t
innocent of blots--which she addressed to Marcos. She left it on the
writing-table and carrying her cloak over her arm she hurried down a
zigzag path concealed in a thicket of scrub-oak to the village of Torre
Garda.

Before reaching the village she overtook a traveling-carriage going at a
walking pace down the hill. The carriage, which was old-fashioned in
build, and set high upon its narrow wheels, was empty.

"Where are you going?" asked Juanita, of the man who took off his hat to
her, almost as if he had expected her.

"I am returning to Pampeluna, empty, Excellency," he answered. "I have
brought the baggage of Senor Mon, who is traveling over the mountains on
horseback. 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 considered
a lucky girl, however; one for whom the smaller chances of daily
existence were invariably kind. She accepted this as another instance of
the indulgence of fate in small things. She was not particularly glad or
surprised. A dull indifference had come over her. The small things of
daily life had never engrossed her mind. She was quite indifferent to
them now. It was her intention to get to Pampeluna, through all
difficulties, and the incidents of the road occupied no place in her
thoughts. She was vaguely confident that no one could absolutely stand in
her way. Had not Evasio Mon said that the Pope would willingly annul her
marriage?

She was thinking these thoughts as she drove through the little mountain
village.

"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," replied
Sarrion with a curt laugh. "It is not that, however. It is a cart or a
carriage 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 absent
Marcos a trick of silence which he knew to be effective in a subtle war
of words.

"Do you not think so?"

"I am sure of it, Evasio."

Sarrion was wondering why he had come to Torre Garda--this stormy petrel
of clerical politics--whose coming never boded good. Mon was much too
wise to be audacious for audacity's sake. He was not a theatrical m