ife means."

"Exactly so," Sarrion exclaimed, "and that makes their plan all the
easier of execution. They can bring pressure to bear upon her assiduously
and quite kindly so that she will be brought to see that her only chance
of happiness is the veil. Few men, and no women at all, can be happy in a
life of their own choosing if they are assured by persons in daily
intercourse with them--persons whom they respect and love--that in living
that life they will assuredly be laying up for themselves an eternity of
damnation. We must try and look at it from Juanita's point of view."

Marcos turned and glanced at his father with a smile.

"That is not so easy," he said. "That is what I have been trying to do."

"But you must not overdo it," replied Sarrion, significantly. "Remember
that her point of view may be an ignorant one and must be biassed by the
strongest and most dangerous influence. Look at the question also from
the point of view of a man of the world--and tell me... tell me after
thinking it over carefully--whether you think that you would feel happy
in the future, knowing that you had allowed Juanita to choose a convent
life with her eyes blinded."

"I was not thinking of my happiness," said Marcos, quite simply and
curtly.

"Of Juanita's happiness?" ... suggested the Count.

"Yes."

"Then think again and tell me whether you, as a man of the world, can for
a moment imagine that Juanita's chance of happiness would be greater in
the convent--whether the Church could make her happier than you could if
you give her the opportunity of leading the life that God created her
for."

Marcos made no answer. And oddly enough Sarrion seemed to expect none.

"That is ...," he explained in the same careless voice, "if we may go on
the presumption that you are content to place Juanita's happiness before
your own."

"I am content to do that."

"Always?" asked Sarrion, gravely.

"Always."

There was a short silence. Then the Count came into the room, and as he
passed Marcos he laid his hand for a moment on his son's broad back.

"Then, my friend," he said, crossing the room and taking up his gloves,
"let us get to action. That will please you better than words, I know.
Let us go and see Leon--the weakest link in their fine chain. Juanita has
no one in the world but us--but I think we shall be enough."

Leon de Mogente lived in an apartment in the Plaza del Pilar. His father,
for whom he had but little affection