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Updated: May 18, 2025
"That neither you nor any other in the world may see or speak to her but I 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, continued entirely fruitless. Evasio Mon it appeared was on a pilgrimage. Sor Teresa had gone to Pampeluna. The inexorable gate of the convent school remained shut to all comers.
Sarrion smiled a little dryly and glanced towards Marcos, who had met and overcome 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 take the other, while with her right hand she took Marcos' left arm. "There," she cried, with a laugh.
She gave a sharp sigh and made no answer to Sarrion's hope that she would have a pleasant journey. "I have arranged," said Marcos, "that two troopers accompany you as far as Pampeluna, though the country will be quiet enough to-day. Pacheco has pacified it."
"But," he said, "you see how it is with Marcos. The Valley of the Wolf is his care and he dare not leave it for many days together." When the parting came Juanita made light of it, herself turning Sarrion's fur collar up about his ears and buttoning his coat. For despite his sixty years he was a hardy man, and never made use of a closed carriage. It was a dark night with no moon.
But there were some in high places who knew that a great danger had been averted. Cousin Peligros had consented to Sarrion's proposal that she should for a time make her home with him, either at Torre Garda or at Saragossa. She had lived in troublous times, but was convinced that the Carlists, like Heaven, made special provision for ladies.
Sarrion, like all who knew their strange story, was ready enough to recognise the fact that the Jesuit body must be divided into two parts of head and heart. The heart has done the best work that missionaries have yet accomplished. The head has ruined half Europe. It was the political Jesuit who had earned Sarrion's deadly hatred.
Marcos' window was shut, which meant that he was not there. When he was at 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 window was ajar. The Spaniards have the habit of the open air more than any other nation of Europe. She pushed the window open. "Uncle Ramon," she whispered. But Sarrion was asleep.
The spring comes early on the Southern slope of the Pyrenees. It was a warm night and there had been no rain for some days. The dust lay thickly on the road, muffling the beat of the horse's feet. The Wolf roared in its narrow bed. The road, only recently made practicable for carriages at Sarrion's expense, was not a safe one.
Marcos made no reply, but walked on, wrapt in thought. "I must see Juanita," he said, at length, after a long silence, and Sarrion's wise eyes were softened by a smile which flitted across them like a flash of sunlight across a darkened field. "Remember," he said, "that Juanita is a child. She cannot be expected to know her own mind for at least three years."
It was on Sarrion'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 it is 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.
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