him.

Marcos leant forward and touched Perro who understood and was still. For
a moment Juanita appeared on the balcony, stepping to the railing and
back again. The shaft of light then remained half obscured by her shadow
as she stood in the window. She was not going to bed until she had heard
Sarrion cross the bridge.

Thus they waited and in a few minutes the low growling voice of the river
was dominated by the hollow echo of the bridge. Sarrion had gone.

Juanita went within her room and extinguished the lamp. It was a warm
night and the pine trees gave out a strong and subtle scent such as they
only emit in spring. The bracken added its discreet breath hardly
amounting to a tangible odour. There were violets, also, not far away.

Perro at Marcos' feet, stirred uneasily and looked up into his master's
face. Instinctively Marcos turned to look over his shoulder. Juanita was
standing close behind him.

"Marcos," she said, quietly, "you remember--long, long ago--in the
cloisters at Pampeluna, when I was only a child--you made a promise. You
promised that you would never interfere in my life."

"Yes."

"I have come ..." she paused and passing in front of him, stood there
with her back to the balustrade and her hands behind her in an attitude
which was habitual to her. "I have come," she began again deliberately,
"to let you off that promise--Not that you have kept it very well, you
know--"

She broke off and gave a short laugh, such as a man may hear perhaps once
in his whole life, and hearing it, must know that he has not lived in
vain.

"But I don't mind," she said.

She moved uneasily. For her eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness,
could discern his face. She returned to the spot where Marcos had first
discovered her, behind his chair.

"And, Marcos--you made another promise. You said that we were only going
to play at being married--a sort of game."

"Yes," he answered steadily. He did not turn. He never saw her hands
stretched out towards him. Then suddenly he gave a start and sat still as
stone. Her hands were on his hair, soft as the touch of a bird. Her
fingers crept down his forehead and closed over his eyes firmly and
tenderly--a precaution which was unnecessary in the darkness--for she was
leaning over his chair and her hair, dusky as the night itself, fell over
his face like a curtain.

"Then I think it is a stupid game--and I do not want to play it any
longer ... Marcos."

En