So Juanita de Mogente was married in a little mountain chapel by the light of two candles and a waning moon, while Sarrion and the officer in his dusty uniform stood like sentinels behind them, and the bishop recited the office by heart because he could not see to read. He was a political bishop and no great divine, but he knew his business, and got through it quickly. He splashed down his historic name with a great flourish of the quill pen in the register and on the certificate which he handed with a bow to Juanita. "What shall I do with it?" she asked. "Give it to Marcos," was the answer. And Marcos put the paper in his pocket. They passed out of the chapel and stood on the little terrace in the moonlight amid the shadows of the twelve pine trees while the bishop disrobed in the sacristy. "What are those lights?" asked Juanita, breaking the silence before it grew irksome. "That is Pampeluna," replied Marcos. "And the light in the mountains?" she asked, pointing to the north. "That is a Carlist watch-fire, Senorita," answered the officer briskly, and no one seemed to notice his slip of the tongue except Sarrion, who glanced at him and then decided not to remind him that the title no longer applied to Juanita. In a few moments the bishop joined them, and they all made their way down the winding path. The bishop and Sarrion were to go by the midnight train to Saragossa, while the carnage and horses were housed for the night at the inn near the station, a mile from the gates; for this was a time of war, and Pampeluna was a fenced city from nightfall till morning. Marcos and Juanita reached the Calle de la Dormitaleria in safety, however, and Juanita gave a little sigh of fatigue as they hurried down the narrow alley. "To-morrow," she said, "I shall think this has all been a dream." "So shall I," said Marcos gravely. He lifted her into the window, and she stood listening for a moment while she took from her finger the wedding ring she had worn for half an hour and gave it back to him. "It is of no use to me," she said; "I cannot wear it at school." She laughed, and held up one finger to command his attention. "Listen!" she whispered. "Sor Teresa is still snoring." She watched him bend the bars back again to their proper place. "By the way," she asked him. "What was the name of the chapel where we were married--I should like to know?" Marcos hesitated a moment before replying. "It is called Our Lady of the Shadows." CHAPTER XVI THE MATTRESS BEATER Englishmen are justly proud of their birthright. The less they travel, moreover, the prouder they are, and the stronger is their conviction that England leads the world in thought and art and action.