luna; would
Marcos ride down to the camp and hear details?

Marcos rose at once and threw his cigarette away. He looked towards the
lighted windows of the drawing-room.

"No good saying anything about it," he said. "I shall be back by
breakfast time. They will probably not notice my absence."

He was gone--the sound of his horse's feet was drowned in the voice of
the river--before Juanita came out to the terrace, a slim shadowy form in
her white evening dress. She stood for a minute or two in silence, until,
her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, she perceived Sarrion and
an empty chair. Perro usually walked gravely to her and stood in front of
her awaiting a jest whenever she came. She looked round. Perro was not
there.

"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 stone
balustrade 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 by
Cousin 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 in
silence looking down into the valley.

CHAPTER XXI

JUANITA GROWS UP
Marcos' horse, the Moor, had performed the journey to Pampeluna once in
the 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 was
not in a mood to spare his beast. Men who live in stirring times and meet
death face to face quite familiarly from day to day, as Englishmen meet
the rain, soon acquire the philosophy which consists in taking the good
things the gods send them, unhesitatingly and thankfully.

Juanita was at Torre Garda at last--after months of patient waiting and
watching, after dangers foreseen and faced--that was enough for Marcos de
Sarrion.

He therefore pressed his horse. Although he was alert and watchful
because it was his habit to be so, he was less careful perhaps than
usual; he rode at a greater pace than was prudent on such a road, by so
dark a night.

The spring comes early on the Southern