There was in her action, in the movement of her high-held head, a sudden
and startling self-abandonment of affection. For Spanish women understand
above all others the calling of love and motherhood. And it seemed that
Sor Teresa--known in the world as Dolores Sarrion--had, like many women,
bestowed a thwarted love--faute de mieux--upon her brother.

"You are well?" asked Sarrion, looking at her closely. Her face, framed
by a spotless cap, was gray and drawn, but not unhappy.

She nodded her head with a smile, while her eyes flitted over his face
and person with that quick interrogation which serves better than words.
A woman never asks minutely after the health of one in whom she is really
interested. She knows without asking. She stood before him with her hands
crossed within the folds of her ample sleeves. Her face was lost again in
the encircling shadow of her cap and veil. She was erect and motionless
in her stiff and heavy clothing. The momentary betrayal of womanhood and
affection was passed, and this was the dreaded Sister Superior of the
Convent School again.

"I suppose," she said, "you are alone as usual. Is it safe, after
nightfall--you, who have so many enemies?"

"Marcos is at Torre Garda, where I left him three days ago. The snows are
melting and the fishing is good. It is unusual to come at this hour, I
know, but I came for a special purpose."

He glanced towards the door. The quiet of this house seemed to arouse a
sense of suspicion and antagonism in his mind.