When the carriage returned Juanita was standing at the open door.  She had lighted the lamp in the hall and carried in her hand a lantern which she must have found in the kitchen.  But she had awakened none of the servants, and was alone, still in her dressing-gown, with her dark hair flying in the breeze.

She came forward to the carriage and held up the lantern.

“Is he dead?” she asked quietly.

Sarrion did not answer at once.  He was sitting in one corner of the carriage, with Marcos’ head and shoulders resting on his knees.

“I do not know how badly he is hurt,” he answered at length.  “We called at the chemist’s as we came through the village and awoke him.  He has been an army servant and is as good as a doctor—­”

“If the Senorita will hold the horses,” interrupted the coachman, pushing Juanita gently aside, “we will carry him up-stairs.”

And something in the man’s manner made her think that Marcos was dead.  She was compelled to wait there at least ten minutes, holding the horses.  When at length he returned she did not wait to ask questions, but left him and ran up-stairs.

In Marcos’ room she found Sarrion lighting a lamp.  Marcos had been laid on the bed.  She glanced at him, holding her lower lip between her teeth.  His face was covered with dust and blood.  One blood-stained hand lay across his chest, the other was stretched by his side, unnaturally straight.

Sarrion looked up at her and was about to speak when she forestalled him.

“It is no good telling me to go away,” she said, “because I won’t.”

Then she turned to get a sponge and water.  Sarrion was already busy at Marcos’ collar, which he had unbuttoned.  Suddenly he changed his mind and turned away.

“Undo his collar,” he said.  “I will go down-stairs and get some warm water.”

He took the candle and left Juanita alone with Marcos.  She did as she was told and bent over him.  Her fingers had caught in a string fastened round Marcos’ neck.  She brought the lamp nearer.  It was her own wedding ring, which she had returned to him after so brief a use of it through the bars of the little window looking on to the Calle de la Dormitaleria at Pampeluna.

She tried to undo the knot, but failed to do so.  She turned quickly, and took the scissors from the dressing-table and cut the cord, which was a piece of old fishing-line, frayed and worn by friction against the rocks of the river.  Juanita hastily thrust the cord into her pocket and drew the ring less quickly on to that finger for which it had been destined.

When Sarrion returned to the room a minute later she was carefully and slowly cutting the sleeve of the injured arm.

“Do you know, Uncle Ramon,” she said cheerfully, “I am sure—­I am positively certain he will recover, poor old Marcos.”

Sarrion glanced at her sharply, as if he had detected a new note in her voice.  And his eye fell on her left hand.  He made no answer.