“Yes.”

“Then I will go with you,” she said with her hand already on the door.

“It is sixteen miles,” said Marcos, “over the high mountains.  The last part can only be done by daylight.  I shall be in the mountains all night.”

Juanita had opened the door.  She stood on the step looking up at him as he sat on the tall black horse,

“If you will take me,” she said in French, “I will come with you.”

Sor Teresa was silent still.  She had not spoken since Marcos had pulled up his sweating horse in the lamplight.  What a simple world this would be if more of its women knew when to hold their tongues!

Marcos, fresh from a bed of sickness was not fit to undertake this journey.  He must already be tired out; for she knew that it was Marcos who had followed their carriage from Pampeluna.  She guessed that finding no troops where he expected to find them he had ridden ahead to discover the cause of it and had passed unheard through the Carlist ambush and back again through the zone of fire.  That Juanita could accomplish the journey on foot to Torre Garda seemed doubtful.  The country was unsafe; the snows had hardly melted.  It was madness for a wounded man and a girl to attempt to reach Torre Garda through a pass held by the enemy.  But Sor Teresa said nothing.

Marcos sat motionless in the saddle.  His face was above the radius of the reversed carriage-lamp, while Juanita standing on the dusty road in her nun’s dress looking up at him, was close to the glaring light.  It is to be presumed that he was watching her descend from the carriage and then turn to shut the door on Sor Teresa.  By his silence, Marcos seemed to consent to this arrangement.

He came forward into the light now.  In his hand he held a paper which he was unfolding.  Juanita recognised the letter she had written to him in the drawing-room at Torre Garda.  He tore the blank sheet off and folding the letter closely, replaced it in his pocket.  Then he laid the blank sheet on the dusty splash-board of the carriage and wrote a few words in pencil.

“You must get back to Pampeluna,” he said to the driver in that tone of command which is the only survival of feudal days now left in Europe—­and even the modern Spaniards are losing it—­“at any cost—­you understand.  If you meet the reinforcements on the road give this note to the commanding officer.  Take no denial; give it into his own hand.  If you meet no troops go straight to the house of the commandant at Pampeluna and give the letter to him.  You will see that it is done,” he said in a lower voice, turning to Sor Teresa.

The man protested that nothing short of death would prevent his carrying out the instructions.

“It will be worth your while,” said Marcos.  “It will be remembered afterwards.”

He paused deep in thought.  There were a hundred things to be considered at that moment; quickly and carefully.  For he was going into the Valley of the Wolf, cut off from all the world by two armies watching each other with a deadly hatred.