the girls had their
rooms, was about six feet above the ground.

Marcos took his post immediately underneath and stretching his arm up
took hold of one of the two bars, and waited. Juanita looking from the
door of her room could thus see his clenched hand and must know that he
was waiting. The clocks of the city struck ten. Immediately afterwards
the watchmen began their cry. The city was already asleep.

It was very cold. Marcos changed his hand from time to time and breathed
on his fingers. He carried a cloak for Juanita. The striking of the
quarter found him still waiting beneath the window. But, soon after,
Marcos' heart gave a leap to his throat at the touch of cold fingers on
his wrist. It was Juanita. He threw the cloak down and placing his heel
on the sill of a lower window near the ground he raised himself to the
level of the bars.

"Oh, Marcos!" whispered Juanita in his ear, through the open window.

He edged his shoulder in between the two bars which were fixed
perpendicularly, and being strongly built he only found room to introduce
his two thumbs within that which pressed against his chest. He slowly
straightened his arms and the iron gave an audible creak. It was a
hundred years old, all rust-worn and attenuated.

"There," he said, "you can get through that."

"Yes," she answered. She was shivering and yet half laughing.

"Listen," she whispered, drawing him towards her. "Sor Teresa's door is
open. You can hear her snoring. Listen!"

She gave a half hysterical laugh.

"Quick," said Marcos--dropping to the ground.

Juanita turned sideways and pushed her head and shoulders through the
bars. She leant down towards him holding out her arms and her thick plait
of hair struck him across the eyes. A moment later he had lifted her to
the ground.

"Quick," he said again, breathlessly. He threw the cloak round her and
drew the hood forward over her head. Then he took her hand and they ran
together down the narrow passage into the Calle de la Domitaleria. She
ran as quickly as he did with her long, schoolgirl legs, unhampered by a
woman's length of skirt. At the corner Perro, who had been keeping watch
there, joined them and trotted by their side.

"What cloak is this?" she asked. "It smells of tobacco."

"It is my old military cloak."

"And this is my wedding dress!" she said, with a breathless laugh. "And
Perro is my bridesmaid."

They turned sharply to the left and in a moment stood on the desert