Juanita read the paper now by the light of the candles
which Sor Teresa set on the table. It was a curt,
military document without explanation or unnecessary
mitigation of the truth. For Pampeluna had seen
the like before and understood this business thoroughly.
“You can think about it,” said Sor Teresa,
folding the paper and placing it in her pocket.
“I will send you something to eat and drink in
this room.”
She closed the door, leaving Juanita to realise the
grim fact that—shape our lives how we will,
with all foresight—every care—the
history of the world or of a nation will suddenly
break into the story of the single life and march
over it with a giant stride.
Presently a lay-sister brought refreshments and set
the tray on the table without speaking. Juanita
knew her well—and she, doubtless, knew
Juanita’s story; for her pious face was drawn
into lines indicative of the deepest disapproval.
Juanita ate heartily enough, not noticing the cold
simplicity of the fare. She had finished before
Sor Teresa returned and without thinking of what she
was doing, had rearranged the tray after the manner
of the refectory. She was standing by the window
which she had opened. The sounds of war came
into the room with startling distinctness. The
boom of the distant guns disputing the advance of
the Carlists; while nearer, the bugles called the
men to arms and the heavy tramp of feet came and went
in the Calle de la Dormitaleria.
“Well,” asked Sor Teresa. “What
have you decided to do?”
Juanita listened to the alarm of war for a moment
before turning from the window.
“It is not a false alarm?” she inquired.
“The Carlists are really out?”
For she had fallen into the habit of the Northern
Provinces, of speaking of the insurrection as if it
were a recurrent flood.
“They have been preparing all the winter,”
answered Sor Teresa.
“And Pampeluna is to be invested?”
“Yes.”
“And Torre Garda?...”
“Torre Garda,” answered the nun, “is
to be taken this time. The Carlists have decided
to besiege it. It is at the mouth of the valley
that the fighting is taking place.”
“Then I will go back to Torre Garda,”
said Juanita.
At the ford “They will allow
two nuns to pass anywhere,” said Sor Teresa with
her chilling smile as she led the way to her own cell
in the corridor overhead. She provided Juanita
with that dress which is a passport through any quarter
of a town, across any frontier; to any battlefield.
So Juanita took the veil at last—in order
to return to Marcos.
Sor Teresa’s words proved true enough at the
city gates where the sentinels recognised her and
allowed her carriage to pass across the drawbridge
by a careless nod of acquiescence to the driver.
It was a clear dark night without a moon. The
prevailing wind which hurries down from the Pyrenees
to the warmer plains of Spain stirred the budding
leaves of the trees that border the road below the
town walls.
