nswered Marcos, with a laugh. "All the
valley knows that."

"They are not bad," admitted the mother, "but it is a flower compared to
a cabbage. Still, we can hide the flower in the cabbage leaves if you
like."

And she laughed heartily at her own conceit.

"Then see to it while I put my horse away," said Marcos. He quitted the
hut and overheard the woman pointing out to Juanita that she had lost her
mantilla coming through the trees in the dark. While he attended to his
horse he could hear their laughter and gay conversation over the change
of clothes; for Juanita understood these people as well as he did, and
had grown through childhood to the age of thought in their midst. The
peasant was still pressing a simple hospitality upon Juanita when Marcos
returned to the cottage and found her ready for the journey.

"I was telling the Senora," explained the woman volubly, "that she must
not so much as look inside the cottage in the mountains. I have not been
there for six months and the men--you know what they are. They are no
better than dogs I tell them. There is plenty of clean hay and dry
bracken in the sheds up there and you can well make a soft bed for her to
get some sleep for a few hours. And here I have unfolded a new blanket
for the lady. See, it is white as I bought it. She can use it. It has
never been worn--by us others," she added with perfect simplicity.

Marcos took the blanket while Juanita explained that having slept soundly
every night of her life without exception, she could well now accommodate
herself with a rest of two hours in the hay. The woman pressed upon them
some of her small store of coffee and some new bread.

"He can well prepare your breakfast for you," she said, confidentially to
Juanita. "He is like one of us. All the valley will tell you that. A
great gentleman who can yet cook his own breakfast--as the good God meant
them to be."

They set forth at once in the yellow light of the waning moon, Marcos
leading the way up a pathway hardly discernible amid the rocks and
undergrowth. Once or twice he turned to help Juanita over a hard or a
dangerous place. But they did not talk, as conversation was not only
difficult but inexpedient. They had climbed for two hours, slowly and
steadily, when the barking of a dog on the mountainside above them
notified them that they were nearing their destination.

"Who is it?" asked a voice presently.

"Marcos de Sarrion," replied Marcos. "Strike no l