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black case and rested it in a corner. It was always there, a constant reminder that the slightest sin had to be paid for with pain.
    Sister Teresa’s transgression had happened that morning as she rounded the corner of a corridor, eyes down, and bumped into Sister Graciela. Startled, Sister Teresa had looked into Sister Graciela’s face. She then immediately reported her own infraction, to which the Reverend Mother Betina frowned disapprovingly and made the sign of discipline, moving her right hand three times from shoulder to shoulder, her hand closed as though holding a whip, the tip of her thumb held against the inside of her forefinger.
    Lying on her cot, Sister Teresa was unable to get out of her mind the extraordinarily beautiful face of the young girl she had gazed at. She knew that as long as she lived she would never speak to her and would never even look at her again, for the slightest sign of intimacy between nuns was severely punished. In an atmosphere of rigid moral and physical austerity, no relationships of any kind were allowed to develop. If two sisters worked side by side and seemed to enjoy each other’s silent company, the Reverend Mother would immediately have them separated. Nor were the sisters permitted to sit next to the same person at the table twice in a row. The Church delicately called the attraction of one nun to another “a particular friendship,” and the penalty was swift and severe. Sister Teresa had served her punishment for breaking the rule.
    Now the tolling bell came to Sister Teresa as though from a great distance. It was the voice of God, reproving her.
    In the next cell, the sound of the bell rang through the corridors of Sister Graciela’s dreams, and the pealing was mingled with the lubricious creak of bedsprings. The Moor was moving toward her, naked, his manhood tumescent, his hands reaching out to grab her. Sister Graciela opened her eyes, instantly awake, her heart pounding frantically. She looked around, terrified, but she was alone in her tiny cell and the only sound was the reassuring tolling of the bell.
    Sister Graciela knelt at the side of her cot. Jesus, thank You for delivering me from the past. Thank You for the joy I have in being here in Your light. Let me glory only in the happiness of Your being. Help me, my Beloved, to be true to the call You have given me. Help me to ease the sorrow of Your sacred heart.
    She rose and carefully made her bed, then joined the procession of her sisters as they moved silently toward the chapel for Matins. She could smell the familiar scent of burning candles and feel the worn stones beneath her sandled feet.
    In the beginning, when Sister Graciela had first entered the convent, she had not understood it when the Mother Prioress had told her that a nun was a woman who gave up everything in order to possess everything. Sister Graciela had been fourteen years old then. Now, seventeen years later, it was clear to her. In contemplation she possessed everything, for contemplation was the mind replying to the soul. Her days were filled with a wonderful peace.
    Thank You for letting me forget, Father. Thank You for standing beside me. I couldn’t face my terrible past without You…Thank You…Thank You…
    When the Matins were over, the nuns returned to their cells to sleep until Lauds, the rising of the sun.
    Outside, Colonel Ramón Acoca and his men moved swiftly in the darkness. When they reached the convent, Acoca said, “Jaime Miró and his men will be armed. Take no chances.”
    He looked at the front of the convent, and for an instant he saw that other convent with Basque partisans rushing out of it, and Susana going down in a hail of bullets.
    “Don’t bother taking Miró alive,” he said.
    Sister Megan was awakened by the silence. It was a different silence, a moving silence, a hurried rush of air, a whisper of bodies. There were sounds she had never heard in her fifteen years in the convent. She was suddenly filled with a