Moreover, Marcos de Sarrion was a restful man. And those few who see
below the surface, know that the restful man is he whose life's task is
well within the compass of his ability.

Perro, it seemed, with an intelligence developed at the best and hardest
of all schools, where hunger is the usher, awaited, not word, but action
from his master; and had not long to wait.

For Marcos rose and slowly climbed the hill towards Torre Garda, half
hidden amid the pine trees on the mountain crest above him. There was a
midnight train, he knew, from Pampeluna to Saragossa. The railway station
was only twenty miles away, which is to this day considered quite a
convenient distance in Navarre. There would be a moon soon after
nightfall. There was plenty of time. That far-off ancestress of the
middle-ages had, it would appear, handed down to her sons forever, with
the clear cut profile, the philosophy which allows itself time to get
through life unruffled.

The Count de Sarrion was taking his early coffee the next morning at the
open window in Saragossa when Marcos, with the dust of travel across the
Alkali desert still upon him, came into the room.

"I expected you," said the father. "You will like a bath. All is ready in
your room. I have seen to it myself. When you are ready come back here
and take your coffee."

His attitude was almost that of a host. For Marcos rarely came to
Saragossa. Although there was a striking resemblance of feature between
the Sarrions, the father was taller, slighter and quicker in his glance,
while Marcos' face seemed to bespeak a greater strength. In any common