Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister that surrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come.  They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again—­the handiwork of some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killing it.

“It is the way to the organ loft,” whispered Marcos.

“It is probably the only entrance to the chapel.”

They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded with faded felt.  Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almost deafened them.  They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the west end.

They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organ braying in their ears.  They could hear the panting of the man working at the bellows.  Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel which was dimly lighted by candles.  The subtle odour of stale incense hung heavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notes of the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit.

The chapel was long and narrow.  Marcos and his father were alone at the west end, concealed by the font of which the wooden cover rose like a miniature spire almost to the ceiling.  A group of people were kneeling on the bare floor by the screen which had never been repaired but showed clearly where the carving had been knocked and torn to make the bonfire in the patio.

Two priests were on the altar steps while the choristers were dimly visible through the broken railing of the screen.  There seemed to be some nuns within the screen while others knelt without; four knelt apart, as if awaiting admission to the inner sanctum.

“That is Juanita,” whispered Marcos, pointing with a steady finger.  The girl kneeling next to her was weeping.  But Juanita knelt upright, her face half turned so that they could see her clear-cut profile against the candle-light beyond.  To those who study human nature, every attitude or gesture is of value; there were energy and courage in the turn of Juanita’s head.  She was listening.

Near to her the motionless black form of Sor Teresa towered among the worshippers.  She was looking straight in front of her.  Not far away a bowed figure all curved and cringing with weak emotion—­a sight to make men pause and think—­was Leon de Mogente.  Behind him, upright with a sleek bowed head, was Evasio Mon.  From his position and in the attitude in which he knelt, he could without moving see Juanita, and was probably watching her.

The chapel was carpeted with an old and faded matting of grass such as is made on all the coasts of the Mediterranean.  Marcos and Sarrion went forward noiselessly.  Instinctively they crossed themselves as they neared the chancel.  Evasio Mon was nearest to them kneeling apart, a few paces behind Leon.  He could see every one from this position, but he did not hear the Sarrions a few yards behind him.