“Yes,” said Marcos.
She held out her hand as she had seen the peasants
in Torre Garda when they had struck a bargain and
would seal it irrevocably.
“Touch it,” she said with a gay laugh,
as she had heard them say.
And they shook hands in the dark cloisters.
“There is a window at the end of the passage
in which is your room,” said Marcos. “It
looks out on to a small courtyard and is quite near
the ground. Come to that window to-morrow night
at ten o’clock and I shall be there.”
“What for?” she asked.
“To be married,” he answered. “My
father and I will arrange it. We shall both be
there. If you do not come to-morrow night I shall
come again the next night. You will be back in
your room by half-past eleven.”
“Married?” asked Juanita.
“Yes.”
He had risen and was standing in front of her.
“And now you must go back to the Cathedral.”
“But Sor Teresa’s breviary?”
“She has it in her pocket,” said Marcos.
Our lady of the shadows
There were great clouds in the sky when the moon rose
the next night and one of them threw Pampeluna into
dark shadows when Marcos took his place in the little
passage between the School in the Calle de la Dormitaleria
and the next building. The window at the end of
the passage where Juanita and Sor Teresa and some
of the more favoured of the girls had their rooms,
was about six feet above the ground.
Marcos took his post immediately underneath and stretching
his arm up took hold of one of the two bars, and waited.
Juanita looking from the door of her room could thus
see his clenched hand and must know that he was waiting.
The clocks of the city struck ten. Immediately
afterwards the watchmen began their cry. The
city was already asleep.
It was very cold. Marcos changed his hand from
time to time and breathed on his fingers. He
carried a cloak for Juanita. The striking of the
quarter found him still waiting beneath the window.
But, soon after, Marcos’ heart gave a leap to
his throat at the touch of cold fingers on his wrist.
It was Juanita. He threw the cloak down and placing
his heel on the sill of a lower window near the ground
he raised himself to the level of the bars.
“Oh, Marcos!” whispered Juanita in his
ear, through the open window.
He edged his shoulder in between the two bars which
were fixed perpendicularly, and being strongly built
he only found room to introduce his two thumbs within
that which pressed against his chest. He slowly
straightened his arms and the iron gave an audible
creak. It was a hundred years old, all rust-worn
and attenuated.
“There,” he said, “you can get through
that.”
“Yes,” she answered. She was shivering
and yet half laughing.
“Listen,” she whispered, drawing him towards
her. “Sor Teresa’s door is open.
You can hear her snoring. Listen!”
