Before reaching the village she overtook a traveling-carriage going at a walking pace down the hill.  The carriage, which was old-fashioned in build, and set high upon its narrow wheels, was empty.

“Where are you going?” asked Juanita, of the man who took off his hat to her, almost as if he had expected her.

“I am returning to Pampeluna, empty, Excellency,” he answered.  “I have brought the baggage of Senor Mon, who is traveling over the mountains on horseback.  I am hoping to get a fare from Torre Garda back to Pampeluna, if I have the good fortune.”

The coincidence was rather startling.  Juanita had always been considered a lucky girl, however; one for whom the smaller chances of daily existence were invariably kind.  She accepted this as another instance of the indulgence of fate in small things.  She was not particularly glad or surprised.  A dull indifference had come over her.  The small things of daily life had never engrossed her mind.  She was quite indifferent to them now.  It was her intention to get to Pampeluna, through all difficulties, and the incidents of the road occupied no place in her thoughts.  She was vaguely confident that no one could absolutely stand in her way.  Had not Evasio Mon said that the Pope would willingly annul her marriage?

She was thinking these thoughts as she drove through the little mountain village.

“What is that—­it sounds like thunder or guns?” inquired Evasio Mon, pausing in his late and simple luncheon in the dining-room.

“A clerical ear like yours should not know the sound of guns,” replied Sarrion with a curt laugh.  “It is not that, however.  It is a cart or a carriage crossing the bridge below the village.”

Mon nodded his head and continued to give his attention to his plate.

“Juanita looks well—­and happy,” he said, after a pause.

Sarrion looked at him and made no reply.  He was borrowing from the absent Marcos a trick of silence which he knew to be effective in a subtle war of words.

“Do you not think so?”

“I am sure of it, Evasio.”

Sarrion was wondering why he had come to Torre Garda—­this stormy petrel of clerical politics—­whose coming never boded good.  Mon was much too wise to be audacious for audacity’s sake.  He was not a theatrical man, but one who had worked consistently and steadily for a cause all through his life.  He was too much in earnest to consider effect or heed danger.

“I am not on the winning side, but I am sure that I am on the right one,” he had once said in public.  And the speech went the round of Spain.

After he had finished luncheon he spoke of taking his leave, and asked if he might be allowed to congratulate Marcos on his escape.

“It should be a warning to him,” he went on, “not to ride at night.  To do so is to court mishap in these narrow mountain roads.”

“Yes,” said Sarrion, slowly.