“No.”
“Because you never pretended that you cared.
If you had pretended that you cared for me, I should
never have forgiven you.”
Marcos did not answer. He looked up slowly, expecting
perhaps to find her looking elsewhere. But her
eyes met his and she shrank back with an involuntary
movement that seemed to be of fear. Her face flushed
all over and then the colour faded from it, leaving
her white and motionless as she sat staring into the
flickering wood-fire.
Presently she rose and walked to the edge of the plateau
upon which the hut was built. She stood there
looking across to the mountains.
Marcos busied himself with the simple possessions
of his host, setting them in order where he had found
them and treading out the smouldering embers of the
fire. Juanita turned and watched him over her
shoulder with a mystic persistency. Beneath her
lashes lurked a smile—triumphant and tender.
Le Gant de velours They accomplished
the rest of the journey without accident. The
old spirit of adventure which had led them to these
mountains while they were yet children seemed to awaken
again, and they were as comrades. But Juanita
was absent-minded. She was not climbing skilfully.
At one place far above trees or other vegetation she
made a false step and sent a great rock rolling down
the slope.
“You must be careful,” said Marcos, almost
sharply. “You are not thinking what you
are doing.”
And Juanita suffered the reproof with an unwonted
meekness. She was more careful while they passed
over a dangerous slope where the snow had softened
in the morning sun, and came to the topmost valley—an
oval basin of rocks and snow with no visible outlet.
Immediately below them, at the foot of a slope, which
looked quite feasible, lay huddled the body of a man.
“It is a Carlist,” explained Marcos.
“We heard some time ago that they had been trying
to find another way over to Torre Garda. That
valley is a trap. That is not the way to Torre
Garda at all; and that slope is solid ice. See,
his knife lies beside him. He tried to cut steps
before he died. This is our way.”
And he led Juanita rather hastily away. At nine
o’clock they passed the last shoulder and stood
above Torre Garda, and the valley of the Wolf lying
in the sunlight below them. The road down the
valley lay like a yellow ribbon stretched across the
broad breast of Nature.
Half an hour later they reached the pine woods, and
heard Perro barking on the terrace. The dog soon
came panting to meet them, and not far behind him
Sarrion, whose face betrayed no surprise at perceiving
Juanita.
“You would have been safer at Pampeluna,”
he said with a keen glance into her face.
“I am quite safe enough here, thank you,”
she answered, meeting his eyes with a steady smile.
