Part 23 (1/2)
It was seven o'clock when they halted at a roadside inn. Sarrion quitted the saddle and went indoors to order coffee while Marcos sat on his tall black horse scanning the road in front of him. The valley of the Ebro is flat here, with bare, brown hills rising on either side like a gigantic mud-fence. Strings of carts were making their way towards Saragossa. Far away, Marcos could perceive a recurrent break in the dusty line. A cart or carriage traveling at a greater than the ordinary market pace was making its laborious way past the heavier traffic. It came at length within clearer sight; a carriage all white with dust and a pair of skinny, Aragonese horses such as may be hired on the road.
The driver seemed to recognise Marcos, for he smiled and raised his hand to his hat as he drew up at the inn, a recognised halting-place before the last stage of the journey.
Marcos caught sight of a white cap inside the carriage. He leant down on his horse's neck and perceived Sor Teresa, who had not seen him looking out of the carriage window towards the inn. He rode round to the other door and dropped out of the saddle. Then he turned the handle and opened the door. But Sor Teresa had no intention of descending. She leant forward to say as much and recognised her nephew.
”You!” she exclaimed. And her pale face flushed suddenly. She had been a nun for many years and was no doubt a conscientious one, but she had never yet learnt to remove all her love from earth to fix it on heaven.
”Yes.”
”How did you know that I should be here?”
”I guessed it,” answered Marcos, who was always practical. ”You will like some coffee. It is ordered. Come in and warm yourself while the horses rest.”
He led the way towards the inn.
”What did you say?” he asked, turning on the threshold; for he had heard her mutter something.
”I said, 'Thank G.o.d'!”
”What for?”
”For your brains, my dear,” she answered. ”And your strong heart.”
Sarrion was making up the fire when they entered the room--lithe and young in his riding costume--and he turned, smiling, to meet her. She kissed him gravely. There was always something unexplained between these two, something to be said which made them both silent.
”There is the coffee,” said Marcos, ”on the table. We have no time to spare.”
”Marcos means,” explained Sarrion significantly, ”that we have no time to waste.”
”I think he is right,” said Sor Teresa.
”Then if that is the case, let us at least speak plainly,” said Sarrion, ”with a due regard,” he allowed, with a shrug of the shoulder, ”to your vows and your position, and all that. We must not embroil you with your confessor; nor Juanita with hers.”
”You need not think of that so far as Juanita is concerned,” said Sor Teresa. ”It is I who have chosen her confessor.”
”Where is she?” asked Marcos.
”She is here, in Saragossa!”
”Why?” asked the man of few words.
”I don't know.”
”Where is she in Saragossa?”
”I don't know. I have not seen her for a fortnight. I only learnt by accident yesterday afternoon that she had been brought to Saragossa with some other girls who have been postulants for six months and are about to become novices.”
”But Juanita is not a postulant,” said Sarrion, with a laugh.
”She may have been told to consider herself one.”