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"I knew it would come sooner or later," said Marcos, who winced as he drew his sleeve over his injured arm. He was very quiet and collected, as people usually are in face of a long anticipated danger which when it comes at last brings with it a dull sense of relief. Sarrion made no reply. Perhaps he, too, had anticipated this moment. A girl is a closed book.
"Yes." "Then think again and tell me whether you, as a man of the world, can for a moment imagine that Juanita's chance of happiness would be greater in the convent whether the Church could make her happier than you could if you give her the opportunity of leading the life that God created her for." Marcos made no answer. And oddly enough Sarrion seemed to expect none.
The bishop and Sarrion were to go by the midnight train to Saragossa, while the carnage and horses were housed for the night at the inn near the station, a mile from the gates; for this was a time of war, and Pampeluna was a fenced city from nightfall till morning.
Mon was still trying to lead him away from that threshold and Sarrion still stood his ground. Their half-bantering talk suddenly collapsed, and they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment. Both were what may 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.
When Sarrion returned to the room a minute later she was carefully and slowly cutting the sleeve of the injured arm. "Do you know, Uncle Ramon," she said cheerfully, "I am sure I am positively certain he will recover, poor old Marcos." Sarrion glanced at her sharply, as if he had detected a new note in her voice. And his eye fell on her left hand. He made no answer.
There was only one place for Zeneta's men to run to now the castle of Torre Garda. They were already at the foot of the slope. Juanita and Sarrion could distinguish the slim form of their commander walking along the road behind his men, sword in hand. Sometimes he ran a few steps, but for the most part he walked with long, steady strides, shepherding his men.
He might have meant much or nothing. As it happened, 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 in a day."
"She says she is going to-morrow." Sarrion gave a short laugh and turned over the newspaper that he was reading. Juanita was reading an English book, with a dictionary which she never consulted when Marcos was near. She looked over its pages into the fire. "Then let her go," she said slowly and distinctly. And in a silence which followed, the colour slowly mounted to her face.
"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 the spring is coming," said she, conversationally. "Don't you think so?" She glanced at Marcos as she spoke, but the remark must have been addressed to Sarrion, whose reply was inaudible.
Sarrion now took the lead in conversation, and proffered the usual condolences and desire to help, in the formal Spanish way. He could hardly conceal his contempt for Leon, who, for his part, was not free from embarrassment.
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