You will see that it is done," he said in a lower voice,
turning to Sor Teresa.

The man protested that nothing short of death would prevent his carrying
out the instructions.

"It will be worth your while," said Marcos. "It will be remembered
afterwards."

He paused deep in thought. There were a hundred things to be considered
at that moment; quickly and carefully. For he was going into the Valley
of the Wolf, cut off from all the world by two armies watching each other
with a deadly hatred.

The quiet voice of Sor Teresa broke the silence, softly taking its place
in his thoughts. It seemed that the Sarrion brain had the power--the
secret of so much success in this world--of thrusting forth a sure and
steady hand to grasp the heart of a question and tear it from the tangle
of side-issues among which the majority of men and women are condemned to
flounder.

"Where is Evasio Mon?" she asked.

Marcos answered with a low, contented laugh.

"He is trapped in the valley," he said in French. "I have seen to that."

The firing had ceased as suddenly as it had commenced, and a silence only
broken by the voice of the river, now hung over the valley.

"Are you ready?" Sor Teresa asked her driver.

"Yes, Excellency."

"Then go."

She may have nodded a farewell to Marcos and Juanita. But that they could
not see in the blackness of the night. She certainly gave them no spoken
salutation. The carriage moved away at a sharp trot, leaving Marcos and
Juanita alone.

"We can ride some distance and must ford the river higher up," said
Marcos at once. He did not seem to want any explanation. The excitement
of the moment seemed to have wiped out the events of the last few months
like writing off a slate. Juanita was young again, ready to throw herself
headlong into an adventure in the mountains with Marcos such as they had
had together many times during the holidays. But this was better than the
dangers of mere snow and ice. For Juanita had tasted that highest of
emotions, the excitement of battle. She had heard that which some men
having once heard cannot live without, the siren song of a bullet.

"Are we going nearer to the Carlists?" she asked hurriedly. There was
fighting blood in her veins, and the tones of her voice told clearly
enough that it was astir at this moment.

"Yes," answered Marcos. "We must pass underneath them; for the ford is
there. We must be quite noiseless. We must not even whisper."

He edged his