Almost immediately Juanita came hurrying back and instinctively drew her mantilla closer at the sight of his shadowy form.  Then she recognised him.

“Oh, Marcos,” she whispered.  “At last.  I thought you had forgotten all about me.”

“Quick,” he answered.  “This way.  We have only ten minutes.”

He took her hand and hurried her back into the cloisters.  He led her to the right, to the corner of the quadrangle farthest removed from the Cathedral where by daylight few pass, and at night none.

“What do you mean?” she asked, “Only ten minutes.”

“It has all been arranged,” he answered.  “I met you here on purpose.  You have only ten minutes in which to settle.”

“To settle what?” she asked with a laugh.

“Your whole life.”

“But one cannot settle one’s life in an Ave Maria,” she said, which means in the twinkling of an eye.  And she looked at him by the dim light and laughed again.  For she was young and they had always made holiday together, and laughed.

“Did you mean that letter which you wrote to my father about going into religion?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I suppose so.  I meant it at the time, Marcos.  It seems to be the only thing to do.  Everything seems to point to it.  Every sermon I hear.  Everything I read.  Everything any one ever says to me.  But now—­” she turned and looked at him, “—­now that I see you again I cannot think how I did it.”

“Am I so very worldly?”

“Of course you are.  And yet I suppose you have some chance of salvation.  It seems to me that you have—­a little chance, I give you.  But it seems hard on other people.  Oh, Marcos, I hate the idea of it.  And yet they are so kind to me—­all except Sor Teresa.  If anybody could make me hate it, she would.  She is so unkind and gives me all the punishments she can.”

Marcos smiled slowly and with great pity, of which men have a better understanding than any woman.  He thought he knew why Sor Teresa was cruel.

“They are all so kind.  And I know they are good.  And they take it for granted that the religious life is the only possible one.  One cannot help becoming convinced even against one’s will.”

She turned to him suddenly and laid her two hands on his arm.

“Oh, Marcos,” she whispered, with a sort of sob of apprehension.  “Can you not do something for me?”

“Yes,” he answered.  “That is why I am here.  But it must be done at once.”

“Why?” she asked.  And she was grave enough now.

“Because they have sent to Rome for a dispensation of your novitiate.  They wish to hurry you into religion at once.”

“Yes,” she said.  “I know.  But why?”

“Because they want your money.”

“But I have none, or very little.  They have told me so.”

“That is a lie,” said Marcos, bluntly.

“Oh, but you must not say that,” she whispered, with a sort of horror.  “Father Muro told me so.  He represents Heaven on earth.  We are told he does.”