“I have arranged,” said Marcos, “that two troopers accompany you as far as Pampeluna, though the country will be quiet enough to-day.  Pacheco has pacified it.”

“I thank you,” replied Cousin Peligros, who included domestic servants in her category of persons in whose presence it is unladylike to be natural.

She bowed to them and the carriage moved away.  She was one of those fortunate persons who never see themselves as others see them, but move through existence surrounded by a halo, or a haze, of self-complacency, through which their perception cannot penetrate.  The charitable were ready to testify that there was no harm in her.  Hers was merely one of a million lives in which man can find no fault and God no fruit.

Soon after her departure Sarrion and Marcos set out on horseback towards the village.  There was another traveler there awaiting their Godspeed on a longer journey, towards a peace which he had never known.  It was in the house of the old cura of Torre Garda that Sarrion looked his last on the man with whom he had played in childhood’s days—­with whom he had never quarrelled, though he had tried to do so often enough.  The memory he retained of Evasio Mon was not unpleasant; for he was smiling as he lay in the darkened room of the priest’s humble house.  He was bland even in death.

“I shall go and place some flowers on his grave,” said Juanita, as they sat on the terrace after luncheon and Sarrion smoked his cigarettes.  “Now that I have forgiven him.”

Marcos was sitting sideways on the broad balustrade, swinging one foot in its dusty riding-boot.  He could see Juanita from where he sat.  He usually could see her from where he elected to sit.  But when she turned he was never looking at her.  She had only found this out lately.

“Have you forgiven him already?” asked he, with his dark eyes fixed on her half averted face.  “I knew that it was easy to forget the dead, but to forgive ...”

“Oh—­it was not when he was killed that I forgave him.”

“Then when was it?”

Juanita laughed lightly and shook her head.

“I am not going to tell you that,” she answered.  “It is a secret between Evasio Mon and myself.  He will understand when I place the flowers on his grave ... as much as men ever do understand.”

She vouchsafed no explanation of this ambiguous speech, but sat in silence looking with contemplative eyes across the valley.  Sarrion was seated a few yards away.  At times he glanced through the cigarette smoke at Juanita and Marcos.  Suddenly he drew in his feet and sat upright.

“Dinner at seven to-night,” he said, briskly.  “If you have no objection.”

“Why?” asked Juanita.

“I am going to Saragossa.”