“Oh ...” groaned Cousin Peligros.
“What is it?” inquired Marcos practically.
“What is the matter with her?”
“She has just been told that we are married,”
explained Juanita, airily. “And I think
you shocked her by mentioning my clothes. You
shouldn’t do it, Marcos.”
And she went and stood by Cousin Peligros with her
hand upon her shoulder as if to protect her.
She shook her head gravely at Marcos.
Cousin Peligros rose rigidly and walked towards the
door.
“I will go,” she said. “I will
see that your room is in order. I have never
before been made an object of ridicule in a gentleman’s
house.”
“But we may surely laugh and be happy in a gentleman’s
house, may we not?” cried Juanita, running after
her, and throwing one arm round her rather unbending
and capacious waist. “You are an old dear,
and you must not be so solemn about it. Marcos
and I are only married for fun, you know.”
And the door closed behind them, shutting off Juanita’s
voluble explanations.
“You see,” said Sarrion, after a pause.
“She is happy enough.”
“Now,” answered Marcos. “But
she may find out some day that she is not.”
Juanita came back before long and found Sarrion alone.
“Where is Marcos?” she asked.
“He is taking a siesta,” answered Sarrion.
“Like a poor man.”
“Yes, like a poor man. He was not in bed
all last night. You had a narrower escape of
being made a nun than you suspect.”
Juanita’s face fell. She went to the window
and stood there looking out.
“When are we going to Torre Garda?” she
asked, after a long silence. “I hate towns
... and people. I want to smell the pines ...
and the bracken.”
AT TORRE GARDA
The river known as the Wolf finds its source in the
eternal snows of the Pyrenees. Amid the solitary
grandeur of the least known mountains in Europe it
rolls and tumbles—tossed hither and thither
in its rocky bed, fed by this and that streamlet from
stony gorges—down to the green valley of
Torre Garda.
Here there is a village crouched on either side of
the river-bed, and above it on a plateau surrounded
by chestnut trees and pines, stands the house of the
Sarrions. In winter the wholesome smell of wood
smoke rising from the chimneys pervades the air.
In summer the warm breath of the pines creeps down
the mountains to mingle with the cooler air that stirs
the bracken.
Below all, summer and winter, at evening and at dawn,
night and day, growls the Wolf—so named
from the continuous low-pitched murmur of its waters
through the defile a mile below the village. The
men of the valley of the Wolf have a hundred tales
of their river in its different moods, and firmly
believe that the voice which is ever in their ears
speaks to such as have understanding, of every change
