Javalambre, where history dates back to centuries before Christ--where
assuredly some Moslem maiden in the later time must have forsaken all for
love of a wild yet courteous Spanish knight of Sarrion, bequeathing to
her sons through all the ages the deep, reflective eyes, the impenetrable
dignity, of her race.

Sarrion's hair was gray. He wore a moustache and imperial in the French
fashion, and looked at the world with the fierce eyes and somewhat of the
air of an eagle, which resemblance was further accentuated by a
finely-cut nose. As an old man he was picturesque. He must have been very
handsome in his youth.

It seemed that he was bound for the School of the Sisters of the True
Faith, for as he approached its gate, built solidly within the thickness
of the high wall, without so much as a crack or crevice through which the
curious might peep, he drew rein, and sat motionless on his well-trained
horse, listening. The clock at San Fernando immediately vouchsafed the
information that it was nine o'clock. There was no one astir, no one on
the road before or behind him. Across the narrow canal was a bare field.
The convent wall bounded the view on the left hand.

Sarrion rode up to the gate and rang a bell, which clanged with a sort of
surreptitiousness just within. He only rang once, and then waited,
posting himself immediately opposite a little grating let into the solid
wood of the door. The window behind the grating seemed to open and shut
without sound, for he heard nothing until a woman's voice asked who was
there.

"It is the Count Ramon de Sarrion who must without fail speak to the
Sister Superior to-night," he answered, and composed himself again in the