Cousin Peligros had consented to Sarrion’s proposal that she should for a time make her home with him, either at Torre Garda or at Saragossa.  She had lived in troublous times, but was convinced that the Carlists, like Heaven, made special provision for ladies.

“No one,” said she, “will molest me,” and she folded her hands in complacent serenity on her lap.

She had a profound distrust of railways, in which common mode of conveyance she suspected a democratic spirit, though to this day the Spanish ticket collector presents himself, hat in hand, at the door of a first-class carriage, and the time-table finds itself subservient to the convenience of any Excellency who may not have finished his coffee in the refreshment-room.

Cousin Peligros was therefore glad enough to quit the train at Pampeluna, where the carriage from Torre Garda awaited them.  There were saddle horses for Sarrion and Marcos, and a handful of troops were waiting in the shadow of the trees outside of the station yard.  An officer rode forward and paid his respects to Juanita.

“You do not recognise me, Senorita,” he said.  “You remember the chapel of Our Lady of the Shadows?”

“Yes.  I remember,” she answered, shaking hands.  “We caught you saying your prayers when we arrived.”

He blushed as he laughed; for he was a simple man leading a hard and lonely life.

“Yes, Senorita; why not?”

“I have no doubt,” said Juanita, looking at him shrewdly, “that the saints heard you.”

“Marcos,” he explained, “wrote to ask me for a few men to take your carriage through the danger zone.  So I took the liberty of riding with them myself.  I am the watch-dog, Senorita, at the gate of your valley.  You are safe enough once you are within the valley of the Wolf.”

They talked together until Sarrion rode forward to announce that all were ready to depart, while Cousin Peligros sat with pinched lips and disapproving face.  She took an early opportunity of mentioning that ladies should not talk to gentlemen with such familiarity and freedom; that, above all, a smile was sufficient acknowledgment for any jest except those made by the very aged, when to laugh was a sign of respect.  For Cousin Peligros had been brought up in a school of manners now fortunately extinct.

“He is Marcos’ friend,” explained Juanita.  “Besides, he is a nice person.  I know a nice person when I see one,” she concluded, with a friendly nod towards the watch-dog of the valley of the Wolf, who was talking in the shade of the trees with Marcos.

The men rode together in advance of the carriages and the luggage carts.  The journey was uneventful, and the sun was setting in a cloudless west when the mouth of the valley was reached.  It was Cousin Peligros’ happy lot to consider herself the centre of any party and the pivot upon which social events must turn.  She bowed graciously to Captain Zeneta when he came forward to take his leave.