He turned away from her and walked slowly towards
the library window which stood open and gave passage
to the sound of moving cups and saucers. We all
carry with us through life the remembrance of certain
words probably forgotten by the speaker. A few
bear the keener, sharper memory of words unspoken.
Juanita never forgot the silence of Evasio Mon as
he walked away from her.
A moment later she heard him laughing and talking
in the library.
He had come on horseback and Sarrion accompanied him
to the stables on his departure. They were both
young for their years. The Spaniards of the north
are thin and lithe and long-lived. Sarrion offered
his hand for Mon’s knee, who with this aid sprang
into the saddle.
He turned and looked towards the terrace.
“Juanita,” he said, and paused. “She
is no longer a child. One hopes that she may
have a happy life ... seeing that so many do not.”
Sarrion made no answer.
“We are not weaklings,” continued Mon
lightly. “You, and Marcos and I. We may
sweat and toil as we will—but believe me,
there is more power in Juanita’s little finger.
It is the casting vote—amigo—the
casting vote.”
He waved a salutation as he rode away.
La main de FER Juanita was very early
astir the next morning. The house was peculiarly
quiet, but she knew that Marcos, if he had been abroad,
had now returned; for Perro was lying on the terrace
in the sunlight watching the library window.
Juanita went to that room and there found Marcos writing
letters. A map of the Valley of the Wolf lay
open on the table beside him.
“You are always writing letters,” she
said. “You began writing them on the splash-board
of the carriage at the mouth of the valley and you
have been doing it ever since.”
“They are making use of my knowledge of the
valley,” he replied. He continued his task
after a very quick glance up at her. Juanita had
found out that he rarely looked at her.
“I am not at all tired after our adventure,”
she said. “I made up last night for the
want of sleep. Do I look tired?”
“Not at all,” answered Marcos, glancing
no higher than her waist.
“But I had a dream,” she said. “It
was so vivid that I am not sure now that it was a
dream. I am not sure that I did not in reality
get out of bed quite early in the morning, before
daylight, when the moon was just touching the mountains,
and look out of my window. And the terrace, Marcos,
was covered with soldiers; rows and rows of them, like
shadows. And at the end, beneath my window, stood
a group of men. Some were officers; one looked
like General Pacheco, fat with a chuckling laugh;
another seemed to be Captain Zeneta—the
friend who stood by us in the chapel of Our Lady of
the Shadows—who was saying his prayers,
you remember. Most young men are too conceited
to say their prayers nowadays. And there were
two civilians, in riding-boots all dusty, who looked
singularly like you and Uncle Ramon. It was an
odd dream, Marcos—was it not?”
