“One sees,” he said, “that he has
a nun to care for him.”
He smiled faintly, so that his features fell into
the lines that hunger draws. But Juanita looked
at him with grave eyes and did not answer to his pleasantry.
Then he turned to Sarrion.
“It was only by the kindness of a mere acquaintance,”
he said, “that I was enabled to get here so
soon. My own horses were tired out with a hard
day yesterday, and I was going out to seek others in
Pampeluna—no easy task on market-day—when
I met a travelling carriage on the Plaza de la Constitution
Its owner must have divined my haste, for he offered
assistance, and on hearing my story, and whither I
was bound, he gave up his intended journey, decided
to remain a few days longer in Pampeluna and placed
his carriage at my disposal. I hardly know the
man at all—though he tells me that he is
an old friend of yours. He lives in Saragossa.”
“Ah!” said Sarrion, who was listening
with rather marked attention.
Juanita had moved away, but she was standing now,
listening also, looking back over her shoulder with
waiting eyes.
“It was the Senior Evasio Mon,” said the
doctor. And in the silence that followed, Marcos
stirred in his sleep, as if he, too, had heard the
name.
Kind inquiries For the next fortnight Juanita
remained in supreme command at Torre Garda, exercising
that rule which she said she had acquired at the convent
school. It had, in reality, come to her straight
from Heaven, as it comes to all women. Is it
not part of the gentler soul to care for the helpless
and the sick? Just as it is in a man’s heart
to fight the world for a woman’s sake.
Marcos made a quick recovery. His broken bones
knit together like the snapped branch of a young tree.
His cuts and bruises healed themselves unaided.
“He has no nerves,” said Juanita.
“You should see a nun when she is ill!
St. Luke and all the saints have their hands full,
I can tell you.”
With returning health came energy. Indeed, the
patient had never lost his grip of the world.
Many from the valley came to make inquiry. Some
left a message of condolence. Some departed with
a grunt, indicative of satisfaction. A few of
the more cultivated gave their names to the servant
as they drank a glass of red wine in the kitchen.
“Say it was Pedro from the mill.”
“Tell him that Three Fingered Thomas passed
by,” muttered another, grudgingly.
“It is I, so-called Short Knife, who came to
ask,” explained a third, tapping the sheath
of his baptismal weapon.
“How far have you come?” asked Juanita,
who found these gentlemen entertaining.
“Seventeen miles from the mountain,” was
the reply.
“All your friends are calling to inquire after
your health,” said Juanita to Marcos. “They
are famous brigands, and make one think fondly of the
Guardia Civile. There are not many razors in the
valley, and I am sure there is no soap.”
