Near the great porch on either side of the bishop’s path were ranged the seminarists, in cassocks of black with a dark blue or red hood—­depressing looking youths with flaccid faces and an unhealthy eye.  Behind them stood a group of friars in rough woolen garments of brown, with heads clean shaven all but an inch of closely cut hair like a halo on a saint.  They seemed cheerful and were laughing and joking among themselves while the procession passed.

Behind these, on their knees, were the girls of the convent school—­and all around them closed in the crowd.  Juanita was at one end of the row and Sor Teresa at the other.  Juanita was looking about her.  Her special opportunities for prayer and reflection had perhaps had the effect that such opportunities may be expected to have, and she was a little weary of all this to-do about the world to come; for she was young and this present world seemed worthy of consideration.  She glanced backwards over her shoulder as the Archbishop passed with his following of candles, and gave a little start.  Marcos was kneeling on the pavement behind her.  Sor Teresa was looking straight in front of her between the wings of her great cap.  It was hard to say whether she saw Juanita, or was aware that a man was kneeling immediately behind herself, almost on the hem of her flowing black robes—­her own brother, Sarrion.

The procession moved away down the length of the great building and left darkness behind it.  Already there was a stir among the people, for it was late and many had come from a distance.

The great doors, rarely used, were slowly cast open and in the darkness the crowd surged forward.  Juanita was nearest to the door.  She looked round and Sor Teresa made a motion with her head telling her to lead the way.  Marcos was at her side.  A few men in cloaks, and some in shirt-sleeves, seemed to be grouped by chance around him.  He looked back and made a little movement of the head towards his father.

Juanita felt herself pushed from behind.  Before her, singularly enough, was a clear pathway between the crowds.  Behind her a thousand people pressed forward towards the exit.  She hurried out and glancing back on the steps saw that she had become separated from the school and from the nuns by a number of men.  But Marcos’ hand was already on her arm.

“Come,” he said, “I want to speak to you.  It is all right.  My father is beside Sor Teresa.”

“What fun!” she answered in a whisper.  “Let us be quick.”

And a moment later they were running side by side down a narrow street, where a single lamp swung from a gibbet at the corner and flickered in the wind of Saragossa.

It was Juanita who stopped suddenly.

“Oh, Marcos,” she cried, “I forgot; we are not to walk home.  There is an omnibus to meet us as usual at these late services.”

“It will not come,” replied Marcos.  “The driver is waiting to tell Sor Teresa that his horses are lame and he cannot come.”