"But we must not wait for him. The risk would be too great. They may dispense with his presence."

"No," answered Marcos thoughtfully, looking at the smaller door which seemed to belong to the next house. "We must not wait."

As he spoke a carriage appeared at the farther end of the Calle de la Merced, which is a straight and narrow street.

"Here they come," he added, and drew his father into a doorway across the street.

It was indeed the carriage of the man known as One-eyed Pedro, a victim to the dust of Aragon, and the near horse left a circular mark with its hind foot on the road.

Evasio Mon descended from the carriage and paid the man, giving, it would seem, a liberal "propina," for the One-eyed Pedro expectorated on the coin before putting it into his pocket.

Mon tapped on the door with the stick he always carried. It was instantly opened to give him admittance, and closed as quickly behind him.

"Ah!" whispered Sarrion, with a smile on his keen face. "I have heard them knock like that on the doors in the Calle San Gregorio. It is simple and yet distinctive."

He turned and ill.u.s.trated the knock on the bal.u.s.trade of the stairs up which they had hastened.

"We will try it," he added grimly, "on that door when Evasio has had time to go away from it."

They waited a few minutes, and then went out again into the Calle de la Merced. It was the luncheon hour, and they had the street to themselves.

They stood for a moment in the doorway through which Mon had pa.s.sed.

"Listen," said Marcos in a whisper.

It was the sound of an organ coming almost m.u.f.fled from the back of the empty house, and it seemed to travel through long corridors before reaching them.

"They had," said Sarrion, "so far as I recollect, a large and beautiful chapel in the patio opposite to that great door, which has probably been built up on the inside."

Then he gave the peculiar knock on the door. At a gesture from Marcos he stood back so that he who opened the door would need to open it wide and almost come out into the street to see who had summoned him.

They heard the door opening, and the head that came round the door was that of the tall and powerful friar who had come to the a.s.sistance of Francisco de Mogente in the Calle San Gregorio. He drew back at once and tried to close the door, but both father and son threw their weight against it and slowly pressed him back, enabling Marcos at length to get his shoulder in. Both men were somewhat smaller than the friar, but both were quicker to see an advantage and take it.

In a moment the friar abandoned the attempt and ran down the long corridor, into which the light filtered dimly through cobwebs. Marcos gave chase while Sarrion stayed behind to close the door. At the corner of the corridor the friar slipped, and, finding himself out-matched, raised his voice to shout. But the cry was smothered by Marcos, who leapt at him like a cat, and they rolled on the floor together.

The friar was heavier and stronger. He had led a simple and healthy life, his muscles were toughened by his wanderings and the hardships of his calling. At first Marcos was underneath, but as Sarrion hurried up he saw his son come out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. It was the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestling which usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloak happened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone saved him; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether he killed the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold him back and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the blood trickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could; for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primeval instinct of fight never dies out of the human heart.

"He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly.

"For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come, let us find the chapel."

They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the sound of the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between them and it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears.

They gained the large patio where the gra.s.s grew thickly, and the iron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes of last year's clematis.

"The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing to a doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as all men must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which was brought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 att.i.tude 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 gra.s.s 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.

At this moment Juanita turned round and perceiving them gave a little start which Mon saw. He turned his head to the left; Sarrion was standing in the semi-darkness at his shoulder. Then he turned to the right and there was Marcos, motionless, with a handkerchief held to his lips.

Evasio Mon reflected for a moment; then he turned to Sarrion with his ready smile.

"Do you come here to see me?" he whispered.

"I want you to get Juanita de Mogente away from this as quickly as possible," returned Sarrion in a whisper. "We need not disturb the service."

"But, my friend," protested Mon, still smiling, "by what right?"

"That you must ask of Marcos."

Mon turned to Marcos in silent inquiry and he received a wordless answer; for Marcos held under his eyes in the half light the certificate of marriage signed by that political bishop who was no Carlist, and was ever a thorn in the side of the Churchmen striving for an absolute monarchy.

Mon shook his head still smiling, more in sorrow than in anger, at the misfortune which his duty compelled him to point out.

"It is not legal, my dear Marcos; it is not legal."

He glanced round into Marcos' still face and perceived perhaps that he might as well try the effect of words upon the stone pillar behind him.

He reflected again for a moment, while the service proceeded and the voices of the choir rose and fell like the waves of the sea in a deep cave. It was a simple enough ceremonial denuded of many of the mediaeval mummeries which have been revived by a newer emotional Church for the edification of the weak-minded.

Juanita glanced back again and saw Mon kneeling between the two motionless upright men, who were grave while he smiled ... and smiled.

Then at length he rose to his feet and stood for a moment. If he ever hesitated in his life it was at that instant. And Marcos' hand came forward beneath his eyes pointing inexorably at Juanita. There was a pause in the service, a momentary silence only broken by the smothered sobs of the novice who knelt next to Juanita.

The organ rolled out its deep voice again, and under cover of the sound Mon stepped forward and touched Juanita on the shoulder. She turned instantly, and he beckoned to her to follow him. If the priests at the altar perceived anything they made no sign. Sor Teresa, absorbed in prayer, never turned her head. The service went on uninterruptedly.

Sarrion led the way and Mon followed. Juanita glanced at Marcos, indicated with a nod Evasio Mon's back, and made a gay little grimace, suggestive of that schemer's discomfiture. Then she followed Mon, and Marcos came noiselessly behind her.

They pa.s.sed out through the dark pa.s.sage behind the organ into the old cloister.