Sarrion rode up to the gate and rang a bell, which clanged with a sort of surreptitiousness just within.  He only rang once, and then waited, posting himself immediately opposite a little grating let into the solid wood of the door.  The window behind the grating seemed to open and shut without sound, for he heard nothing until a woman’s voice asked who was there.

“It is the Count Ramon de Sarrion who must without fail speak to the Sister Superior to-night,” he answered, and composed himself again in the saddle with a southern patience.  He waited a long time before the heavy doors were at length opened.  The horse passed timorously within, with jerking ears and a distended nostril, looking from side to side.  He glanced curiously at the shadowy forms of two women who held the door, and leant their whole weight against it to close it again as soon as possible.

Sarrion dismounted, and drew the bridle through a ring and hook attached to the wall just inside the gates.  No one spoke.  The two nuns noiselessly replaced the heavy bolts.  There was a muffled clank of large keys, and they led the way towards the house.

Just over the threshold was the small room where visitors were asked to wait—­a square, bare apartment with one window set high in the wall, with one lamp burning dimly on the table now.  There were three or four chairs, and that was all.  The bare walls were whitewashed.  The Convent School of the Sisters of the True Faith did not err, at all events, in the heathen indiscretion of a too free hospitality.  The visitors to this room were barely beneath the roof.  The door had in one of its panels the usual grating and shutter.

Sarrion sat down without looking round him, in the manner of a man who knew his surroundings, and took no interest in them.

In a few minutes the door opened noiselessly—­there was a too obtrusive noiselessness within these walls—­and a nun came in.  She was tall, and within the shadow of her cap her eyes loomed darkly.  She closed the door, and, throwing back her veil, came forward.  She leant towards Sarrion, and kissed him, and her face, coming within the radius of the lamp, was the face of a Sarrion.

There was in her action, in the movement of her high-held head, a sudden and startling self-abandonment of affection.  For Spanish women understand above all others the calling of love and motherhood.  And it seemed that Sor Teresa—­known in the world as Dolores Sarrion—­had, like many women, bestowed a thwarted love—­faute de mieux—­upon her brother.

“You are well?” asked Sarrion, looking at her closely.  Her face, framed by a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy.

She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his face and person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words.  A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she is really interested.  She knows without asking.  She stood before him with her hands crossed within the folds of her ample sleeves.  Her face was lost again in the encircling shadow of her cap and veil.  She was erect and motionless in her stiff and heavy clothing.  The momentary betrayal of womanhood and affection was passed, and this was the dreaded Sister Superior of the Convent School again.