t to right; in that, from right to left. I will wait
here while you change your clothes. As emergencies arise we will meet
them."

He spoke the last sentence coldly, and followed with his narrow gaze the
movements of the old priest, who was laying aside his cassock.

"Let us have no panics," Evasio Mon's manner seemed to say. And his air
was that of a quiet pilot knowing his way through the narrow waters that
lay ahead.

In a small room near at hand, Francisco de Mogente was facing death. He
lay half dressed upon a narrow bed. On a table near at hand stood a
basin, a bottle, and a few evidences of surgical aid. But the doctor had
gone. Two friars were in the room. One was praying; the other was the
big, strong man who had first succoured the wounded traveler.

"I asked for a notary," said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him.
He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeply
and quickly. At times his expression was one of wonder, as if a
conviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his will
and despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste in
wondering.

"The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming," replied the
friar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries."

"Mind your own business," replied Mogente quietly. As he spoke the door
opened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand.

"You sent for me--a notary," he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway a
yard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that in
looking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also the
face of Evasio Mon.

"You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary.

"A statement--no. It is useless since they have killed me. I will make a
statement ... Elsewhere."

And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear.

"A will--yes," he continued--and hearing the notary dip his pen--

"My name," he said, "is Francisco de Mogente."

"Of?" inquired the notary, writing.

"Of this city. You cannot be a notary of Saragossa or you would know
that."

"I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on."

"Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave."

One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love of
money perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The man
who spoke was dying; already his breath came short.

"Give me," he sai