d, "some cordial, or I shall not last."

After a pause he went on.

"There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was a
younger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughter
Juanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will in
favour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran over
the paper--"on one condition."

"On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but sat
upright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in the
doorway. He had forgotten his tonsure.

"That he does not go into religion--that he devotes no part of it to the
benefit or advantage of the church."

The notary sat very straight while he wrote this down.

"My son is in Saragossa," said Mogente suddenly, with a change of manner.
"I will see him. Send for him."

The notary glanced up at Evasio Mon, who shook his head.

"I cannot send for him at two in the morning."

"Then I will sign no will."

"Sign the will now," suggested the lawyer, with a look of doubt towards
the dark doorway behind the sick man's head. "Sign now, and see your son
to-morrow."

"There is no to-morrow, my friend. Send for my son at once."

Mon grudgingly nodded his head.

"It is well, I will do as you wish," said the notary, only too glad, it
would seem, to rise and go into the next room to receive further minute
instructions from his chief.

The dying man laid with closed eyes, and did not move until his son spoke
to him. Leon de Mogente was a sparely-built man, with a white and
oddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely any
emotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight.

"Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?"

"Not yet," answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort of
suppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiled
faintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say.

"But you wish to become one?"

"It is my dearest desire."

The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother," he said. "She was a
fool. You may go back to bed, my friend."

"But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside," pleaded the son.
He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room.

"Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without even
troubling himself to show contempt.

The notary was at his table again, and seemed to s