Suddenly Juanita gave a start and clutched at Marcos’ arm.

“Look,” she said, pointing to the right.

A kneeling figure was there with something that gleamed dully at the shoulders.

“Yes,” explained Marcos.  “It is a friend of mine, an officer of the garrison who has ridden over.  We require two witnesses, you know.”

“He is saying his own prayers,” said Juanita, looking at him.

“He has not much opportunity,” explained Marcos.  “He is in command of an outpost at the outlet of the valley of the Wolf.”

As they looked at him he rose and came towards them, his spurs clanking and his great sword swinging against the prie-dieu chairs of the devout.  He bowed formally to Juanita, and stood, upright and stiff, looking at Marcos.

The old cura came from the sacristy and lighted two candles on the altar.  Then he turned with the taper in his hand and beckoned to Marcos and Juanita to come forward to the rails where two stools had been placed in readiness.  The cura went back to the sacristy and returned, followed by the bishop in his vestments.

So Juanita de Mogente was married in a little mountain chapel by the light of two candles and a waning moon, while Sarrion and the officer in his dusty uniform stood like sentinels behind them, and the bishop recited the office by heart because he could not see to read.  He was a political bishop and no great divine, but he knew his business, and got through it quickly.

He splashed down his historic name with a great flourish of the quill pen in the register and on the certificate which he handed with a bow to Juanita.

“What shall I do with it?” she asked.

“Give it to Marcos,” was the answer.

And Marcos put the paper in his pocket.

They passed out of the chapel and stood on the little terrace in the moonlight amid the shadows of the twelve pine trees while the bishop disrobed in the sacristy.

“What are those lights?” asked Juanita, breaking the silence before it grew irksome.

“That is Pampeluna,” replied Marcos.

“And the light in the mountains?” she asked, pointing to the north.

“That is a Carlist watch-fire, Senorita,” answered the officer briskly, and no one seemed to notice his slip of the tongue except Sarrion, who glanced at him and then decided not to remind him that the title no longer applied to Juanita.

In a few moments the bishop joined them, and they all made their way down the winding path.  The bishop and Sarrion were to go by the midnight train to Saragossa, while the carnage and horses were housed for the night at the inn near the station, a mile from the gates; for this was a time of war, and Pampeluna was a fenced city from nightfall till morning.

Marcos and Juanita reached the Calle de la Dormitaleria in safety, however, and Juanita gave a little sigh of fatigue as they hurried down the narrow alley.