e daylight, when the moon was just
touching the mountains, and look out of my window. And the terrace,
Marcos, was covered with soldiers; rows and rows of them, like shadows.
And at the end, beneath my window, stood a group of men. Some were
officers; one looked like General Pacheco, fat with a chuckling laugh;
another seemed to be Captain Zeneta--the friend who stood by us in the
chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows--who was saying his prayers, you
remember. Most young men are too conceited to say their prayers nowadays.
And there were two civilians, in riding-boots all dusty, who looked
singularly like you and Uncle Ramon. It was an odd dream, Marcos--was it
not?"

"Yes," answered he with a laugh. "Do not tell it to the wrong people as
Joseph did."

"No, your reverence," she said. She stood looking at him with grave eyes.

"Is there going to be a battle?" she asked, curtly.

"Yes."

"Where?"

He pointed down into the valley with his pen.

"Just above the bridge if it all comes off as they have planned."

She went out on to the terrace and looked down into the valley, which was
peaceful enough in the morning light. The thin smoke of the pine
wood-fires rose from the chimneys in columns of brilliant blue. The sheep
on the slopes across the valley were calling to their lambs. Then Juanita
returned to the library window and stood on the threshold, with brooding
eyes and a bright patch of colour in her cheeks.

"Will you do me a favour?" she asked.

"Of course."

He lifted his pen from the paper, but did not look up.

"If there is a battle--if there is any fighting, will you take great care
of yourself? It would be so terrible if anything happened to you ... for
Uncle Ramon I mean."

"Yes," answered Marcos, gravely. "I understand. I promise to take care."

Juanita still lingered at the window.

"And you always keep your promises, don't you? To the letter?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"No, of course not. It is characteristic of you, that is all. Your
promise is a sort of rock that nothing can move. Women, you know, make a
promise and then ask to be let off; you would not do that?"

"No," answered Marcos, quite simply.

In Navarre the hours of meals are much the same as those that rule in
England to-day. At one o'clock luncheon both Marcos and Sarrion were at
home. The valley seemed quiet enough. The soldiers of Juanita's dream
seemed to have vanished like the shadows to which she compared them.

"I am sure,"