task of catching a trout inclear water beneath a sunny sky, and gave his attention to his father'sletter. 

"After all, " it read, "I want you, and await you in Saragossa. "

And that was all. "Marcos will come, " the Count had reflected, "withoutpersuasion. And explanations are dangerous. "

In which he was right. For this river, known as the Wolf, in which Marcoswas peacefully fishing, was one of those Northern tributaries of the Ebrowhich have run with blood any time this hundred years. The country, moreover, that it drained was marked in the Government maps as a blankcountry, or one that paid no taxes, and knew not the uniform of theGovernment troops. 

Torre Garda, the long two-storied house crowning a hill-top farther upthe valley of the Wolf, was one of the few country houses that have notstood empty since the forties. And all the valley of the Wolf, from thegrim Pyrenees standing sentinel at its head to the sunny plain almost insight of Pampeluna, where the Wolf merges into other streams, was heldquiescent in the grip of the Sarrions. 

"We will fight, " said the men of this valley, "for the king, when we havea king worth fighting for. And we will always fight for ourselves. "

And it was said that they only repeated what the Sarrions had told them. At all events, no Carlists came that way. 

"Torre Garda is not worth holding, " they said. 

"And you cannot hold Pampeluna unless you take Torre Garda first, "thought those who knew the art of guerilla warfare. 

So the valley of the Wolf awaited a king worth fighting for, and in themeantime they paid no taxes, enjoyed no postal service, and were perhapsnone the worse without it. 

There were Carlists over the mountains on either side of the valley. Eternal snow closed the northern end of it and fed the Wolf in the summerheats. Down at the mouth of the valley where the road was wide enough fortwo carts to pass each other, and a carriage could be driven at the trot, there often passed a patrol from the Royalist stronghold of Pampeluna. But the Government troops never ventured up the valley which was like amouse-hole with a Carlist cat waiting round the corner to cut them off. Neither did the Carlists hazard themselves through the narrow defilewhere the Wolf rushed down its straightened gate; for there were fortythousand men in Pampeluna, only ten miles away. 

Which reasons were sound enough to dictate caution in any written wordthat might pass from the Count in Saragossa to his son at Torre Garda. 

A white dog with one yellow and black ear--a dog that might have been anightmare, a bad, distorted dream of a pointer--stood in front of Marcosde Sarrion as he read the letter and seemed to await the hearing of itscontents. 

There are many persons of doubtful social standing, who seek to makeup--to bridge that narrow and unfathomable gulf--by affability. This dogit seemed, knowing that he was not quite a pointer, sought to conciliatehumanity by an eagerness, by a pathetic and blundering haste to try andunderstand what was expected of him and to perform the same withoutdelay, which was quite foreign to the nature of the real breed. 

In Spain one addresses a man by the plain term: Man. And after all, it issomething--deja quelque chose--to be worthy of that name. This dog wascalled Perro, which being translated is Dog. He had been a waif in hisearly days, some stray from the mountains near the frontier, where dogsare trained to smuggle. Full of zeal, he had probably smuggled tooeagerly. Marcos had found him, half starved, far up the valley of theWolf. He had not been deemed worthy of a baptismal name and had beencalled the Dog--and admitted as such to the outbuildings of Torre Garda. From thence he had worked his humble way upwards. By patience and comforthis mind slowly expanded until men almost forgot that this was adisgraceful mongrel. 

Perro had risen from a slumberous contemplation of the tumbling water andnow stood awaiting orders, his near hind leg shaking with eagerness toplease, by running anywhere at any pace. 

Marcos never spoke to his dog. He had seen Spain humbled to the dust bybabble, and the sight had, perhaps, dried up the spring of his speech. For he rarely spoke idly. If he had anything to say, he said it. But ifhe had nothing, he was silent. Which is, of course, fatal to socialadvancement, and set him at one stroke outside the pale of politicallife. Spain at this time, and, indeed, during the last thirty years, hadbeen the happy hunting ground of the beau sabreur, of those (of all men, most miserable) who owe their success in life to a woman's favour. 

This silent Spaniard might, perhaps, have made for himself a name in theworld's arena in other days; for he had a spark of that genius whichcreates a leader. But fate had ruled that he should have no wider spherethan an obscure Pyrenean gorge, no greater a following than the men ofthe Valley of the Wolf. These he held in an iron grip. Within his deepand narrow head lay the secret which neither Madrid nor Bayonne couldever understand; why the Valley of the Wolf was neither Royalist norCarlist. The quiet, slow eyes had alone seen into the hearts of the wildNavarrese mountaineers and knew the way to rule them. 

It may be thought that their small number made the task an easy one. Butit must also be remembered that these mountain slopes have given to theworld the finest guerilla soldiers that history has known, and arepeopled by one of the untamed races of mankind. 

Moreover, Marcos de Sarrion was a restful man. And those few who seebelow the surface, know that the restful man is he whose life's task iswell within the compass of his ability. 

Perro, it seemed, with an intelligence developed at the best and hardestof all schools, where hunger is the usher, awaited, not word, but actionfrom his master; and had not long to wait. 

For Marcos rose and slowly climbed the hill towards Torre Garda, halfhidden amid the pine trees on the mountain crest above him. There was amidnight train, he knew, from Pampeluna to Saragossa. The railway stationwas only twenty miles away, which is to this day considered quite aconvenient distance in Navarre. There would be a moon soon afternightfall. There was plenty of time. That far-off ancestress of themiddle-ages had, it would appear, handed down to her sons forever, withthe clear cut profile, the philosophy which allows itself time to getthrough life unruffled. 

The Count de Sarrion was taking his early coffee the next morning at theopen window in Saragossa when Marcos, with the dust of travel across theAlkali desert still upon him, came into the room. 

"I expected you, " said the father. "You will like a bath. All is ready inyour room. I have seen to it myself. When you are ready come back hereand take your coffee. "

His attitude was almost that of a host. For Marcos rarely came toSaragossa. Although there was a striking resemblance of feature betweenthe Sarrions, the father was taller, slighter and quicker in his glance, while Marcos' face seemed to bespeak a greater strength. In any commonpurpose it would assuredly fall to Marcos' lot to execute that which hisfather had conceived. The older man's presence suggested the Court, whileMarcos was clearly intended for the Camp. 

The Count de Sarrion had passed through both and had emerged halfcynical, half indifferent from the slough of an evil woman's downfall. 

"You would have made a good soldier, " he said to Marcos, when his son atlast came home to Torre Garda with an education completed in England andFrance. "But there is no opening for an honest man in the Spanish Army. Honesty is in the gutter in Spain to-day. "

And Marcos always followed his father's advice. Later he found that Spainindeed offered no career to honest men at this time. Gradually hesupplanted his father in an unrecognised, indefinable monarchy in theValley of the Wolf; and there, in the valley, they waited; as goodSpaniards have waited these hundred years until such time as God's wrathshall be overpast. 

"I have a long story to tell you, " said the Count, when his son returnedand sat down at once with a keen appetite to his first breakfast ofcoffee and bread. "And I will tell it without comment, without prejudice, if I can. "

Marcos nodded. The Count had lighted a cigarette and now leant againstthe window which opened on to the heavily barred balcony overlooking theCalle San Gregorio. 

"Four nights ago, " he said, "at about midnight, Francisco de Mogentereturned secretly to Saragossa. I think he was coming to this house; butwe shall never know that. No one knew he was coming--not even Juanita. "

The Count glanced at his son only long enough to note the passage of asort of shadow across his dark eyes at the mention of the schoolgirl'sname. 

"Francisco was attacked in the street down there, at the corner of theCalle San Gregorio, and was killed, " he concluded. 

Marcos rose and crossed the room towards the window. He was, it appeared, an eminently practical man, and desired to see the exact spot whereMogente had fallen before the story went any farther. Perro went so faras to push his plebeian head through the bars and look down into thestreet. It was his misfortune to fall into the fault of excess as it isthe misfortune of most parvenus. 

"Does Juanita know?" asked Marcos. 

"Yes. My sister Dolores has told her. Poor child! It is more in thenature of a disappointment than a sorrow. Her heart is young; anddisappointment is the sorrow of the young. "

Marcos sat down again in silence. 

"We must remember, " said the Count, "that she never knew him. It willpass. I saw the incident from this window. There is no door at this sideof the house. I should, as you know, have had to go round by the Paseodel Ebro. To render help was out of the question. I went down afterwards, however, when help had come and the dying man had been carried away--by afriar, Marcos! I had seen something fall from the hand of the murderedman. I went down into the street and picked it up. It was the sword-stickwhich Juanita sent to her father for the New Year. "

"Why did he not let us know that he was coming to Europe?" asked Marcos. 

"Ah! That he will tell us hereafter. The mere fact of his being attackedin the streets of Saragossa and killed for the money that was in hispockets is, of course, quite simple, and common enough. But why should hebe cared for by a friar, and taken to one of those numerous religioushouses which have sprung into unseen existence all over Spain since theJesuits were expelled?"

"Has he left a will?" asked Marcos. 

Sarrion turned and looked at him with a short laugh. He threw hiscigarette away, and coming into the room, sat down in front of the smalltable where Marcos was still satisfying his honest and simple appetite. 

"I have told my story badly, " he said, with a curt laugh, "and spoilt it. You have soon seen through it. Mogente made a will on hisdeath-bed--which was, by the way, witnessed by Leon de Mogente as asupernumerary, not a legal witness--just to show that all was square andabove board. "

"Then he left his money--?"

"To Juanita. One can only conclude that he was wandering in mind when hedid it. For he was fond of her, I think. He had no reason to wish herharm. I have picked up what unconsidered trifles of information I can, but they do not amount to much. I cabled to Cuba for news as to Mogente'sfortune; for we know that he has made one. There is the reply. " He handedMarcos a telegram which bore the words:

"Three million pesetas in the English Funds. "

"That is the millstone that he has tied round Juanita's neck, " saidSarrion, folding the paper and returning it to his pocket. 

"To saddle with three million pesetas a girl who is at a convent school, in the hands of the Sisters of the True Faith, when the Carlist cause isdying for want of funds, and the Jesuits know that it is Don Carlos or aRepublic, and all the world knows that all republics have been fatal tothe Society--bah!" the Count threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. "It is to throw her into a convent, bound hand and foot. We cannot leavethat poor girl without help, Marcos. "

"No, " said Marcos, gently. 

"There is only one way--I have thought of it night and day. There is onlyone way, my friend. "

Marcos looked at his father thoughtfully, and waited to hear what thatway might be. 

"You must marry her, " said the Count. 

CHAPTER VIIITHE TRAILThe Count rose again and went to the window without looking at Marcos. They had lived together like brothers, and like brothers, they had falleninto the habit of closing the door of silence upon certain subjects. 

Juanita, it would appear, was one of these. For neither was at ease whilespeaking of her. Spaniards and Germans and Englishmen are not notable fora pretty and fanciful treatment of the subject of love. But they approachit with a certain shy delicacy of which the lighter Latin heart has noconception. 

The Count glanced over his shoulder, and Marcos, without looking up, musthave seen the action, for he took the opportunity of shaking his head. 

"You shake your head, " said Sarrion, with a sort of effort to be gay andcareless, "What do you want? She is the prettiest girl in Aragon. "

"It is not that, " said Marcos, curtly, with a flush on his brown face. 

"Then what is it?"

Marcos made no answer. The Count lighted another cigarette, to gain time, perhaps. 

"Listen to me, " he said at length. "We have always understood each other, except about Juanita. We have nearly always been of the same mind--youand I. "

Marcos was leaning his arms on the table and looked across the roomtowards his father with a slow smile. 

"Let us try and understand each other about Juanita before we go anyfarther. You think that there may be thoughts in your mind which arebeyond my comprehension. It may not be as bad as that. I allow you, thatas the heart grows older it loses a certain sensitiveness and delicacy offeeling. Still the comprehension of such feelings in younger persons maysurvive. You think that Juanita should be allowed to make her own choice--is it not so--learnt in England, eh?"

"Yes, " was the answer. 

"And I reply to that; a convent education--the only education open toSpanish girls--does not fit her to make her own choice. "

"It is not a question of education. 

"No, it is a question of opportunity, " said Sarrion sharply. "And aconvent schoolgirl has no opportunity. My friend, a father or a mother, if they are wise, will choose better than a girl thrown suddenly into theworld from the convent gates. But that is not the question. Juanita willnever get outside the convent gates unless we drag her from them--halfagainst her own will. "

"We can give her the choice. We have certain rights. "

"No rights, " replied Sarrion, "that the Church will recognise, and theChurch holds her now within its grip. "

"She is only a child. She does not know what life means. "

"Exactly so, " Sarrion exclaimed, "and that makes their plan all theeasier of execution. They can bring pressure to bear upon her assiduouslyand quite kindly so that she will be brought to see that her only chanceof happiness is the veil. Few men, and no women at all, can be happy in alife of their own choosing if they are assured by persons in dailyintercourse with them--persons whom they respect and love--that in livingthat life they will assuredly be laying up for themselves an eternity ofdamnation. We must try and look at it from Juanita's point of view. "

Marcos turned and glanced at his father with a smile. 

"That is not so easy, " he said. "That is what I have been trying to do. "

"But you must not overdo it, " replied Sarrion, significantly. "Rememberthat her point of view may be an ignorant one and must be biassed by thestrongest and most dangerous influence. Look at the question also fromthe point of view of a man of the world--and tell me... Tell me afterthinking it over carefully--whether you think that you would feel happyin the future, knowing that you had allowed Juanita to choose a conventlife with her eyes blinded. "

"I was not thinking of my happiness, " said Marcos, quite simply andcurtly. 

"Of Juanita's happiness?" ... Suggested the Count. 

"Yes. "

"Then think again and tell me whether you, as a man of the world, can fora moment imagine that Juanita's chance of happiness would be greater inthe convent--whether the Church could make her happier than you could ifyou give her the opportunity of leading the life that God created herfor. "

Marcos made no answer. And oddly enough Sarrion seemed to expect none. 

"That is ... , " he explained in the same careless voice, "if we may go onthe presumption that you are content to place Juanita's happiness beforeyour own. "

"I am content to do that. "

"Always?" asked Sarrion, gravely. 

"Always. "

There was a short silence. Then the Count came into the room, and as hepassed Marcos he laid his hand for a moment on his son's broad back. 

"Then, my friend, " he said, crossing the room and taking up his gloves, "let us get to action. That will please you better than words, I know. Let us go and see Leon--the weakest link in their fine chain. Juanita hasno one in the world but us--but I think we shall be enough. "

Leon de Mogente lived in an apartment in the Plaza del Pilar. His father, for whom he had but little affection, had made him a liberal allowancewhich had been spent, so to speak, on his Soul. It elevated the Spirit ofthis excellent young man to decorate his rooms in imitation of asanctuary. 

He lived in an atmosphere of aesthetic emotion which he quite mistook forholiness. He was a dandy in the care of his Soul, and tricked himself outto catch the eye of High Heaven. 

The Marquis de Mogente was out. He had crossed the Plaza, the servantthought to say a prayer in the Cathedral. On the suggestion of theservant, the Sarrions decided to wait until Leon's return. The man, whohad the air of a murderer (or a Spanish Cathedral chorister), volunteeredto go and seek his master. 

"I can say a prayer myself, " he said humbly. 

"And here is something to put in the poor-box, " answered Sarrion with histwisted smile. 

"By my soul, " he exclaimed, when they were left alone, "this place reeksof hypocrisy. "

He looked round the walls with a raised eyebrow. 

"I have been trying to discover, " he went on, "what was in the mind ofFrancisco as he lay dying in that house in the Calle San Gregorio--whathe was trying to carry out--why he made that will. He sent for Leon, yousee, and must have seen at a glance that he had for a son--a mule, of theworst sort. He probably saw that to leave money to Leon was to give it tothe Church, which meant that it would be spent for the further undoing ofSpain and the propagation of ignorance and superstition. "

For Ramon de Sarrion was one of those good Spaniards and good Catholicswho lay the entire blame for the downfall of their country from its greatestate to a Church, which can only hope to live in its present form aslong as superstition and crass ignorance prevail. 

"I cannot help thinking, " he went on, "that Francisco dimly perceivedthat he was the victim of a careful plot--one sees something like that inall these ramifications. Three million pesetas are worth scheming for. They would make a difference in any cause. They might make all thedifference at this moment in Spain. Kingdoms have been won and lost forless than three million pesetas. I believe he was watched in Cuba, andhis return was known. Or perhaps he was brought back by some cleverforgery. Who knows? At all events, it was known that he had left hismoney nearly all to Leon. "

"We will ask Leon, " suggested Marcos, "what reason his father gave formaking a new will. "

"And he will lie to you, " said Sarrion. 

"But he will lie badly, " murmured Marcos, with his leisurely reflectivesmile. 

"I think, " said Sarrion, after a pause, "nay, I feel sure that Franciscoleft his fortune to Juanita at the last moment, as a forlornhope--leaving it to you and me to get her out of the hobble in which heplaced her. You know it was always his hope that you and Juanita shouldmarry. "

But Marcos' face hardened, and he had nothing to say to this reiterationof the dead man's hope. The silence was not again broken before Leon deMogente came in. 

He looked from one to the other with an apprehensive glance. His paleeyes had that dulness which betokens, if not an absorption in the thingsto come, that which often passes for the same, an incompetence to facethe present moment. 

"I was about to write to you, " he said, addressing himself to Sarrion. "Iam having a mass celebrated tomorrow in the Cathedral. My father, Iknow... "

"I shall be there, " said Sarrion, rather shortly. 

"And Marcos?"

"I, also, " replied Marcos. 

"One must do what one can, " said Leon, with a resigned sigh. 

Marcos, the man of action and not of words, looked at him and saidnothing. He was perhaps noticing that the dishonest boy had grown into adishonest man. Monastic religion is like a varnish, it only serves tobring out the true colour, and is powerless to alter it by more than ashade. Those who have lived in religious communities know that humannature is the same there as in the world--that a man who is notstraightforward may grow in monastic zeal day by day, but he will nevergrow straightforward. On the other hand, if a man be a good man, religionwill make him better, but it must not be a religion that runs to words. 

Leon sat with folded hands and lowered eyes. He was a sort of amateurmonk, and, like all amateurs, he was apt to exaggerate outward signs. Itwas Marcos who spoke at length. 

"Do you intend, " he asked in his matter-of-fact way, "to make any effortto discover and punish your father's assassins?"

"I have been advised not to. "

"By whom?"

Leon looked distressed. He was pained, it would seem, that the friend ofhis childhood should step so bluntly on to delicate ground. 

"It is a secret of the confession. "

Marcos exchanged a grave glance with his father, who sat back in hischair as one may see a leader sit back while his junior counsel conductsan able cross-examination. 

"Have you advised Juanita of the terms of her father's will?"

"I understand, " answered Leon, "that it will make but little differenceto Juanita. She has her allowance as I have mine. My father, Iunderstand, had but little to bequeath to her. "

Marcos glanced at his father again, and then at the clock. He had, itappeared, finished his cross-examination, and was now characteristicallyanxious to get to action. 

Sarrion now took the lead in conversation, and proffered the usualcondolences and desire to help, in the formal Spanish way. He couldhardly conceal his contempt for Leon, who, for his part, was not freefrom embarrassment. They had nothing in common but the subject which hadbrought the Sarrions hither, and upon this point they could not progresssatisfactorily, seeing that Sarrion himself had evidently sustained agreater loss than the dead man's own son. 

They rose and took leave, promising to attend the mass next day. Leonbecame interested again at once in this side of the question, which wasnot without a thrill of novelty for him. He had organised and taken partin many interesting and gorgeous ceremonies. But a requiem mass for one'sown father must necessarily be unique in the most varied career ofreligious emotion. He was a little flurried, as a girl is flurried at herfirst ball, and felt that the eye of the black-letter saints was uponhim. 

He shook hands absent-mindedly with his friends, and was already makingmental note of their addition to the number secured for to-morrow'sceremony. He was very earnest about it, and Marcos left him with a suddensoftening of the heart towards him, such as the strong must always feelfor the weak. 

"You see, " said Sarrion, when they were in the street, "what Evasio Monhas made him. I do not know whether you are disposed to hand over Juanitaand her three million pesetas to Evasio Mon as well. "

Marcos made no reply, but walked on, wrapt in thought. 

"I must see Juanita, " he said, at length, after a long silence, andSarrion's wise eyes were softened by a smile which flitted across themlike a flash of sunlight across a darkened field. 

"Remember, " he said, "that Juanita is a child. She cannot be expected toknow her own mind for at least three years. "

Marcos nodded his head, as if he knew what was coming. 

"And remember that the danger is imminent--that Evasio Mon is not the manto let the grass grow beneath his feet--that we cannot let Juanitawait... Three weeks. "

"I know, " answered Marcos. 

CHAPTER IX

THE QUARRYSarrion called at the convent school of the Sisters of the True Faith thenext morning, and was informed through the grating that the school was inRetreat. 

"Even I, whose duty it is to speak to you, shall have to perform penancefor doing so, " said the doorkeeper, in her soft voice through the bars. 

"Then do an extra penance, my sister, " returned Sarrion, "and answeranother question. Tell me if the Sor Teresa is within?"

"The Sor Teresa is at Pampeluna, and the Mother Superior is here in theschool herself. The Sor Teresa is only Sister Superior, you must know, and is therefore subordinate to the Mother Superior. "

Sarrion was a pleasant-spoken man, and a man of the world. He knew thatif a woman has something to tell of another she is not to be frightenedinto silence by the whole Court of Cardinals and eke, the Pope of Romehimself. So he drew his horse nearer to the forbidding wooden gate, anddid not ride away from it until he had gained some scraps of informationand saddled the lay sister with a burden of penances to last all throughthe Retreat. 

He learnt that his sister had been sent to Pampeluna, where the Sistersof the True Faith conducted another school, much patronised by the poornobility of that priest-ridden city. He was made to understand, moreover, that Juanita de Mogente had been given special opportunities for prayerand meditation owing to an unchristian spirit of resentment and revenge, which she had displayed on learning the Will of Heaven in regard to herabandoned, and it was to be feared, heretic father. 

"Which means, my sister?"

"That neither you nor any other in the world may see or speak to her--butI must close the grille. "

And the little shutter was sharply shut in Sarrion's face. 

This was the beginning of a quest which, for a fortnight, continuedentirely fruitless. Evasio Mon it appeared was on a pilgrimage. SorTeresa had gone to Pampeluna. The inexorable gate of the convent schoolremained shut to all comers. 

Sarrion went to Pampeluna to see his sister, but came back without havingattained his object. Marcos took up the trail with a patient thoroughnesslearnt at the best school--the school of Nature. He was without haste, and expressed neither hope nor discouragement. But he realised more andmore clearly that Juanita was in genuine danger. By one or two moves inthis subtle warfare, Sarrion had forced his adversary to unmask hisdefenses. Some of the obstructions behind which Juanita was now concealedcould scarcely have originated in chance. 

Marcos had, in the course of his long antagonism against wolf or bear orboar in the Central Pyrenees, more than once experienced that sharp shockof astonishment and fear to which the big-game hunter can scarcely remainindifferent when he finds himself opposed by an unmistakable sign of anintelligence equal to his own or an instinct superior to it, subtlymeeting his subtle attack. This he experienced now, and knew that hehimself was being watched and his every action forestalled. The effectwas to make him the more dogged, the more cunning in his quest. Becausehe knew that Juanita's cause was in competent hands, or for some otherreason, Sarrion withdrew from taking such an active part as heretofore. 

His keen and careful eyes noted a change in Marcos. Juanita'shelplessness seemed to have aroused a steady determination to help her atany cost. Weakness is an appeal that strength rarely resists. 

It was Marcos who finally discovered an opportunity, and withcharacteristic patience he sifted it, and organised a plan of actionbefore making anything known to his father. 

"There is a service in the Cathedral of La Seo tomorrow evening, " heannounced suddenly at midnight one night on his return from a long andtiring day. "All the girls of the convent schools will be there. "

"Ah!" said Sarrion, looking his son up and down with a speculative eye. "Well?"

"My aunt... Sor Teresa... Is likely to be there. She has returned toSaragossa to-day. The Mother Superior--by the grace of God--hasindigestion. I have got a letter safely through to Sor Teresa. Theservice is at seven o'clock. The Archbishop will go in procession roundthe Cathedral to bless the people. The Cathedral is very dark. There willbe considerable confusion when the doors are opened and the people crowdout. I have a few men--of the road, from the Posada de los Reyes--whowill add to the confusion under my instructions. I think if you help mewe can get Juanita separated from the rest. I will take her home and seeto it that she arrives at the school at the same time as the others. Wecan arrange it, I think. "

"Yes, " answered Sarrion. "I have no doubt that we can arrange it. "

And they sat far into the night, after the manner of conspirators, discussing Marcos' plans, which were, like himself, quite simple anddirect. 

The Cathedral of the Seo in Saragossa is one of the most ancient inSpain, and bears in its architecture some resemblance to the Moorishmosque that once stood on the same spot. It is a huge square building, dimly lighted by windows set high up in the stupendous roof. The choir isa square set down in the middle--a church within a Cathedral. There aretwo principal entrances, one on the Plaza de la Seo, where the fountainis, and where, in the sunshine, the philosophers of Saragossa sit and donothing from morn till eve. The other entrance is that which is known asthe grand portal, and with a wrong-headedness characteristic of thePeninsular, it is situated in a little street where no man passes. 

Marcos knew that the grand portal was used by the religious communitiesand devout persons who came to church for the good motive, while thosewho praised God that man might see them entered, and quitted theCathedral by the more public doorway on the Plaza. He knew also that theconvent schools took their station just within the great porch, which, during the day, is the parade ground for those authorised beggars whowear their number and licence suspended round their necks as a guaranteeof good faith. 

The Cathedral was crammed to suffocation when Marcos and his fatherentered by this door. At the foot of the shallow steps descending fromthe porch to the floor of the Cathedral, Sor Teresa's white cap roseabove the heads of the people. Here and there a nun's cap or the blueveil of a nursing sister showed itself amidst the black mantillas. Hereand there the white head of some old man made its mark among the sunburntfaces. For there were as many men as women present. The majority of themlooked about them as at a show, but all were silent and respectful. Allmade room readily enough for any who wished to kneel. There was nopushing, no impatience. All were polite and forbearing. 

The Archbishop's procession had already left the door of the choir, andwas moving slowly round the building. It was preceded by a chorister anda boy, who sang in unison with a strange, uncomfortable echo in the roof. Immediately on their heels followed a man in his usual outdoor clothes, who accompanied them on a haut-boy with queer, snorting notes, and noddedto his friends as he perceived their faces dimly looming in the light ofthe flickering candles carried by acolytes behind him. 

They stopped at intervals and sang a verse. Then the organ, far abovetheir heads, rolled in its solemn notes, and the whole choir broke intosong as they moved on. 

The Archbishop, preceded by the Host borne aloft beneath a silken canopy, wore a long red silk robe, of which the train was carried by two carelessacolytes, a red silk biretta and red gloves. 

As the Host passed the people knelt and rose, and knelt again as theArchbishop came--a sort of human tide, rising and kneeling and risingagain, to dust their knees and stare about them, which was not without asymbolical meaning for those who know the history of the Church in Latincountries. 

The face of the Archbishop struck a sudden and startling note ofsincerity as he passed on with upheld hand and eyes turning from side toside with a luminous look of love and tenderness as he silently invokedGod's blessing on these his people. He passed on, leaving in somedoubting hearts, perhaps, the knowledge that amid much that was mistaken, and tawdry and superstitious and evil, here at all events was one goodman. 

Immediately behind him, came the beadle in vestments and a long flaxenwig ill-combed, put on all awry, making room with his staff and hittingthe people if they would not leave off praying and get out of the way. 

Then followed the choir--a living study in evil countenances--perfunctory, careless, snuff-blown and ill-shaven, with cold hard faceslike Inquisitors. 

All the while the great bell was booming overhead, and the wholeatmosphere seemed to vibrate with sound and emotion. It was moving andimpressive, especially for those who think that the Almighty is betterpleased with abject abasement than a plain common-sense endeavour to dobetter, and will accept a long tale of public penance before the recordof simple daily duties honestly performed. 

Near the great porch on either side of the bishop's path were ranged theseminarists, in cassocks of black with a dark blue or redhood--depressing looking youths with flaccid faces and an unhealthy eye. Behind them stood a group of friars in rough woolen garments of brown, with heads clean shaven all but an inch of closely cut hair like a haloon a saint. They seemed cheerful and were laughing and joking amongthemselves while the procession passed. 

Behind these, on their knees, were the girls of the convent school--andall around them closed in the crowd. Juanita was at one end of the rowand Sor Teresa at the other. Juanita was looking about her. Her specialopportunities for prayer and reflection had perhaps had the effect thatsuch opportunities may be expected to have, and she was a little weary ofall this to-do about the world to come; for she was young and thispresent world seemed worthy of consideration. She glanced backwards overher shoulder as the Archbishop passed with his following of candles, andgave a little start. Marcos was kneeling on the pavement behind her. SorTeresa was looking straight in front of her between the wings of hergreat cap. It was hard to say whether she saw Juanita, or was aware thata man was kneeling immediately behind herself, almost on the hem of herflowing black robes--her own brother, Sarrion. 

The procession moved away down the length of the great building and leftdarkness behind it. Already there was a stir among the people, for it waslate and many had come from a distance. 

The great doors, rarely used, were slowly cast open and in the darknessthe crowd surged forward. Juanita was nearest to the door. She lookedround and Sor Teresa made a motion with her head telling her to lead theway. Marcos was at her side. A few men in cloaks, and some inshirt-sleeves, seemed to be grouped by chance around him. He looked backand made a little movement of the head towards his father. 

Juanita felt herself pushed from behind. Before her, singularly enough, was a clear pathway between the crowds. Behind her a thousand peoplepressed forward towards the exit. She hurried out and glancing back onthe steps saw that she had become separated from the school and from thenuns by a number of men. But Marcos' hand was already on her arm. 

"Come, " he said, "I want to speak to you. It is all right. My father isbeside Sor Teresa. "

"What fun!" she answered in a whisper. "Let us be quick. "

And a moment later they were running side by side down a narrow street, where a single lamp swung from a gibbet at the corner and flickered inthe wind of Saragossa. 

It was Juanita who stopped suddenly. 

"Oh, Marcos, " she cried, "I forgot; we are not to walk home. There is anomnibus to meet us as usual at these late services. "

"It will not come, " replied Marcos. "The driver is waiting to tell SorTeresa that his horses are lame and he cannot come. "

"And why have you done this?" asked Juanita, looking at him with brighteyes beneath her mantilla flying in the wind. 

"Because I want to speak to you. We can walk home to the school together. It is all arranged. My father is with Sor Teresa. "

"What, all the way?" she asked in a delighted voice. 

"Yes. "

"And can we go through the streets and see the shops?"

"Yes, if you like; if you keep your mantilla close. "

"Marcos, you are a dear! But I have no money; you must lend me some. "

"Yes, if you like. What do you want to buy?"

"Oh, chocolates, " she answered. "Those brown ones, all soft inside. Howmuch money have you?"

And she held out her hand in the dim light of the street lamps. 

"I will give you the chocolates, " he answered. "As many as you like. "

"How kind of you. You are a dear. I am so glad to see your solemn oldface again. I am very hard up. I don't really know where all mypocket-money has gone to this term. "

She laughed gaily, and turned to look up at him. And in a moment hermanner changed. 

"Oh, Marcos, " she said, "I am so miserable. And I have no one to talk to. You know--papa is dead. "

"Yes, " he answered, "know. "

"For three days, " she went on, "I thought I should die. And then, but Iam afraid it wasn't prayer, Marcos, I began to feel--better, you know. Was it very wicked? Of course I had never seen him. It would have beenquite different if it had been my dear, darling old Uncle Ramon--or evenyou, Marcos. "

"Thank you, " said Marcos. 

"But I had only his letters, you know, and they were so political! Then Ifelt most extremely angry with Leon for being such a muff. He did nothingto try and find out who had killed papa, and go and kill him in return. Ifelt so disgusted that I was not a man. I feel so still, Marcos. This isthe shop, and those are the chocolates stuck on that sheet of whitepaper. Let us buy the whole sheet. I will pay you back next term. "

They entered the shop and there Marcos bought her as many chocolates asshe could hope to conceal beneath the long ends of her mantilla. 

"I will bring you more, " he said, "if you will tell me how to get them toyou. "

She assured him that there was nothing simpler; and made him aparticipant in a dead secret only known to a few, of the hole in theconvent wall, large enough to pass the hand through, down by thefrog-pond at the bottom of the garden and near the old door which wasnever opened. 

"If you wait there on Thursday evening between seven and eight I willcome, if I can, and will poke my hand through the hole in the wall. Buthow shall I know that it is you?"

"I will kiss your hand when it comes through, " answered Marcos. 

"Yes, " she said, rather slowly. "What a joke. "

But now they were at the gate of the convent school, having come a shortway, and they stood beneath the thick trees until the school came, withits usual accompaniment of eager talk like the running of water beneath alow bridge and its babble round the stones. 

Juanita slipped in among her schoolmates, and Sor Teresa, lookingstraight in front of her, saw nothing. 

CHAPTER X

THISBEIt was the custom in the convent school on the Torrero-hill to receivevisitors on Thursdays. This festivity farther extended to the evening, when the girls were allowed to walk for an hour in the garden and talk. Talking, it must be remembered, as an indulgence of the flesh, isconsidered in religious communities to be a treat only permitted atcertain periods. It is, indeed, only by tying the tongue that tyranny canhope to live. 

"These promenades are not without use, " the Mother Superior once said toEvasio Mon, one of the lay directors of this school. "One discovers whatfriendships have been formed. "

But the Mother Superior, like many cunning persons, was wrong. For aschoolgirl's friendship is like the seed of grass, blown hither andthither; while only one or two of a sowing take root in some hiddencorner and grow. 

Juanita's bosom friend of the red hair had recovered her lost position. Her hair was, in fact, golden again. They were walking in the garden atsunset, and waiting for the clock of San Fernando to strike seven. Juanita had told her friend of the chocolates--all soft inside--whichwere to come through the hole in the wall; and the golden haired girl hadconfided in Juanita that she had never loved her as she did at thatmoment. Which was, perhaps, not unnatural. 

The garden of the convent school is large, and spreads far down the slopeof the hill. There are many fruit-trees and a few cypress. Where thestream runs there are bunches of waving bamboos, and at the lower end, where the wall is broken, there is a little grove of nut trees, where thenightingales sing. 

"It must be seven; come, let us go slowly towards the trees, " saidJuanita. They both looked round eagerly. There were two nuns in thegardens, gravely walking side by side, casting demure and not unkindlyglances from time to time towards their gay charges. Juanita and herfriend had, as elder girls, certain privileges, and were allowed to walkapart from the rest. They were heiresses, moreover, which makes adifference even in a convent school that shuts the world out withforbidding gates. 

Juanita bade her friend keep watch, and ran quickly among the trees. Thewall was old and overgrown with wild roses and honeysuckle. She found thehole, and, hastily turning back her sleeve, thrust her arm through. Herhand came out through the flowers with an inconsequent, childish flourishof the fingers close by the grave face of Marcos. He was essentially aman of his word; and she jerked her hand away from his lips with a gaylaugh. 

"Marcos, " she said, "the packets must be small or they will not comethrough. "

"I have had them made small on purpose, " he said. But she seemed to haveforgotten the chocolates already, for her hand did not come back. 

"I'm trying to see through, " she explained, after a moment. "I can seenothing, only something black. I see. It is your horse; you are onhorseback. Is it the Moor? Have you ridden the dear old Moor up here tosee me? Please bring his nose near so that I can stroke it. "

And her fingers came through the flowers again, feeling the empty air. 

"I wonder if he knows my hand, " she said. "Oh, Marcos! is there no one totake me away from here? I hate the place; and yet I am afraid. I amafraid of something, Marcos, and I do not know what it is. It was allright when papa was alive. For I felt that he would certainly come someday and take me away, and all this would be over. "

"All--what?" inquired Marcos, the matter-of-fact, at the other side ofthe wall. 

"Oh, I don't know. There is a sort of strain and mystery which I cannotdefine. I am not a coward, you know, but sometimes I am afraid and feelalone in the world. There is Leon, of course; but Leon is no good, ishe?"

"No, he is no good, " replied Marcos. 

"And, Marcos, do you think it is possible to be in the world and yet besaved; to be quite safe, I mean, for the next world, like Sor Teresa?"

"Yes, I do. "

"Does Uncle Ramon think so?"

"Yes, " replied Marcos. 

"What a bother one's soul is, " she said, with a sigh. "I'm sure mine is. I am never allowed to think of anything else. "

"Why?" asked Marcos, who was a patient searcher after remedies, and neverdiscussed matters which could not be ameliorated by immediate action. 

"Oh! because it seems that I am more than usually wicked. No one seems tothink it possible that I can save my soul unless I go into religion. "

"And you do not want to do that?"

"No, I never want to do it. Not even when I have been a long time inRetreat and we have been happy and quiet, here, inside the walls. And thelife they lead here seems so little trouble; and one can lay aside thatnightmare of the world to come. I do not even want it then. But when I gointo the world, like last Sunday, Marcos, and see the shops, and UncleRamon and you, then I hate the thought of it. And when I touched the dearold Moor's soft nose just now, I felt I couldn't do it at any cost; butthat I must go into the world and have dogs and horses, and see themountains and enjoy myself, and leave the rest to chance and the kindnessof the Virgin, Marcos. "

He did not answer at once, and she thrust her hand through the woodbineagain. 

"Where are you?" she asked. "Why do you not answer?"

He took her hand and held it for a moment. 

"You are thinking, " she said, with a little laugh. "I know. I have seenyou think like that by the side of the river, when one of the trout wouldnot come out of the Wolf and you were wondering what more you could do totry and make him. What are you thinking about?"

"About you. "

"Oh!" she laughed. "You must not take it so seriously as that. Everybodyis very kind, you know. And I am quite happy here. At least, I think Iam. Where are the chocolates? I believe you have eaten them on theway--you and the Moor. I always said you were the same sort of people, you two, didn't I?"

By way of reply he handed the little neat packets, tied with ribbon. 

"Thank you, " she said. "You are kind, Marcos. Somehow you never saythings, but you do them--which is better, is it not?"

"I will get you out of here, " he answered, "if you want it. "

"How?" she asked, with a startled ring in her voice. "Can you really doit? Tell me how. "

"No, " answered Marcos. "I will not tell you how. Not now. But I can do itif you are in real danger of going into religion against your will; ifthere is real necessity. "

"How?" she asked again, with a deeper note in her voice. 

"I will not tell you, " he answered, "until the necessity arises. It is asecret, and you might have to tell it... In confession. "

"Yes, " she admitted. "Perhaps you are right. But you will come again nextThursday, Marcos?"

"Yes, " he answered, "next Thursday. " "By the way, I forgot. I wrote you anote, in case there should have been no time to speak to you. Where isit, in my pocket? No, here, I have it. Do you want it?"

"Yes. "

And Marcos tried to get his hand through the hole in the wall, but hefailed. 

"Aha?" laughed Juanita. "You see I have the advantage of you. "

"Yes, " he answered gravely. "You have the advantage of me. "

And on the other side of the wall, he smiled slowly to himself. 

"Go! Go at once, " she whispered hurriedly, "Milagros is calling me. Thereis some one coming. I can see through the leaves. It is Sor Teresa. Andshe has some one with her. Oh! it is Senor Mon. He is terrible. He seeseverything. Go, Marcos!"

And Marcos did not wait. He had the note in his hand--a small screw ofpaper, all wet with the dew on the woodbine. He galloped up the hill, close under the wall, and put his willing horse straight at the canal. The horse leapt in and struggled, half swimming, across. 

To have gone any other way would have been to make himself visible fromone part or another of the convent grounds, and Evasio Mon was in thatgarden. 

Both Sor Teresa and Evasio Mon saw Juanita emerge from the nut trees andjoin her friend, but neither appeared to have noticed anything unusual. 

"By the way, " said Mon, pleasantly, "I am on foot and can save myself aconsiderable distance by using the door at the foot of the garden. "

"That way is unfrequented, " answered Sor Teresa. "It is scarcelyconsidered desirable at night. "

"Oh! no one will touch me--a poor man, " said Mon, with his pleasantsmile. "Have you the key with you?"

Sor Teresa looked on the bunch hanging at her girdle. 

"No, " she admitted rather reluctantly, "I will send for it. "

And she called by gesture one of the nuns who seemed to be looking theother way and yet perceived the movement of Sor Teresa's hand. 

While the key was being brought, Mon stood looking with his gentle smileover the lower wall of the garden, where the pathway cuts across the barefields down towards the river. 

"Would it not be wiser to carry that key with you always in case itshould be wanted, as in the present instance?" he said, smoothly. 

"I shall do so in future, " replied Sor Teresa, humbly; for the first dutyof a nun is obedience, and there is no nunnery that is not under theimmediate and unquestioned control of some man, be he a priest or in someprivileged cases, the Pontiff himself. 

At last a second bunch of keys was placed in Sor Teresa's hands, and sheexamined them carefully. 

"I am not quite sure, " she said, "which is the right one. It is so seldomused. "

And she fingered them, one by one. 

Mon glanced at her sharply, though his lips still smiled. 

"Allow me, " he said. "Those keys among which you are looking are the keysof cupboards and not of doors. There are only two door keys among themall. "

He took the keys and led the way towards the door hidden behind the groveof nut-trees. The nightingales were singing as he passed beneath theboughs, followed by Sor Teresa. Juanita hurrying up towards the house byanother path, turned and glanced anxiously over her shoulder. 

"This, I think, will be the key, " said Mon, affably, as he stooped toexamine the lock. And he was right. 

He opened the door, passed out and turned to salute Sor Teresa before heclosed it gently, in her face. 

"Go with God, my sister, " he said, bowing with a raised hat andceremonious smile. 

He waited until he heard Sor Teresa lock the door from within. Then heturned to examine the ground in the little lane that skirts the conventwall. But on the sun-baked ground, the neat, light feet of the Moor hadmade no mark. He looked at the wall, but failed to perceive the hole init, 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 theright rejoined the high road from the Casa Blanca, crossing the canalagain by that bridge and returning to Saragossa by the broad avenue knownas the Monte Torrero. 

He reined in his horse beneath the lamp that hangs from the treesopposite to the gate of the town called the Puerta de Santa Engracia, andunfolded the note that

Juanita had written to him. It was scribbled in pencil on a half sheettorn from an exercise book. 

"Dear Marcos, " it said. "Thank you most preposterously for thechocolates. The next time please put in some almonds. Milagros so lovesalmonds; and I am very fond of Milagros--Your grateful Juanita. "

There was a mistake in the spelling. 

CHAPTER XI

THE ROYAL ADVENTUREThere are halting-places in the lives of most men when for a period theindividual desire must give place to some great national need. We eachlive our little story through, but at times we find ourselves draggedfrom the narrow way into the great high road, where the history of theworld blunders to an end which cannot even yet be dimly discerned. 

When Marcos rode into Saragossa after nightfall he found the streetsfilled by groups of anxious men. The nerves of civilisation were at agreat tension at this time. Sedan was past. Paris was already besieged. All the French-speaking people thought that the end of the world mustneeds be at hand. The Pope had been deprived of his temporal power. Thegreat foundations of the world seemed to tremble beneath the onward treadof inexorable history. 

In Spain itself, no man knew what might happen next. There seemed nodepth to which the land of ancient glory might not be doomed to descend. Cuba was in wild revolt. Thousands of lives had been uselessly thrownaway. Already the pride of the proudest nation since Rome, had beenhumbled by the just interference of the United States. A kingdom withouta king, Spain had hawked her crown round Europe. For a throne, as forhumbler posts, it is easy enough to find second-rate men who have nospecial groove, nor any capacity to delve one, but the first-rate menare, one discovers, nearly always occupied elsewhere. They are neverwaiting for something to turn up. 

Spain, with her three crowns in her hand, had called at every Court inEurope. She had thrown two nations into the greatest war of civilisedages. She was still looking for a king, still calling hopelessly to thesecond-rate royalties. Leopold of Hohenzollern would have accepted hadnot France arisen to object, only to receive a sound thrashing for herpains. Thus, for the second time in the world's history, Spain was themeans of bringing a French empire to the dust. 

Ferdinand of Portugal, a cousin to the Queen of England, himself aCoburg, finally declined the honour. And Spain could not wait. There wasa certain picturesqueness in Prim, the usual ornamental General throughwhose hands Spain has passed and repassed during the last century. He wasa hard man, and the men of Spain, unlike the French, understand amartinet. But Spain could not wait. She must have a king; for the regencywas wearisome. It was weary of itself, like an old man ready to die. There was no money in the public coffers. The Cortes was a house ofwords. Here eloquence reigned supreme; and eloquence never yet made anempire. 

Half a dozen different parties made speeches at each other, but Spain, owing to a blessed immunity from the cheap newspaper, was spared thesespeeches. She was told that Castelar was the eloquent orator of the age. 

She looked at Castelar, who was a fat little man with a big moustache anda small forehead, and she said: "Let us have a king!"

Prim was better. He was a man at all events, and not a word-spinner. Hewas from Cataluña, where they make hard men with clear heads. And he knewhis own mind. And he also said: "Let us have a king. "

One cried for Don Carlos, and another for Espartero. Cataluña said therewas no living with Andalusia. Aragon wanted her own king and wishedValencia would go hang. Navarre was all for Don Carlos. 

And when Marcos de Sarrion rode into Saragossa they were calling in thestreets that only a republic was possible now. 

He went home to that grim palace between the Cathedral and the Ebro andfound his father gone. A brief note told him that Sarrion had gone toMadrid where a meeting of notables had been hastily summoned--and thathe, Marcos, must hurry back to Torre Garda--that the Carlists were up fortheir king. 

Marcos returned the same night to Pampeluna, and the next day rode toTorre Garda by the high road that winds up the valley of the Wolf. In hisown small kingdom be soon made his iron hand felt. And these people whowould pay no taxes to king or regent remained quiet amid the anarchy thatreigned all over Spain. 

Thus a week passed and rumours of strange doings at Madrid reached thequiet valley. All over the country, bands of malcontents callingthemselves Carlists had risen in obedience to the voice of Don Carlos'grandson, the son of that Don Juan who had renounced a hopeless cause. Tomeet a soldier with his cap worn right side foremost was for the timeunusual in the cities of the north. For the army no longer knew a master;and the Spanish soldier has a naïve and simple way of notifying thiscondition by wearing the peak of his cap behind. 

Marcos heard nothing of his father at Madrid, but surmised that there thetalkers still held sway. The postal service of Spain is still almostmediæval. In the principal cities the post-offices are to-day onlyopened for business during two hours of the twenty-four. In the year ofthe Franco-Prussian war there was no postal service at all to thedisaffected parts of the northern provinces. 

At the end of a week, Marcos rose at three o'clock and rode sixty milesbefore sunset to keep his word with Juanita. He did not trust therailway, which indeed was in constant danger of being cut by Carlist orRoyalist, but performed the distance by road where he met many friendsfrom Navarre and one or two from the valley of the Wolf. A thousandreports, a hundred rumours and lies innumerable, were on the roads also, traveling hither and thither over Spain. And Marshall Prim seemed to bethe favoured god of the moment. 

Marcos was at his post outside the convent school wall at seven o'clock. He heard the clock of San Fernando strike eight. In these Southernlatitudes the evenings are not much longer in summer than in winter. Itwas quite dark by eight o'clock when Marcos rode away. He was not givento a display of emotion. He was an eminently practical man. Juanita wouldhave come if she could, he reflected. Why could she not keep herappointment?

He rode to the main gate and asked if he could see Sor Teresa--known inthe world as Dolores Sarrion--for the monastic life was forbidden by lawat this time in Spain, and this was no nunnery; though, as in all suchplaces, certain mediaeval follies were carefully fostered. 

"Sor Teresa is not here, " was the reply through the grating. 

"Then where is she?"

But there was no reply to this plain question. 

"Has she gone to Pampeluna?"

The little shutter behind the grating was softly closed. And Marcosturned his horse's head with a quiet smile. His face, beneath the shadowof his wide hat, was still and hard. He had ridden sixty miles sincemorning, but he sat upright in his saddle. This was a man, as Juanita hadobserved, not to say things, but to do them. 

It was not difficult for him to find out during the next few weeks thatJuanita had been sent to Pampeluna, whither also Sor Teresa had beencommanded to go. Saragossa has a playful way of sacking religious houses, which the older-world city of Navarre would never permit. In Pampelunathe religious habit is still respected, and a friar may carry his shavenhead high in the windy streets. 

Pampeluna, it was known, might at any moment be in danger of attack, butnot of bombardment by the Carlists, who had many friends within thewalls. Juanita was as safe perhaps in Pampeluna as anywhere in NorthernSpain. So Marcos went back to Torre Garda and held his valley in a quietgrip. The harvests were gathered in, and starvation during the comingwinter was, at all events, avoided. 

The first snow came and still Marcos had no news of Juanita. He knew, however, that both she and Sor Teresa were still at Pampeluna in thegreat yellow house in the Calle de la Dormitaleria, nearly opposite theCathedral gate, from whence there is constant noiseless traffic ofsisters and novices hurrying across, with lowered eyes, to the sanctuary, or back to their duties, with the hush of prayer still upon them. 

In November Marcos received a letter from his father, sent by hand allthe way from the capital. Prim had re-established order, he wrote. Therewas hope of a settlement of political differences. A king had been found, and if he accepted the crown all might yet go well with Spain. 

A week later came the news that Amedeo of Savoy, the younger son of thatbrave old Victor Emmanuel, who faced the curse of a pope, had beendeclared King of Spain. 

Amedeo of Savoy, Duke of Aosta, was not a second-rate man. He was brave, honest, and a gentleman--qualities to which the throne of Spain had beenstranger while the Bourbons sat there. 

Sarrion summoned Marcos to Madrid to meet the new king. The wise men ofall parties knew that this was the best solution of the hopelessdifficulties into which Spain had been thrust by the Bourbons and thetonguesters. A few honest politicians here and there set aside their owninterests in the interest of the country, which action is worthrecording--for its rarity. But the country in general was gloomy andindifferent. Spain is slow to learn, while France is too quick; and herknowledge is always superficial. 

"Give us at all events a Spaniard, " muttered those who had cried "Downwith liberty, " when that arch-scoundrel, Fernando the Desired, returnedto his own. 

"Give us money and we will give you Don Carlos, " returned the cassockedcanvassers of that monarch in a whisper. 

It was evening when Marcos arrived at Madrid, and the station, like allthe trains, was crowded. All who could were traveling to Madrid to meetthe king--for one reason or another. 

Marcos was surprised to see his father on the platform among thosewaiting for the train from the capitals of the North. 

"Come, " said Sarrion, "let us go out by the side door; I have thecarriage there, the streets are impassable. No one knows where to turn. There is no head in Spain now; they assassinated him last night. "

"Whom?" asked Marcos. 

"Prim. They shot him in his carriage, like a dog in a kennel--five ofthem--with guns. One has no pride in being a Spaniard now. "

Marcos followed his father through the crowd without replying. 

There seemed nothing, indeed, to be said; nothing to be added to thesimple observation that it was a humiliation for a man to have to admitin these days that he was a Spaniard. 

"He was a Catalonian to the last, " said Sarrion, when they were seated intheir carnage. "He walked dying up his own stairs, so that his wife mightbe spared the sight of seeing him carried in. Stubborn and brave! One ofthe best men we have seen. "

"And the king?"

"The king lands at Carthagena to-day--lands with his life in his hand. Hecarries it in his hand wherever he goes, day and night, in Spain, he andhis wife. Without Prim he cannot hope to stand. But he will try. We mustdo what we can. "

The carriage was making its careful way across the Puerta del Sol, whichhad been cleared by grape-shot more than once in Sarrion's recollection. It looked now as if only artillery could set order there. 

"Viva el Rey! viva Don Carlos!" a loafer shouted, and waved his hat inSarrion's grim and smiling face. 

"I do not understand, " he said to Marcos, as they passed on, "why thegood God gives the Bourbons so many chances. "

"I cannot understand why the Bourbons never take them, " answered Marcos. For he was not a pushing man, but one of those patient waiters onopportunity who appear at length quietly at the top, and look down withthoughtful eyes at those who struggle below. The sweat and strife of somecareers must tarnish the brightest lustre. 

Father and son drove together to the apartment in a street high above thetown, near the church of San José where the Sarrions lived when inMadrid, and there Sarrion gave Marcos further details of that strangeadventure which Amedeo of Spain was about to begin. 

In return Marcos vouchsafed a brief account of affairs in the valley ofthe Wolf. He never had much to say and even in these stirring times toldof a fine harvest; of that brilliant weather which marked the year of theNapoleonic downfall. 

"And Juanita?" inquired Sarrion at length. 

"Is at Pampeluna. They cannot get her away from there without my knowingit. She is well ... And happy. "

"You have not written to her?"

"No, " answered Marcos. 

"We must remember, " said Sarrion, with a nod of approval, "that we aredealing with the cleverest men in the world, and the greediest----"

"And the hardest pressed, " added Marcos. 

"But you have not written to her?"

"No. "

"Nor heard from her?"

"I had a note from her at Saragossa, before they moved her to Pampeluna, "answered Marcos with a smile. "It was rather badly spelt. "

"And... ?" asked Sarrion. 

Marcos did not reply to this comprehensive interrogation. 

"You have come to some decision?" Sarrion suggested. 

"I have come to the usual decision that you are quite right in yoursuspicions. They want that money, and they intend to get it by forcingher into religion and inducing her to sign the usual testament made bynuns, conferring all their earthly goods upon the order into which theyare admitted. "

Then Sarrion went back to his original question. 

"And... ?"

"As soon as we see signs of their being likely to succeed I propose tosee Juanita again. "

"You can do it despite them?"

"Yes, I can do it. "

"And... ?"

"I shall explain the position to her--that her bad fortune has given herchoice of two evils. "

"That is one way of putting it. "

"It is the only honest way. "

Sarrion shrugged his shoulders. 

"My friend, " he said, "I do not think that love and honesty are much insympathy. "

CHAPTER XII

IN A STRONG CITYAmedeo, as the world knows, landed at Carthagena to be met by the newsthat Prim was dead. The man who had summoned him hither to assume thecrown, he who alone in all Spain had the power and the will to maintainorder in the riven kingdom, had himself been summoned to appear before ahigher throne. "There will be no republic in Spain while I live, " Primhad often said. And Prim was dead. 

"Every dog has his day, " a deputy sneeringly observed to the Marshallhimself a few hours before he was shot, in response to Prim'splain-spoken intention of striking with a heavy hand all those who shouldmanifest opposition to the Duke of Aosta. 

So Amedeo of Spain rode into his capital one snowy day in January, 1871, carrying high his head and looking down with courageous, intelligent eyesupon the faces of the people who refused to cheer him, as upon a sea ofhidden rocks through which he must needs steer his hazardous way withouta pilot. 

Before receiving the living he visited the dead man who may be assumed tohave been honest in his intention, as he undoubtedly proved himself to bebrave in action; the best man that Spain produced in her time of trouble. 

Among the first to bow before the King were the two Sarrions, and as theyreturned into an anteroom they came face to face with Evasio Mon, waitinghis turn there. 

"Ah!" said Sarrion, who did not seem to see the hand that Mon had halfextended, "I did not know that you were a courtier. "

"I am not, " replied Mon; "but I am here to see whether I am too old tolearn. "

He turned towards Marcos with his pleasant smile, but did not attempt theextended hand here. 

"I shall take a lesson from Marcos, " he said. 

Marcos made no reply, but passed on. And Mon, turning on his heel, lookedafter him with a sudden misgiving, like one who hears the sound of adistant drum. 

"Judging from the persons in his immediate vicinity, our friend has moneyin his pocket, " said Sarrion, as they descended those palace stairs whichhad streamed with blood a few years earlier. 

"Or promises in his mouth. Was that General Pacheco who turned away as wecame?"

"Yes, " answered Sarrion. "Why do you ask?"

"I have heard that he is to receive a command in the army of the North. "

Sarrion made a grimace, uncomplimentary to that very smart soldierGeneral Pacheco, and at the foot of the stairs he stopped to speak to afriend. He spoke in French and named the man by his baptismal name; forthis was a Frenchman, named Deulin, a person of mystery, supposed to bein the diplomatic service in some indefinite position. With him was anEnglishman, who greeted Marcos as a friend. 

"What do you make of all this?" asked Sarrion, addressing himself to theEnglishman, who, however, rather cleverly passed the question on to theolder man with a slow, British gesture. 

"I make of it--that they only want a little money to make Don Carlosking, " said Deulin. 

"What is Evasio Mon doing in Madrid?" asked Sarrion. 

"Raising the money, or spending it, " replied the Frenchman, with a shrugof the shoulders, as if it were no business of his. 

They passed up-stairs together, but had not gone far when Marcos said theEnglishman's name without raising his voice. 

"Cartoner. "

He turned, and Marcos ran up three steps to meet him. 

"Who is the prelate with the face of a fox-terrier?" he asked. 

"He represents the Vatican. Is he with Mon?"

Marcos nodded an affirmative, and, turning, descended the stairs. 

"I had better get back to Pampeluna, " he said to his father. 

The train for the Northern frontier leaves Madrid in the evening, and atthis time no man knew who might be the next to take a ticket for France. The Sarrions made their preparations to depart the same evening, and, arriving early, secured a compartment to themselves. Marcos, however, didnot take his seat, but stood on the platform looking towards the gatethrough which the passengers must come. 

"Are you looking for some one?" asked Sarrion. 

"General Pacheco, " was the reply; and then, after a pause, "Here hecomes. He is attended by three aides-de-camp and a squadron of orderlies. He carries his head very high. "

"But his feet are on the ground, " commented Sarrion, who was rollinghimself a cigarette. "Shall we invite him to come with us?"

"Yes. "

General Pacheco was one of those soldiers of the fifties who owed theirsuccess to a handsome face. He wore a huge moustache, curling to hiseyes, and had the air of an invincible conqueror--of hearts. He haddined. He was going to take up his new command in the North. He walked, as the French say, on air, and he certainly swaggered in his gait on thatthin base. He was hardly surprised to see the Count Sarrion, one of theexclusives who had never accepted Queen Isabella's new militaryaristocracy, with his hat in one hand and the other extended towards him, on the platform awaiting his arrival. 

"You will travel with us, " said Sarrion. And the General accepted, looking round to see that his attendants were duly impressed. 

"I find, " he said, seating himself and accepting a cigarette fromSarrion, "that each new success in life brings me new friends. "

"Making it necessary to abandon the old ones, " suggested Sarrion. 

"No, no, " laughed the General, with a cackle, and a patronising handupheld against the mere thought. "One only adds to the number as one goeson; just as one adds to a little purse against the change of fortune, eh?"

And he looked from one to the other still, brown face with a cunningtwinkle. Sarrion was a man of the world. He knew that this expansivenesswould not last. It would probably give way to melancholy or somnolence inthe course of half an hour. These things are a matter of the digestion. And many vows of friendship are made by perfectly sober persons who havedined, with a sincerity which passes off next morning. The milk of humankindness should be allowed to stand overnight in order to prove itsquality. 

"Ah, " said Sarrion, "you speak from a happy experience. "

"No, no, " protested the other, gravely. "It is a small thing--a merebagatelle in the French Rentes--but one sees one's opportunities, onesees one's opportunities. "

He made a gesture with the two fingers that held his cigarette, whichseemed to be a warning to the Sarrions not to make any mistake as to theshrewdness of him who spoke to them. 

"Speak for yourself, " said Sarrion, with a laugh. 

"I do, " insisted the other, leaning forward. "I speak essentially formyself. One does not mind admitting it to a man like yourself. All theworld knows that you are a Carlist at heart. "

"Does it?"

"Yes--and you must take comfort. I think you are on the right road now. "

"I hope we are. "

"I am sure of it. Money. That is the only way. To go to the right peoplewith money in both hands. "

He sat back and looked at the Sarrions with his little, cunning eyestwinkling beneath his gold laced cap. The expansiveness would not lastmuch longer. Sarrion's dark glance was diagnosing the man with a deadlyskill. 

"The thing, " he said slowly, "is to strike while the iron is hot. "

He spoke in the symbolic way of a people much given to proverbial wisdomand the dark uses of allegory. He might have meant much or nothing. As ithappened, the Count de Sarrion meant nothing; for he knew nothing. 

"That is what I say. Give me a couple of months, I want no more. "

"No?" said Sarrion, looking at him with much admiration. "Is that so?"

"Two months--and the sum of money I named. "

"Ah! In two months, " reflected Sarrion. "Rome, you know, was not built ina day. "

The General gave his cackling laugh. 

"Aha! " he cried, "I see that you know all about it. You gave me mycue--the word Rome, eh? To see how much I know!"

And the great soldier-statesman leant back in his seat again, wellpleased with himself. 

"I understand, " he said, "that it amounts to this; the sanction of theVatican is required to the remittance of the usual novitiate in the caseof a young person who is in a great hurry to take the veil; once that isobtained the money is set at liberty and all goes merrily. There isenough to--well, let us say--to convince my whole army corps, and myhumble self. And the Vatican will, of course, consent. I fancy that ishow it stands. "

He tapped his pocket as if the golden "piecès de conviction" werealready there, and closed his eye like any common person; like, forinstance, his own father, who was an Andalusian innkeeper. 

"I fancy that is how it is, " said Sarrion, turning gravely to Marcos. "Isit not so?"

"That is how it is, " replied Marcos. 

The effect of the good dinner was already wearing off. The train hadstarted, and General Pacheco found himself disinclined for furtherconversation. He begged leave to ease some of the tighter straps andhooks of his smart tunic, opening the collar of solid gold lace thatencircled his thick neck. In a few minutes he was asleep beneath thespeculative eye of Marcos, who sat in the far corner of the carriage. 

The General was going to Saragossa, so they parted from him in the cold, early morning at Castèjon, where an icy wind swept over the plain, andthe snow lay thick on the ground. 

"It will be cold at Pampeluna!" muttered the General from within the hoodof his military cloak. "I pity you! yes, good-bye; close the door. "

The station was full of soldiers, and their high peaked caps were atevery window of the trains. It was barely yet daylight when the Sarrionsalighted at the fortified station in the plain below Pampeluna. 

The city stands upon a hill which falls steeply on the northeast side tothe bed of the river Arga, a green-coloured stream deep enough to giveadditional strength to the walls which tower above like a cliff. Pampeluna is rightly reckoned to be the strongest city in Europe. It isapproached from the southwest by a table-land, across which run the highroads from Madrid and the French frontier. 

The station lies in the plain across which the railway meanders like astream. Both bridges across the Arga are commanded, as is the railwaystation, by the guns of the city. Every approach is covered by artillery. 

The sun was rising as the Sarrions' carriage slowly climbed the inclineand clanked across the double drawbridges into the city. In the Plaza dela Constitucion, the centre of the town, troops of hopeful dogs followedeach other from dust heap to dust heap, but seemed to find little ofsucculence, whilst what they did find appeared to bring on a sudden andviolent indisposition. Perro gazed at them sadly from the carriage windowremembering perhaps his own dust heap days. 

The Sarrions had no house in Pampeluna. Unlike the majority of theNavarrese nobles they lived in their country house which was only twentymiles away. They made use of the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de laConstitucion when business or war happened to call them to Pampeluna. 

They went there now and took their morning coffee. 

"Two months, " said Sarrion, warming himself at the stove in their simplyfurnished sitting-room. "Two months, they have given that scoundrelPacheco to make his preparations. "

"Yes--"

"So that Juanita must make her choice at once. "

"They go to vespers in the Cathedral, " said Marcos. "It is dusk by thattime. They cross the Calle de la Dormitaleria and go through the twopatios into the cloisters and enter the Cathedral by the cloister door. If Juanita could forget something and go back for it, I could see her fora few minutes in the cloisters which are always deserted in winter. "

"Yes, " said Sarrion, "but how?"

"Sor Teresa must do it, " said Marcos. "You must see her. They cannotprevent you from seeing your own sister. "

"But will she do it?"

"Yes, " answered Marcos without any hesitation at all. 

"I shall try to see Juanita also, " said Sarrion, throwing his cloak roundhis shoulders twice so that its bright lining was seen at the back, hanging from the left shoulder. "You stay here. "

He went out into the cold air. Pampeluna lies fourteen hundred feet abovethe sea-level, and is subject to great falls of snow in its brief winterseason. 

Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street runningparallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. Therehe learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he couldnot see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules. Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not inher province. But she knew the rules. She did not return and in herplace came Father Muro, the spiritual adviser of the school; Juanita'sown confessor. He was a stout man whose face would have been pleasanthad it followed the lines that Nature had laid down. But there wassomething amiss with Father Muro--the usual lack of naturalness in thosewho lead a life that is against Nature. 

Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see Juanita. It was notwithin his province, but he knew that it was against the rules. Then heremembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the Count de Sarrion. It was lying on the table at the refectory door, where letters intendedfor the post were usually placed. It was doubtless from Juanita. He wouldfetch it. 

Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face, while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to wantsomething they could not have. 

"Yes, " said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente. "

He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. 

"Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked. 

"No, my son. Why should I?"

"Why, indeed?"

And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the door open ratherobsequiously. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVEOn returning to the hotel in the corner of the Plaza de la Constitution, Sarrion threw down on the table before Marcos the note that Father Murohad given him. He made no comment. 

"My dear uncle, " the letter ran, "I am writing to advise you of mydecision to go into religion. I am prompted to communicate this to youwithout delay by the remembrance of your many kindnesses to me. You will, I know, agree with me that this step can only be for my happiness in thisworld and the next. Your grateful niece. --JUANITA DE MOGENTE. "

Marcos read the letter carefully, and then seeking in his pocket, produced the note that Juanita had passed to him through the hole in thewall of the convent school at Saragossa. It seemed that he carried withhim always the scrap of paper that she had hidden within her dress untilthe moment that she gave it to him. 

He laid the two letters side by side and compared them. 

"The writing is the writing of Juanita, " he said; "but the words are not. They are spelt correctly!"

He folded the letters again, with his determined smile, and placed themin his pocket. Sarrion, smoking a cigarette by the stove, glanced at hisson and knew that Juanita's fate was fixed. For good or ill, forhappiness or misery, she was destined to marry Marcos de Sarrion if thewhole church of Rome should rise up and curse his soul and hers for thedeed. 

Sarrion appeared to have no suggestions to make. He continued to smokereflectively while he warmed himself at the stove. He was wise enough toperceive that his must now be the secondary part. To possess power and toresist the temptation to use it, is the task of kings. To quietlyrelinquish the tiller of a younger life is a lesson that gray hairs haveto learn. 

"I think, " said Marcos at length, "that we must see Leon. He is herguardian. We will give him a last chance. "

"Will you warn him?" inquired Sarrion. 

"Yes, " replied Marcos, rising. "He may be here in Pampeluna. I think itlikely that he is. They are hard pressed. If they get the dispensationfrom Rome they will hurry events. They will try to rush Juanita intoreligion at once. And Leon's presence is indispensable. They are probablyready and only awaiting the permission of the Vatican. They are all herein Pampeluna, which is better than Saragossa for such work--better thanany city in Spain. They probably have Leon waiting here to give hisformal consent when required. "

"Then let us go and find out, " said Sarrion. 

The Plaza de la Constitucion is the centre of the town, and beneath itscolonnade are the offices of the countless diligences that connect thesmaller towns of Navarre with the capital, which continued to run even intime of war to such places as Irun, Jaca, and even Estella, where theCarlist cause is openly espoused. Marcos made the round of the diligenceoffices. He had, it seemed, a hundred friends among the thick-setmuleteers in breeches, stockings, and spotless shirt, who looked at himwith keen, dust-laden eyes from beneath the shade of their great berets. The drivers of the diligences, which were now arriving from the mountainvillages, paused in their work of unloading their vehicles to give himthe latest news. 

They were soft spoken persons with a repressed manner, whichcharacterises both men and women of their ancient race, and they spoke tohim in Basque. Some freed their hands from the folds of the long blanket, which each wore according to his fancy, to shake hands with him; othersnodded curtly. Men from the valley of Ebro muttered "Buenas"--the curtsalutation of Aragon the taciturn. 

Marcos seemed to know them by their baptismal names. He even knew theirhorses by name also, and asked after each, while Perro, affable alikewith rich and poor, exchanged the time of day with traveled dogs, alllean and dusty from the road, who limped on sore feet and probably toldhim of the snow while they lay in the sun and licked their paws. Like hismaster, he was not proud, but took a wide view of life, so that allvarieties of it came within his field of vision. 

Then master and dog took a walk down the Calle del Pozo Blanco, where thesaddle and harness-makers congregate; where muleteers must come to buythose gay saddle-bags which so soon lose their bright colour in theglaring sun; where the guardias civiles step in to buy their paste andpipe-clay; where the great man's groom may chat with the teamster fromthe mountain while both are waiting on the saddler's needle. 

Finally Marcos passed through the wide Calle de San Ignacio to thedrawbridges across the double fosse, where the rope-makers are always atwork, walking backwards with an ever decreasing bundle of hemp at theirwaists and one eye cocked upwards towards the roadway so that they knowall who come and go better even than the sentry at the gate. For thesentries are changed three or four times a day, while the rope-maker goeson forever. 

Just beyond the second line of fortifications is a halting-place by a lowwall where the country women (whom one may meet riding in theplain--dignified, cloaked and hooded figures, startlingly suggestive of asacred picture) on mule or donkey, stop to descend from their perchbetween the saddle-bags or panniers. It is a sort of al fresco cloakroomwhere these ladies repair the ravages of wind or storm, where theyassemble in the evening to pack their purchases on their beasts ofburden, and finally climb to the top of all themselves. For it is notetiquette to ride in or out of the gates upon one's wares; and a breachof this unwritten law would immediately arouse the suspicion of thecourteous toll-officer, who fingers delicately with a tobacco-stainedhand the bundles and baskets submitted to his inspection. 

Here also Marcos had friends, and was able to tell the latest news fromCuba, where some had husband, son or lover; a so-called volunteer to putdown the hopeless rebellion, attracted to a miserable death, by theforty-pound bounty paid by Government. There were old women who chaffedhim, and young ones with fine-cut classic features and crinkled hair, wholay in wait for a glance from his grave eyes. 

"It is a pity there are not more like you, Señor Conde, " said one oldpeasant; "for it is you that keeps the men from fighting among themselvesand makes them tend the sheep or take in the crops. Carlist or Royalist, the land comes before either, say I. "

"For it is the land that feeds the children, " added another, who carrieda pair of small espradrillas in her apron pocket. 

Marcos went back to his father with such information as he had been ableto gather. 

"Leon is here, " he said. "He is in Retreat at the monastery of theRedemptionists, which stands half-empty on the road to Villaba. SorTeresa and Juanita are both well and in the school in the Calle de laDormitaleria. Mon has been here for some weeks, but went to Madrid fourdays ago. It is an open secret that Pacheco will go over to the Carlistswith his whole army corps for cash down--but he will not take a promise. The Carlists think that their opportunity has come. "

"And so do I, " said Sarrion. "The Duke of Aosta is the son of VictorEmmanuel, we must remember that. And no son of the man who overthrew thePope can hope to be tolerated by the clerical party here. The new kingwill be assassinated, Marcos. I give him six months. "

"Will you come this afternoon to the old monastery on the Villaba roadand see Leon?" asked Marcos. 

"Oh, yes, " laughed his father. "I shall enjoy it. " It was the hour of thesiesta when they quitted the town on horseback by the Puerta de Rochapeawhich gives exit to the city on the northern side. It had been sunnysince morning, and the snow had melted from the roads, but the hillsacross the plain were still white and great drifts were piled against theramparts, forming a natural buttress from the summit of the steep riverbank almost to the deep embrasures of the wall. 

Marcos turned in his saddle and looked up at these as they rode down theslope. Sarrion saw the action and glanced at Marcos and then at thetowering walls. But he made no comment and asked no questions. 

There are two old monasteries on the Villaba road; huge buildings withina high wall, each owning a chapel which stands apart from thedwelling-house. It is a known fact that the Carlists have neverthreatened these buildings which stand far outside the town. It is also afact that the range of them has been carefully measured by the artilleryofficers, and the great guns on the city walls were at this time trainedon the isolated buildings to batter them to the ground at the first signof treachery. 

Marcos pulled the bell-rope swinging in the wind outside the great doorof the monastery, while Sarrion tied the horses to a post. The door wasopened by a stout monk whose face fell when he perceived two laymen inriding costume. Humbler persons, as a rule, rang this bell. 

"The Marquis de Mogente is here?" said Marcos, and the monk spread outhis hands in a gesture of denial. 

"Whoever is here, " he said, "is in Retreat. One does not disturb thedevout. "

He made a movement to close the door, but Marcos put his thickly bootedfoot in the interstice. Then he placed his shoulder against theweather-worn door and pushed it open, sending the monk staggering back. Sarrion followed and was in time to place himself between the monk andthe bell towards which the devotee was running. 

"No, my friend, " he said, "we will not ring the bell. "

"You have no business here, " said the holy man, looking from one to theother with sullen eyes. 

"So far as that goes, no more have you, " said Marcos. "There are nomonasteries in Spain now. Sit down on that bench and keep quiet. "

He turned and glanced at his father. 

"Yes, " said Sarrion, with his grim smile, "I will watch him. "

"Where shall I find Leon de Mogente?" said Marcos to the monk. "I do notwish to disturb other persons. "

The monk reflected for a moment. 

"It is the third door on the right, " he said at length, nodding hisshaven head towards a long passage seen through the open door. 

Marcos went in, his spurred heels clanking loudly in the half-emptyhouse. He knocked at the door of the third cell on the right; for in hisway he was a devout person and wished to disturb no man at his prayers. The door was opened by Leon himself, who started back when he saw who hadknocked. Marcos went into the room which was small and bare andwhitewashed, and closed the door behind him. A few religious emblems wereon the wall above the narrow bed. A couple of books lay on the table. Onewas open. It was a very old edition of à Kempis. Leon de Mogente'sreligion was of the sort that felt itself able to learn more from an oldedition than a new one. There are many in these days of cheap imitationof the mediaeval who feel the same. 

Leon sat down on the plain wooden bench and laid his hand on the openbook. He looked with weak eyes at Marcos and waited for him to speak. Marcos obliged him at once. 

"I have come to see you about Juanita, " he said. "Have you given yourconsent to her taking the veil?"

Leon reflected. He had the air of a man who having been carefully taughta part, loses his place at the first cue. 

"What business is it of yours?" he asked, rather hesitatingly at length. 

"None. "

Leon made a hopeless gesture of the hand and looked at his book with aface of distress and embarrassment. Marcos was sorry for him. He wasstrong, and it is the strong who are quickest to detect pathos. 

"Will you answer me?" he asked. 

And Leon shook his head. 

"I have come here to warn you, " said Marcos, not unkindly. "I know thatJuanita has inherited a fortune from her father. I know that the Carlistcause is falling for want of money. I know that the Jesuits will get themoney if they can. Because Don Carlos is their last chance in their laststronghold in Europe. They will get Juanita's money if they can--and theycan only do it by forcing Juanita into religion. And I have come to warnyou that I shall prevent them. "

Leon looked at Marcos and gulped something down in his throat. He was notafraid of Marcos, but he was in terror of some one or of something else. Marcos studied the white face, the shrinking, hunted eyes, with the quietpersistence learnt from watching Nature. 

"Are you a Jesuit?" he asked bluntly. 

But Leon only drew in a gasping breath and made no answer. 

Then Marcos went out and closed the door behind him. 

CHAPTER XIV

IN THE CLOISTERMarcos and Sarrion went back to Pampeluna in the dusk of the winterevening, each meditating over that which they had seen and heard. Leonhad become a Jesuit. And Juanita was worse--infinitely worse than alonein the world. 

Marcos needed no telling of all that lay behind Leon's scared silence;for his father had brought him up in an atmosphere of plain language andwide views of mankind. Sarnon himself had seen Navarre ruined, its mensacrificed, its women made miserable by a war which had lastedintermittently for thirty years. He had seen the simple Basques, who hadno means of verifying that which their priests told them, fightingdesperately and continuously for a lie. The Carlist war has always beenthe war of ignorance and deceit against enlightenment and the advance ofthought. It is needless to say upon which side the cassock has rangeditself. 

The Basques were promised their liberty; they should be allowed to liveas they had always lived, practically a republic, if they only succeededin forcing an absolute monarchy on the rest of Spain. The Jesuits madethis promise. The society found itself in the position that no promisemust be allowed to stick in the throat. 

Sarrion, like all who knew their strange story, was ready enough torecognise the fact that the Jesuit body must be divided into two parts ofhead and heart. The heart has done the best work that missionaries haveyet accomplished. The head has ruined half Europe. 

It was the political Jesuit who had earned Sarrion's deadly hatred. 

The political Jesuit has, moreover, a record in history which has only inpart been made manifest. 

William the Silent was assassinated by an emissary of the Jesuits. Maurice of Orange, his son, almost met the same fate, and the would-bemurderer confessed. Three Jesuits were hanged for attempting the life ofElizabeth, Queen of England; and later, another, Parry, was drawn andquartered. Two years later another was executed for participating in anattempt on the Queen's life; and at later periods four more met a similarjust fate. Ravaillac, the assassin of Henry IV of France was a Jesuit. 

The Jesuits were concerned in the Gunpowder Plot of England and two ofthe fathers were among the executed. 

In Paraguay the Jesuits instigated the natives to rebel against Spain andPortugal; and the holy fathers, taking the field in person, provedthemselves excellent leaders. 

Pope Clement XIV was poisoned by the Jesuits. He had signed a Bull tosuppress the order, which Bull was to "be forever and to all eternityvalid. " The result of it was "acqua tofana of Perugia, " a slow andtorturing poison. 

Down to our own times we have had the hand of the Society of Jesus gentlyurging the Fenians. O'Farrell, who in 1868 attempted the life of the Dukeof Edinburgh in Australia, was a Jesuit sent out to the care of thesociety in Australia. 

The great days of Jesuitism are gone but the society still lives. InEngland and in other Protestant countries they continue to exist underdifferent names. The "Adorers of Jesus, " the Redemptionists, the Brothersof the Christian Doctrine, the Brothers of the Congregation of the HolyVirgin, the Fathers of the Faith, the Order of St. Vincent de Paul--areJesuits. How far they belong to the heart and not to the head, is adetail only known to themselves. Those who have followed the contemporaryhistory of France may draw their own conclusions from the trials of thecase of the Assumptionist Fathers. 

"Los mismos perros, con nuevos cuellos"--said Sarrion to any who soughtto convince him that Spain owed her downfall to other causes, and thatthe Jesuits were no longer what they had been. "The same dogs with newcollars. " And he held that they were not a progressive but aretrogressive society; that their statutes still held good. 

"It is allowable to take an oath without intending to keep it when onehas good grounds for so acting. "

"In the case of one unjustifiably making an attack on your honour, whenyou cannot otherwise defend yourself than by impeaching the integrity ofthe person insulting you, it is quite allowable to do so. "

"In order to cut short calumny most quickly, one may cause the death ofthe calumniator, but as secretly as possible to avoid observation. "

"It is absolutely allowable to kill a man whenever the general welfare orproper security demands it. "

If any man has committed a crime, St. Liguori and other Jesuit writershold that he may swear to a civil authority that he is innocent of itprovided that he has already confessed it to his spiritual father andreceived absolution. It is, they say, no longer on his conscience. 

"Pray, " said the founder of the society, "as if everything depended onprayer, and act as if everything depended on action. "

"Of what are you thinking?" Sarrion asked suddenly, when they had riddenalmost to the city gates in silence. 

"I was wondering what Juanita will say, some day, when she knows andunderstands everything. "

"I was not wondering what Juanita will say, " confessed Sarrion with alaugh, "but what Evasio Mon will do. "

For Sarrion persisted in taking an optimistic view of Juanita and thatwhich must supervene when she had grown into understanding and knowledge. 

Marcos went back to the hotel. He had many arrangements to make. Sarrionrode to the large house in the Calle de la Dormitaleria where the schoolof the Sisters of the True Faith is located to this day. In an hour hejoined Marcos in the little sitting-room looking on to the Plaza de laConstitucion. 

"All is going well, " he said, "I have seen Dolores. They go across to theCathedral for vespers at five o'clock. It will be almost dark. You haveonly to wait in the inner patio, adjoining the cloisters. They passthrough that way. Juanita will be sent back for something that isforgotten. And then is your time. You can have ten minutes. It is notlong. "

"It will do, " said Marcos rather gloomily. He was not afraid of the wholeSociety of Jesuits, of the king, nor yet of Don Carlos. But he fearedJuanita. 

"We need not inquire who will send her back. But she will come. She willnot expect to see you. Remember that and do not frighten her. "

So Marcos set out at dusk to await Juanita. The entrance to the twopatios that give entrance to the Cathedral cloister is immediatelyopposite to the door of the school of the Sisters of the True Faith. Alamp swings over the doorway in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. There is nolamp in the first patio but another hangs in the vaulted arch leadingfrom one patio to the other. In the cloister itself, which is the mostbeautiful in Spain, there are two dim lamps. 

Marcos sat down on the wooden bench which runs right round the quadrangleof the inner patio. He had not long to wait. The girls passed throughwhispering and laughing among themselves. Two nuns led the way. SorTeresa followed the last two girls, looking straight in front of herbetween the wings of her great cap. One of the last pair was Juanita. Shewalked listlessly, Marcos thought. He rose and went towards the archwayleading from the inner patio to the cloisters. The moon was rising andcast a white light down upon the delicate stone-work of the cloisterwindows. 

Almost immediately Juanita came hurrying back and instinctively drew hermantilla closer at the sight of his shadowy form. Then she recognisedhim. 

"Oh, Marcos, " she whispered. "At last. I thought you had forgotten allabout me. "

"Quick, " he answered. "This way. We have only ten minutes. "

He took her hand and hurried her back into the cloisters. He led her tothe right, to the corner of the quadrangle farthest removed from theCathedral where by daylight few pass, and at night none. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, "Only ten minutes. "

"It has all been arranged, " he answered. "I met you here on purpose. Youhave only ten minutes in which to settle. "

"To settle what?" she asked with a laugh. 

"Your whole life. "

"But one cannot settle one's life in an Ave Maria, " she said, which meansin the twinkling of an eye. And she looked at him by the dim light andlaughed again. For she was young and they had always made holidaytogether, and laughed. 

"Did you mean that letter which you wrote to my father about going intoreligion?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose so. I meant it at the time, Marcos. It seemsto be the only thing to do. Everything seems to point to it. Every sermonI hear. Everything I read. Everything any one ever says to me. But now--"she turned and looked at him, "--now that I see you again I cannot thinkhow I did it. "

"Am I so very worldly?"

"Of course you are. And yet I suppose you have some chance of salvation. It seems to me that you have--a little chance, I give you. But it seemshard on other people. Oh, Marcos, I hate the idea of it. And yet they areso kind to me--all except Sor Teresa. If anybody could make me hate it, she would. She is so unkind and gives me all the punishments she can. "

Marcos smiled slowly and with great pity, of which men have a betterunderstanding than any woman. He thought he knew why Sor Teresa wascruel. 

"They are all so kind. And I know they are good. And they take it forgranted that the religious life is the only possible one. One cannot helpbecoming convinced even against one's will. "

She turned to him suddenly and laid her two hands on his arm. 

"Oh, Marcos, " she whispered, with a sort of sob of apprehension. "Can younot do something for me?"

"Yes, " he answered. "That is why I am here. But it must be done at once. "

"Why?" she asked. And she was grave enough now. 

"Because they have sent to Rome for a dispensation of your novitiate. They wish to hurry you into religion at once. "

"Yes, " she said. "I know. But why?"

"Because they want your money. "

"But I have none, or very little. They have told me so. "

"That is a lie, " said Marcos, bluntly. 

"Oh, but you must not say that, " she whispered, with a sort of horror. "Father Muro told me so. He represents Heaven on earth. We are told hedoes. "

"He does it badly, " said Marcos, quietly. 

Juanita reflected for a moment. Then suddenly she stamped her foot on thepavement worn by the feet of generations of holy men. 

"I will not go into religion, " she said. "I will not. I always feel thatthere is something wrong in all they say. And with you and Uncle Ramon itis different. I know at once that what you say is quite simple and plainand honest; that you have no other meaning in what you say but that whichthe words convey. Marcos--you and Uncle Ramon must take me away fromhere. I cannot get away. I am hemmed in on every side. "

"We can take you away, " answered Marcos slowly, "if you like. "

She turned and looked at him, her attention caught by some tense note inhis voice. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Your face is so odd and white. What doyou mean, Marcos?"

"We can take you away, but you must marry me. "

She gave a short laugh and stopped suddenly. 

"Oh--you must not joke, " she said. "You must not laugh. It is my wholelife, remember. "

"I am not laughing. It is no joke, " said Marcos steadily. 

"What... ?"

For a moment they sat in silence. The low chanting of vespers came totheir ears through the curtained doors of the Cathedral. 

"Listen to them, " said Juanita suddenly. "They are half asleep. They arenot thinking of what they are singing. They are taking snuffsurreptitiously behind their hands to keep themselves awake. And it iswe, poor wretched schoolgirls and nuns who have to keep the saints in agood humour by attending to every word and being most preposterouslydevout whether we feel inclined to be or not. No, I will not go intoreligion. That is certain. Marcos, I would rather marry you than that--ifit is necessary. "

"It is necessary. "

"But they can have all the money; every real, '" suggested Juanitahopefully. 

"No; they have tried that way. They cannot do it in these times. The onlyway they can get the money is for you to go of your own free will intoreligion and to bequeath of your own free will all your worldlypossessions to the Order you join. "

"Yes, I know, " said Juanita. Her spirits had risen every minute. She wasgay again now. His presence seemed to restore to her the happy gift oftouching life lightly which is of the heart. And the heart knows no age, neither is it subject to the tyranny of years. 

"Well, I will marry you if there is no help for it. But... "

"But... " echoed Marcos. 

"But of course it is only a sort of game, is it not?"

"Yes, " he answered. "A sort of game. "

"Promise?"

"I promise. "

They were sitting on the steps of one of the chapels. Juanita swung roundand peered through the railings as if to see what Saint had hishabitation there. 

"It is only St. Bartholomew, " she said, airily. "But he will do. You havepromised, remember that. And St. Bartholomew has heard you. It is only tosave me from being a nun that we are being married. And I am to be justthe same as I am now. We can go fishing, I mean, as we used to, and climbthe mountains and have jokes just as we always do in the holidays. "

"Yes, " said Marcos. 

She held out her hand as she had seen the peasants in Torre Garda whenthey had struck a bargain and would seal it irrevocably. 

"Touch it, " she said with a gay laugh, as she had heard them say. 

And they shook hands in the dark cloisters. 

"There is a window at the end of the passage in which is your room, " saidMarcos. "It looks out on to a small courtyard and is quite near theground. Come to that window to-morrow night at ten o'clock and I shall bethere. "

"What for?" she asked. 

"To be married, " he answered. "My father and I will arrange it. We shallboth be there. If you do not come to-morrow night I shall come again thenext night. You will be back in your room by half-past eleven. "

"Married?" asked Juanita. 

"Yes. "

He had risen and was standing in front of her. 

"And now you must go back to the Cathedral. "

"But Sor Teresa's breviary?"

"She has it in her pocket, " said Marcos. 

CHAPTER XV

OUR LADY OF THE SHADOWSThere were great clouds in the sky when the moon rose the next night andone of them threw Pampeluna into dark shadows when Marcos took his placein the little passage between the School in the Calle de la Dormitaleriaand the next building. The window at the end of the passage where Juanitaand Sor Teresa and some of the more favoured of the girls had theirrooms, was about six feet above the ground. 

Marcos took his post immediately underneath and stretching his arm uptook hold of one of the two bars, and waited. Juanita looking from thedoor of her room could thus see his clenched hand and must know that hewas waiting. The clocks of the city struck ten. Immediately afterwardsthe watchmen began their cry. The city was already asleep. 

It was very cold. Marcos changed his hand from time to time and breathedon his fingers. He carried a cloak for Juanita. The striking of thequarter found him still waiting beneath the window. But, soon after, Marcos' heart gave a leap to his throat at the touch of cold fingers onhis wrist. It was Juanita. He threw the cloak down and placing his heelon the sill of a lower window near the ground he raised himself to thelevel of the bars. 

"Oh, Marcos!" whispered Juanita in his ear, through the open window. 

He edged his shoulder in between the two bars which were fixedperpendicularly, and being strongly built he only found room to introducehis two thumbs within that which pressed against his chest. He slowlystraightened his arms and the iron gave an audible creak. It was ahundred years old, all rust-worn and attenuated. 

"There, " he said, "you can get through that. "

"Yes, " she answered. She was shivering and yet half laughing. 

"Listen, " she whispered, drawing him towards her. "Sor Teresa's door isopen. You can hear her snoring. Listen!"

She gave a half hysterical laugh. 

"Quick, " said Marcos--dropping to the ground. 

Juanita turned sideways and pushed her head and shoulders through thebars. She leant down towards him holding out her arms and her thick plaitof hair struck him across the eyes. A moment later he had lifted her tothe ground. 

"Quick, " he said again, breathlessly. He threw the cloak round her anddrew the hood forward over her head. Then he took her hand and they rantogether down the narrow passage into the Calle de la Domitaleria. Sheran as quickly as he did with her long, schoolgirl legs, unhampered by awoman's length of skirt. At the corner Perro, who had been keeping watchthere, joined them and trotted by their side. 

"What cloak is this?" she asked. "It smells of tobacco. "

"It is my old military cloak. "

"And this is my wedding dress!" she said, with a breathless laugh. "AndPerro is my bridesmaid. "

They turned sharply to the left and in a moment stood on the desertedramparts close under the shadow of the Episcopal Palace. Below them wasdarkness. To the right, beneath them, the white falls of the rivergleamed dimly above the bridge, and the roar of it came to their earslike the roar of the sea. 

Far across the plain, the Pyrenees rose, range behind range, a white wallin the moonlight. At their feet the walls of the ramparts, bastion belowbastion, broken and crenelated, a triumph of mediaeval fortification, faded into the shadow where the river ran. 

"There is a snow-drift in this corner, " whispered Marcos. "It is piled upagainst the rampart by the north wind. I will drop you over the wall onto it and then follow you. You remember how to hold to my hand?"

"Yes, " she answered, very quick and alert. There was good blood in herveins, which was astir now, in the presence of danger. "Yes--as we usedto do it in the mountains--my hand round your wrist and your fingersround mine. "

They were standing on the wall now. She knelt down and looked over; thenshe turned, still on her knees, and clasped her right hand round hiswrist while he held hers in his strong grip. She leant forward andwithout hesitation swung out, suspended by one arm, into the darkness. Hestooped, then knelt, and finally lay face downwards on the wall, loweringher all the while. 

"Go!" he whispered. And she dropped lightly on to the snow-slope beatenby the wind into an icy buttress against the wall. A moment later hedropped beside her. 

"My father is at the bridge, " he said, as they scrambled down to thenarrow path that runs along the river bank beneath the walls. "He iswaiting for us there with a carriage and a priest. "

Juanita stopped short. 

"Oh, I wish I had not come!" she exclaimed. 

"You can go back, " said Marcos slowly; "it is not too late. You can stillgo back if you want to. "

But Juanita only laughed at him. 

"And know for the rest of my life that I am a miserable coward. And it isof cowards that nuns are made; no, thank you. I will carry it throughnow. Come along. Come and get married. "

She gave a laugh as she led the way. When they reached the road they werein the full moonlight, and for the first time could see each other. 

"What is the matter?" said Juanita suddenly. "Your face looks white;there is something I do not understand in it. "

"Nothing, " answered Marcos. "Nothing. We must be quick. "

"You are sure you are keeping nothing back from me?" she asked, glancingshrewdly at him as she walked by his side. 

"Nothing, " he answered, for the first time, and very conscientiouslytelling her an untruth. For he was keeping back the crux of the wholeaffair which he thought she was too young to be told or to understand. 

The carriage was waiting on the high road just across the old Romanbridge. Sarrion came forward in the moonlight to meet them. Juanita rantowards him, kissed him and clung to his arm with a little movement ofaffection. 

"I am so glad to see you, " she said. "It feels safer. They almost made mea nun, you know. And that horrid old Sor Teresa--oh, I beg your pardon! Iforgot she was your sister. "

"She is hardly my sister, " answered Sarrion with a cynical laugh. "It isagainst the rules you know to permit oneself any family affection whenone is in religion. "

"You mustn't blame her for that, " said Juanita. "One never knows. Youcannot tell why she went into religion. Perhaps she never meant to. Youdo not understand. "

"Oh, yes I do, " answered Sarrion bitterly. 

They were hurrying towards the carriage and a man waiting at the opendoor took a step forward and raised his hat, showing in the moonlight ahigh bald forehead and a clean shaven face. He was slight and neat. 

"This is an old school friend of mine, " said Sarrion by way ofintroduction. "He is a bishop, " he added. 

And Juanita knelt on the road while he laid his hand on her hair with asmile half amused and half pathetic. He looked twenty years younger thanSarrion, and laying aside his sacerdotal manner as suddenly as he hadassumed it on Juanita's instinctive initiation, he helped her into thecarriage with a grave and ceremonious courtesy. 

"This is your own carriage, " she said when they were all seated. 

"Yes--from Torre Garda, " answered Sarrion. "And it is Pietro who isdriving. So you are among friends. "

"And dear old Perro running at the side, " exclaimed Juanita, jumping upand putting her head out of the window to encourage Perro with agreeting. Her mantilla flying in the wind blew across the bishop's facewhich that youthful-looking dignitary endured with patience. 

"And there is a hot-water tin for our feet. I feel it through myslippers; for my feet are wet with the snow. How delightful!"

And Juanita stooped down to warm her hands. 

"You have thought of everything--you and Marcos, " she said. "You are sokind to me. I am sure I am very grateful ... To every one. "

She turned towards the bishop, kindly including him in this expression ofthanks; which she could not do more definitely because she did not knowhis name. It was obvious that she was not a bit afraid of him seeing thathe had no vestments with him. 

"At one time, on the ramparts, I was sorry I had come, " she explained ina friendly way to him, "but now I am not. Of course it is all very wellfor me. It is great fun. But for you it is different; on such a coldnight. I do not know why everybody takes so much trouble about me. "

"Half of Spain is taking trouble about you, my child, " was the answer. 

"Ah! that is about my money. That is quite different. But Marcos, youknow, and Uncle Ramon are the only people who take any trouble about me, for myself you understand. "

"Yes, I understand, " answered the great man humbly, as if he were tryingto, but was not quite sure of success. 

Marcos sat silently in his corner of the carriage. Indeed Juanitaexercised the prerogative of her sex and led the conversation, gaily andeasily. But when the carriage stopped beneath some trees by the roadsideshe suddenly lapsed into silence too. 

She stood on the road in the bright moonlight and looked about her. Shehad thrown back the hood of Marcos' military cloak and now set hermantilla in order. Which was all the preparation this light-hearted bridemade for the supreme moment. And perhaps she never knew all that she hadmissed. 

"I see no church and no houses, " said Juanita to Marcos. "Where are we?"

"The chapel is above us in the darkness, " replied Marcos. And he led theway up a winding path. 

The little chapel stood on a sort of table-land looking out over theplain that lay to the south of it. In front of it were twelve pinesplanted in a row at irregular intervals. The shadow of each tree insuccession fell upon a low stone cross set on the ground before the doorat each successive hour of the twelve; a fantasy of some holy man longdead. 

The chapel door stood open and just within it a priest in his short whitesurplice awaited their arrival. Juanita recognised the sunburnt old curaof Torre Garda. 

But he only had time to bow rather formally to her; for a bishop wasbehind. 

"I have only lighted one candle, " he said to Marcos. "If we make anillumination they can see it from Pampeluna. "

The bishop followed the old priest into the sacristy where the one candlegave a flickering light. There they could be heard whispering together. Sarrion, Marcos and Juanita stood near the door. The moonlight gleamedthrough the windows and a certain amount of reflected light found its waythrough the open doorway. 

Suddenly Juanita gave a start and clutched at Marcos' arm. 

"Look, " she said, pointing to the right. 

A kneeling figure was there with something that gleamed dully at theshoulders. 

"Yes, " explained Marcos. "It is a friend of mine, an officer of thegarrison who has ridden over. We require two witnesses, you know. "

"He is saying his own prayers, " said Juanita, looking at him. 

"He has not much opportunity, " explained Marcos. "He is in command of anoutpost at the outlet of the valley of the Wolf. "

As they looked at him he rose and came towards them, his spurs clankingand his great sword swinging against the prie-dieu chairs of the devout. He bowed formally to Juanita, and stood, upright and stiff, looking atMarcos. 

The old cura came from the sacristy and lighted two candles on the altar. Then he turned with the taper in his hand and beckoned to Marcos andJuanita to come forward to the rails where two stools had been placed inreadiness. The cura went back to the sacristy and returned, followed bythe bishop in his vestments. 

So Juanita de Mogente was married in a little mountain chapel by thelight of two candles and a waning moon, while Sarrion and the officer inhis dusty uniform stood like sentinels behind them, and the bishoprecited the office by heart because he could not see to read. He was apolitical bishop and no great divine, but he knew his business, and gotthrough it quickly. 

He splashed down his historic name with a great flourish of the quill penin the register and on the certificate which he handed with a bow toJuanita. 

"What shall I do with it?" she asked. 

"Give it to Marcos, " was the answer. 

And Marcos put the paper in his pocket. 

They passed out of the chapel and stood on the little terrace in themoonlight amid the shadows of the twelve pine trees while the bishopdisrobed in the sacristy. 

"What are those lights?" asked Juanita, breaking the silence before itgrew irksome. 

"That is Pampeluna, " replied Marcos. 

"And the light in the mountains?" she asked, pointing to the north. 

"That is a Carlist watch-fire, Senorita, " answered the officer briskly, and no one seemed to notice his slip of the tongue except Sarrion, whoglanced at him and then decided not to remind him that the title nolonger applied to Juanita. 

In a few moments the bishop joined them, and they all made their way downthe winding path. The bishop and Sarrion were to go by the midnight trainto Saragossa, while the carnage and horses were housed for the night atthe inn near the station, a mile from the gates; for this was a time ofwar, and Pampeluna was a fenced city from nightfall till morning. 

Marcos and Juanita reached the Calle de la Dormitaleria in safety, however, and Juanita gave a little sigh of fatigue as they hurried downthe narrow alley. 

"To-morrow, " she said, "I shall think this has all been a dream. "

"So shall I, " said Marcos gravely. 

He lifted her into the window, and she stood listening for a moment whileshe took from her finger the wedding ring she had worn for half an hourand gave it back to him. 

"It is of no use to me, " she said; "I cannot wear it at school. "

She laughed, and held up one finger to command his attention. 

"Listen!" she whispered. "Sor Teresa is still snoring. "

She watched him bend the bars back again to their proper place. 

"By the way, " she asked him. "What was the name of the chapel where wewere married--I should like to know?"

Marcos hesitated a moment before replying. 

"It is called Our Lady of the Shadows. "

CHAPTER XVI

THE MATTRESS BEATEREnglishmen are justly proud of their birthright. The less they travel, moreover, the prouder they are, and the stronger is their conviction thatEngland leads the world in thought and art and action. 

They are quite unaware, for instance, that no country in the world isbehind England (unless it be Scotland) in a small matter that affectsvery materially one-third of a human span of life, namely beds. In anytown of France, Germany or Holland, the curious need not seek long forthe mattress-maker. He is usually to be found in some open space at thecorner of a market-place or beneath an arcade near the Maine exercisinghis health-giving trade in the open air. He lives, and lives bountifully, by unmaking, picking over and re-making the mattresses of the people. Good housewives, moreover, stand near him with their knitting to see thathe does it well and puts back within the cover all the wool that he tookout. In these backward countries the domestic mattress is remade once ayear if not oftener. In our great land there is a considerable vaguenessas to the period allowed to a mattress to form itself into lumps and toaccumulate dust or germs. Moreover, there are thousands of exemplaryhousekeepers who throw up the eye of horror to their whitewashed ceilingat the thought of a foreign person's personal habits, who do not knowwhat is inside their mattress and never think of looking to see fromyear's end to year's end. 

In Spain, a country rarely visited by those persons who pride themselvesupon being particular, the mattress-maker is a much more necessary factorin domestic life than is the sweep or the plumber in northern lands. Nopalace is too royal for him, no cottage is too humble to employ him. 

He is, moreover, the only man allowed inside a nunnery. Which is thereason why he finds himself brought into prominence now. He is usually athin, lithe man, somewhat of the figure of those northerners who supplythe bull-ring with Banderilléros. He arrives in the early morning with asheathe knife at his waist, a packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocketand two light sticks under his arm. All he asks is a courtyard and thesunshine that Heaven gives him. 

In a moment he deftly cuts the stitches of the mattress and lays bare thewool which he never touches with his fingers. The longer stick in hisright hand describes great circles in the air and descends with thewhistle of a sword upon the wool of which it picks up a small handful. Then the shorter stick comes into play, picks the wool from the longer, throws it into the air, beats it this way and that, tosses it and catchesit until every fibre is clear, when the fluffy mass is deftly cast aside. All the while, through the beating of the wool, the two sticks beatenagainst each other play a distinct air, and each mattress-maker has hisown, handed down from his forefathers, ending with a whole chromaticscale as the shorter stick swoops up the length of the longer to sweepaway the lingering wool. Thus the whole mattress is transferred from asodden heap to a high and fluffy mountain of carded wool, all baked bythe heat of the sun. 

The man has a hundred attitudes, full of grace. He works with a skillwhich is a conscious pleasure; a pleasure unknown to those who have neverhad opportunity of acquiring a manual craft or appreciating the wondrouspower that God has put into human limbs. He has complete control over histwo thin sticks, can pick up with them a single strand of wool, or half amattress. He can throw aside a pin that lurks in a ball of wool, or killa fly that settles on his work, without staining the snowy mass. And allthe while, from the moment that the mattress is open till the heap iscomplete, the two sticks never cease playing their thin and woody air sothat any within hearing may know that the "colchonero" is at work. 

When the mattress case is empty he pauses to wipe his brow (for he mustneeds work in the sun) and smoke a cigarette in the shade. It is thenthat he gossips. 

In a Southern land such a worker as this must always have an audience, and the children hail with delight the coming of the mattress-maker. Atthe Convent School of the Sisters of the True Faith his services wererequired once a fortnight; for there were many beds; but his coming wasnone the less exciting for its frequency. He was the only man allowedinside the door. Father Muro was, it seemed, not counted as a man. And intruth a priest is often found to possess many qualities which areessentially small and feminine. 

The mattress-maker of Pampeluna was a thin man with a ropy neck, and keenblack eyes that flashed hither and thither through the mist of wool anddust in which he worked. He was considered so essentially a domestic andharmless person that he was permitted to go where he listed in the houseand high-walled garden. For nuns have a profound distrust of man as amass and a confiding faith in the few individuals with whom they have todeal. 

The girls were allowed to watch the colchonero at his work, moreespecially the elder girls such as Juanita de Mogente and her friendMilagros of the red-gold hair. Juanita watched him so closely one springafternoon that the keen black eyes kept returning to her face at eachround of the long whistling stick. The other girls grew tired of thesight and moved away to another part of the garden where the sun waswarmer and the violets already in bloom; but Juanita lingered. 

She did not know that this was one of Marcos' friends--that in the summerthis colchonero took the road with his packet of cigarettes and twosticks and wandered from village to village in the mountains beating themattresses of the people and seeing the wondrous works of God as theseare only seen by such as live all day and sleep all night beneath theopen sky. 

Quite suddenly the polished sticks ceased playing loudly and droppedtheir tone to pianissimo, so that if Juanita were to speak she could beheard. 

"Hombre, " she said, "do you know Marcos de Sarrion?"

"I know the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows, " he answered, glancing ather through a mist of wool. 

"Will you give him a letter?"

"Fold it small and throw it in the wool, " he said, and immediately thesticks beat loudly again. 

Juanita's hand was already in her pocket seeking her purse. 

"No, no, " he said; "I am too much caballero to take money from a lady. "

She walked away, dropping as she passed the uncarded heap, a folded paperwhich was lost amid the fluff. The sticks flew this way and that, and thetwisted note shot up into the air with a bunch of wool which fell acrossthe two sticks and was presently cast aside upon the carded heap. Andpeeping eyes from the barred windows of the convent school saw nothing. 

Marcos and his father had returned to Saragossa. They were people ofinfluence in that city, and Saragossa, strange to say, had a desire tomaintain law and order within its walls. It was unlike Barcelona, whichis at all times republican and frankly turbulent. Its other neighbour, Pampeluna, remains to this day clerical and mysterious. It is the city ofthe lost causes; Carlism and the Church. The Sarrions were not lookedupon with a kindly eye within the walls of the Northern fortress and itis much too small a town for any to pass unobserved in its streets. 

There was work to do in Saragossa. In Pampeluna there were onlysuspicions to arouse. Juanita was in Sor Teresa's care and could scarcelycome to harm, holding in her hand as she did a strong card to be playedon emergency. 

All Spain seemed to be pausing breathlessly. The murder of Prim hadshaken the land like an earthquake. The king had already made enemies. Hehad no enthusiasm. His new subjects would have preferred a few mistakesto this cautious pause. They were a people vaguely craving for libertybefore they had cast off the habit of servitude. 

No Latin race will ever evolve a great republic; for it must be ruled. But Spain was already talking of democracy and the new king had scarcelyseated himself on the throne. 

"We can do nothing, " said Sarrion, "but try to keep order in our ownsmall corner of this bear-garden. "

So he remained at Saragossa and threw open his great house there, whileMarcos passed to and fro into Navarre up the Valley of the Wolf to TorreGarda. 

Where Evasio Mon might be, no man knew. Paris had fallen. The Commune wasrife. France was wallowing in the deepest degradation. And in Bayonne theCarlist plotters schemed without let or hindrance. 

"So long as he is away we need not be uneasy about Juanita, " said Marcos. "He cannot return to Saragossa without my hearing of it. "

And one evening a casual teamster from the North, whose great two-wheeledcart, as high as a house and as long as a locomotive, stood in the dustyroad outside the Posada de los Reyes, dropped in, cigarette in mouth, tothe Palacio Sarrion. In Spain, a messenger delivers neither message norletter to a servant. A survival of mediaeval habits permits the humblestto seek the presence of the great at any time of day. 

The Sarrions had just finished dinner and still sat in the vastdining-room, the walls of which glittered with arms and loomed darklywith great portraits of the Spanish school of painting. 

The teamster was not abashed. It was a time of war, and war is a greatleveler of social scales. He had brought his load through a disturbedcountry. He was a Guipuzcoan--as good as any man. 

"It was about the Señor Mon, " he said. "You wished to hear of him. Hereturned to Pampeluna two days ago. "

The teamster thanked their Excellencies, but he could not accept theirhospitality because he had ordered his supper at his hotel. It was onlyat the Posada de los Reyes in all Saragossa that one procured the realcuisine of Guipuzcoa. Yes, he would take a glass of wine. 

And he took it with a fine wave of the arm, signifying that he drank tothe health of his host. 

"Evasio Mon will not leave us long idle, " said Sarrion, when the man hadgone, and he had hardly spoken when the servant ushered in a secondvisitor, a man also of the road, who handed to Marcos a crumpled anddirty envelope. He had nothing to say about it, so bowed and withdrew. Hewas a man of the newer stamp, for he was a railway worker, having thatwhich is considered a better manner. He knew his place, and thatknowledge had affected his manhood. 

The letter he gave to Marcos bore no address. It was sealed, however, inred wax, which had the impress of Nature's seal, a man's thumb--uniqueand not to be counterfeited. 

From the envelope Marcos took a twisted paper, not innocent of cardedwool. 

"We are going back to Saragossa, " Juanita wrote. "I have refused to gointo religion, but they say it is too late; that I cannot draw back now. Is this true?"

Marcos passed the note across to his father. 

"I wish this was Barcelona, " he said, with a sudden gleam in his graveeyes. 

"Why?"

"Because then we could pull the school down about their ears and takeJuanita away. "

Sarrion smiled. 

"Or get shot mysteriously from a window while attempting it, " he said. "No, we fight with finer weapons than that. Mon has got his dispensationfrom Rome ... A few hours too late. "

He handed back the note, and they sat in silence for a long time in thehuge, dimly-lighted room. Success in life rests upon one small gift--thesecret of the entry into another man's mind to discover what is passingthere. The greatest general the world has known owed his success, by hisown admission, to his power of guessing correctly what the enemy would donext. Many can guess, but few guess right. 

"She has not dated her letter, " said Sarrion, at length. 

"No, but it was written on Thursday. That is the day that the colchonerogoes to the Calle de la Dormitaleria. "

He drew a strand of wool from the envelope and showed it to Sarrion. 

"And the day that Mon returned to Pampeluna. He will be prompt to act. Healways has been. That is what makes him different from other men. Promptand restless. "

Sarrion glanced across the table, as he spoke, at the face of his son, who was also a prompt man, but withal restful, as if possessing a reserveupon which to draw in emergency. For the restless and the uneasy arethose who have all their forces in the field. 

"Do not sit up for me, " said Marcos, rising. He stood and thoughtfullyemptied his glass. "I shall change my clothes, " he said, "and go out. There will be plenty of Navarrese at the Posada de los Reyes. The nightdiligencias will be in before daylight. If there is any news ofimportance I will wake you when I come in. "

It was a dark night, and the wind roared down the bed of the Ebro. Forthe 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 soughtwere men who, after a long siesta, traveled or worked during half thenight. 

The dust was astir on the Paseo del Ebro, where it lies four inches deepon the broad space in front of the Posada de los Reyes where the cartsstand. There were carts here now with dim, old-fashioned lanterns, andlong teams of mules waiting patiently to be relieved of their massivecollars. 

The first man he met told him that Evasio Mon must have arrived inSaragossa at sunset, for he had passed him on the road, going at a goodpace on horseback. 

From another he heard the rumour that the Carlists had torn up the linebetween Pampeluna and Castéjon. 

"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 inthe telegraph service gave him to understand that the Carlists had driventhe outpost back from the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, which was nowcut off. 

"He thinks I am at Torre Garda, " reflected Marcos, as he returned to thecity, fighting the wind on the bridge. 

Chance favoured him, for a man with tired horses stopped his carriage toinquire if that were the Count Marcos de Sarrion. He had brought Juanitato Saragossa in his carriage, not with Sor Teresa, but with the MotherSuperior of the school and two other pupils. He had been dismissed at thePlaza de la Constitucion, and the ladies had taken another carriage. Hehad not heard the address given to the driver. 

By daylight Marcos returned to the Palacio Sarrion without havingdiscovered the driver of the second carriage or the whereabouts ofJuanita in Saragossa. But he had learnt that a carriage had been orderedby telegraph from a station on the Pampeluna line to be at Alagon at fouro'clock in the morning. He learnt also that telegraphic communicationbetween Pampeluna and Saragossa was interrupted. 

The Carlists again. 

CHAPTER XVII

AT THE INN OF THE TWO TREESAt dawn the next morning, Marcos and Sarrion rode out of the city towardsAlagón by the great high road many inches deep in dust which has alwaysbeen the main artery of the capital of Aragon. 

The pace was leisurely; for the carriage they were going to meet had beentimed to leave Alagón fifteen miles away at four o'clock. There was butone road. They could scarcely miss it. 

It was seven o'clock when they halted at a roadside inn. Sarrion quittedthe saddle and went indoors to order coffee while Marcos sat on his tallblack horse scanning the road in front of him. The valley of the Ebro isflat here, with bare, brown hills rising on either side like a giganticmud-fence. Strings of carts were making their way towards Saragossa. Faraway, Marcos could perceive a recurrent break in the dusty line. A cartor carriage traveling at a greater than the ordinary market pace wasmaking its laborious way past the heavier traffic. It came at lengthwithin clearer sight; a carriage all white with dust and a pair ofskinny, Aragonese horses such as may be hired on the road. 

The driver seemed to recognise Marcos, for he smiled and raised his handto his hat as he drew up at the inn, a recognised halting-place beforethe last stage of the journey. 

Marcos caught sight of a white cap inside the carriage. He leant down onhis horse's neck and perceived Sor Teresa, who had not seen him lookingout of the carriage window towards the inn. He rode round to the otherdoor and dropped out of the saddle. Then he turned the handle and openedthe door. But Sor Teresa had no intention of descending. She leantforward to say as much and recognised her nephew. 

"You!" she exclaimed. And her pale face flushed suddenly. She had been anun for many years and was no doubt a conscientious one, but she hadnever yet learnt to remove all her love from earth to fix it on heaven. 

"Yes. "

"How did you know that I should be here?"

"I guessed it, " answered Marcos, who was always practical. "You will likesome coffee. It is ordered. Come in and warm yourself while the horsesrest. "

He led the way towards the inn. 

"What did you say?" he asked, turning on the threshold; for he had heardher mutter something. 

"I said, 'Thank God'!"

"What for?"

"For your brains, my dear, " she answered. "And your strong heart. "

Sarrion was making up the fire when they entered the room--lithe andyoung in his riding costume--and he turned, smiling, to meet her. Shekissed him gravely. There was always something unexplained between thesetwo, something to be said which made them both silent. 

"There is the coffee, " said Marcos, "on the table. We have no time tospare. "

"Marcos means, " explained Sarrion significantly, "that we have no time towaste. "

"I think he is right, " said Sor Teresa. 

"Then if that is the case, let us at least speak plainly, " said Sarrion, "with a due regard, " he allowed, with a shrug of the shoulder, "to yourvows and your position, and all that. We must not embroil you with yourconfessor; nor Juanita with hers. "

"You need not think of that so far as Juanita is concerned, " said SorTeresa. "It is I who have chosen her confessor. "

"Where is she?" asked Marcos. 

"She is here, in Saragossa!"

"Why?" asked the man of few words. 

"I don't know. "

"Where is she in Saragossa?"

"I don't know. I have not seen her for a fortnight. I only learnt byaccident yesterday afternoon that she had been brought to Saragossa withsome other girls who have been postulants for six months and are about tobecome novices. "

"But Juanita is not a postulant, " said Sarrion, with a laugh. 

"She may have been told to consider herself one. "

"But no one has a right to do that, " said Sarrion pleasantly. 

"No. "

"And even if she were a novice she could draw back. "

"There are some Orders, " replied Sor Teresa, slowly stirring her coffee, "which make it a matter of pride never to lose a novice. "

"Excuse my pertinacity, " said Sarrion. "I know that you prefergeneralities to anything of a personal nature, but does Juanita wish togo into religion?"

"As much ... " She paused. 

"Or as little, " suggested Marcos, who was looking out of the window. 

"As many who have entered that life. " Sor Teresa completed the sentencewithout noticing Marcos' interruption. 

"And these periods of probation, " said Sarrion, reverting to thosegeneralities which form the language of the cloister. "May they bedispensed with?"

"Anything can be dispensed with--by a dispensation, " was the reply. 

Sarrion laughed, and with an easy tact changed the subject which couldscarcely be a pleasant one between a professed nun and two men known allover Spain as leaders in that party which was erroneously calledAnti-Clerical, because it held that the Church should not have thedominant voice in politics. 

"Have you seen our friend, Evasio Mon, lately?" he asked. 

"Yes--he is on the road behind me. "

"Behind you? I understood that he left Pampeluna yesterday forSaragossa, " said Sarrion. 

"Yes--but I heard at Alagón that he was delayed on the road at theCastejon side of Alagón--an accident to his carriage--a broken wheel. "

"Ah!" said Sarrion sympathetically. He glanced at Marcos who was lookingout of the window with a thoughtful smile. 

"You yourself have had a hurried journey from Pampeluna, " said Sarrion tohis sister. "I hear the railway line is broken by the Carlists. "

"The damage is being repaired, " replied Sor Teresa. "My journey was not apleasant one, but that is of no importance since I have arrived. "

"Why did you come?" asked Marcos, bluntly. He was a plain-dealer inthought and word. If Sor Teresa should embroil herself with herconfessor, as Sarrion had gracefully put it, by answering his questions, that was her affair. 

"I came to prevent, if I could, a great mistake. "

"You mean that Juanita is quite unfitted for the life into which, for thesake of his money, she is being forced or tricked. "

"Force has failed, " replied Sor Teresa. "Juanita has spirit. She laughedin the face of force and refused absolutely. "

"And?" muttered Sarrion. 

"One may presume that subtler means were used, " answered the nun. 

"You mean trickery, " suggested Marcos. "You mean that her own words weretwisted into another meaning; that she was committed or convicted out ofher own lips; that she was brought to Saragossa by trickery, and that bytrickery she will be dragged unwittingly into religion--you need notshake your head. I am saying nothing against the Church. I am a goodCatholic. It is a question of politics. And in politics you must fightwith the weapon that the adversary selects. We are only politicians ... My dear aunt. "

"Is that all?" said Sor Teresa, looking at him with her deep eyes whichhad seen the world before they saw heaven. Things seen leave their tracebehind the eyes. 

Marcos made no answer, but turned away and looked out of the windowagain. 

"It is a question of mutual accommodation, " put in Sarrion in his lightervoice. "Sometimes the Church makes use of politics. And at another timeit is politics making use of the Church. And each sullies the other oneach occasion. We shall not let Juanita go into religion. The Church maywant her and may think that it is for her happiness, but we also have ouropinion on that point; we also ... "

He broke off with a laugh and threw out his hands in a gesture ofdeprecation; for Sor Teresa had placed her two hands over that part ofher cap which concealed her ears. 

"I can hear nothing, " she said. "I can hear nothing. "

She removed her hands and sat sipping her coffee in silence. Marcos wasstanding near the window. He could see the white road stretched outacross the plain for miles. 

"What did you intend to do on your arrival in Saragossa if you had notmet us?" he asked. 

"I should have gone to the Casa Sarrion to warn your father or yourselfthat Juanita had been taken from my control and that I did not know whereshe was. "

"And then?" inquired Marcos. 

"And then I should have gone to Torrero, " she answered with a smile athis persistence; "where I intend to go now. Then I shall learn at whathour and in which chapel the ceremony is to take place to-day. "

"The ceremony in which Juanita has been ordered to take part as aspectator only?"

Sor Toresa nodded her head. 

"It cannot well take place without you?"

"No, " she answered. "Neither can it take place without Evasio Mon. One ofthe novices is his niece, and, where possible, the near relations arenecessarily present. "

"Yes--I know, " said Marcos. He had apparently studied the subjectsomewhat carefully. "And Evasio Mon is delayed on the road, which givesus a little more time to mature our plans. "

Sor Teresa said nothing, but glanced towards Marcos who was watching theroad. 

"You need not be anxious, Dolores, " said Sarrion, cheerfully. "Betweenpoliticians these matters settle themselves quietly enough in Spain. "

"I ceased to be anxious, " replied Sor Teresa, "from the moment that I sawMarcos in the inn yard. "

It was Marcos who spoke next, after a short silence. 

"Your horses are ready, if you are rested, " he said. "We shall return toSaragossa by a shorter route. "

"And I again assure you, " added Sor Teresa's brother, "that there is noneed for anxiety. We shall arrange this matter quite quietly with EvasioMon. We shall take Juanita away from your school to-day. Our cousinPeligros is already at the Casa Sarrion waiting her arrival. Marcos hasarranged these matters. "

He made a gesture of the hand, presumably symbolic of Marcos' plans, forit was short and sharp. 

"There will be nothing for you to do, " said Marcos from the window. "Waste no time. I see a carriage some miles away. "

So Sor Teresa went on her journey. Her dealings with men had beenconfined to members of that sex who went about their purpose in anindirect and roundabout way, speaking in generalities, attentive toinsignificant detail, possessing that smaller sense of proportion whichis a feminine failing and which must always make a tangled jumble ofthose public affairs in which women and priests may play a part. She hadcome into actual touch in this little room of an obscure inn with a forcewhich seemed to walk calmly on its way over the petty tyranny that ruledher daily life, which seemed to fear no man, neither God as representedby man, but shaped for itself a Deity, large-minded and manly; Whoconsidered the broad inner purpose rather than petty detail of outwardobservance. 

The Sarrions returned to their gloomy house on the Paseo del Ebro andthere awaited the information which Sor Teresa alone could give them. They had not waited long before the driver of her carriage, who hadseemed to recognise Marcos on the road from Alagón, brought a note:

"It is at number five, Calle de la Merced, but they will await, E. M. "

"And the other carriage that is on the road?" Marcos asked the man. "Thecarriage which brings the caballero--has it arrived in Saragossa?"

"Not yet, " answered the driver. "I have heard from one who passed them onthe road that they had a second mishap just after leaving the inn of TheTwo Trees, where their Excellencies took coffee--a little mishap thisone, which will only delay them an hour or less. He has no luck, thatcaballero. "

The man looked quite gravely at Marcos, who returned the glance assolemnly. For they were as brothers, these two, sons of that same mother, Nature, with whom they loved to deal, fighting her strong winds, herheat, her cold, her dust and rivers, reading her thousand and one secretsof the clouds, of night and dawn, which townsmen never know and nevereven suspect. They had a silent contempt for the small subtleties of aman's mind, and were half ashamed of the business on which they were nowengaged. 

As the man withdrew in obedience to Marcos' salutation, "Go with God, "the clock struck twelve. 

"Come, " said Marcos to his father, "we must go to number five, Calle dela Merced. Do you know the house?"

"Yes; it is one of the many in Saragossa that stand empty, or aresupposed to stand empty. It is an old religious house which was sacked inthe disturbances of Christina's reign. "

He walked to the window as he spoke and looked out. 

The house had been thrown open for the first time for many years, andthey now occupied one of the larger rooms looking across the garden tothe Ebro. 

"Ah! you have ordered the carriage, " he said, seeing the broughamstanding at the door, and the rusty gates thrown open, giving egress tothe Paseo del Ebro. 

"Yes, " answered Marcos in an odd and restrained voice. "To bring Juanitaback. "

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MAKERS OF HISTORYNumber Five Calle de la Merced is to this day an empty house, like manyin Saragossa, presenting to the passer-by a dusty stone face and hugebarred windows over which the spiders have drawn their filmy curtain. Forone reason or another there are many empty houses in the larger cities ofSpain and many historical names have passed away. With them have fadedinto oblivion some religious orders and not a few kindred brotherhoods. 

Number Five Calle de la Merced has its history like the rest of themonasteries, and the rounded cobblestones of the large courtyard bearto-day a black stain where, the curious inquirer will be told, thecaretakers of the empty house have been in the habit of cooking theirbread on a brazier of charcoal fanned into glow with a palm leafscattering the ashes. But the true story of the black stain is in realityquite otherwise. For it was here that the infuriated people burnt thechapel furniture when the monasteries of Saragossa were sacked. 

The Sarrions left their carriage at the corner of the Calle de la Merced, in the shadow of a tall house, for the sun was already strong at middaythough the snow lay on the hills round Torre Garda. They found the houseclosely barred. The dust and the cobwebs were undisturbed on the hugewindows. The house was as empty as it had been these forty years. 

Marcos tried the door, which resisted his strength like a wall. It was atrue monastic door with no crack through which even a fly could pass. 

"That house stands empty, " said an old woman who passed by. "It has stoodempty since I was a girl. It is accursed. They killed the good fathersthere. "

Sarrion thanked her and walked on. Marcos was examining the dust on theroad out of the corners of his eyes. 

"Two carriages have stopped here, " he said, "at this small door whichlooks as if it belonged to the next house. "

"Ah!" answered Sarrion, "that is an old trick. I have seen doors likethat before. There are several in the Calle San Gregorio. Sitting on mybalcony in the Casa Sarrion I have seen a man go into one house and lookout of the window of the next a minute later. "

"Mon has not arrived, " said Marcos, with his eye on the road. "He has thecarriage of One-eyed Pedro whose near horse has a circular shoe. "

"But we must not wait for him. The risk would be too great. They maydispense with his presence. "

"No, " answered Marcos thoughtfully, looking at the smaller door whichseemed to belong to the next house. "We must not wait. "

As he spoke a carriage appeared at the farther end of the Calle de laMerced, which is a straight and narrow street. 

"Here they come, " he added, and drew his father into a doorway across thestreet. 

It was indeed the carriage of the man known as One-eyed Pedro, a victimto the dust of Aragon, and the near horse left a circular mark with itshind foot on the road. 

Evasio Mon descended from the carriage and paid the man, giving, it wouldseem, a liberal "propina, " for the One-eyed Pedro expectorated on thecoin before putting it into his pocket. 

Mon tapped on the door with the stick he always carried. It was instantlyopened to give him admittance, and closed as quickly behind him. 

"Ah!" whispered Sarrion, with a smile on his keen face. "I have heardthem knock like that on the doors in the Calle San Gregorio. It is simpleand yet distinctive. "

He turned and illustrated the knock on the balustrade of the stairs upwhich they had hastened. 

"We will try it, " he added grimly, "on that door when Evasio has had timeto go away from it. "

They waited a few minutes, and then went out again into the Calle de laMerced. It was the luncheon hour, and they had the street to themselves. They stood for a moment in the doorway through which Mon had passed. 

"Listen, " said Marcos in a whisper. 

It was the sound of an organ coming almost muffled from the back of theempty house, and it seemed to travel through long corridors beforereaching them. 

"They had, " said Sarrion, "so far as I recollect, a large and beautifulchapel in the patio opposite to that great door, which has probably beenbuilt up on the inside. "

Then he gave the peculiar knock on the door. At a gesture from Marcos hestood back so that he who opened the door would need to open it wide andalmost come out into the street to see who had summoned him. 

They heard the door opening, and the head that came round the door wasthat of the tall and powerful friar who had come to the assistance ofFrancisco de Mogente in the Calle San Gregorio. He drew back at once andtried to close the door, but both father and son threw their weightagainst it and slowly pressed him back, enabling Marcos at length to gethis shoulder in. Both men were somewhat smaller than the friar, but bothwere quicker to see an advantage and take it. 

In a moment the friar abandoned the attempt and ran down the longcorridor, into which the light filtered dimly through cobwebs. Marcosgave chase while Sarrion stayed behind to close the door. At the cornerof the corridor the friar slipped, and, finding himself out-matched, raised his voice to shout. But the cry was smothered by Marcos, who leaptat him like a cat, and they rolled on the floor together. 

The friar was heavier and stronger. He had led a simple and healthy life, his muscles were toughened by his wanderings and the hardships of hiscalling. At first Marcos was underneath, but as Sarrion hurried up he sawhis son come out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. Itwas the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestlingwhich usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloakhappened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone savedhim; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether hekilled the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold himback and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the bloodtrickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could;for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primevalinstinct of fight never dies out of the human heart. 

"He is not killed, " said Marcos breathlessly. 

"For which we may thank Heaven, " added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come, let us find the chapel. "

They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the soundof the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between themand it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears. They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and theiron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes oflast year's clematis. 

"The chapel is there, but the door is built up, " said Sarrion pointing toa doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as allmen must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which wasbrought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed. 

Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister thatsurrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come. They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiworkof some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killingit. 

"It is the way to the organ loft, " whispered Marcos. 

"It is probably the only entrance to the chapel. "

They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded withfaded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almostdeafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the westend. 

They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organbraying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working atthe bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel whichwas dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hungheavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notesof the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit. 

The chapel was long and narrow. Marcos and his father were alone at thewest end, concealed by the font of which the wooden cover rose like aminiature spire almost to the ceiling. A group of people were kneeling onthe bare floor by the screen which had never been repaired but showedclearly where the carving had been knocked and torn to make the bonfirein the patio. 

Two priests were on the altar steps while the choristers were dimlyvisible through the broken railing of the screen. There seemed to be somenuns within the screen while others knelt without; four knelt apart, asif awaiting admission to the inner sanctum. 

"That is Juanita, " whispered Marcos, pointing with a steady finger. Thegirl kneeling next to her was weeping. But Juanita knelt upright, herface half turned so that they could see her clear-cut profile against thecandle-light beyond. To those who study human nature, every attitude orgesture is of value; there were energy and courage in the turn ofJuanita's head. She was listening. 

Near to her the motionless black form of Sor Teresa towered among theworshippers. She was looking straight in front of her. Not far away abowed figure all curved and cringing with weak emotion--a sight to makemen pause and think--was Leon de Mogente. Behind him, upright with asleek bowed head, was Evasio Mon. From his position and in the attitudein which he knelt, he could without moving see Juanita, and was probablywatching her. 

The chapel was carpeted with an old and faded matting of grass such as ismade on all the coasts of the Mediterranean. Marcos and Sarrion wentforward noiselessly. Instinctively they crossed themselves as they nearedthe chancel. Evasio Mon was nearest to them kneeling apart, a few pacesbehind Leon. He could see every one from this position, but he did nothear the Sarrions a few yards behind him. 

At this moment Juanita turned round and perceiving them gave a littlestart which Mon saw. He turned his head to the left; Sarrion was standingin the semi-darkness at his shoulder. Then he turned to the right andthere was Marcos, motionless, with a handkerchief held to his lips. 

Evasio Mon reflected for a moment; then he turned to Sarrion with hisready smile. 

"Do you come here to see me?" he whispered. 

"I want you to get Juanita de Mogente away from this as quickly aspossible, " returned Sarrion in a whisper. "We need not disturb theservice. "

"But, my friend, " protested Mon, still smiling, "by what right?"

"That you must ask of Marcos. "

Mon turned to Marcos in silent inquiry and he received a wordless answer;for Marcos held under his eyes in the half light the certificate ofmarriage signed by that political bishop who was no Carlist, and was evera thorn in the side of the Churchmen striving for an absolute monarchy. 

Mon shook his head still smiling, more in sorrow than in anger, at themisfortune which his duty compelled him to point out. 

"It is not legal, my dear Marcos; it is not legal. "

He glanced round into Marcos' still face and perceived perhaps that hemight as well try the effect of words upon the stone pillar behind him. He reflected again for a moment, while the service proceeded and thevoices of the choir rose and fell like the waves of the sea in a deepcave. It was a simple enough ceremonial denuded of many of the mediaevalmummeries which have been revived by a newer emotional Church for theedification of the weak-minded. 

Juanita glanced back again and saw Mon kneeling between the twomotionless upright men, who were grave while he smiled ... And smiled. 

Then at length he rose to his feet and stood for a moment. If he everhesitated in his life it was at that instant. And Marcos' hand cameforward beneath his eyes pointing inexorably at Juanita. There was apause in the service, a momentary silence only broken by the smotheredsobs of the novice who knelt next to Juanita. 

The organ rolled out its deep voice again, and under cover of the soundMon stepped forward and touched Juanita on the shoulder. She turnedinstantly, and he beckoned to her to follow him. If the priests at thealtar perceived anything they made no sign. Sor Teresa, absorbed inprayer, never turned her head. The service went on uninterruptedly. 

Sarrion led the way and Mon followed. Juanita glanced at Marcos, indicated with a nod Evasio Mon's back, and made a gay little grimace, suggestive of that schemer's discomfiture. Then she followed Mon, andMarcos came noiselessly behind her. 

They passed out through the dark passage behind the organ into the oldcloister. 

There Mon turned to look at Juanita and from her to Marcos. He wasdistressed for them. 

"It is illegal, " he repeated, gently. "Without a dispensation. "

And by way of reply Marcos handed him a second paper, bearing at its footthe oval seal of the Vatican. It was the usual dispensation, easy enoughto procure, for the marriage of an orphan under age. 

"I am glad, " said Mon, and he tried to look it. 

Sarrion went on into the narrow corridor. The friar was sitting on aworm-eaten bench there, leaning back against the wall, his hand over hiseyes. 

"He is hurt, " explained Marcos, simply. "He tried to stop us. "

Mon made no comment but accompanied them to the door, which he closedbehind them, and then returned to the chapel, reflecting perhaps upon howsmall an incident the history of nations may turn. For if the friar hadbeen able to withstand the Sarrions--if there had been a grating to thesmall door in the Calle de la Merced--Don Carlos de Borbone might haveworn the three crowns of Spain. 

CHAPTER XIXCOUSIN PELIGROSThe novitiate dress had been dispensed with, and Juanita wore her usualschool-dress of black, with a black mantilla. They therefore walked thelength of the Calle de la Merced without attracting undue attention. 

Juanita's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with excitement. Sheslipped her hand within Sarrion's arm and gave it a little squeeze ofaffection. 

"How kind of you to come, " she said. "I knew I could trust you. I wasnever afraid. "

Sarrion smiled a little dryly and glanced towards Marcos, who had met andovercome all the difficulties, and who now walked quietly by his side, concealing the bloodstains on the handkerchief covering his lips. 

Then Juanita let go Sarrion's left arm and ran round behind him to takethe other, while with her right hand she took Marcos' left arm. 

"There, " she cried, with a laugh. "Now I am safe from all the world--fromall the world! Is it not so?"

"Yes, " answered Marcos, turning to look at her as she moved, her feethardly touching the ground, between them. 

"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked. 

"I think you have grown. "

"I know I have, " she answered gravely. And she stopped in the street tostand her full height and to draw her slim bodice in at the waist. "I aman inch taller than Milagros, but Milagros is getting most preposterouslyfat. The girls tell her that she will soon be like Sor Dorothea who is sohuge that she has to be hauled up from her knees like a sack that hasbeen saying its prayers. That stupid Milagros cries when they say it. "

"Is Milagros going to be a nun?" asked Sarrion, absent-mindedly. He wasthinking of something else and looked at Juanita with a speculativeglance. She was so gay and inconsequent. 

"Heaven forbid!" was the reply. "She says she is going to marry asoldier. I can't think why. She says she likes the drums. But I told hershe could buy a drum and hire a man to hit it. She is very rich, youknow. It is not worth marrying for that, is it?"

"No, " answered Marcos, to whom the question had been addressed. 

"She may get tired of drums, you know. Just as we get tired saying ourprayers at school. I am sure she ought to reflect before she marries asoldier. I wouldn't if I were she. Oh! but I forgot.... "

She paused and turning to Marcos she gripped his arm with a confidentialemphasis. "Do you know, Marcos, I keep on forgetting that we are married. You don't mind, do you? I am not a bit sorry, you know. I am so glad, because it gets me away from school. And I hate school. And there wasalways the dread that they would make me a nun despite us all. You don'tknow what it is to feel helpless and to have a dread; to wake up with itat night and wish you were dead and all the bother was over. "

"It is all over now, without being dead, " Marcos assured her, with hisslow smile. 

"Quite sure?"

"Quite sure, " answered Marcos. 

"And I shall never go back to school again. And they have no power overme; neither Sor Teresa, nor Sor Dorothea, nor the dear mother. We alwayscall her the 'dear mother, ' you know, because we have to; but we hateher. But that is all over now, is it not?"

"Yes, " answered Marcos. 

"Then I am glad I married you, " said Juanita, with conviction. 

"And I need not be afraid of Señor Mon, with his gentle smile?" askedJuanita, turning on Marcos with a sudden shrewd gravity. 

"No. "

She gave a great sigh of relief and shook back her mantilla. Then shelaughed and turned to Sarrion. 

"He always says 'yes' or 'no'--and only that, " she remarkedconfidentially to him. "But somehow it seems enough. "

They had reached the corner of the street now, and the carriage wasapproaching them. It was one of the heavy carriages used only on stateoccasions which had stood idle for many years in the stables of thePalacio Sarrion. The horses were from Torre Garda and the men in theirquiet liveries greeted her with country frankness. 

"It is one of the grand carriages, " said Juanita. 

"Yes. "

"Why?" she asked. 

"To take you home, " replied Sarrion. 

Juanita got into the carriage and sat down in silence. The man who closedthe door touched his hat, not to the Sarrions but to her; and shereturned the salutation with a friendly smile. 

"Where are we going?" she asked after a pause. 

"To the Casa Sarrion, " was the reply. 

"Is it open, after all these years?"

"Yes, " answered Sarrion. 

"But why?"

"For you, " answered Sarrion. 

Juanita turned and looked out of the window, with bright and thoughtfuleyes. She asked no more questions and they drove to the Palacio Sarrionin silence. 

There they found Cousin Peligros awaiting them. 

Cousin Peligros was a Sarrion and seemed in some indefinite way toconsider that in so being and so existing she placed the world under anobligation. That she considered the world bound, in return for the honourshe conferred upon it, to support her in comfort and deference was apatent fact hardly worth putting into words. 

"The old families, " she was in the habit of saying with a sigh, "aredying out. "

At the same time she made a little gesture with outspread palms, andfolded her white hands complacently on her lap as if to indicate thatsociety was not left comfortless--that she was still there. From herinferiors she looked for the utmost deference. Her white hands had neverdone an hour's work. She was ignorant and idle; but she was a lady and aSarrion. 

Cousin Peligros lived in a little apartment in Madrid, which she fondlyimagined to be the hub of the social universe. 

"They all come, " she said, "to consult the Senorita de Sarrion uponpoints of etiquette. "

And she patted the air condescendingly with her left hand. There are somepeople who seem to be created by a far-seeing Providence as a solemnwarning. 

"Cousin Peligros, " said Juanita one day, after listening respectfully toa lecture on the care of the hands, "lives in a little field of her own. "

"Like a scarecrow, " added Marcos, the taciturn. 

And this was the lady who awaited them at the Palacio Sarrion. She hadbeen summoned from Madrid by Sarrion, who paid the expenses of thejourney; no small item, by the way. For Cousin Peligros, like many peoplewho live at the expense of others, sought to mitigate the bitterness ofthe bread of charity by spreading it very thickly with other people'sbutter. 

She did not come down to the door to meet them when the carriageclattered over the cobble-stones of the echoing patio. 

Such a proceeding might have lowered her dignity in the eyes of theservants, who, to do them justice, saw right through Cousin Peligrosinto the vacuum that lay behind her. She sat in state in the greatdrawing-room with her hands folded on her lap and placidly arranged herproposed mode of greeting the newcomers. She had been informed thatSarrion had found it necessary to take Juanita de Mogente away from theconvent school and to assume the cares of that guardianship which hadalways been an understood obligation mutually binding between himselfand Francisco de Mogente. 

Cousin Peligros was therefore keenly alive to the fact, that Juanitarequired at this critical moment of her life a good and abiding example. Hers also was the blessed knowledge that no one in all Spain was betterfitted to offer such an example than the Señorita Peligros de Sarrion. 

She therefore sat in her best black silk dress in an attitude subtlycombining, with a kind tolerance for all who were so unfortunate as notto be Sarrions, a complacent determination to do her duty. 

It is to be regretted that she was for a time left sitting thus, forPerro was in the hall, and his greeting of Juanita had to be acknowledgedwith several violent hugs, which resulted in Juanita's mantilla gettingmixed up with Perro's collar. Then there were the pictures and the armourto be inspected on the stairs. For Juanita had never seen the palace withits shutters open. 

"Are they all Sarrions?" she exclaimed. "Oh mi alma! What a fiercecompany. That old gentleman with a spike on top of his hat is a crusaderI suppose. And there is a helmet hanging on the wall beneath theportrait, with a great dent in it. But I expect he hit him back again. Don't you think so, Uncle Ramon, if he was a Sarrion?"

"I dare say he did, " answered the Count. 

"I wish I was a Sarrion, " said Juanita, looking up at the armour with alight in her eyes. 

"You are one, " replied Sarrion, gravely. 

She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at him. Marcos was someway behind, and took no part in the conversation. 

"So I am, " she said. "I forgot. "

And with a little sigh, as of a realised responsibility, she continuedher way up the wide stairs. The sight of Cousin Peligros, upright on achair, dispelled Juanita's momentary gravity, however. 

"Oh, Cousin Peligros, " she cried, running to her and taking both herhands. "Just think! I have left school. No more punishments--no moregrammar--no more arithmetic!"

Cousin Peligros had risen and endeavoured to maintain that dignity whichshe felt to be so beneficial an example to the world. But Juanitaemphasised each item of her late education with a jerk which graduallyderanged Cousin Peligros' prim mantilla. Then she danced her round animpalpable mulberry bush until the poor lady was breathless. 

"No more Primes at six o'clock in the morning, " concluded Juanita, suddenly allowing Cousin Peligros to sit again. "Do you ever go to Primesat six o'clock in the morning, Cousin Peligros?"

"No, " was the grave answer. "Such things are not expected of ladies. "

"How thoughtful of Heaven!" exclaimed Juanita, with a light laugh. "ThenI do not mind being grownup--and putting up my hair--if you will lend metwo hairpins. "

She fell on Cousin Peligros' mantilla and extracted two hairpins from itdespite the resistance of the soft white hands. Then she twisted up theheavy plait that hung to her waist, threw back her mantilla and stoodlaughing before the old lady. 

"There--I am grown-up! I am more grown-up than you, you know; forI am... "

She broke off, and turning to Sarrion, asked, "Does she know ... Does she know the joke?"

"No, " said Sarrion. 

"We are married, " she said, standing squarely in front of CousinPeligros. 

"Married ... " echoed the disciple of etiquette, faintly. "Married--towhom?"

"Marcos and I. "

But Cousin Peligros only gasped and covered her face with her hands. 

Marcos came into the room at this moment and scarcely looked at CousinPeligros. Those white hands played so large a part in her small dailylife that they were always in evidence, and it did not seem out of placethat they should cover her foolish face. 

"I found all your clothes ready packed at the school, " he said, addressing Juanita. "Sor Teresa brought them with her from Pampeluna. Youwill find them in your room. "

"Oh ... " groaned Cousin Peligros. 

"What is it?" inquired Marcos practically. "What is the matter with her?"

"She has just been told that we are married, " explained Juanita, airily. "And I think you shocked her by mentioning my clothes. You shouldn't doit, Marcos. "

And she went and stood by Cousin Peligros with her hand upon her shoulderas if to protect her. She shook her head gravely at Marcos. 

Cousin Peligros rose rigidly and walked towards the door. 

"I will go, " she said. "I will see that your room is in order. I havenever before been made an object of ridicule in a gentleman's house. "

"But we may surely laugh and be happy in a gentleman's house, may wenot?" cried Juanita, running after her, and throwing one arm round herrather unbending and capacious waist. "You are an old dear, and you mustnot be so solemn about it. Marcos and I are only married for fun, youknow. "

And the door closed behind them, shutting off Juanita's volubleexplanations. 

"You see, " said Sarrion, after a pause. "She is happy enough. "

"Now, " answered Marcos. "But she may find out some day that she is not. "

Juanita came back before long and found Sarrion alone. 

"Where is Marcos?" she asked. 

"He is taking a siesta, " answered Sarrion. 

"Like a poor man. "

"Yes, like a poor man. He was not in bed all last night. You had anarrower escape of being made a nun than you suspect. "

Juanita's face fell. She went to the window and stood there looking out. 

"When are we going to Torre Garda?" she asked, after a long silence. "Ihate towns ... And people. I want to smell the pines ... And thebracken. "

CHAPTER XX

AT TORRE GARDA

The river known as the Wolf finds its source in the eternal snows of thePyrenees. Amid the solitary grandeur of the least known mountains inEurope it rolls and tumbles--tossed hither and thither in its rocky bed, fed by this and that streamlet from stony gorges--down to the greenvalley of Torre Garda. 

Here there is a village crouched on either side of the river-bed, andabove it on a plateau surrounded by chestnut trees and pines, stands thehouse of the Sarrions. In winter the wholesome smell of wood smoke risingfrom the chimneys pervades the air. In summer the warm breath of thepines creeps down the mountains to mingle with the cooler air that stirsthe bracken. 

Below all, summer and winter, at evening and at dawn, night and day, growls the Wolf--so named from the continuous low-pitched murmur of itswaters through the defile a mile below the village. The men of the valleyof the Wolf have a hundred tales of their river in its different moods, and firmly believe that the voice which is ever in their ears speaks tosuch as have understanding, of every change in the weather. The old womenhave no doubt that it speaks also of those things that must affect theprince and the peasant alike; of good and ill fortune; of life and ofdeath; of hope and its slow, slow dying in the heart. Certain it is thatthe river had its humours not to be accounted for by outwardthings--seeming to be gay without reason, like any human heart, in dullweather, and murmuring dismally when the sun shone and the birds weresinging in the trees. 

In clearest summer weather, the water would sometimes run thick andyellow for days, the result of some landslip where the snow and ice weremelting. Sometimes the Wolf would hurl down a mass of debris--a foresttorn from the mountainside by avalanche, the dead bodies of a few straysheep, or a fox or a wolf or the dun corpse of a mountain bear. Many inthe valley had seen tables and chairs and the roof, perhaps, of a housecaught in the timbers of the old bridge below the village. And the river, of course, had exacted its toll from more than one family. It wasjocularly said at the Venta that the Wolf was Royalist; for in the firstCarlist war it had fought for Queen Christina, doing to death a wholecompany of insurgents at that which is known as the False Ford, where itwould seem that a child could pass while in reality no horseman mighthope to get through. 

The house of Torre Garda was not itself ancient though it undoubtedlystood on the site of some mediaeval watch-tower. It had been built in thedays of Ferdinand VII at the period when French architecture was runningrife over the world, and had the appearance of a Gascon chateau. It was along low house of two stories. Every room on the ground floor opened withlong French windows to a terrace built to the edge of the plateau, wherea fountain splashed its clear spring water into a stone basin, where graystone urns stood on lichen-covered pillars amid flower-beds. 

Every room on the first floor had windows opening on a wide balcony whichran the length of the house and was protected from the rain and middaysun by the far-stretching eaves of the roof. The house was of gray stone, roofed with slabs of the same, such as peel off the slopes of thePyrenees and slide one over the other to the valleys below. The pointedturrets at each corner were roofed with the small green tiles that theMoors loved. The winds and the snow and the rain had toned all TorreGarda down to a cool gray-green against which the four cypress trees onthe terrace stood rigid like sentinels keeping eternal guard over thevalley. 

Above the house rose a pine-slope where the snow lingered late into thesummer. Above this again were rocks and broken declivities of slidingstones; and, crowning all, the everlasting snow. 

From the terrace of Torre Garda a strong voice could make itself heard inthe valley where tobacco grew and ripened, or on the height where novegetation lived at all. The house seemed to hang between sky and earth, and the air that moved the cypress trees was cool and thin--a very breathof heaven to make thinkers wonder why any who can help it should chooseto live in towns. 

The green shutters had been closed across the windows for nearly threemonths, when on one spring morning the villagers looked up to see thehouse astir and the windows opened wide. 

There had been much to detain the Sarrions at Saragossa and Juanita hadto wait for the gratification of her desire to smell the pines and thebracken again. 

It seemed that it was no one's business to question the validity of thestrange marriage in the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows. Evasio Mon whowas supposed to know more about it than any other, only smiled and saidnothing. Leon de Mogente was absorbed in his own peculiar selfishnesswhich was not of this world but the next. He fell into the mistake commonto ecstatic minds that thoughts of Heaven justify a deliberate neglect ofobvious duties on earth. 

"Leon, " said Juanita gaily to Cousin Peligros, "will assuredly be a saintsome day: he has so little sense of humour. "

For Leon it seemed could not be brought to understand Juanita's sunnyview of life. 

"You may look solemn and talk of great mistakes as much as you like, " shesaid to her brother. "But I know I was never meant for a nun. It will allcome right in the end. Uncle Ramon says so. I don't know what he means. But he says it will all come right in the end. "

And she shook her head with that wisdom of the world which is given towomen only; which may live in the same heart as ignorance and innocenceand yet be superior to all the knowledge that all the sages have ever putin books. 

There were lawyers to be consulted and moreover paid, and Juanita gailysplashed down her name in a bold schoolgirl hand on countless documents. 

There is a Spanish proverb warning the unwary never to drink water in thedark or sign a paper unread. And Marcos made Juanita read everything shesigned. She was quick enough, and only laughed when he protested that shehad not taken in the full meaning of the document. 

"I understand it quite enough, " she answered. "It is not worth troublingabout. It is only money. You men think of nothing else. I do not want tounderstand it any better. "

"Not now; but some day you will. "

Juanita looked at him, pen in hand, momentarily grave. 

"You are always thinking of what I shall do ... Some day, " she said. 

And Marcos did not deny it. 

"You seem to hedge me around with precautions against that time, " shecontinued, thoughtfully, and looked at him with bright and searchingeyes. 

At length all the formalities were over, and they were free to go toTorre Garda. Events were moving rapidly in Spain at this time, and thesmall wonder of Juanita's marriage was already a thing half forgotten. Had it not been for her great wealth the whole matter would have passedunnoticed; for wealth is still a burden upon its owners, and there aremany who must perforce go away sorrowful on account of their greatpossessions. Half the world guessed, however, at the truth, and every manjudged the Sarrions from his own political standpoint, praising orblaming according to preconceived convictions. But there were some inhigh places who knew that a great danger had been averted. 

Cousin Peligros had consented to Sarrion's proposal that she should for atime make her home with him, either at Torre Garda or at Saragossa. Shehad lived in troublous times, but was convinced that the Carlists, likeHeaven, made special provision for ladies. 

"No one, " said she, "will molest me, " and she folded her hands incomplacent serenity on her lap. 

She had a profound distrust of railways, in which common mode ofconveyance she suspected a democratic spirit, though to this day theSpanish ticket collector presents himself, hat in hand, at the door of afirst-class carriage, and the time-table finds itself subservient to theconvenience of any Excellency who may not have finished his coffee in therefreshment-room. 

Cousin Peligros was therefore glad enough to quit the train at Pampeluna, where the carriage from Torre Garda awaited them. There were saddlehorses for Sarrion and Marcos, and a handful of troops were waiting inthe shadow of the trees outside of the station yard. An officer rodeforward and paid his respects to Juanita. 

"You do not recognise me, Senorita, " he said. "You remember the chapel ofOur Lady of the Shadows?"

"Yes. I remember, " she answered, shaking hands. "We caught you sayingyour prayers when we arrived. "

He blushed as he laughed; for he was a simple man leading a hard andlonely life. 

"Yes, Senorita; why not?"

"I have no doubt, " said Juanita, looking at him shrewdly, "that thesaints heard you. "

"Marcos, " he explained, "wrote to ask me for a few men to take yourcarriage through the danger zone. So I took the liberty of riding withthem myself. I am the watch-dog, Señorita, at the gate of your valley. You are safe enough once you are within the valley of the Wolf. "

They talked together until Sarrion rode forward to announce that all wereready to depart, while Cousin Peligros sat with pinched lips anddisapproving face. She took an early opportunity of mentioning thatladies should not talk to gentlemen with such familiarity and freedom;that, above all, a smile was sufficient acknowledgment for any jestexcept those made by the very aged, when to laugh was a sign of respect. For Cousin Peligros had been brought up in a school of manners nowfortunately extinct. 

"He is Marcos' friend, " explained Juanita. "Besides, he is a nice person. I know a nice person when I see one, " she concluded, with a friendly nodtowards the watch-dog of the valley of the Wolf, who was talking in theshade of the trees with Marcos. 

The men rode together in advance of the carriages and the luggage carts. The journey was uneventful, and the sun was setting in a cloudless westwhen the mouth of the valley was reached. It was Cousin Peligros' happylot to consider herself the centre of any party and the pivot upon whichsocial events must turn. She bowed graciously to Captain Zeneta when hecame forward to take his leave. 

"It was most considerate of Marcos, " she said to Juanita in his hearing, "to provide this escort. He no doubt divined that, accustomed as I am toliving in Madrid, I might have been nervous in these remote places. "

Juanita was tired. They were near their journey's end. She did not takethe trouble to explain the situation to Cousin Peligros. There are somefools whom the world allows to continue in their folly because it is lesstrouble. Marcos and Sarrion were riding together now in silence. Fromtime to time a peasant waiting at the roadside came forward to exchange afew words with one or the other. The road ascended sharply now, and thepace was slow. The regular tramp of the horses, the quiet evening hour, the fatigue of the journey were conducive to contemplation and silence. 

When Marcos helped Cousin Peligros and Juanita to descend from thehigh-swung traveling carriage, Juanita was too tired to notice one or twoinnovations. When, as a schoolgirl, she had spent her holidays at TorreGarde no change had been made in the simple household. But now Marcos hadsent from Saragossa such modern furniture as women need to-day. Therewere new chairs on the terrace. Her own bedroom at the western corner ofthe house, next door to the huge room occupied by Sarrion, had beenentirely refurnished and newly decorated. 

"Oh, how pretty!" she exclaimed, and Marcos lingering in the long passageperhaps heard the remark. 

Later, when they were all in the drawing-room awaiting dinner, Juanitaclasped Sarrion's arm with her wonted little gesture of affection. 

"You are an old dear, " she said to him, "to have my room done up sobeautifully, so clean, and white, and simple--just as you know I shouldlike it. Oh, you need not smile so grimly. You know it was just what Ishould like--did he not, Marcos?"

"Yes, " answered Marcos. 

"And it is the only room in the house that has been done. I looked intothe others to see--into your great barrack, and into Marcos' room at theend of the balcony. I have guessed why Marcos has that room ... "

"Why?" he asked. 

"So that you can see down the valley--so that Perro who sleeps on thebalcony outside the open window has merely to lift his head to look rightdown to where the other watch-dogs are, ten miles away. "

After dinner, Juanita discovered that there was a new piano in thedrawing-room, in addition to a number of those easier chairs which ourgrandmothers never knew. Cousin Peligros protested that they wereunnecessary and even conducive to sloth and indolence. Still protesting, she took the most comfortable and sat with folded hands listening toJuanita finding out the latest waltz, with variations of her own, on thenew piano. 

Sarrion and Marcos were on the terrace smoking. The small new moon wasnearing the west. The night would be dark after its setting. They weresilent, listening to the voice of their ancestral river as it growled, heavy with snow, through the defile. Presently a servant brought coffeeand told Marcos that a messenger was waiting to deliver a note. After themanner of Spain the messenger was invited to come and deliver his letterin person. He was a traveling knife-grinder, he explained, and hadreceived the letter from a man on the road whose horse had gone lame. Onemust be mutually helpful on the road. 

The letter was from Zeneta at the end of the valley; written hastily inpencil. The Carlists were in force between him and Pampeluna; wouldMarcos ride down to the camp and hear details?

Marcos rose at once and threw his cigarette away. He looked towards thelighted windows of the drawing-room. 

"No good saying anything about it, " he said. "I shall be back bybreakfast time. They will probably not notice my absence. "

He was gone--the sound of his horse's feet was drowned in the voice ofthe river--before Juanita came out to the terrace, a slim shadowy form inher white evening dress. She stood for a minute or two in silence, until, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she perceived Sarrion andan empty chair. Perro usually walked gravely to her and stood in front ofher awaiting a jest whenever she came. She looked round. Perro was notthere. 

"Where is Marcos?" she asked, taking the empty chair. 

"He has been sent for to the valley. He has gone. "

"Gone!" echoed Juanita, standing up again. She went to the stonebalustrade of the terrace and looked over into the darkness. 

"I heard him cross the bridge a few minutes ago, " Sarrion said quietly. 

"He might have said good-bye. "

Sarrion turned slowly in his chair and looked at her. 

"He probably did not wish his comings and goings to be talked of byCousin Peligros, " he suggested. 

"Still, he might have said good-bye ... To me. "

She turned again and leaning her arms on the gray stone she stood insilence looking down into the valley. 

CHAPTER XXI

JUANITA GROWS UPMarcos' horse, the Moor, had performed the journey to Pampeluna once inthe last twelve hours. He was a strong horse accustomed to long journeys. But Marcos chose another, an older and staider animal of less value, better fitted for night work. 

He wished to do the journey quickly and return by breakfast-time; he wasnot in a mood to spare his beast. Men who live in stirring times and meetdeath face to face quite familiarly from day to day, as Englishmen meetthe rain, soon acquire the philosophy which consists in taking the goodthings the gods send them, unhesitatingly and thankfully. 

Juanita was at Torre Garda at last--after months of patient waiting andwatching, after dangers foreseen and faced--that was enough for Marcos deSarrion. 

He therefore pressed his horse. Although he was alert and watchfulbecause it was his habit to be so, he was less careful perhaps thanusual; he rode at a greater pace than was prudent on such a road, by sodark a night. 

The spring comes early on the Southern slope of the Pyrenees. It was awarm night and there had been no rain for some days. The dust lay thicklyon the road, muffling the beat of the horse's feet. The Wolf roared inits narrow bed. The road, only recently made practicable for carriages atSarrion's expense, was not a safe one. It hung like a cornice on theleft-hand bank of the river and at certain corners the stones fell fromthe mountain heights almost continuously. In other places the heavy stonebuttresses had been undermined by the action of the river. It was a roadthat needed continuous watching and repair. But Marcos had ridden over ita few hours earlier and there had been no change of weather since. 

He knew the weak places and passed them carefully. Three miles below thevillage, the river passes through a gorge and the road mounts to the lipof the overhanging cliffs. There is no danger here; for there are nofalling stones from above. It is to this passage that the Wolf owes itsname and in a narrow place invisible from the road the water seems togrowl after the manner of a wild beast at meat. 

Marcos' horse knew the road well enough, which, moreover, was easy here. For it is cut from the rock on the left-hand side, while its outerboundary is marked at intervals by white stones. The horse was perhapstoo cautious. By night a rider must leave to his mount the decision as towhat hills may be descended at a trot. Marcos knew that the old horsebeneath him invariably decided to walk down the easiest declivity. At thesummit of the road the horse was trotting at a long, regular stride. Onthe turn of the hill he proposed to stop, although he must have knownthat the descent was easy. Marcos touched him with the spur and hestarted forward. The next instant he fell so suddenly and badly that hisforehead scraped the road. 

Marcos was thrown so hard and so far that he fell on his head andshoulder three feet in front of the horse. It was the narrowest place inthe whole road, and the knowledge of this flashed through Marcos' mind ashe fell. He struck one of the white stones that mark the boundary of theroad, and heard his collar-bone snap like a dry stick. Then he rolledover the edge of the precipice into the blackness filled by the roar ofthe river. 

He still had one hand whole and ready, though the skin was scraped fromit, and the fingers of this hand were firmly twisted into the bridle. Hehung for a moment jerked hither and thither by the efforts of the horseto pick himself up on the road above. A stronger jerk lifted him to theedge of the road, and Marcos, hanging there for an instant, found aninsecure foothold for one foot in the root of an overhanging bush. Butthe horse was nearer to the edge now; he was half over and might fall atany moment. 

It flashed through Marcos' mind that he must live at all costs. There wasno one to care for Juanita in the troubled times that were coming. Juanita was his only thought. And he fought for his life with skill andthat quickness of perception which is the real secret of success in humanaffairs. 

He jerked on the bridle with all the strength of his iron muscle; jerkedhimself up on the road and the horse over into the gorge. As the horsefell it lashed out wildly; its hind foot touched the back of Marcos' headand seemed almost to break his spine. 

He rolled over on his side, choking. He did not lose consciousness atonce, but knew that oblivion was coming. Perro, the dog, had beenexcitedly skirmishing round, keeping clear of the horse's heels and doinglittle else. He now looked over after the horse and Marcos saw his leanbody outlined against the sky. He had let the reins go and found that hewas grasping a stone in his bleeding fingers instead. He threw the stoneat Perro and hit him. The surprised yelp was the last sound he heard asthe night of unconsciousness closed over him. 

Juanita had gone to bed very tired. She slept the profound sleep of youthand physical fatigue for an hour. In the ordinary way she would haveslept thus all night. But at midnight she found herself wide-awake again. The first fatigue of the body was past, and the busy mind asserted itsrights again. She was not conscious of having anything to think about. But the moment she was half awake the thoughts leapt into her mind andawoke her completely. 

She remembered again the startling silence of Torre Garda, which was insome degree intensified by the low voice of the river. She lifted herhead to listen and caught her breath at the instant realisation of thesound quite near at hand. It was the patter of feet on the terrace belowher window. Perro had returned. Marcos must therefore be back again. Shedropped her head sleepily on the pillow, expecting to hear some sound inthe house indicative of Marcos' return, but not intending to lie awake tolisten for it. 

She did not fall asleep again, however, and Perro continued to patterabout on the terrace below as if he were going from window to windowseeking an entrance. Juanita began to listen to his movements, expectinghim to whimper, and in a few moments he fulfilled her anticipation bygiving a little uneasy sound between his teeth. In a moment Juanita wasout of bed and at the open window. Perro would awake Sarrion and Marcos, who must be very tired. It was a woman's instinct. Juanita was growingup. 

Perro heard her, and in obedience to her whispered injunction stoodstill, looking up at her and wagging his uncouth tail slowly. But he gaveforth the uneasy sound again between his teeth. 

Juanita went back into her room; found her slippers and dressing-gown. But she did not light a candle. She had acquired a certain familiaritywith the night from Marcos, and it seemed natural at Torre Garda to fallinto the habits of those who lived there. She went the whole length ofthe balcony to Marcos' room, which was at the other end of the house, while Perro conscientiously kept pace with her on the terrace below. 

Marcos' window was shut, which meant that he was not there. When he wasat home his window stood open by night or day, winter or summer. 

Juanita returned to Sarrion's room, which was next to her own. The windowwas ajar. The Spaniards have the habit of the open air more than anyother nation of Europe. She pushed the window open. 

"Uncle Ramon, " she whispered. But Sarrion was asleep. She went into theroom, which was large and sparsely furnished, and, finding the bed, shookhim by the shoulder. 

"Uncle Ramon, " she said, "Perro has come back ... Alone. "

"That is nothing, " he replied, reassuringly, at once. "Marcos, no doubt, sent him home. Go back to bed. "

She obeyed him, going slowly back to the open window. But she pausedthere. 

"Listen, " she said, with an uneasy laugh. "He has something on his mind. He is whimpering. That is why I woke you. "

"He often whimpers when Marcos is away. Tell him to be quiet, and then goback to bed, " said Sarrion. 

She obeyed him, setting the window and the jalousie ajar after her as shehad found them. But Sarrion did not go to sleep again. He listened forsome time. Perro was still pattering to and fro on the terrace, givingfrom time to time his little plaint of uneasiness between his closedteeth. 

At length Sarrion rose and struck a light. It was one o'clock. He dressedquickly and noiselessly and went down-stairs, candle in hand. The stableat Torre Garda stands at the side of the house, a few feet behind itagainst the hillside. In this remote spot, with but one egress to theouter world, bolts and locks are not considered a necessity of life. Sarrion opened the door of the house where the grooms and their familieslived, and went in. 

In a few moments he returned to the stable-yard, accompanied by the manwho had driven Juanita and Cousin Peligros from Pampeluna a few hoursearlier. Together they got out the same carriage and a pair of horses. Bythe light of a stable lantern they adjusted the harness. Then Sarrionreturned to the house for his cloak and hat. He brought with him Marcos'rifle which stood in a rack in the hall and laid it on the seat of thecarriage. The man was already on the box, yawning audibly and withoutrestraint. 

As Sarrion seated himself in the carriage he glanced upwards. Juanita wasstanding on the balcony, at the corner by Marcos' window, looking down athim, watching him silently. Perro was already out of the gate in thedarkness, leading the way. 

They were not long absent. Perro was no genius, but what he did know, heknew thoroughly, which for practical purposes is almost as good. He ledthem to the spot little more than three miles down the valley, whereMarcos lay at the side of the road, which is white and dusty. It wasquite easy to perceive the dark form lying there, and Perro's lean limbsshaking over it. 

When the carriage returned Juanita was standing at the open door. She hadlighted the lamp in the hall and carried in her hand a lantern which shemust have found in the kitchen. But she had awakened none of theservants, and was alone, still in her dressing-gown, with her dark hairflying in the breeze. 

She came forward to the carriage and held up the lantern. 

"Is he dead?" she asked quietly. 

Sarrion did not answer at once. He was sitting in one corner of thecarriage, with Marcos' head and shoulders resting on his knees. 

"I do not know how badly he is hurt, " he answered at length. "We calledat the chemist's as we came through the village and awoke him. He hasbeen an army servant and is as good as a doctor--"

"If the Señorita will hold the horses, " interrupted the coachman, pushingJuanita gently aside, "we will carry him up-stairs. "

And something in the man's manner made her think that Marcos was dead. She was compelled to wait there at least ten minutes, holding the horses. When at length he returned she did not wait to ask questions, but lefthim and ran up-stairs. 

In Marcos' room she found Sarrion lighting a lamp. Marcos had been laidon the bed. She glanced at him, holding her lower lip between her teeth. His face was covered with dust and blood. One blood-stained hand layacross his chest, the other was stretched by his side, unnaturallystraight. 

Sarrion looked up at her and was about to speak when she forestalled him. 

"It is no good telling me to go away, " she said, "because I won't. "

Then she turned to get a sponge and water. Sarrion was already busy atMarcos' collar, which he had unbuttoned. Suddenly he changed his mind andturned away. 

"Undo his collar, " he said. "I will go down-stairs and get some warmwater. "

He took the candle and left Juanita alone with Marcos. She did as she wastold and bent over him. Her fingers had caught in a string fastened roundMarcos' neck. She brought the lamp nearer. It was her own wedding ring, which she had returned to him after so brief a use of it through the barsof the little window looking on to the Calle de la Dormitaleria atPampeluna. 

She tried to undo the knot, but failed to do so. She turned quickly, andtook the scissors from the dressing-table and cut the cord, which was apiece of old fishing-line, frayed and worn by friction against the rocksof the river. Juanita hastily thrust the cord into her pocket and drewthe ring less quickly on to that finger for which it had been destined. 

When Sarrion returned to the room a minute later she was carefully andslowly cutting the sleeve of the injured arm. 

"Do you know, Uncle Ramon, " she said cheerfully, "I am sure--I ampositively certain he will recover, poor old Marcos. "

Sarrion glanced at her sharply, as if he had detected a new note in hervoice. And his eye fell on her left hand. He made no answer. 

CHAPTER XXII

AN ACCIDENTMarcos recovered consciousness at daybreak. It was a sign of his greatstrength and perfect health that he regained all his faculties at once. He moved, opened his eyes, and was fully conscious, like a childawakening from sleep. As soon as his eyes were open they showed surprise;for Juanita was sitting beside him, watching him. 

"Ah!" she said, and rose at once to give him some medicine that stoodready in a glass. She glanced at the clock as she did so. The room hadbeen rearranged. It was orderly and simple like a hospital ward. 

"Do not try to lift your head, " she said. "I will do that for you. "

She did it with skill and laid him back again with a gay laugh. 

"There, " she said. "There is one thing, and one only, that they teach incovents. "

As she spoke she turned to write on a sheet of paper the exact hour andminute at which he recovered consciousness. For her knowledge was freshenough in her mind to be half mechanical in its result. 

"Will that drug make me sleep?" asked Marcos, alertly. 

"Yes. "

"How soon?"

"That depends upon how stale the little apothecary's stock-in-trade maybe, " answered Juanita. "Probably a quarter of an hour. He is a queerlittle man and unwashed. But he set your collar-bone like an angel. Youhave to do nothing but keep quiet. I fancy you will have to be contentwith a quiet seat in the background for some weeks, amigo mio. "

She busied herself as she spoke, with some duties of a sick-nurse whichhad been postponed during his unconsciousness. 

"It is nearly six o'clock, " she said, without appearing to look in hisdirection. "So you need not try to peep round the corner at the clock. Please do not manage things, Marcos. It is I who am manager of thisaffair. You and Uncle Ramon think that I am a child. I am not. I havegrown up--in a night, like a mushroom, and Uncle Ramon has been sent tobed. "

She came and sat down at the bedside again. 

"And Cousin Peligros has not been disturbed. She has not left her room. She will tell us to-morrow morning that she scarcely slept at all. A reallady never sleeps well, you know. She must have heard us but she did notcome out of her room. For which we may thank the Saints. There are somepeople one would rather not have in an emergency. In fact, when you cometo think of it--how many are there in the world whose presence would beof the slightest use in a crisis--one or two at the most. "

She held up her finger to emphasise the smallness of this number, andwithdrew it again, hastily. But she was not quick enough, for Marcos hadseen the ring and his eyes suddenly brightened. She turned away towardsthe window, holding her lip between her teeth, as if she had committed anindiscretion. She had been talking against time slowly and continuouslyto prevent his talking or thinking, to give the apothecary's soothingdrug time to take effect. For the little man of medicine had spoken veryclearly of concussion and its after-effects. He had posted off toPampeluna to fetch a doctor from there, leaving instructions that shouldMarcos recover his reason he should not be permitted to make use of it. 

And here in a moment, was Marcos fully in possession of his senses andmaking a use of them, which Juanita resented without knowing why. 

"I must see my father, " he said, stirring the bedclothes, "before I go tosleep again. "

Juanita turned on her heel, but did not approach him or seek to rearrangethe sheets. 

"Lie still, " she said. "Why do you want to see him? Is it about the war?"

"Yes. "

Juanita reflected for a moment. 

"Then you had better see him, " she said conclusively. "I will go andfetch him. "

She went to the window and passed out on to the balcony. Sarrion had, inobedience to her wishes, gone to his room. He was now sitting on a longchair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn. 

"Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in themountains?" she asked gaily. 

He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed atolerant cynicism. 

"Of you, " he answered. "I heard the murmur of your voices. You need nottell me that he has recovered consciousness. "

"He wants to see you, " she said. "I think he was surprised not to seeyou--to see only me--when he regained his senses. "

There was the faintest suspicion of resentment in her voice. 

"But I thought that the apothecary said that he was to be kept absolutelyquiet, " said Sarrion, rising. 

"So he did. But he is only a man, you know, just like you and Marcos--andhe doesn't understand. "

"Oh!" said Sarrion meekly, as he followed her. She led the way intoMarcos' room. She was as fresh and rosy as the morning itself, with thedelicate pink and white of the convent still in her cheeks. It was onSarrion's face that the night's work had left its mark. 

"Here he is, " she said. "He was not asleep. Is it a secret? I suppose itis--you have so many, you two. "

She laughed, and looked from one to the other. But neither answered her. 

"Shall I go away, Marcos?" she asked abruptly, turning towards the bed, as if she knew at all events that from him she would get a plain answer. And it came, uncompromisingly. 

"Yes, " he said. 

She went to the door with a curt laugh and closed it behind her, withdecision. Sarrion looked after her with a sudden frown. He looked for aninstant as if he were about to suggest that Marcos might have made adifferent reply, and then decided to hold his peace. He was perhaps wisein his generation. Politeness never yet won a woman's love. 

Marcos had noted Juanita's lightness of heart. On recovering his sensesthe first use he had made of them was to observe her every glance andsilence. There was no sign of present anxiety or of great emotion. Theincident of the ring had no other meaning therefore, than a girlish loveof novelty or a taste not hitherto made manifest, for personal ornament. It might have deceived any one less observant than Marcos; less in thehabit of watching Nature and dumb animals. He was patient, however, andindustrious in the collection of evidence against himself. And she hadstartled him by saying that she was grown-up; though he perceived soonafter, that it was only a manner of speaking; for she was still carelessand happy, without a thought of the future, as children are. 

These things, however, he kept to himself. He had not sent for his fatherto talk to him of Juanita. Men never discuss a woman in whom they arereally interested, though fools do. 

"That horse didn't fall, " said Marcos to his father. "He was thrown. There was a wire across the road. "

"There was none when I got there, " replied Sarrion. 

"Then it had been removed. I saw it as we fell. My foot caught in it or Icould have thrown myself clear in the usual way. "

Sarrion reflected a moment. 

"Let me look at the note that Zeneta wrote you, " he said. 

"You will find it in my pocket, hanging behind the door. I was a fool. Iwas in too great a hurry. Now that I think of it, Zeneta would not havewritten a note like that. "

"Then he never wrote it at all, " said Sarrion, who had found the paperand was reading it near the window. The clear morning light brought outthe wrinkles and the crow's-feet with inexorable distinctness on his keennarrow face. 

"What does it mean?" he asked at length, folding the letter and replacingit in the pocket from which he had taken it. 

Marcos roused himself with an effort. He was sleepy. 

"I think it means that Evasio Mon is about, " he answered. 

"No man in the valley would have done it, " suggested Sarrion. 

"If any man in the valley had done it he would have put his knife into mewhen I lay on the road, which would have been murder. "

He gave a short laugh and was silent. 

"And the hand inside the velvet glove does not risk murder, " reflectedSarrion, "They have not given up the game yet. We must be careful ofourselves. "

"And of Juanita. "

"I count her as one of ourselves, " replied Sarrion quickly, for he heardher voice in the passage. With a brief tap on the door she came in. Shewas struggling with Perro. 

"You have had long enough for your secrets, " she said. "And now Marcosmust go to sleep. I have brought Perro to see him. He is so uneasy in hiscanine mind. "

Perro, low-born and eager, needed restraint to keep him from the bedwhere his master lay, and Juanita continued to hold him while she spoke. 

"You must remember, " she said, "that it is owing to Perro that you arehere at all. If he had not come back and awakened us all you would havebeen on the road still. "

Sarrion glanced sharply at her, his attention caught by her version ofthat which had really happened. She did not want Marcos to know that itwas she who had heard Perro; she, who had insisted that something hadhappened to Marcos. 

"And some Jesuit coming along the road might have found you there, " shesaid, "and pushed you over. It would have been so easy. "

Marcos and Sarrion glanced at each other, and possibly Juanita saw theglance as she held Perro back from his master. 

"You do not know, Marcos, how they hate you. They could not hate you moreif you were a heretic. I have always known it, because Father Muro wasalways trying to find things out about you in confession. He askedquestions about you--who your confessor was; if you did a pilgrimage. Isaid--be quiet, Perro!--I said you never did a pilgrimage, and you werealways changing your confessor because no holy father could stand thestrain for long. "

She forcibly ejected Perro from the room, and came back breathless andlaughing. "She has not a care in the world, " thought Marcos, who knewwell enough the danger that he had passed through. 

"But Father Muro is such an innocent old love, " she went on, "that he didit badly. He had been told to do it by the Jesuits and he made a bungleof it. He thought that he could make a schoolgirl answer a question ifshe did not want to. And no one was afraid of him. He is a dear, good, old saint, and will assuredly go to Heaven. He is not a Jesuit, you know, but he is afraid of them, as everybody else is, I think--" She paused andclosed the shutters to soften the growing day. 

"Except Marcos, " she threw back over her shoulder towards the bed, withsome far-off suggestion of anger still in her voice. 

"And now he must be allowed to sleep until the doctor comes fromPampeluna, " she concluded. 

She left the room as she spoke to warn the servants, who were alreadyastir, to do their work as noiselessly as possible. When she returnedMarcos was asleep. 

"The doctor cannot be here for another hour, at least, " whisperedSarrion, who was standing by the window watching Marcos. "It is too farfor a man of his age to ride, and he has no carriage. There may be somedelay in finding one to do so great a distance at this time in themorning. You must take the opportunity to get some sleep. "

But Juanita only shook her head and laughed. 

Sarrion did not persuade her, but turned to quit the room. His hand wason the door when some one tapped on the other side of it. It was Marcos'servant. 

"The doctor, Excellency, " he announced briefly. 

In the passage stood a man of middle height, hard and wiry, with thoselines in his face that time neither obliterates nor deepens; theparallels of hunger. He had been through the first Carlist war nearlythirty years earlier. He had starved in Pampeluna, the hungry, theimpregnable. 

Sarrion shook hands with him and passed into the room. 

"Ah!" he said, in the quiet voice of one who is accustomed to speak inthe presence of sleep, when he saw Juanita, "Ah--you!"

"Yes, " said Juanita. 

"So you are nursing your husband, " he murmured abstractedly, as he bentover the bed. 

And Juanita made no answer. 

"How long has he been asleep?" he asked, after a few moments, and inreply received the written paper which he read quickly, with a practisedeye, and laid it aside. 

"We must wait, " he said, turning to Sarrion, "until he awakes. But it isall right. I can see that while he sleeps. He is a strong man; nonestronger in all Navarre. "

As he spoke, he was examining the bottles left by the village apothecary, tasting one, smelling another. He nodded approval. In medicine, as inwar, one expert may know unerringly what another will do. Then he lookedround the room, which was orderly as a hospital ward. 

"One sees, " he said, "that he has a nun to care for him. "

He smiled faintly, so that his features fell into the lines that hungerdraws. But Juanita looked at him with grave eyes and did not answer tohis pleasantry. 

Then he turned to Sarrion. 

"It was only by the kindness of a mere acquaintance, " he said, "that Iwas enabled to get here so soon. My own horses were tired out with a hardday yesterday, and I was going out to seek others in Pampeluna--no easytask on market-day--when I met a travelling carriage on the Plaza de laConstitution Its owner must have divined my haste, for he offeredassistance, and on hearing my story, and whither I was bound, he gave uphis intended journey, decided to remain a few days longer in Pampelunaand placed his carriage at my disposal. I hardly know the man atall--though he tells me that he is an old friend of yours. He lives inSaragossa. "

"Ah!" said Sarrion, who was listening with rather marked attention. 

Juanita had moved away, but she was standing now, listening also, lookingback over her shoulder with waiting eyes. 

"It was the Senior Evasio Mon, " said the doctor. And in the silence thatfollowed, Marcos stirred in his sleep, as if he, too, had heard the name. 

CHAPTER XXIII

KIND INQUIRIESFor the next fortnight Juanita remained in supreme command at TorreGarda, exercising that rule which she said she had acquired at theconvent school. It had, in reality, come to her straight from Heaven, asit comes to all women. Is it not part of the gentler soul to care for thehelpless and the sick? Just as it is in a man's heart to fight the worldfor a woman's sake. 

Marcos made a quick recovery. His broken bones knit together like thesnapped branch of a young tree. His cuts and bruises healed themselvesunaided. 

"He has no nerves, " said Juanita. "You should see a nun when she is ill!St. Luke and all the saints have their hands full, I can tell you. "

With returning health came energy. Indeed, the patient had never lost hisgrip of the world. Many from the valley came to make inquiry. Some left amessage of condolence. Some departed with a grunt, indicative ofsatisfaction. A few of the more cultivated gave their names to theservant as they drank a glass of red wine in the kitchen. 

"Say it was Pedro from the mill. "

"Tell him that Three Fingered Thomas passed by, " muttered another, grudgingly. 

"It is I, so-called Short Knife, who came to ask, " explained a third, tapping the sheath of his baptismal weapon. 

"How far have you come?" asked Juanita, who found these gentlemenentertaining. 

"Seventeen miles from the mountain, " was the reply. 

"All your friends are calling to inquire after your health, " said Juanitato Marcos. "They are famous brigands, and make one think fondly of theGuardia Civile. There are not many razors in the valley, and I am surethere is no soap. "

"They are honest enough, though their appearance may be disquieting. "

"Oh! I am not afraid of them, " answered Juanita, with a shrewd and mysticsmile. "It is Cousin Peligros who fears them. She scolded me for speakingto one of them on the verandah. It undermines the pedestal upon which alady should always stand. Am I on a pedestal, Marcos?"

She looked back at him over her shoulder, through the fold of hermantilla. It was an opportunity, perhaps, which a skillful lover wouldhave seized. Marcos was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a repressedvoice. 

"If they come again, " he said, "I should like to see them. "

But Juanita had already put into the apothecary's lips a command that novisitors should be admitted. 

She kept this up for some days, but was at length forced to give way. Marcos was so obviously on the high road to recovery. There was nosuggestion of an after-effect of the slight concussion of the brain whichhad rendered him insensible. 

It was Short Knife who first gained admittance to the sick-room. He wasquite a simple person, smelling of sheep, and endowed with a tact whichis as common among the peasantry as amid the great. There was no sign ofembarrassment in his manner, and he omitted to remove his beret from hisclose-cropped head until he saw Juanita whom he saluted curtly, replacinghis cap with a calm unconsciousness before he nodded to Marcos. 

"It was you I heard singing the Basque songs as I climbed the hill, " hesaid, addressing Juanita first with the instinct of a gentleman. "Youspeak Basque?"

"I understand it, at all events, though I cannot speak it as well asMarcos. "

"Oh, he!" said the man, glancing towards the bed. "He is one of us--oneof us. Do you know the song that the women of the valley sing to theirbabies? I cannot sing to you for I have no voice except for the goats. They are not particular, the goats--they like music. They stand round meand listen. But if you are passing in the mountain my wife will sing itto you--she knows it well. We have many round the table--God be thanked. It makes them sleep when they are contrary. It tells how easy it is tokill a Frenchman. "

Then, having observed the conventionalities, he turned eagerly to Marcos. 

Juanita listened to them for a short time while they spoke together inthe Basque tongue. Then she went to the balcony and stood there, leaningher arms on the iron rail, looking out over the valley with thoughtfuleyes. She had seen clearly a hundred devices to relieve her of her watchat the bedside. Marcos made excuses for her to absent herself. He foundoccupations for her elsewhere. With his returning strength came anxietythat she should lead her own life--apart from him. 

"You need not try to get rid of me, " she said to him one day. "And I donot want to go for a walk with Cousin Peligros. She thinks only of hershoes and her clothes while she walks. I would go for a walk with Perroif I went with any one. He has a better understanding of what God madethe world for than Cousin Peligros. But I am not going to walk with anyone, thank you. "

Nevertheless she absented herself. And Marcos' attempts to finddiversions for her, ceased with a suspicious suddenness. She fell intothe habit of using the drawing-room which was immediately beneath thesick-room, and spent much of her time at the piano there. 

"It keeps Marcos quiet, " she explained airily to Sarrion, and vouchsafednothing further on the subject. 

Chiefly because the music of Handel and Beethoven alone had beenencouraged by her professors, Juanita had learnt with some enthusiasm thefolk songs of the Basques, considered worthy only of the attention of thepeople. She had a pretty voice, round and young with strange low notes init that seemed to belong not to her but to some woman who had yet to liveand suffer, or, perhaps, be happy as some few are in this uneven world. She had caught, moreover, the trick of slurring from one note to theother, which must assuredly have been left in Spain by the Moors. Itcomes from the Far East. It was probably characteristic of those songsthat they could not sing by the waters of Babylon, when they hanged theirharps upon a tree in the strange land. For it gives to songs, sad or gay, the minor, low clear note of exile. It rings out unexpectedly in strangeplaces. The boatmen of the Malabar Coast face the surf singing no otherthan the refrain that the Basque women murmur over the cradle. "It keepsMarcos quiet, " said Juanita. 

"I suppose, " she suggested to Marcos one day when she returned to hisroom and found him quiet, "that when you are well enough to ride you willbegin your journeys up and down the valley. "

"Yes. "

"And your endless watch over the Carlists?"

"They are making good use of their time, I hear, " replied Marcos, withthe grave appreciation of a good fighter for a worthy foe. 

Juanita remembered this now as she stood on the balcony. For he of theShort Knife and Marcos were talking politics--those rough and readypolitics of the valley of the Wolf, which dealt but little in words andvery considerably in deeds of a bloody nature. 

She could hear Marcos talking of the near future when he should be in thesaddle again. And her eyes grew gloomy and dark with those velvet depthsthat lie in hazel eyes when they are grave. Her kingdom was slipping awayfrom her. 

She was standing thus when the sound of a horse's feet caught herattention. A horseman was coming up the slope from the village to thecastle of Torre Garda. 

She looked at him with eyes that had been trained by Marcos in theholiday times to see great distances in the mountains. Then she turnedand reentered the sick man's room. 

"There is another visitor coming to make inquiry into your welfare--it isSenor Mon. "

And she looked for the gleam that immediately lighted Marcos' dark eyes. 

Sarrion was out. He had ridden to a distant hamlet earlier in the day. The tidings of this journey might well have reached Evasio Mon's ears. Cousin Peligros was taking the siesta by which she sought to forestall apossible fatigue later in the day. There are some people who seem to havethe misfortune to be absent on the rare occasions when they are wanted. 

"He is not coming into this room, " said Juanita, coolly. "I will go downand see him. "

Evasio Mon greeted her with a gay smile. 

"I am so glad, " he said, "to hear that all goes well with Marcos. Weheard of his accident at Pampeluna. I had a day of leisure so I rode outto pay my respects. "

He glanced at her, but did not specify whether he had come to pay hisrespects to her as a bride or to Marcos as an invalid. 

"It is a long way to come for a mere politeness, " replied Juanita, whocould meet smile with smile if need be. But the eyes before which EvasioMon turned aside were grave enough. 

"It is not a mere politeness, " he answered. "I have known Marcos since hewas a child; and have watched his progress in the world--not always witha light heart. "

"That is kind of you, " replied Juanita. "But why watch him if it givesyou pain?"

Mon laughed. He was quick to see a joke and Juanita, he knew, was a gaysoul. 

"One cannot help taking an interest in one's friends and is naturallysorry to see them drifting... "

"Into what... ?" asked Juanita turning to the table where a servant hadplaced coffee for the visitor. 

"Politics. "

"Are politics a crime?"

"They lead to many--but do not let us talk of them--" he broke off with alight gesture dismissing as it were an unpleasant topic. "Since you arehappy, " he concluded, looking at her with benevolent eyes. 

He was a man of quick gesture and slow precise speech. He always seemedto mean much more than was conveyed by the mere words he enunciated. Juanita looked quickly at him. What did he know of her happiness? Was shehappy--when she came to think of it? She remembered her gloomy thoughtsof a few minutes earlier on the balcony. When we are young we confoundthoughts with facts. When the heart is young it makes for itself a newheaven and a new earth from a word, a glance, a silence. It is adifferent earth from this one, but who can tell that it is not the sameheaven as that for which men look?

Marcos was talking politics in the room overhead, forgetting her perhapsby now. Evasio Mon's suggestion had come at an opportune moment. 

"Leon is much exercised on your account, " said Mon, quietly, as if he haddivined her thoughts. It was unlike Leon, perhaps, to be exercised aboutanything but his own soul; for he was a very devout man. But Juanita wasnot likely to pause and reflect on that point. 

"Why?" she asked. 

"He naturally dislikes the idea of your being dragged into politics, "answered Mon, gently. 

"I? Why should I be dragged into politics?"

Mon made a deprecatory gesture. It seemed that he found himself drawnagain to speak of a subject that was distasteful to him. Then he shruggedhis shoulders. 

"Well, " he said, half to himself, "we live in a practical age. Let us bepractical. But he would have preferred that you should marry for love. Come, let us change the subject, my child. How is Sarrion? In goodhealth, I hope. "

"It is very kind of Leon to exercise his mind on my account, " saidJuanita steadily. "But I can manage my own affairs. "

"Those are my own words, " answered Mon soothingly. "I said to him:'Juanita is no longer a child; Marcos is honest, he will not havedeceived her; he must have told her that such a marriage is a merequestion of politics; that there is no thought of love. '"

He glanced sharply at her. It was almost prophetic; for Marcos had usedthe very words. It is not difficult to be prophetic if one can sink selfsufficiently to cloak one's thoughts with the mind of another and thusdivine the workings of his brain. Juanita remembered that Marcos had toldher that this was a matter of politics. Mon was only guessing; but heguessed right. The greatest men the world has produced only guessed afterall; but they did not guess wrong. 

"Such a fortune as yours, " he said, with an easy laugh, "would make ormar any cause you see. Your fortune is perhaps your misfortune--whoknows?"

Juanita laughed also, as at a pleasant conceit. The wit that had baffledFather Muro was ready for Evasio Mon. A woman will take her stand beforeher own heart and defy the world. Juanita's eyes flashed across the man'sgentle face. 

"But, " she said, "if the fortune is my own; if I prefer that Marcosshould have it--to the church?"

Evasio Mon smiled gently. 

"Of course, " he murmured. "That is what I said to Leon, and to Sor Teresaalso, who naturally is troubled about you. Though there are otheralternatives. Neither Marcos nor the Church need have it. You could haveit yourself as your father, my old and dear friend, intended it. "

"How could I have it myself?" asked Juanita, whose curiosity was aroused. 

Mon shrugged his shoulders. 

"The Pope could annul such a marriage as yours by a stroke of the pen ifhe wished. " He paused, looking at her beneath his light lashes. "And I amtold he does wish it. What the Pope wishes--well, one must try to be agood Catholic if one can. "

Juanita smiled. She did not perhaps consider herself called upon to admitthe infallibility of his Holiness in matters of the heart. She knewbetter than the Pope. Mon saw that he had struck a false note. 

"I am a sentimentalist myself, " he said, with a frank laugh. "I shouldlike every girl to marry for love. I should like love to be treated assomething sacred--not as a joke. But I am getting to be an old man, Juanita. I am behind the times. Do I hear Sarrion in the passage?"

He rose as he spoke and went towards the door. Sarrion came in at thatmoment. The Spanish sense of hospitality is strongly Arabic. Mon hadridden many miles. Sarrion greeted him almost eagerly. 

CHAPTER XXIV

THE STORMY PETRELAs Juanita quitted the room she heard Sarrion ask Evasio Mon if he hadlunched. And Mon admitted that he had as yet omitted that meal. Juanitashrugged her shoulders. It is only in later life that we come to realisethe importance of meals. If Mon was hungry he should have said so. Shegave no further thought to him. She hated him. She was glad to think thathe should have suffered, even if his pain was only hunger. What washunger, she asked herself, compared with a broken heart? One was apassing pang that could be alleviated, could be confessed to the firstcomer, while a broken heart must be hidden at any cost from all theworld. 

She met Cousin Peligros coming towards the drawing-room in her best blacksilk dress, and in what might have been called a fluster of excitement atthe thought of a visitor, if such a word had been applicable to herplacid life of self-deception. Juanita made some small jest and laughedrather eagerly at it as she passed the pattern lady on the stairs. 

She was very calm and collected; being a determined person, as manyseemingly gay and light-hearted people are. She was going to leave TorreGarda and Marcos, who had married her for her money. It is characteristicof determined people that they are restricted in their foresight. Theylook in front with eyes so steady and concentrated that they perceive noside issues, but only the one path that they intend to tread. Juanita wasgoing back to Pampeluna, to Sor Teresa at the convent school in the Callede la Dormitaleria. She recked nothing of the Carlists, of the disturbedcountry through which she had to pass. 

She had never lacked money, and had sufficient now for her needs. Thevillage of Torre Garda could assuredly provide a carriage for thejourney; or, at the worst, a cart. Anything would be better thanremaining in this house--even the hated school in the Calle de laDormitaleria. She had always known that Sor Teresa was her friend, thoughthe Sister Superior's manner of indicating friendship had not beeninvariably comprehensible. 

Juanita took a cloak and what money she could find. She was not a verytidy person, and the money had to be collected from odd trinket-boxes anddiscarded purses. Marcos was still talking politics with his friend fromthe mountains when she passed beneath his window. Sarrion and Evasio Monhad gone to the dining-room, where, it was to be presumed, CousinPeligros had followed them. She professed a great admiration for EvasioMon, who was on familiar terms with people of the highest distinction. Anhour's start would be sufficient. In that time she could be half-way toPampeluna. Secrecy was of course out of the question. 

The drawing-room window was open. Juanita paused on the threshold for amoment. Then she went into the room and scribbled a hurried note--notinnocent of blots--which she addressed to Marcos. She left it on thewriting-table and carrying her cloak over her arm she hurried down azigzag path concealed in a thicket of scrub-oak to the village of TorreGarda. 

Before reaching the village she overtook a traveling-carriage going at awalking pace down the hill. The carriage, which was old-fashioned inbuild, and set high upon its narrow wheels, was empty. 

"Where are you going?" asked Juanita, of the man who took off his hat toher, almost as if he had expected her. 

"I am returning to Pampeluna, empty, Excellency, " he answered. "I havebrought the baggage of Señor Mon, who is traveling over the mountains onhorseback. I am hoping to get a fare from Torre Garda back to Pampeluna, if I have the good fortune. "

The coincidence was rather startling. Juanita had always been considereda lucky girl, however; one for whom the smaller chances of dailyexistence were invariably kind. She accepted this as another instance ofthe indulgence of fate in small things. She was not particularly glad orsurprised. A dull indifference had come over her. The small things ofdaily life had never engrossed her mind. She was quite indifferent tothem now. It was her intention to get to Pampeluna, through alldifficulties, and the incidents of the road occupied no place in herthoughts. She was vaguely confident that no one could absolutely stand inher way. Had not Evasio Mon said that the Pope would willingly annul hermarriage?

She was thinking these thoughts as she drove through the little mountainvillage. 

"What is that--it sounds like thunder or guns?" inquired Evasio Mon, pausing in his late and simple luncheon in the dining-room. 

"A clerical ear like yours should not know the sound of guns, " repliedSarrion with a curt laugh. "It is not that, however. It is a cart or acarriage crossing the bridge below the village. "

Mon nodded his head and continued to give his attention to his plate. 

"Juanita looks well--and happy, " he said, after a pause. 

Sarrion looked at him and made no reply. He was borrowing from the absentMarcos a trick of silence which he knew to be effective in a subtle warof words. 

"Do you not think so?"

"I am sure of it, Evasio. "

Sarrion was wondering why he had come to Torre Garda--this stormy petrelof clerical politics--whose coming never boded good. Mon was much toowise to be audacious for audacity's sake. He was not a theatrical man, but one who had worked consistently and steadily for a cause all throughhis life. He was too much in earnest to consider effect or heed danger. 

"I am not on the winning side, but I am sure that I am on the right one, "he had once said in public. And the speech went the round of Spain. 

After he had finished luncheon he spoke of taking his leave, and asked ifhe might be allowed to congratulate Marcos on his escape. 

"It should be a warning to him, " he went on, "not to ride at night. To doso is to court mishap in these narrow mountain roads. "

"Yes, " said Sarrion, slowly. 

"Will his nurse allow me to see him?" asked the visitor. 

"His nurse is Juanita. I will go and ask her, " replied Sarrion, lookinground him quite openly to make sure that there were no letters lyingabout on the tables of the terrace that Mon might be tempted to read inhis absence. 

He hurried to Marcos' room. Marcos was out of bed. He was dressing, withthe help of his servant and the visitor from the mountains. With a quickgesture, Marcos indicated the open window, through which the sound of anyexclamation might easily reach the ear of Evasio Mon. 

"Juanita has gone, " he said, in French. "Read that note. It is his doing, of course. "

"I know now, " wrote Juanita, "why you were afraid of my growing up. But Iam grown up--and I have found out why you married me. "

"I knew it would come sooner or later, " said Marcos, who winced as hedrew his sleeve over his injured arm. He was very quiet and collected, aspeople usually are in face of a long anticipated danger which when itcomes at last brings with it a dull sense of relief. 

Sarrion made no reply. Perhaps he, too, had anticipated this moment. Agirl is a closed book. Neither knew what might be written in the hiddenpages of Juanita's heart. 

A crisis usually serves to accentuate the weakness or strength of a man'scharacter. Marcos was intensely practical at this moment--more practicalthan ever. He had only one thought--the thought that filled hislife--which was Juanita's welfare. If he could not make her happy hecould, at all events, shield her from harm. He could stand between herand the world. 

"She can only have gone down the valley, " he said, continuing to speak inFrench, which was a second mother tongue to him. "She must have gone toSor Teresa. He has induced her to go by some trick. He would not dare tosend her anywhere else. "

"I heard a carriage cross the bridge, " replied Sarrion. "He heard italso, and asked what it was. The next moment he spoke of Juanita. Thesound must have put the thought of Juanita into his mind. "

"Which means that he provided the carriage. He must have had it waitingin the village. Whatever he may undertake is always perfectly organised;we know that. How long ago was that?"

"An hour ago and more. "

Marcos nodded and glanced at the clock. 

"He will no doubt have made arrangements for her to get safely through toPampeluna. "

"Then where are you going?" asked Sarrion, perceiving that Marcos wasslipping into his pocket the arm without which he never traveled in themountains. 

"After her, " was the reply. 

"To bring her back?"

"No. "

Marcos paused for a moment, looking from the window across the valley tothe pine-clad heights with thoughtful eyes. He held odd views--now deemedchivalrous and old-fashioned--on the question of a woman's liberty toseek her own happiness in her own way. Such views are unnecessary to-daywhen woman is, so to speak, up and fighting. They belong to the days ofour grandmothers, who had less knowledge and much more wisdom; for theyknew that it is always more profitable to receive a gift than demand aright. The measure will be fuller. 

"No. Not unless it is her own wish, " he said. 

Sarrion made no answer. In human difficulties there is usually nothing tobe said. There is nearly always one clear course to steer and thedeviations are only found by too much talk and too much licence given tocrooked minds. If happiness is not to be found in the straight waynothing is gained by turning into by-paths to seek it. A few find it anda great number are not unhappy who have seen it down a side-path and haveyet held their course in the straight way. 

"Will you keep him in the library--make the excuse that the sun is toohot on the verandah--until I am gone?" said Marcos. "I will follow and, at all events, see that she arrives safely at Pampeluna. "

Sarrion gave a curt laugh. 

"We may be able, " he said, "to turn to good account Evasio's convictionthat you are ill in bed, when in reality you are in the saddle. "

"He will soon find out. "

"Of course--but in the meantime... "

"Yes, " said Marcos with a slow smile ... "in the meantime. " He left theroom as he spoke, but turned on the threshold to look back over hisshoulder. His eyes were alight with anger and the smile had lapsed into agrin. 

Sarrion went down to the verandah to entertain the unsought guest. 

"They have given us coffee, " he said, "in the library. It is too hot inthe sun, although we are still in March! Will you come?"

"And what has Juanita decreed?" asked Mon, when they were seated andSarrion had lighted his cigarette. 

"The verdict has gone against you, " replied Sarrion. "Juanita has decreedmost emphatically that you are not to be allowed to see Marcos. "

Mon laughed and spread out his hands with a characteristic gesture ofbland acceptance of the inevitable. The man, it seemed, was aphilosopher; a person, that is to say, who will play to the end a gamewhich he knows he cannot win. 

"Aha!" he laughed. "So we arrive at the point where a woman holds thecasting vote. It is the point to which all men travel. They have alwaysheld the casting vote--ces dames--and we can only bow to the inevitable. And Juanita is grown up. One sees it. She is beginning to record hervote. "

"Yes, " answered Sarrion with a narrow smile. "She is beginning to recordher vote. "

With a Spanish formality of manner, Sarrion placed his horse at thedisposition of Evasio Mon, should the traveller feel disposed to pass thenight at Torre Garda. But Mon declined. 

"I am a bird of passage, " he explained. "I am due in Pampeluna againto-night. I shall enjoy the ride down the valley now that yourhospitality has so well equipped me for the journey----"

He broke off and looked towards the open window, listening. 

Sarrion had also been listening. He had heard the thud of Marcos' horseas it passed across the wooden bridge below the village. 

"Guns again?" he suggested, with a short laugh. 

"I certainly heard something, " Mon answered. And rising briskly from hischair, he went to the window. Sarrion followed him, and they stood sideby side looking out over the valley. At that moment that which was moreof a vibration than a sound came to their ears across the mountains--deepand foreboding. 

"I thought I was right, " said Mon, in little more than a whisper. "TheCarlists are abroad, my friend, and I, who am a man of peace must getwithin the city walls. "

With an easy laugh he said good-bye. In a few minutes he was in thesaddle riding leisurely down the valley of the Wolf after Juanita--withMarcos de Sarrion in between them on the road. 

CHAPTER XXV

WAR'S ALARMJuanita's carriage emerged from the valley of the Wolf into the plain atsunset. She could see that the driver paid but little heed to his horses. His attention wandered constantly to the mountains. For, instead oflooking to the road in front, his head was ever to the right, and hiseyes searched the plain and the bare brown hills. 

At last he pulled up and, turning on his box, held up one finger. 

"Listen, Señorita, " he said, and his dark eyes were alight withexcitement. 

Juanita stood up and listened, looking westward as he did. The sound waslike the sound of thunder, but shorter and sharper. 

"What is it?"

"The Carlists--the sons of dogs!" he answered, with a laugh, and heshook his whip towards the mountains. "See, " he said, gathering up thereins again, "that dust on the road to the west--that is the troopsmarching out from Pampeluna. We are in it again--in it again!"

At the gate of the city there was a crowd of people. The carriage had tostand aside against the trees to let pass the guns which clattered downthe slope. The men were laughing and shouting to each other. Theofficers, erect on their horses, seemed to think only of the safety ofthe guns as a woman entering a ballroom reviews her jewelery with a quickcomprehensive glance. 

At the guard-house, beneath the second gateway, there occurred anotherdelay. The driver was a Pampeluna man and well-known to the sentries. Butthey did not recognise his passenger and sent for the officer on duty. 

"The Señorita Juanita de Mogente, " he muttered, as he came into theroad--a stout and grizzled warrior smoking a cigarette. "Ah, yes!" hesaid, with a grave bow at the carriage door. "I remember you as aschoolgirl. I remember now. Forgive the delay and pass in--Señora deSarrion. "

Juanita was ushered into the little bare waiting-room in the conventschool of the Sisters of the True Faith in the Calle de la Dormitaleria. It is a small, square apartment at the end of a long and dark passage. The day filters dimly into it through a barred window no larger than apocket-handkerchief. Juanita stood on tiptoe and looked into a narrowalley. On the sill of this window Marcos had stood to wrench apart thebars of the window immediately overhead, through which he had lifted herone cold night--years and years ago, it seemed. 

Nothing had changed in this gloomy house. 

"The dear Sister Superior is at prayer in the chapel, " the doorkeeper hadwhispered. The usual formula; for a nun must always be given the benefitof the doubt. If she is alone in her cell or in the chapel it is alwayspiously assumed that she is at prayer. Juanita smiled at the familiarwords. 

"Then I will wait, " she said, "but not very long. "

She gave the nun a familiar little nod of warning as if to intimate thatno tricks of the trade need be tried upon her. 

She stood alone in the little gray, dim room now, and waited withbrooding eyes. Within, all was quiet with that air of awesome mysterypeculiar to the cloister, which so soon gives place with increasingfamiliarity, to a sense of deadly monotony. It is only from outside thatthe mystery of the cloister continues to interest. Juanita knew everystone in this silent house. Its daily round of artificial duties appearedsmall to her eyes. 

"They have nothing to do all day in a nunnery, " she once said to Marcosin jest. "So they rise up very early in the morning to do it. "

She had laughed on first seeing the mark of Marcos' heel on thewindow-sill. She turned and looked at it again now--without laughing. Andshe thought of Torre Garda with its keen air, cool to the cheek likespring water; with the scent of the bracken that she loved; with thetall, still pines, upright against the sky, motionless, whispering withthe wind. 

She had always thought that the cloister represented safety and peace ina world of strife. And now that she was back within the walls she feltthat it was better to be in the world, to take part in the strife, ifnecessary; for Heaven had given her a proud and a fierce heart. She wouldrather be miserable here all her life than go back to Marcos, who haddared to marry her without loving her. 

The door of the waiting-room opened and Sor Teresa stood on thethreshold. 

"I have come back, " said Juanita. "I think I shall go into religion. Ihave left Torre Garda. "

She gave a short laugh and looked curiously at Sor Teresa--impassive inher straight-hanging robes. 

"So you have got me back, " she said. "Back to the convent. "

"Not to this convent, " replied Sor Teresa, quietly. 

"But I have come back. I shall come back--the Mother Superior... "

"The Mother Superior is in Saragossa. I am mistress here, " replied SorTeresa, standing still and dark, like one of the pines at Torre Garda. The Sarrion blood was rising to her pale cheek. Her eyes glowed darklybeneath her overshadowing head-dress. Command--that indefinable spiritwhich is vouchsafed to gentle people, while rough and strong men missit--was written in every line of her face, every fold of her dress, inthe quiet of her small, white hands, resting motionless against herskirt. 

Juanita stood looking at her with flashing eyes, with her head thrownback, with clenched hands, "Then I will go somewhere else. But I do not understand you. You alwayswanted me to go into religion. "

Sor Teresa held up one hand and cut short her speech. For the habit ofobedience is so strong that clear-headed men will deliberately go totheir death rather than relinquish it. The gesture was known to Juanita. It was dreaded in the school. 

"Think--" said Sor Teresa. "Think before you say that. "

"Well, " argued Juanita, "if you did not urge me in words, you used everymeans in your power to induce me to take the veil--to make it impossiblefor me to do anything else. "

"Think!" urged Sor Teresa. "Think again. Do not include me in suchgeneralities without thinking. "

Juanita paused. She ran back in her mind over a hundred incidents ofschool life, remembered, as such are, with photographic accuracy. 

"Well, " she admitted at length. "You did your best to make me hate it--atall events. "

"Ah!" said Sor Teresa, with a slow smile. 

"Then you did not want me to go into religion--" Juanita came a stepnearer and peered into Sor Teresa's face. She might as well have soughtan answer in a face of stone. 

"Answer me, " she said impatiently. 

"All are not suited for the religious life, " answered the Sister Superiorafter the manner of her teaching. "I have known many such, and I haveseen much sorrow arising from a mistaken sense of duty. I have heard oflives wrecked by it--I have known of two. "

Juanita who had moved away impatiently, now turned and looked at SorTeresa. The gloom of evening was gathering in the little bare room. Thestillness of the convent was oppressive. 

"Were you suited to the religious life?" asked the girl suddenly. 

But Sor Teresa made no answer. 

Juanita sat suddenly down. Her movements were quick and impulsive still, as they had been when she was a schoolgirl. When she had arrived at theconvent she had felt hungry and tired. The feelings came back to her withrenewed intensity now. She was sick at heart. The gray twilight withinthese walls was like the gloom of a hopeless life. 

"I wonder who the other was, " she said, half to herself. For the worldwas opening out before her like a great book hitherto closed. The livesof men and women had gained depth and meaning in a flash of thought. 

She rose and impulsively kissed Sor Teresa. 

"I used to be afraid of you, " she said, with a laugh which seemed tosurprise her, as if the voice that had spoken was not her own. Then shesat down again. It was almost dark in the room now, and the windowglimmered a forlorn gray. 

"I am so hungry and tired, " said Juanita in rather a faint voice, "but Iam glad I came. I could not stay in Torre Garda another hour. Marcosmarried me for my money. The money was wanted for political purposes. They could not get it without me--so I was thrown in. "

She dropped her two hands heavily on the table and looked up as ifexpecting some exclamation of surprise or horror. But her hearer made nosign. 

"Did you know this?" she asked, in an altered voice after a pause. "Areyou in the plot, too, as well as Marcos and Uncle Ramon? Have you beenscheming all this time as well, that I should marry Marcos?"

"Since you ask me, " said Sor Teresa, slowly and coldly, "I think youwould be happier married to Marcos than in religion. It is only myopinion, of course, and you must decide for yourself. It is probably theopinion of others, however, as well. There are plenty of girls who ... "

"Oh! are there?" cried Juanita, passionately. "Who--I should like toknow?"

"I am only speaking in generalities, my child. "

Juanita looked at her suspiciously, her April eyes glittering with a newlight. 

"I thought you meant Milagros. He once said that he thought her pretty, and liked her hair. It is red, everybody knows that. Besides, we aremarried. "

She dropped her tired head upon her folded arms--a schoolgirl attitudewhich returned naturally to her amid the old surroundings. 

"I don't care what becomes of me, " she said wearily. "I don't know whatto do. It is very hard that papa should be dead and Leon ... Leon such apreposterous stupid. You know he is. "

Sor Teresa did not deny this sisterly truth; but stood motionless, waiting for Juanita's decision. 

"I am so hungry and tired, " she said at length. "I suppose I can havesomething to eat ... If I pay for it. "

"Yes; you can have something to eat. "

"And I may be allowed to stay here to-night, at all events. "

"No, you cannot do that, " answered the Sister Superior. 

Juanita looked up in surprise. 

"Then what am I to do? Where am I to go?"

"Back to your husband, " was the reply in the same gentle, inexorablevoice. "I will take you back to Marcos--that is all I will do for you. Iwill take you myself. "

Juanita laughed scornfully and shook her head. She had plenty of thatspirit which will fight to the end and overcome fatigue and hunger. 

"You may be mistress here, " she said. "But I do not think you can deny mea lodging. You cannot turn me out into the street. "

"Under exceptional circumstances I can do both. "

"Ah!" muttered Juanita, incredulously. 

"And those circumstances have arisen. There, you can satisfy yourself. "

She laid before Juanita, on the bare table, a paper which it was notpossible to read in the semi-darkness. She turned to the mantelpiece, where two tall candles added to the sacerdotal simplicity of the room. While the sulphur match burnt blue, Juanita looked indifferently at theprinted paper. 

"It is a siege notice, " said Sor Teresa, seeing that her hearer refusedto read. "It is signed by General Pacheco, who arrived here with a largearmy to-day. It is expected that Pampeluna may be besieged by to-morrowevening. The investment may be a long one, which will mean starvation. Every householder must make a return of those dwelling under his roof. Hemust refuse domicile to any strangers; and I refuse to take you into thishouse. "

Juanita read the paper now by the light of the candles which Sor Teresaset on the table. It was a curt, military document without explanation orunnecessary mitigation of the truth. For Pampeluna had seen the likebefore and understood this business thoroughly. 

"You can think about it, " said Sor Teresa, folding the paper and placingit in her pocket. "I will send you something to eat and drink in thisroom. "

She closed the door, leaving Juanita to realise the grim fact that--shapeour lives how we will, with all foresight--every care--the history of theworld or of a nation will suddenly break into the story of the singlelife and march over it with a giant stride. 

Presently a lay-sister brought refreshments and set the tray on the tablewithout speaking. Juanita knew her well--and she, doubtless, knewJuanita's story; for her pious face was drawn into lines indicative ofthe deepest disapproval. 

Juanita ate heartily enough, not noticing the cold simplicity of thefare. She had finished before Sor Teresa returned and without thinking ofwhat she was doing, had rearranged the tray after the manner of therefectory. She was standing by the window which she had opened. Thesounds of war came into the room with startling distinctness. The boom ofthe distant guns disputing the advance of the Carlists; while nearer, thebugles called the men to arms and the heavy tramp of feet came and wentin the Calle de la Dormitaleria. 

"Well, " asked Sor Teresa. "What have you decided to do?"

Juanita listened to the alarm of war for a moment before turning from thewindow. 

"It is not a false alarm?" she inquired. "The Carlists are really out?"

For she had fallen into the habit of the Northern Provinces, of speakingof the insurrection as if it were a recurrent flood. 

"They have been preparing all the winter, " answered Sor Teresa. 

"And Pampeluna is to be invested?"

"Yes. "

"And Torre Garda?... "

"Torre Garda, " answered the nun, "is to be taken this time. The Carlistshave decided to besiege it. It is at the mouth of the valley that thefighting is taking place. "

"Then I will go back to Torre Garda, " said Juanita. 

CHAPTER XXVI

AT THE FORD"They will allow two nuns to pass anywhere, " said Sor Teresa with herchilling smile as she led the way to her own cell in the corridoroverhead. She provided Juanita with that dress which is a passportthrough any quarter of a town, across any frontier; to any battlefield. So Juanita took the veil at last--in order to return to Marcos. 

Sor Teresa's words proved true enough at the city gates where thesentinels recognised her and allowed her carriage to pass across thedrawbridge by a careless nod of acquiescence to the driver. 

It was a clear dark night without a moon. The prevailing wind whichhurries down from the Pyrenees to the warmer plains of Spain stirred thebudding leaves of the trees that border the road below the town walls. 

"I suppose, " said Sor Teresa suddenly, "that Evasio Mon was at TorreGarda to-day. "

"Yes. "

"And you left him there when you came away. "

"Yes. "

"We shall meet him on the road, " said Sor Teresa with a note of anxietyin her voice. Presently she stood up in the carriage which was an openone on high wheels and spoke to the driver in a low voice into his ear. He was a stout and respectable man with a good ecclesiastical clientèlein the pious capital of Navarre. He had a confidential manner. 

The distant firing had ceased now and a great stillness reigned over thebare land. There are no trees here to harbour birds or to rustle in thewind. The man, nursing his horses for the long journey, drove at an easypace. Juanita, usually voluble enough, seemed to have nothing to say toSor Teresa. The driver could possibly overhear the conversation of hispassengers. For this, or for another reason, Sor Teresa was silent. 

As they approached the hills, they found themselves in a more brokencountry. They climbed and descended with a rather irritating regularity. The spurs of the Pyrenees keep their form right down to the plains andthe road to Torre Garda passes over them. Juanita leant sideways out ofthe carnage and stared upwards into the pine trees. 

"Do you see anything?" asked Sor Teresa. 

"No--I can see nothing. "

"There is a chapel up there, on the slope. "

"Our Lady of the Shadows, " answered Juanita and lapsed into silenceagain. She knew now why the name had struck her with such foreboding, when she had learnt it from the lips of the laughing young captain ofinfantry. 

It told of calamity--the greatest that can happen to a woman--to bemarried without love. 

The driver turned in his seat and tried to overhear. He seemed uneasy andlooked about him with quick turns of the head. At last, when his horseswere mounting a hill, he turned round. 

"Did these sainted ladies hear anything?" he asked. 

"No, " answered Sor Teresa. "Why do you ask?"

"There has been a man on horseback on the road behind us, " he answeredwith assumed carelessness, "all the way from Pampeluna. He has now takena short cut and is in front on the road above us; I can hear him; that isall. "

And he gave a little cry to his horses; the signal for them to trot. Theywere approaching the mouth of the Valley of the Wolf, and could hear thesound of its wild waters in the darkness below them. The valley opens outlike a fan with either slope rising at an easy angle to the pine woods. The road is a cornice cut on the western bank upon which side it runs forten miles until the bridge below the village of Torre Garda leads itacross the river to the sunny slope where the village crouches below theancient castle from which the name is taken. 

The horses were going at a walking pace now, and the driver to show, perhaps, his nonchalance and fearlessness was humming a song beneath hisbreath, when suddenly the hillside burst into flame and a deafening roarof musketry stunned both horses and driver. Juanita happened to belooking up at the hillside and she saw the fire run along like a snake offlame in the grass. In a moment the carriage had swung round and thehorses were going at a gallop down the hill again. The driver stood up. He had a rein in either hand and he hauled the horses round eachsuccessive corner with consummate skill. All the while he used languagewhich would have huddled Cousin Peligros shrieking in the bottom of thecarriage. 

Juanita and Sor Teresa stood up and looked back. By the light of thefiring they saw a man lying low on his horse's neck galloping headlongthrough the zone of death after them. 

"Did you hear the bullets?" said Juanita breathlessly. "They were likethe wind through the telegraph-wires. Oh, I should like to be a man; Ishould like to be a soldier!"

And she gave a low laugh of thrilling excitement. 

The driver was now pulling up his horses. He too laughed aloud. 

"It is the troops, " he cried. "They thought we were the Carlists. But, who is this, Señoras? It is that man again. "

He leant back and hastily twisted one of the carriage-lamps round in itssocket so as to show a light behind him towards the newcomer. 

As the rider pulled up he came within the rays of the lamp which was apowerful one; and at the sight of him Juanita gave a sharp cry whichneither she nor any that heard it forgot to the end of their lives. 

"It is Marcos, " she cried, clutching Sor Teresa's arm. "And he camethrough that--he came through that!"

"No one hurt?" asked Marcos' deep voice. 

"No one hurt, Señor, " answered the driver who had recognised him. 

"And the horses?"

"The horses are safe. A malediction upon them; they nearly had us overthe cliff. Those are the troops. They took us for Carlists. "

"No, " said Marcos. "They are the Carlists. The troops have been drivenfarther up the valley where they are entrenched. They have sent toPampeluna for help. This is a Carlist trap to catch the reinforcements asthey approach. They thought your carriage was a gun. "

The driver scratched his head and made known his views as to theancestory of the Carlists. 

"There is no getting into the valley to-night, " said Marcos to Sor Teresaand Juanita. "You must return to Pampeluna. "

"And what will you do?" asked Juanita in a hard voice. 

"I will go on to Torre Garda on foot, " answered Marcos speaking in Frenchso that the driver should not hear and understand. "There is a way overthe mountains which is known to two or three only. "

"Uncle Ramon is at Torre Garda?" asked Juanita in the same curt, quickway. 

"Yes. "

"Then I will go with you, " she said with her hand already on the door. 

"It is sixteen miles, " said Marcos, "over the high mountains. The lastpart can only be done by daylight. I shall be in the mountains allnight. "

Juanita had opened the door. She stood on the step looking up at him ashe sat on the tall black horse, "If you will take me, " she said in French, "I will come with you. "

Sor Teresa was silent still. She had not spoken since Marcos had pulledup his sweating horse in the lamplight. What a simple world this would beif more of its women knew when to hold their tongues!

Marcos, fresh from a bed of sickness was not fit to undertake thisjourney. He must already be tired out; for she knew that it was Marcoswho had followed their carriage from Pampeluna. She guessed that findingno troops where he expected to find them he had ridden ahead to discoverthe cause of it and had passed unheard through the Carlist ambush andback again through the zone of fire. That Juanita could accomplish thejourney on foot to Torre Garda seemed doubtful. The country was unsafe;the snows had hardly melted. It was madness for a wounded man and a girlto attempt to reach Torre Garda through a pass held by the enemy. But SorTeresa said nothing. 

Marcos sat motionless in the saddle. His face was above the radius of thereversed carriage-lamp, while Juanita standing on the dusty road in hernun's dress looking up at him, was close to the glaring light. It is tobe presumed that he was watching her descend from the carriage and thenturn to shut the door on Sor Teresa. By his silence, Marcos seemed toconsent to this arrangement. 

He came forward into the light now. In his hand he held a paper which hewas unfolding. Juanita recognised the letter she had written to him inthe drawing-room at Torre Garda. He tore the blank sheet off and foldingthe letter closely, replaced it in his pocket. Then he laid the blanksheet on the dusty splash-board of the carriage and wrote a few words inpencil. 

"You must get back to Pampeluna, " he said to the driver in that tone ofcommand which is the only survival of feudal days now left in Europe--andeven the modern Spaniards are losing it--"at any cost--you understand. Ifyou meet the reinforcements on the road give this note to the commandingofficer. Take no denial; give it into his own hand. If you meet no troopsgo straight to the house of the commandant at Pampeluna and give theletter to him. You will see that it is done, " he said in a lower voice, turning to Sor Teresa. 

The man protested that nothing short of death would prevent his carryingout the instructions. 

"It will be worth your while, " said Marcos. "It will be rememberedafterwards. "

He paused deep in thought. There were a hundred things to be consideredat that moment; quickly and carefully. For he was going into the Valleyof the Wolf, cut off from all the world by two armies watching each otherwith a deadly hatred. 

The quiet voice of Sor Teresa broke the silence, softly taking its placein his thoughts. It seemed that the Sarrion brain had the power--thesecret of so much success in this world--of thrusting forth a sure andsteady hand to grasp the heart of a question and tear it from the tangleof side-issues among which the majority of men and women are condemned toflounder. 

"Where is Evasio Mon?" she asked. 

Marcos answered with a low, contented laugh. 

"He is trapped in the valley, " he said in French. "I have seen to that. "

The firing had ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and a silence onlybroken by the voice of the river, now hung over the valley. 

"Are you ready?" Sor Teresa asked her driver. 

"Yes, Excellency. "

"Then go. "

She may have nodded a farewell to Marcos and Juanita. But that they couldnot see in the blackness of the night. She certainly gave them no spokensalutation. The carriage moved away at a sharp trot, leaving Marcos andJuanita alone. 

"We can ride some distance and must ford the river higher up, " saidMarcos at once. He did not seem to want any explanation. The excitementof the moment seemed to have wiped out the events of the last few monthslike writing off a slate. Juanita was young again, ready to throw herselfheadlong into an adventure in the mountains with Marcos such as they hadhad together many times during the holidays. But this was better than thedangers of mere snow and ice. For Juanita had tasted that highest ofemotions, the excitement of battle. She had heard that which some menhaving once heard cannot live without, the siren song of a bullet. 

"Are we going nearer to the Carlists?" she asked hurriedly. There wasfighting blood in her veins, and the tones of her voice told clearlyenough that it was astir at this moment. 

"Yes, " answered Marcos. "We must pass underneath them; for the ford isthere. We must be quite noiseless. We must not even whisper. "

He edged his horse towards one of the rough stones laid on the outer edgeof the road to mark its limit at night. 

"I can only give you one hand, " he said. "Can you get up from thisstone?"

"Behind you?" asked Juanita; "as we used to ride when I was--little?"

For Marcos had, like most Spaniards, grown from boyhood to manhood in thesaddle, and Juanita had no fear of horses. She clambered to the broadback of the Moor and settled herself there, sitting pillion fashion andholding herself in position with both hands round Marcos. 

"If he trots, I fall off, " she said, with an eager laugh. 

They soon quitted the road and began to descend the steep slope towardsthe river by a narrow path only made visible by the open space in thehigh brushwood. It was the way down to a ford leading to a cottage bycourtesy called a farm, though the cultivated land was scarcely an acrein extent, reclaimed from the river-bed. 

The ground was soft and mossy and the roar of the river covered the treadof the careful horse. In a few minutes they reached the water's edge, andafter a moment's hesitation the Moor stepped boldly in. On the other bankMarcos whispered to Juanita to drop to the ground. 

"The cottage is here, " he said. "I shall leave the horse in their shed. "

He descended from the saddle and they stood for a moment side by side. 

"Let us wait a few moments, the moon is rising, " said Marcos. "Perhapsthe Carlists have been here. "

As he spoke the sky grew lighter. In a minute or two a waning moon lookedout over the sharp outline of hill and flooded the valley with a reddishlight. 

"It is all right, " he said; nothing is disturbed here. They are asleep inthe cottage; the noise of the river must have drowned the firing. Theyare friends of mine; they will give us some food for to-morrow morningand another dress for you. You cannot go in that. "

"Oh!" laughed Juanita, "I have taken the veil. It is done now and cannotbe undone. "

She raised her hands to the wings of her spreading cap as if to defend itagainst all comers. And Marcos, turning, suddenly threw his uninjured armround her, imprisoning her struggling arms. He held her thus a prisonerwhile with his injured hand he found the strings of the cap. In a momentthe starched linen fluttered out, fell into the river, and was carriedswirling away. 

Juanita was still laughing, but Marcos did not answer to her gaiety. Sherecollected at that instant having once threatened to dress as a nun inorder to alarm Marcos, and Sarrion's grave remark that it would of acertainty frighten him. 

They were silent for a moment. Then Juanita spoke with a sort of forcedlightness. 

"You may have only one arm, " she said, "but it is an astonishingly strongone!"

And she looked at him surreptitiously beneath her lashes as she stoodwith her hands on her hair. 

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE CLOUDSMarcos tied his horse to a tree and led the way towards the cottage. Itseemed to be innocent of bars and bolts. The ford, known to so few, andthe evil name of the Wolf, served instead. The door opened at a push, andMarcos went in. A wood-fire smouldered on an open hearth, while the acridsmoke half-filled the room, blackened by the fumes of peat and charcoal. 

Marcos stood on the threshold and called the owner by name. There was ashuffling sound in an inner room and the scraping of a match. A minutelater a door was opened and an old woman stood in the aperture, fullydressed and carrying a lamp above her head. 

"Ah!" she said. "It is you. I thought it was the voice of a friend. Andyou have your pretty wife there. What are you doing abroad at this hour... The Carlists?"

"Yes, " answered Marcos, rather quickly, "the Carlists. We cannot pass bythe road, so have sent the carriage back and are going across themountains. "

The woman held up her hands and shook them from side to side in a gestureof horror. 

"Ah! but there!" she cried, "I know what you are. There is no turningyour back on your road. If you say you will go--you will go though itrain rocks. But this child--ah, dear, dear! You do not know what you havemarried--with your bright eyes. Sit down, my child. I will get you what Ican. Some coffee. I am alone in the house. All my men have gone to thehigh valley, now that the snow is gone, to collect wood and to see whatthe winter has done for our hut up in the mountain. "

Marcos thanked her, and explained that they wanted nothing but a roofunder which to leave his horse. 

"We are going up to the higher valley to-night, " he said, "where we shallfind your husband and sons. And at daylight we must hurry on to TorreGarda. But I want to borrow a dress and handkerchief belonging to one ofyour daughters. See, the Señora cannot walk in that one, which is toofine and too long. "

"Oh, but my daughters ... " exclaimed the old woman, with deprecatinghands. 

"They are very pretty girls, " answered Marcos, with a laugh. "All thevalley knows that. "

"They are not bad, " admitted the mother, "but it is a flower compared toa cabbage. Still, we can hide the flower in the cabbage leaves if youlike. "

And she laughed heartily at her own conceit. 

"Then see to it while I put my horse away, " said Marcos. He quitted thehut and overheard the woman pointing out to Juanita that she had lost hermantilla coming through the trees in the dark. While he attended to hishorse he could hear their laughter and gay conversation over the changeof clothes; for Juanita understood these people as well as he did, andhad grown through childhood to the age of thought in their midst. Thepeasant was still pressing a simple hospitality upon Juanita when Marcosreturned to the cottage and found her ready for the journey. 

"I was telling the Señora, " explained the woman volubly, "that she mustnot so much as look inside the cottage in the mountains. I have not beenthere for six months and the men--you know what they are. They are nobetter than dogs I tell them. There is plenty of clean hay and drybracken in the sheds up there and you can well make a soft bed for her toget some sleep for a few hours. And here I have unfolded a new blanketfor the lady. See, it is white as I bought it. She can use it. It hasnever been worn--by us others, " she added with perfect simplicity. 

Marcos took the blanket while Juanita explained that having slept soundlyevery night of her life without exception, she could well now accommodateherself with a rest of two hours in the hay. The woman pressed upon themsome of her small store of coffee and some new bread. 

"He can well prepare your breakfast for you, " she said, confidentially toJuanita. "He is like one of us. All the valley will tell you that. Agreat gentleman who can yet cook his own breakfast--as the good God meantthem to be. "

They set forth at once in the yellow light of the waning moon, Marcosleading the way up a pathway hardly discernible amid the rocks andundergrowth. Once or twice he turned to help Juanita over a hard or adangerous place. But they did not talk, as conversation was not onlydifficult but inexpedient. They had climbed for two hours, slowly andsteadily, when the barking of a dog on the mountainside above themnotified them that they were nearing their destination. 

"Who is it?" asked a voice presently. 

"Marcos de Sarrion, " replied Marcos. "Strike no lights. "

"We have no candles up here, " answered the man with a laugh. He onlyspoke Basque and it was in this language that Marcos gave a briefexplanation. Juanita sat on a rock. She was tired out. There were threemen--short, thick-set and silent, a father and two sons. They stood infront of Marcos and spoke in monosyllables after the manner of oldfriends. Under his directions they brought a heap of dried bracken andhay. In a shed, little more than a roof and four uprights, they made arough couch for Juanita which they hedged round with heaps of bracken toprotect her from the wind. 

"You will see the stars, " said the old man shaking out the blanket whichMarcos had carried up from the cottage at the ford. "It is good to seethe stars when you awake in the night. One remembers that the saints arewatching. "

In a few minutes Juanita was sleeping, like a child, curled up beneathher blanket, and heard through her dreams the low voices of Marcos andthe peasants talking hurriedly in the half-ruined cottage. For Marcos andthese three were the only men who knew the way over the mountains toTorre Garda. 

The dawn was just breaking when Marcos awoke Juanita. 

"Oh, " she said plaintively. "I have only been asleep ten minutes. "

"You have slept three hours, " replied Marcos in that hushed voice inwhich it seems natural to speak before the dawn. "I am makingcoffee--come when you are ready. "

Juanita found a pail of water and a piece of last year's yellow soapwhich had been carefully scraped clean with a knife. A clean towel hadalso been provided. Juanita noted the manly simplicity of theseattentions with a little tender and wise smile. 

"I know what it is that makes men gipsies, " she said, when she joinedMarcos who was attending to a fire of sticks on the ground at the cottagedoor. "I shall always have a kindly feeling for them now. They getsomething straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleepin stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water. "

She gave a little shiver at the recollection of her ablutions, andlaughed a clear, low laugh, as fresh as the morning itself. 

"Where are the men?" she asked. 

"One has gone to Pampeluna, one has taken a note to the officercommanding the reinforcements sent for by Zeneta. The third has gone downto fetch his mother up here to bake bread all day. There will be a littlearmy here to-night. "

Juanita stood watching Marcos who seemed entirely absorbed in blowing upthe fire with a pair of dilapidated bellows. 

"I suppose, " she said lightly, "that it was of these things that you werethinking when you were so silent as we climbed up here last night. "

"I suppose so, " answered Marcos. 

Juanita looked at him with a little frown as if she did not quite believehim. The day had now come and a pink light suffused the topmost peaks. Afaint warmth spread itself like a caress across the valley and turned thecold air into a pearly mist. 

"Of what are you thinking?" asked Marcos suddenly; for Juanita had stoodmotionless, watching him. 

"I was thinking what a comfort it is that you are not an indoor man, " shereplied with a careless laugh. 

The peasants had brought their cows to the high pastures. So there wasplenty of milk in the cottage which was little more than a dairy; for ithad no furniture beyond a few straw mattresses thrown on the floor in onecorner. Marcos served breakfast. 

"Pedro particularly told me to see that you had the cup which has ahandle, " he said, pouring the coffee from a battered coffee-pot. Duringtheir simple breakfast they were silent. There was a subtle constraint. Juanita who had a quick and direct mind, decided that the moment had comefor that explanation for which Marcos did not ask. An explanation doesnot improve by keeping. They were alone here--alone in the world itseemed--for the cows had strayed away. The dogs had gone to the valleywith their masters. She and Marcos had always known each other. She knewhis every thought; she was not afraid of him; she never had been. Whyshould she be now?

"Marcos, " she said. 

"Yes. "

"I want you to give me the letter I wrote to you at Torre Garda. "

He felt in his pocket and handed her the first paper he found withoutparticularly looking at it. Juanita unfolded it. It was the note, allcrumpled, which she had thrust through the wall of the convent school atSaragossa. She had forgotten it, but Marcos had kept it all this time. 

"That is the wrong one, " she said gravely, and handed it back to Marcos, who took it with a little jerk of the head as of annoyance at his ownstupidity. He was usually very accurate in details. He gave her inexchange the right paper, which had been torn in two. The other half isin the military despatch office in Madrid to-day. Juanita had arranged inher own mind what to say. She was quite mistress of the situation, andwas ready to move serenely and surely in her own sphere, taking the leadin such subtle matters with the capability and mastery whichcharacterised Marcos' lead in affairs of action. But Marcos' mistakeseemed to have put out her prearranged scheme. 

She slowly tore the letter into pieces and threw it on the fire. 

"Do you know why I came back?" she asked, which question can hardly haveformed part of the plan of action. 

"No. "

"Because you never pretended that you cared. If you had pretended thatyou cared for me, I should never have forgiven you. "

Marcos did not answer. He looked up slowly, expecting perhaps to find herlooking elsewhere. But her eyes met his and she shrank back with aninvoluntary movement that seemed to be of fear. Her face flushed all overand then the colour faded from it, leaving her white and motionless asshe sat staring into the flickering wood-fire. 

Presently she rose and walked to the edge of the plateau upon which thehut was built. She stood there looking across to the mountains. 

Marcos busied himself with the simple possessions of his host, settingthem in order where he had found them and treading out the smoulderingembers of the fire. Juanita turned and watched him over her shoulder witha mystic persistency. Beneath her lashes lurked a smile--triumphant andtender. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

LE GANT DE VELOURSThey accomplished the rest of the journey without accident. The oldspirit of adventure which had led them to these mountains while they wereyet children seemed to awaken again, and they were as comrades. ButJuanita was absent-minded. She was not climbing skilfully. At one placefar above trees or other vegetation she made a false step and sent agreat rock rolling down the slope. 

"You must be careful, " said Marcos, almost sharply. "You are not thinkingwhat you are doing. "

And Juanita suffered the reproof with an unwonted meekness. She was morecareful while they passed over a dangerous slope where the snow hadsoftened in the morning sun, and came to the topmost valley--an ovalbasin of rocks and snow with no visible outlet. Immediately below them, at the foot of a slope, which looked quite feasible, lay huddled the bodyof a man. 

"It is a Carlist, " explained Marcos. "We heard some time ago that theyhad been trying to find another way over to Torre Garda. That valley is atrap. That is not the way to Torre Garda at all; and that slope is solidice. See, his knife lies beside him. He tried to cut steps before hedied. This is our way. "

And he led Juanita rather hastily away. At nine o'clock they passed thelast shoulder and stood above Torre Garda, and the valley of the Wolflying in the sunlight below them. The road down the valley lay like ayellow ribbon stretched across the broad breast of Nature. 

Half an hour later they reached the pine woods, and heard Perro barkingon the terrace. The dog soon came panting to meet them, and not farbehind him Sarrion, whose face betrayed no surprise at perceivingJuanita. 

"You would have been safer at Pampeluna, " he said with a keen glance intoher face. 

"I am quite safe enough here, thank you, " she answered, meeting his eyeswith a steady smile. 

He asked Marcos whether he had felt his wounded shoulder or suffered fromso much exertion. And Juanita answered more fully than Marcos, givingdetails which she had certainly not learnt from himself. A man havingonce been nursed in sickness by a woman parts with some portion of hispersonal liberty which she never relinquishes. 

"It is the result of good nursing, " said Sarrion, slipping his handinside Juanita's arm and walking by her side. 

"It is the result of his great strength, " she answered, with a glancetowards Marcos, which he did not perceive, for he was looking straight infront of him. 

"Uncle Ramon, " said Juanita, an hour later when they were sitting on theterrace together. She turned towards him suddenly with her shrewd littlesmile. "Uncle Ramon--do you ever play Pelota?"

"Every Basque plays Pelota, " he replied. 

Juanita nodded and lapsed into reflective silence. She seemed to bearranging something in her mind. Towards Sarrion, as towards Marcos, sheassumed at times an attitude of protection, and almost of patronage, asif she knew much that was hidden from them and had access to some chamberof life of which the door was closed to all men. 

"Does it ever strike you, " she said at length, "that in a game ofPelota--supposing the ball to be endowed with a ... Well a certain lowerform of intelligence, the intelligence of a mere woman, for instance--itwould be rather natural for it to wonder what on earth the game wasabout? It might even think that it had a certain right to know what washappening to it. "

"Yes, " admitted Sarrion, who having a quick and eager mind, understoodthat Juanita was preparing to speak plainly. And at such times womenalways speak more plainly than men. He lighted a cigarette, threw awaythe match with a little gesture which seemed to indicate that he wasready for her--would meet her on her own ground. 

"Why did Evasio Mon want me to go into religion?" she asked bluntly. 

"My child--you have three million pesetas. "

"And if I had gone into religion--and I nearly did--the Church would havehad them?"

"Pardon me, " said Sarrion. "The Jesuits--not the Church. It is not thesame thing--though the world does not yet understand that. The Jesuitswould have had the money and they would have spent it in throwing Spaininto another civil war which would have been a worse war than we haveseen. The Church--our Church--has enemies. It has Bismarck, and theEnglish; but it has no worse enemy than the Jesuits. For they play theirown game. "

"At Pelota! and you and Marcos?"

"We were on the other side, " said Sarrion, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

"And I have been the ball. "

Sarrion glanced at her sideways. This was the moment that Marcos hadalways anticipated. Sarrion wondered why he should have to meet it andnot Marcos. Juanita sat motionless with steady eyes fixed on the distantmountains. He looked at her lips and saw there a faint smile not devoidof pity--as if she knew something of which he was ignorant. He pulledhimself together; for he was a bold man who faced his fences with asmile. 

"Well, " he said, "... Since we have won. "

"Have you won?"

Sarrion glanced at her again. Why did she not speak plainly, he waswondering. In the subtler matters of life, women have a clearercomprehension and a plainer speech than men. When they aretongue-tied--the reason is a strong one. 

"At all events Señor Mon does not know when he is beaten, " said Juanita, and the silence that followed was broken by the distant sound of firing. They were fighting at the mouth of the valley. 

"That is true, " admitted Sarrion. 

"They say he is trapped in the valley--as we are. "

"So I believe. "

"Will he come to Torre Garda?"

"As likely as not, " answered Sarrion. "He has never lacked audacity. "

"If he comes I should like to speak to him, " said Juanita. 

Sarrion wondered whether she intended to make Evasio Mon understand thathe was beaten. It was Mon himself who had said that the woman alwaysholds the casting vote. 

"At all events, " said Juanita, who seemed to have returned in herthoughts to the question of winning or losing. "At all events, you playeda bold game. "

"That is why we won, " said Sarrion, stoutly. 

"And you did not heed the risks. "

"What risks?"

Juanita turned and looked at him with a little laugh of scorn. 

"Oh, you do not understand. Neither does Marcos. I suppose men don't. Youmight have ruined several lives. "

"So might Evasio Mon, " returned Sarrion sharply. And Juanita rather drewback as a fencer may flinch who has been touched. 

Sarrion leant back in his chair and threw away the cigarette which he hadnot smoked. Juanita had chosen her own ground and he had met her on it. He had answered the question which she was too proud to ask. 

And as he had anticipated, Evasio Mon came to Torre Garda. It was almostdusk when he arrived. Whether he knew that Marcos was not in his room, remained an open question. He did not ask after him. He was brought bythe servant to the terrace where he found Cousin Peligros and Juanita. Sarrion was in his study and came out when Mon passed the open window. 

"So we are all besieged, " said the visitor, with his tolerant smile as hetook a chair offered to him in the grand manner by Cousin Peligros, whobelonged to the school of etiquette that holds it wrong for any lady tobe natural in the presence of men other than of her own family. 

Cousin Peligros smiled in rather a pinched way, and with a gesture of heroutspread hands morally wiped the besiegers out. No female Sarrion, sheseemed to imply, need ever fear inconvenience from a person in uniform. 

"You and I, Señorita, " said Mon, with his bland and easy sympathy ofmanner, "have no business here. We are persons of peace. "

Cousin Peligros made a condescending and yet decisive gesture, pattingthe empty air. 

"I have my charge. I shall fulfil it, " she said--determined, and notwithout a suggestion of coyness withal. 

Juanita was lying in wait for a glance from Sarrion and when she receivedit she made a little movement of the eyelids, telling him to take CousinPeligros away. 

"You will stay the night, " said Sarrion to Evasio Mon. 

"No, my friend. Thank you very much. I cherish a hope of getting throughthe lines to-night to Pampeluna. I came indeed to offer my poor servicesas escort to these ladies who will surely be safer at Pampeluna. "

"Then you think that they will besiege Torre Garda, " asked Sarrion, innocently. "One never knows, my friend--one never knows. It seems to methat the firing is nearer this afternoon. "

Sarrion laughed. 

"You are always hearing guns. "

Mon turned and looked at him and there was a suggestion of melancholy inhis smile. 

"Ah! Ramon, " he said. "You and I have heard them all our lives. "

And there was perhaps a second meaning in his words, known only toSarrion, whose face softened for an instant. 

"Let us have some coffee, " he said, turning to Cousin Peligros. "Will yousee to it, Peligros--in the library?"

So Peligros walked across the broad terrace with the mincing steps taughtin the thirties, leaving Mon hatless with a bowed head according to theetiquette of those leisurely days. He was all things, to all men. 

"By the way ... " said Sarrion, and followed her without completing hissentence. 

So Juanita and Evasio Mon were left alone on the terrace. Juanita wassitting rather upright in a garden chair. The only seat near to her wasthe easy chair just vacated by Cousin Peligros. Mon looked at it. Heglanced at Juanita and then drew it forward. She turned, and with a smileand gesture invited him to be seated. A watchful look came into EvasioMon's quick eyes behind the glasses that reflected the last rays of thesetting sun. For the young and the guilty, silence has a special terror. Mon had dealt with the young and the guilty all his life. He sat downwithout speaking. He was waiting for Juanita. Juanita moved her toewithin her neat black slipper, looking at it critically. She was waitingfor Evasio Mon. He paused as a duellist may pause with his best weaponslaid out on the table before him, wondering which one to select. Perhapshe suspected that Juanita held the keenest; that deadly plain-speaking. 

His subtle training had taught him to sink self so completely that it waseasy to him to insinuate his mind into the thoughts of another; tounderstand them, almost to sympathise with them. But Juanita puzzled him. There is no face so baffling as that which a woman shows the world whenshe is hiding her heart. 

"I spoke as a friend, " said Mon, "when I recommended you to allow me toescort you to Pampeluna. "

"I know that you always speak as a friend, " answered Juanita quietly, "... Of mine. Not of Marcos, perhaps. "

"Ah, but your friends are Marcos', " said Mon, with a suggestion ofraillery in his voice. 

"And his enemies are mine, " she retorted, looking straight in front ofher. 

"Of course--is it not written in the marriage service?" Mon laughinglyturned in his chair and cast a glance up at the windows as he spoke. Theywere beyond earshot of the house. "But why should I be an enemy of Marcosde Sarrion?"

Then Juanita unmasked her guns. 

"Because he outwitted you and married me, " she answered. 

"For your money--"

"Yes, for my money. He was quite honest about it, I assure you. He toldme that it was a matter of business--of politics. That was the word heused. "

"He told you that?" asked Mon in real surprise. 

Juanita nodded her head. She was looking at her own slipper again and themoving foot within it. There was a mystic little smile at the corner ofher lips which tilted upwards there, as humorous and tender lips nearlyalways do. It suggested that she knew something which even Evasio Mon, the all-wise, did not know. 

"And you believed him?" inquired Mon, dimly groping at the meaning of thesmile. 

"He told me that it was the only way of escaping you ... And the rest ofthem ... And Religion, " answered Juanita--without answering the question. 

"And you believed him?" repeated Mon, which was a mistake; for she turnedon him at once and answered, "Yes. "

Mon shrugged his shoulders with the tolerant air of one who has metdefeat time after time; who expected naught else perhaps. 

"Then there is nothing more to be said, " he observed carelessly. "Youelect to remain at Torre Garda. I bow to your decision, my child. I havewarned you. "

"Against Marcos?"

Mon shrugged his shoulders a second time. 

"And in reply to your warning, " said Juanita slowly. "I will tell youthat Marcos has never done or said anything unworthy of a Spanishgentleman--and there is no better gentleman in the world. "

Which statement all men will assuredly be ready to admit. 

Mon turned and looked at her with an odd smile. 

"Ah!" he said. "You have fallen in love with Marcos. "

Juanita changed colour and her eyes suddenly lighted with anger. 

"I am not afraid of anything you may say or do, " she said. "I haveMarcos. Marcos has always outwitted you when you have come in contactwith him. Marcos is cleverer than you. He is stronger. "

She paused. Mon was slowly drawing his gloves through his hands whichwere white and smooth. 

"That is the difference between you, " she continued. "You wear gloves. Marcos takes hold of life with his bare hand. You may be more cunning, but Marcos outwits you. The mind seeks but the heart finds. Your mind maybe subtle--but Marcos has a better heart. "

Mon had risen. He stood with his face half turned away from her so thatshe could only see his profile. And for a moment she was sorry for him;that one moment which always mars an earthly victory. 

He turned away from her and walked slowly towards the library windowwhich stood open and gave passage to the sound of moving cups andsaucers. We all carry with us through life the remembrance of certainwords probably forgotten by the speaker. A few bear the keener, sharpermemory of words unspoken. Juanita never forgot the silence of Evasio Monas he walked away from her. 

A moment later she heard him laughing and talking in the library. 

He had come on horseback and Sarrion accompanied him to the stables onhis departure. They were both young for their years. The Spaniards of thenorth are thin and lithe and long-lived. Sarrion offered his hand forMon's knee, who with this aid sprang into the saddle. 

He turned and looked towards the terrace. 

"Juanita, " he said, and paused. "She is no longer a child. One hopes thatshe may have a happy life ... Seeing that so many do not. "

Sarrion made no answer. 

"We are not weaklings, " continued Mon lightly. "You, and Marcos and I. Wemay sweat and toil as we will--but believe me, there is more power inJuanita's little finger. It is the casting vote--amigo--the castingvote. "

He waved a salutation as he rode away. 

CHAPTER XXIX

LA MAIN DE FERJuanita was very early astir the next morning. The house was peculiarlyquiet, but she knew that Marcos, if he had been abroad, had now returned;for Perro was lying on the terrace in the sunlight watching the librarywindow. 

Juanita went to that room and there found Marcos writing letters. A mapof the Valley of the Wolf lay open on the table beside him. 

"You are always writing letters, " she said. "You began writing them onthe splash-board of the carriage at the mouth of the valley and you havebeen doing it ever since. "

"They are making use of my knowledge of the valley, " he replied. Hecontinued his task after a very quick glance up at her. Juanita had foundout that he rarely looked at her. 

"I am not at all tired after our adventure, " she said. "I made up lastnight for the want of sleep. Do I look tired?"

"Not at all, " answered Marcos, glancing no higher than her waist. 

"But I had a dream, " she said. "It was so vivid that I am not sure nowthat it was a dream. I am not sure that I did not in reality get out ofbed quite early in the morning, before daylight, when the moon was justtouching the mountains, and look out of my window. And the terrace, Marcos, was covered with soldiers; rows and rows of them, like shadows. And at the end, beneath my window, stood a group of men. Some wereofficers; one looked like General Pacheco, fat with a chuckling laugh;another seemed to be Captain Zeneta--the friend who stood by us in thechapel of Our Lady of the Shadows--who was saying his prayers, youremember. Most young men are too conceited to say their prayers nowadays. And there were two civilians, in riding-boots all dusty, who lookedsingularly like you and Uncle Ramon. It was an odd dream, Marcos--was itnot?"

"Yes, " answered he with a laugh. "Do not tell it to the wrong people asJoseph did. "

"No, your reverence, " she said. She stood looking at him with grave eyes. 

"Is there going to be a battle?" she asked, curtly. 

"Yes. "

"Where?"

He pointed down into the valley with his pen. 

"Just above the bridge if it all comes off as they have planned. "

She went out on to the terrace and looked down into the valley, which waspeaceful enough in the morning light. The thin smoke of the pinewood-fires rose from the chimneys in columns of brilliant blue. The sheepon the slopes across the valley were calling to their lambs. Then Juanitareturned to the library window and stood on the threshold, with broodingeyes and a bright patch of colour in her cheeks. 

"Will you do me a favour?" she asked. 

"Of course. "

He lifted his pen from the paper, but did not look up. 

"If there is a battle--if there is any fighting, will you take great careof yourself? It would be so terrible if anything happened to you ... ForUncle Ramon I mean. "

"Yes, " answered Marcos, gravely. "I understand. I promise to take care. "

Juanita still lingered at the window. 

"And you always keep your promises, don't you? To the letter?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"No, of course not. It is characteristic of you, that is all. Yourpromise is a sort of rock that nothing can move. Women, you know, make apromise and then ask to be let off; you would not do that?"

"No, " answered Marcos, quite simply. 

In Navarre the hours of meals are much the same as those that rule inEngland to-day. At one o'clock luncheon both Marcos and Sarrion were athome. The valley seemed quiet enough. The soldiers of Juanita's dreamseemed to have vanished like the shadows to which she compared them. 

"I am sure, " said Cousin Peligros, while they were still at the table, "that the sound of firing approaches. I have a very delicate hearing. Allmy senses are very highly developed. The sound of the firing is nearer, Marcos. "

"Zeneta is retreating slowly before the enemy, with his small force, "explained Marcos. 

"But why is he doing that? He must surely know that there are ladies atTorre Garda. "

"Ladies are not articles of war, " said Juanita with a frivolous disregardof Cousin Peligros' reproving face. "And this is war. "

As she spoke Marcos rose and quitted the room after glancing at hiswatch. Juanita followed him. 

"Marcos, " she said, in the hall, having closed the dining-room doorbehind her. "Will you tell me what time it will begin?"

"Zeneta is timed to retreat across the bridge at three o'clock. The enemywill, it is hoped, follow him. "

"And where will you be?"

"I shall be with Pacheco and his staff on the hill behind Pedro's mill. You will see a little flag wherever Pacheco is. "

Cousin Peligros' delicate hearing had not been deceived. The firing wasnow close at hand. The valley takes a turn to the left below the ridgeand upon the hillside above this corner the white irregular line of smokenow became visible. 

In a few minutes the dark mass of Zeneta's men appeared on the road atthe corner. He was before his time. The men were running. They raised thedust like a troop of sheep and moved in a halo of it. Every hundred yardsthey stopped and fired a volley. They were acting with perfect regularityand from a distance looked like toy soldiers. They were retreating ingood order and the sound of their volleys came at regular intervals. Onthe bridge they halted. They were going to make a stand here, as wouldseem natural. Had they had artillery they could have effectually heldthis strong and narrow place. 

It now became apparent that they were a woefully small detachment. Theycould not spare men to take up positions on the rocky hillside behindthem. 

There was a pause. The Carlists were waiting for their skirmishers tocome in from heights above the road. 

Sarrion and Juanita stood at the edge of the terrace. Sarrion waswatching with a quick and comprehensive glance. 

"Is General Pacheco a good general?" asked Juanita. 

"Excellent. "

Sarrion did not comment further on this successful soldier. 

"They played me false, " the General had told him indignantly a few hoursearlier. "They promised me a good sum--yes a sufficient sum. But when thetime came the money was not forthcoming. An awkward position; but I founda way out of it. "

"By being loyal, " suggested Sarrion with a short laugh and there theconversation ceased. 

Juanita looked across the valley towards Pedro's mill. There was no flagthere. All the valley was peaceful enough, giving in the brilliantsunshine no glint of sword or bayonet. 

On the bridge, the little knot of men awaited the advent of the Carlistsforming up round the corner. In a moment these came, swarming over theroad and the hillside. The roadway was packed with them, the rocks andthe bushes above the river seemed alive with them. They firedindependently, and the hillside was white in a moment. The royalisttroops on the bridge fired one volley and then turned. They ran straightalong the road. Some threw down their knapsacks. One or two stopped, seemed to hesitate and then laid them down on the road like a tiredchild. Others limped to the side and sat there. 

All the while the Carlists came on. The rear ranks were still cominground the corner. The skirmishers were already across the bridge. Therewas only one place for Zeneta's men to run to now--the castle of TorreGarda. They were already at the foot of the slope. Juanita and Sarrioncould distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the roadbehind his men, sword in hand. Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for themost part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men. 

They began to climb the slope, and Zeneta took up his position on a rockjutting out of the hillside. He stood on tiptoe and watched the bridge. The last of the Carlists were on it now. Juanita could see his eagerface, with intrepid eyes alert, and lips apart, drawn back over histeeth. She glanced at Sarrion, whose lips were the same. His eyesglittered. He was biting his lower lip. 

As the last man ran across the bridge on the heels of his comrades, Zeneta looked across the valley towards the water mill. He waved hishandkerchief high above his head. A little flag fluttered above the treesgrowing round the mill-wheel. 

Cousin Peligros being only human now came to the terrace to see what washappening. She had taken the precaution of putting on her mittens andopening her parasol. 

"What is the meaning of this noise?" she asked; but neither Sarrion norJuanita seemed to hear her. They were watching the little flag, whichseemed to be descending the hill. 

So close beneath the house were Zeneta's men now, that those on theterrace could hear his voice. 

"The bridge, " said Sarrion, under his breath. "Look at the bridge!"

It was half hidden in the smoke that still hovered in the air, butsomething was taking place there. Men were running hither and thither. The sunlight glittered on uniform and bayonet. 

"Guns!" said Sarrion curtly, and as he spoke the whole valley shookbeneath their feet. A roar seemed to arise from the river and spread allup the hills, and simultaneously a cloak of white smoke was laid over thegreen slopes. 

Juanita saw Zeneta stand for a moment, with sword upheld, while his mengathered round him. Then with a wild shout of exultation he led them downthe hill again. Before he had run ten paces he fell--his feet seemed toslip from under him, and he lay at full length for a moment--then he wasup again and at the head of his men. 

A bullet came singing up over the low brushwood and a distant tinkle offalling glass told that it had found its billet in a window. The bushesin the garden seemed suddenly alive with rustling life and Sarriondragged Juanita back from the balustrade. 

"No--no!" she said angrily. 

"Yes--I promised Marcos, " answered Sarrion with his arm round her waist. 

In a moment they were in the library where they found Cousin Peligros inan easy chair with folded hands and the face of a very early Christianmartyr. 

"I have never been treated like this before, " she said severely. 

Sarrion stood at the window, keeping Juanita in. 

"It will be all over in a few minutes, " he said. "Holy Virgin! What alesson for them. "

The din was terrible. The lady of delicate hearing placed her hands overher ears not forgetting to curl her little finger in the manner deemedirresistible by her generation. Quite suddenly the firing ceased as if bythe turning of a tap. 

"There, " said Sarrion, "it is over. Marcos said they were to be taught alesson. They have learnt it. "

He quitted the room taking his hat which he had thrown aside. 

Juanita went to the terrace. She could see nothing. The whole valley washidden in smoke which rolled upward in yellow clouds. The air choked her. She came back to the library, coughing, and went towards the door. 

"Juanita, " said Cousin Peligros, "I forbid you to leave the room. Iabsolutely refuse to be left alone. "

"Then call your maid, " said Juanita, patiently. 

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to follow Uncle Ramon down to the valley. There must behundreds of wounded. I can do something----"

"Then I forbid you to go. It is permissible for Marcos to identifyhimself with such proceedings--in protection of those whom Providence hasplaced under his care. Indeed I should expect it of him. It is his dutyto defend Torre Garda. "

Juanita looked at the supine form in the easy chair. 

"Yes, " she answered. "And I am mistress of Torre Garda. "

Which, perhaps, had a double meaning, for when she closed the door--notwithout emphasis--Cousin Peligros sat upright with a start. 

Juanita hurried out of the house and ran down the road winding on theslope to the village. The smoke choked her; the air was impregnated withsulphur. It seemed impossible that anybody could have lived through thesehellish minutes that were passed. In front of her she saw Sarrionhurrying in the same direction. A moment later she gave a little cry ofjoy. Marcos was riding up the slope at a gallop. He pulled up when he sawhis father and by the time he had quitted the saddle, Juanita was withhim. 

Marcos' face was gray beneath the sunburn. His eyes were bloodshot andhis lips were pressed upward in a line of deadly resolution. It was theface of a man who had seen something that he would never forget. Helooked at his father. 

"Evasio Mon, " he said. 

"Killed?"

Marcos nodded his head. 

"You did not do it?" said Sarrion sharply. 

"No. They found him among the Carlists, There were five or six priests. It was Zeneta--wounded himself--who recognised him and told me. He wasnot dead when Zeneta found him--and he spoke. 'Always the losing game, 'he said. Then he smiled--and died. "

Sarrion turned and led the way slowly back again towards the house. Juanita seemed to have forgotten her intention of going to the valley tooffer help to the nursing-sisters who lived in the village. 

Marcos' horse, the Moor, was shaking and dragged on the bridle which hehad slipped over his arm. He jerked angrily at the reins, looking backwith a little exclamation of impatience. Juanita took the bridle from hisarm and led the horse which followed her quietly enough. She said nothingand asked no questions. But she was watching Marcos' face--wondering, perhaps, if it would ever soften again. 

Sarrion was the first to speak. 

"Poor Mon, " he said, half addressing Juanita. "He was never a fortunateman. He took the wrong turning years ago. He abandoned the Church inorder to ask a woman to marry him. But she had scruples. She thought, orshe was made to think, that her duty lay in another direction. And Mon'slife ... Well ... !"

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"I know, " said Juanita quietly ... "all about it. "

CHAPTER XXX

THE CASTING VOTEThere is in one corner of the little churchyard of Torre Garda a squaremound which marks the burial-place, in one grave, of four hundredCarlists. The Wolf, it is said, carried as many more to the sea. 

General Pacheco completed his teaching at the mouth of the valley wherethe Carlists had left in a position (impregnable from the front) a strongdetachment to withstand the advance of any reinforcements that might besent from Pampeluna to the relief of Captain Zeneta and his handful ofmen. These were taken in the rear by the force under General Pachecohimself and annihilated. This is, however, a matter of history as is alsothe reputation of Pacheco. "A great general--a brute, " they say of him inSpain to this day. 

By sunset all was quiet again at Torre Garda. The troops quitted thevillage as unobtrusively as they had come. They had lost but few men andhalf a dozen wounded were left behind in the village. The remainder weremoved to Pampeluna. The Carlist list of wounded was astonishingly small. General Pacheco had the reputation of moving quickly. He was rarelyhampered by his ambulance and never by the enemy's wounded. He was agreat general. 

Cousin Peligros did not appear at dinner. She had an attack of nervesinstead. 

"I understand nerves, " said Juanita lightly when she announced thatCousin Peligros' chair would remain vacant. "Was I not educated in aconvent? You need not be anxious. Yes--she will take a little soup--alittle more than that. And all the other courses. "

After dinner Cousin Peligros notified through her maid that she felt wellenough to see Marcos. When he returned from this interview he joinedSarrion and Juanita in the drawing-room, and he looked grave. 

"You have seen for yourself that there is not much the matter with her, "said Juanita, watching his face. 

"Yes, " he answered rather absent-mindedly. "There is not much the matterwith her. "

He did not sit down but stood with a preoccupied air and looked at thewood-fire which was still grateful in the evening at such an altitude asthat of Torre Garda. 

"She will not stay, " he said at last. "She says she is going to-morrow. "

Sarrion gave a short laugh and turned over the newspaper that he wasreading. Juanita was reading an English book, with a dictionary which shenever consulted when Marcos was near. She looked over its pages into thefire. 

"Then let her go, " she said slowly and distinctly. And in a silence whichfollowed, the colour slowly mounted to her face. Marcos glanced at herand spoke at once. 

"There is no question of doing anything else, " he said, with a laugh thatsounded uneasy. "She will have nerves until she sees a lamp-post again. She is going to Madrid. "

"Ah!"

"And she wants you to go with her and stay, " said Marcos, bluntly. 

"It is very kind of her, " answered Juanita in a cool and even voice. "Youknow, I am afraid Cousin Peligros and I should not get on very well--notif we sat indoors for long together, and kept our hands white. "

"Then you do not care to go to Madrid with her?" inquired Marcos. 

Juanita seemed to weigh the pros and cons of the matter with her head ata measuring angle while she looked into the fire. 

"No ... No, " she answered. "I think not, thank you. "

"You know, " Marcos explained with an odd ring of excitement in his voice. "I am afraid we shall have a bad name all over Spain after this. Theyalways did think that we were only brigands. It will be difficult to getanybody to come here. "

Juanita made no answer to this. Sarrion was reading the paper veryattentively. But it was he who spoke first. 

"I must go to Saragossa, " he said, without looking up from his paper. "Perhaps Juanita will take compassion on my solitude there. "

"I always feel that it is a pity to go away from Torre Garda just as thespring is coming, " said she, conversationally. "Don't you think so?"

She glanced at Marcos as she spoke, but the remark must have beenaddressed to Sarrion, whose reply was inaudible. For some reason the twomen seemed ill at ease and tongue-tied. There was a dull glow in Marcos'eyes. Juanita was quite cool and collected and mistress of the situation. 

"You know, " said Marcos at length in his direct way, "that it is only ofyour happiness that I am thinking--you must do what you like best. "

"And you know that I subscribe to Marcos' polite desire, " said Sarrionwith a light laugh. 

"I know you are an old dear, " answered Juanita, jumping up and throwingaside her book. "And now I am going to bed. "

She kissed Sarrion and smoothed back his gray hair with a quick and lighttouch. 

"Good-night, Marcos, " she said as she passed the door which he held open. She gave him the friendly little nod of a comrade--but she did not lookat him. 

The next morning Cousin Peligros took her departure from Torre Garda. 

"I wash my hands, " she said, with the usual gesture, "of the wholeaffair. "

As her maid was seated in the carriage beside her she said no more. Itremained uncertain whether she washed her hands of the Carlist war or ofJuanita. She gave a sharp sigh and made no answer to Sarrion's hope thatshe would have a pleasant journey. 

"I have arranged, " said Marcos, "that two troopers accompany you as faras Pampeluna, though the country will be quiet enough to-day. Pacheco haspacified it. "

"I thank you, " replied Cousin Peligros, who included domestic servants inher category of persons in whose presence it is unladylike to be natural. 

She bowed to them and the carriage moved away. She was one of thosefortunate persons who never see themselves as others see them, but movethrough existence surrounded by a halo, or a haze, of self-complacency, through which their perception cannot penetrate. The charitable wereready to testify that there was no harm in her. Hers was merely one of amillion lives in which man can find no fault and God no fruit. 

Soon after her departure Sarrion and Marcos set out on horseback towardsthe village. There was another traveler there awaiting their Godspeed ona longer journey, towards a peace which he had never known. It was in thehouse of the old cura of Torre Garda that Sarrion looked his last on theman with whom he had played in childhood's days--with whom he had neverquarrelled, though he had tried to do so often enough. The memory heretained of Evasio Mon was not unpleasant; for he was smiling as he layin the darkened room of the priest's humble house. He was bland even indeath. 

"I shall go and place some flowers on his grave, " said Juanita, as theysat on the terrace after luncheon and Sarrion smoked his cigarettes. "Nowthat I have forgiven him. "

Marcos was sitting sideways on the broad balustrade, swinging one foot inits dusty riding-boot. He could see Juanita from where he sat. He usuallycould see her from where he elected to sit. But when she turned he wasnever looking at her. She had only found this out lately. 

"Have you forgiven him already?" asked he, with his dark eyes fixed onher half averted face. "I knew that it was easy to forget the dead, butto forgive ... "

"Oh--it was not when he was killed that I forgave him. "

"Then when was it?"

Juanita laughed lightly and shook her head. 

"I am not going to tell you that, " she answered. "It is a secret betweenEvasio Mon and myself. He will understand when I place the flowers on hisgrave ... As much as men ever do understand. "

She vouchsafed no explanation of this ambiguous speech, but sat insilence looking with contemplative eyes across the valley. Sarrion wasseated a few yards away. At times he glanced through the cigarette smokeat Juanita and Marcos. Suddenly he drew in his feet and sat upright. 

"Dinner at seven to-night, " he said, briskly. "If you have no objection. "

"Why?" asked Juanita. 

"I am going to Saragossa. "

"To-night?" she asked hastily and stopped short. Marcos sat motionless. Sarrion lighted another cigarette and forgot to answer her question. Juanita flushed and held her lips between her teeth. Then she turned herhead and looked at Sarrion from the corner of her eyes. She searched himfrom his keen, brown face--said by some to be the handsomest face inSpain--to his neat and firmly planted feet. But there was nothing writtenfor her to read. He had forced her hand and she did not know whether hehad done it on purpose or not. She knew her own mind, however. She wascalled upon to decide her whole life then and there. And she knew her ownmind. 

"Seven o'clock, " said the mistress of Torre Garda, rising and goingtowards the house. "I will go at once and see to it. "

She, presumably, carried out her intention of visiting Evasio Mon'sgrave, and perhaps said a prayer in the little chapel near to it for therepose of the soul of the man whom she had forgiven so suddenly andcompletely. She did not return to the terrace at all events, and theSarrions went about their own affairs during the afternoon without seeingher again. 

At dinner Sarrion was unusually light-hearted and Juanita accommodatedherself to his humour with that ease which men so rarely understand inwomen and seldom acquire for themselves. Sarrion spoke of Saragossa as ifit were across the road and intimated that he would be coming and goingbetween the two houses during the spring, and until the great heats madethe plains of Aragon uninhabitable. 

"But, " he said, "you see how it is with Marcos. The Valley of the Wolf ishis care and he dare not leave it for many days together. "

When the parting came Juanita made light of it, herself turning Sarrion'sfur collar up about his ears and buttoning his coat. For despite hissixty years he was a hardy man, and never made use of a closed carriage. It was a dark night with no moon. 

"It is all the better, " said Marcos. "If the horses can see nothing, theycannot shy. "

Marcos accompanied his father down the slope to the great gate where thedrawbridge had once been, sitting on the front seat beside him in thefour-wheeled dogcart. They left Juanita standing in the open doorway, waving her hand gaily, her slim form outlined against the warm lamplightwithin the house. 

At the drawbridge Marcos bade his father farewell. They had parted at thesame spot a hundred times before. There was but the one train fromPampeluna to Saragossa and both had made the journey many times. Therewas no question of a long absence from each other; but this parting wasnot quite like the others. Neither said anything except thoseconventional words of farewell which from constant use have lost anymeaning they ever had. 

Sarrion gathered the reins in his gloved hands, glanced back over thecollar which Juanita had vigorously pulled up about his ears, and with anod, drove away into the night. 

When Marcos, who walked slowly up the slope, returned to the house hefound it in darkness. The servants had gone to bed. It was past teno'clock. The window of his own study had been left open and the lampburnt there. He went in, extinguished the lamp, and taking a candle wentup-stairs to his own room. He did not stay in the room, however, but wentout to the balcony which ran the whole length of the house. 

In a few minutes his father's carriage must cross the bridge with thathollow sound of wheels which Evasio Mon had mistaken for guns. 

A breeze was springing up and the candle which Marcos had set on a tablenear the open window guttered. He blew it out and went out in thedarkness. He knew where to find the chair that stood on the balcony justoutside his window and sat down to listen for the rumble of the carriageacross the bridge. 

He turned his head at the sound of a window being opened and Perro wholay at his feet lifted his nose and sniffed gently. A shaft of light layacross the balcony at the far end of the house. Juanita had opened hershutters. She knew that Sarrion must pass the bridge in a few minutes andwas going to listen for him. 

Marcos leant forward and touched Perro who understood and was still. Fora moment Juanita appeared on the balcony, stepping to the railing andback again. The shaft of light then remained half obscured by her shadowas she stood in the window. She was not going to bed until she had heardSarrion cross the bridge. 

Thus they waited and in a few minutes the low growling voice of the riverwas dominated by the hollow echo of the bridge. Sarrion had gone. 

Juanita went within her room and extinguished the lamp. It was a warmnight and the pine trees gave out a strong and subtle scent such as theyonly emit in spring. The bracken added its discreet breath hardlyamounting to a tangible odour. There were violets, also, not far away. 

Perro at Marcos' feet, stirred uneasily and looked up into his master'sface. Instinctively Marcos turned to look over his shoulder. Juanita wasstanding close behind him. 

"Marcos, " she said, quietly, "you remember--long, long ago--in thecloisters at Pampeluna, when I was only a child--you made a promise. Youpromised that you would never interfere in my life. "

"Yes. "

"I have come ... " she paused and passing in front of him, stood therewith her back to the balustrade and her hands behind her in an attitudewhich was habitual to her. "I have come, " she began again deliberately, "to let you off that promise--Not that you have kept it very well, youknow--"

She broke off and gave a short laugh, such as a man may hear perhaps oncein his whole life, and hearing it, must know that he has not lived invain. 

"But I don't mind, " she said. 

She moved uneasily. For her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, could discern his face. She returned to the spot where Marcos had firstdiscovered her, behind his chair. 

"And, Marcos--you made another promise. You said that we were only goingto play at being married--a sort of game. "

"Yes, " he answered steadily. He did not turn. He never saw her handsstretched out towards him. Then suddenly he gave a start and sat still asstone. Her hands were on his hair, soft as the touch of a bird. Herfingers crept down his forehead and closed over his eyes firmly andtenderly--a precaution which was unnecessary in the darkness--for she wasleaning over his chair and her hair, dusky as the night itself, fell overhis face like a curtain. 

"Then I think it is a stupid game--and I do not want to play it anylonger ... Marcos. "