And Juanita stooped down to warm her hands.

“You have thought of everything—­you and Marcos,” she said.  “You are so kind to me.  I am sure I am very grateful ... to every one.”

She turned towards the bishop, kindly including him in this expression of thanks; which she could not do more definitely because she did not know his name.  It was obvious that she was not a bit afraid of him seeing that he had no vestments with him.

“At one time, on the ramparts, I was sorry I had come,” she explained in a friendly way to him, “but now I am not.  Of course it is all very well for me.  It is great fun.  But for you it is different; on such a cold night.  I do not know why everybody takes so much trouble about me.”

“Half of Spain is taking trouble about you, my child,” was the answer.

“Ah! that is about my money.  That is quite different.  But Marcos, you know, and Uncle Ramon are the only people who take any trouble about me, for myself you understand.”

“Yes, I understand,” answered the great man humbly, as if he were trying to, but was not quite sure of success.

Marcos sat silently in his corner of the carriage.  Indeed Juanita exercised the prerogative of her sex and led the conversation, gaily and easily.  But when the carriage stopped beneath some trees by the roadside she suddenly lapsed into silence too.

She stood on the road in the bright moonlight and looked about her.  She had thrown back the hood of Marcos’ military cloak and now set her mantilla in order.  Which was all the preparation this light-hearted bride made for the supreme moment.  And perhaps she never knew all that she had missed.

“I see no church and no houses,” said Juanita to Marcos.  “Where are we?”

“The chapel is above us in the darkness,” replied Marcos.  And he led the way up a winding path.

The little chapel stood on a sort of table-land looking out over the plain that lay to the south of it.  In front of it were twelve pines planted in a row at irregular intervals.  The shadow of each tree in succession fell upon a low stone cross set on the ground before the door at each successive hour of the twelve; a fantasy of some holy man long dead.

The chapel door stood open and just within it a priest in his short white surplice awaited their arrival.  Juanita recognised the sunburnt old cura of Torre Garda.

But he only had time to bow rather formally to her; for a bishop was behind.

“I have only lighted one candle,” he said to Marcos.  “If we make an illumination they can see it from Pampeluna.”

The bishop followed the old priest into the sacristy where the one candle gave a flickering light.  There they could be heard whispering together.  Sarrion, Marcos and Juanita stood near the door.  The moonlight gleamed through the windows and a certain amount of reflected light found its way through the open doorway.