ios into the cloisters and enter the Cathedral by the cloister door.
If Juanita could forget something and go back for it, I could see her for
a few minutes in the cloisters which are always deserted in winter."

"Yes," said Sarrion, "but how?"

"Sor Teresa must do it," said Marcos. "You must see her. They cannot
prevent you from seeing your own sister."

"But will she do it?"

"Yes," answered Marcos without any hesitation at all.

"I shall try to see Juanita also," said Sarrion, throwing his cloak round
his shoulders twice so that its bright lining was seen at the back,
hanging from the left shoulder. "You stay here."

He went out into the cold air. Pampeluna lies fourteen hundred feet above
the sea-level, and is subject to great falls of snow in its brief winter
season.

Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street running
parallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. There
he learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he could
not see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules.
Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not in
her province. But she knew the rules. She did not return and in her
place came Father Muro, the spiritual adviser of the school; Juanita's
own confessor. He was a stout man whose face would have been pleasant
had it followed the lines that Nature had laid down. But there was
something amiss with Father Muro--the usual lack of naturalness in those
who lead a life that is against Nature.

Father Muro was afraid that Sarrion could not see Juanita. It was not
within his province, but he knew that it was against the rules. Then he
remembered that he had seen a letter addressed to the Count de Sarrion.
It was lying on the table at the refectory door, where letters intended
for the post were usually placed. It was doubtless from Juanita. He would
fetch it.

Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face,
while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to want
something they could not have.

"Yes," said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente."

He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

"Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked.

"No, my son. Why should I?"

"Why, indeed?"

And Sarrion passed out, while Father Muro held the door open rather
obsequiously.

CHAPTER XIII

THE GRIP OF THE VELVET GLOVE
On retur