Why?"

"Because then we could pull the school down about their ears and take
Juanita away."

Sarrion smiled.

"Or get shot mysteriously from a window while attempting it," he said.
"No, we fight with finer weapons than that. Mon has got his dispensation
from Rome ... a few hours too late."

He handed back the note, and they sat in silence for a long time in the
huge, dimly-lighted room. Success in life rests upon one small gift--the
secret of the entry into another man's mind to discover what is passing
there. The greatest general the world has known owed his success, by his
own admission, to his power of guessing correctly what the enemy would do
next. Many can guess, but few guess right.

"She has not dated her letter," said Sarrion, at length.

"No, but it was written on Thursday. That is the day that the colchonero
goes to the Calle de la Dormitaleria."

He drew a strand of wool from the envelope and showed it to Sarrion.

"And the day that Mon returned to Pampeluna. He will be prompt to act. He
always has been. That is what makes him different from other men. Prompt
and restless."

Sarrion glanced across the table, as he spoke, at the face of his son,
who was also a prompt man, but withal restful, as if possessing a reserve
upon which to draw in emergency. For the restless and the uneasy are
those who have all their forces in the field.

"Do not sit up for me," said Marcos, rising. He stood and thoughtfully
emptied his glass. "I shall change my clothes," he said, "and go out.
There will be plenty of Navarrese at the Posada de los Reyes. The night
diligencias will be in before daylight. If there is any news of
importance I will wake you when I come in."

It was a dark night, and the wind roared down the bed of the Ebro. For
the spring was at hand with its wild march "solano" and hard, blue skies.
There was no moon. But Marcos had good eyes, and those whom he sought
were men who, after a long siesta, traveled or worked during half the
night.

The dust was astir on the Paseo del Ebro, where it lies four inches deep
on the broad space in front of the Posada de los Reyes where the carts
stand. There were carts here now with dim, old-fashioned lanterns, and
long teams of mules waiting patiently to be relieved of their massive
collars.

The first man he met told him that Evasio Mon must have arrived in
Saragossa at sunset, for he had passed him on the road, going at a good
pace on horseback.

From anoth