The ground was soft and mossy and the roar of the
river covered the tread of the careful horse.
In a few minutes they reached the water’s edge,
and after a moment’s hesitation the Moor stepped
boldly in. On the other bank Marcos whispered
to Juanita to drop to the ground.
“The cottage is here,” he said. “I
shall leave the horse in their shed.”
He descended from the saddle and they stood for a
moment side by side.
“Let us wait a few moments, the moon is rising,”
said Marcos. “Perhaps the Carlists have
been here.”
As he spoke the sky grew lighter. In a minute
or two a waning moon looked out over the sharp outline
of hill and flooded the valley with a reddish light.
“It is all right,” he said; nothing is
disturbed here. They are asleep in the cottage;
the noise of the river must have drowned the firing.
They are friends of mine; they will give us some food
for to-morrow morning and another dress for you.
You cannot go in that.”
“Oh!” laughed Juanita, “I have taken
the veil. It is done now and cannot be undone.”
She raised her hands to the wings of her spreading
cap as if to defend it against all comers. And
Marcos, turning, suddenly threw his uninjured arm
round her, imprisoning her struggling arms. He
held her thus a prisoner while with his injured hand
he found the strings of the cap. In a moment
the starched linen fluttered out, fell into the river,
and was carried swirling away.
Juanita was still laughing, but Marcos did not answer
to her gaiety. She recollected at that instant
having once threatened to dress as a nun in order
to alarm Marcos, and Sarrion’s grave remark that
it would of a certainty frighten him.
They were silent for a moment. Then Juanita spoke
with a sort of forced lightness.
“You may have only one arm,” she said,
“but it is an astonishingly strong one!”
And she looked at him surreptitiously beneath her
lashes as she stood with her hands on her hair.
In the clouds Marcos tied his horse
to a tree and led the way towards the cottage.
It seemed to be innocent of bars and bolts. The
ford, known to so few, and the evil name of the Wolf,
served instead. The door opened at a push, and
Marcos went in. A wood-fire smouldered on an open
hearth, while the acrid smoke half-filled the room,
blackened by the fumes of peat and charcoal.
Marcos stood on the threshold and called the owner
by name. There was a shuffling sound in an inner
room and the scraping of a match. A minute later
a door was opened and an old woman stood in the aperture,
fully dressed and carrying a lamp above her head.
“Ah!” she said. “It is you.
I thought it was the voice of a friend. And you
have your pretty wife there. What are you doing
abroad at this hour ... the Carlists?”
“Yes,” answered Marcos, rather quickly,
“the Carlists. We cannot pass by the road,
so have sent the carriage back and are going across
the mountains.”
