And here in a moment, was Marcos fully in possession of his senses and making a use of them, which Juanita resented without knowing why.

“I must see my father,” he said, stirring the bedclothes, “before I go to sleep again.”

Juanita turned on her heel, but did not approach him or seek to rearrange the sheets.

“Lie still,” she said.  “Why do you want to see him?  Is it about the war?”

“Yes.”

Juanita reflected for a moment.

“Then you had better see him,” she said conclusively.  “I will go and fetch him.”

She went to the window and passed out on to the balcony.  Sarrion had, in obedience to her wishes, gone to his room.  He was now sitting on a long chair on the balcony, apparently watching the dawn.

“Of what are you thinking as you sit there watching the new light in the mountains?” she asked gaily.

He looked at her with a softness in the eyes which usually expressed a tolerant cynicism.

“Of you,” he answered.  “I heard the murmur of your voices.  You need not tell me that he has recovered consciousness.”

“He wants to see you,” she said.  “I think he was surprised not to see you—­to see only me—­when he regained his senses.”

There was the faintest suspicion of resentment in her voice.

“But I thought that the apothecary said that he was to be kept absolutely quiet,” said Sarrion, rising.

“So he did.  But he is only a man, you know, just like you and Marcos—­and he doesn’t understand.”

“Oh!” said Sarrion meekly, as he followed her.  She led the way into Marcos’ room.  She was as fresh and rosy as the morning itself, with the delicate pink and white of the convent still in her cheeks.  It was on Sarrion’s face that the night’s work had left its mark.

“Here he is,” she said.  “He was not asleep.  Is it a secret?  I suppose it is—­you have so many, you two.”

She laughed, and looked from one to the other.  But neither answered her.

“Shall I go away, Marcos?” she asked abruptly, turning towards the bed, as if she knew at all events that from him she would get a plain answer.  And it came, uncompromisingly.

“Yes,” he said.

She went to the door with a curt laugh and closed it behind her, with decision.  Sarrion looked after her with a sudden frown.  He looked for an instant as if he were about to suggest that Marcos might have made a different reply, and then decided to hold his peace.  He was perhaps wise in his generation.  Politeness never yet won a woman’s love.

Marcos had noted Juanita’s lightness of heart.  On recovering his senses the first use he had made of them was to observe her every glance and silence.  There was no sign of present anxiety or of great emotion.  The incident of the ring had no other meaning therefore, than a girlish love of novelty or a taste not hitherto made manifest, for personal ornament.  It might have deceived any one less observant than Marcos; less in the habit of watching Nature and dumb animals.  He was patient, however, and industrious in the collection of evidence against himself.  And she had startled him by saying that she was grown-up; though he perceived soon after, that it was only a manner of speaking; for she was still careless and happy, without a thought of the future, as children are.