.

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to follow Uncle Ramon down to the valley. There must be
hundreds of wounded. I can do something----"

"Then I forbid you to go. It is permissible for Marcos to identify
himself with such proceedings--in protection of those whom Providence has
placed under his care. Indeed I should expect it of him. It is his duty
to defend Torre Garda."

Juanita looked at the supine form in the easy chair.

"Yes," she answered. "And I am mistress of Torre Garda."

Which, perhaps, had a double meaning, for when she closed the door--not
without emphasis--Cousin Peligros sat upright with a start.

Juanita hurried out of the house and ran down the road winding on the
slope to the village. The smoke choked her; the air was impregnated with
sulphur. It seemed impossible that anybody could have lived through these
hellish minutes that were passed. In front of her she saw Sarrion
hurrying in the same direction. A moment later she gave a little cry of
joy. Marcos was riding up the slope at a gallop. He pulled up when he saw
his father and by the time he had quitted the saddle, Juanita was with
him.

Marcos' face was gray beneath the sunburn. His eyes were bloodshot and
his lips were pressed upward in a line of deadly resolution. It was the
face of a man who had seen something that he would never forget. He
looked at his father.

"Evasio Mon," he said.

"Killed?"

Marcos nodded his head.

"You did not do it?" said Sarrion sharply.

"No. They found him among the Carlists, There were five or six priests.
It was Zeneta--wounded himself--who recognised him and told me. He was
not dead when Zeneta found him--and he spoke. 'Always the losing game,'
he said. Then he smiled--and died."

Sarrion turned and led the way slowly back again towards the house.
Juanita seemed to have forgotten her intention of going to the valley to
offer help to the nursing-sisters who lived in the village.

Marcos' horse, the Moor, was shaking and dragged on the bridle which he
had slipped over his arm. He jerked angrily at the reins, looking back
with a little exclamation of impatience. Juanita took the bridle from his
arm and led the horse which followed her quietly enough. She said nothing
and asked no questions. But she was watching Marcos' face--wondering,
perhaps, if it would ever soften again.

Sarrion was the first to speak.

"Poor Mon," he said, half addressing Juanita. "He was never a fortunate
man. He too