.

"He was a Catalonian to the last," said Sarrion, when they were seated in
their carnage. "He walked dying up his own stairs, so that his wife might
be spared the sight of seeing him carried in. Stubborn and brave! One of
the best men we have seen."

"And the king?"

"The king lands at Carthagena to-day--lands with his life in his hand. He
carries it in his hand wherever he goes, day and night, in Spain, he and
his wife. Without Prim he cannot hope to stand. But he will try. We must
do what we can."

The carriage was making its careful way across the Puerta del Sol, which
had been cleared by grape-shot more than once in Sarrion's recollection.
It looked now as if only artillery could set order there.

"Viva el Rey! viva Don Carlos!" a loafer shouted, and waved his hat in
Sarrion's grim and smiling face.

"I do not understand," he said to Marcos, as they passed on, "why the
good God gives the Bourbons so many chances."

"I cannot understand why the Bourbons never take them," answered Marcos.
For he was not a pushing man, but one of those patient waiters on
opportunity who appear at length quietly at the top, and look down with
thoughtful eyes at those who struggle below. The sweat and strife of some
careers must tarnish the brightest lustre.

Father and son drove together to the apartment in a street high above the
town, near the church of San Jose where the Sarrions lived when in
Madrid, and there Sarrion gave Marcos further details of that strange
adventure which Amedeo of Spain was about to begin.

In return Marcos vouchsafed a brief account of affairs in the valley of
the Wolf. He never had much to say and even in these stirring times told
of a fine harvest; of that brilliant weather which marked the year of the
Napoleonic downfall.

"And Juanita?" inquired Sarrion at length.

"Is at Pampeluna. They cannot get her away from there without my knowing
it. She is well ... and happy."

"You have not written to her?"

"No," answered Marcos.

"We must remember," said Sarrion, with a nod of approval, "that we are
dealing with the cleverest men in the world, and the greediest----"

"And the hardest pressed," added Marcos.

"But you have not written to her?"

"No."

"Nor heard from her?"

"I had a note from her at Saragossa, before they moved her to Pampeluna,"
answered Marcos with a smile. "It was rather badly spelt."

"And...?" asked Sarrion.

Marcos did not reply to this comprehensive interroga