u come this afternoon to the old monastery on the Villaba road
and see Leon?" asked Marcos.

"Oh, yes," laughed his father. "I shall enjoy it." It was the hour of the
siesta when they quitted the town on horseback by the Puerta de Rochapea
which gives exit to the city on the northern side. It had been sunny
since morning, and the snow had melted from the roads, but the hills
across the plain were still white and great drifts were piled against the
ramparts, forming a natural buttress from the summit of the steep river
bank almost to the deep embrasures of the wall.

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

There are two old monasteries on the Villaba road; huge buildings within
a high wall, each owning a chapel which stands apart from the
dwelling-house. It is a known fact that the Carlists have never
threatened these buildings which stand far outside the town. It is also a
fact that the range of them has been carefully measured by the artillery
officers, and the great guns on the city walls were at this time trained
on the isolated buildings to batter them to the ground at the first sign
of treachery.

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

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

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

He made a movement to close the door, but Marcos put his thickly booted
foot in the interstice. Then he placed his shoulder against the
weather-worn door and pushed it open, sending the monk staggering back.
Sarrion followed and was in time to place himself between the monk and
the 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 the
other with sullen eyes.

"So far as that goes, no more have you," said Marcos. "There are no
monasteries 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 wi