eek his cue by an
upward glance.

"You will, perhaps, leave your fortune," he suggested at length, "to--to
some good work."

But Evasio Mon was shaking his head.

"To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzled
silence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He lay
quite still, looking straight in front of him.

"The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?"

"No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door.
"No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. You
wish to leave your money to your son?"

"No, no."

"Then to--your daughter?"

And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behind
it.

"To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is it
not? To your daughter?"

Mogente nodded his head.

"Write it out shortly," he said in a low and distinct voice. "For I will
sign nothing that I have not read, word for word, and I have but little
time."

The notary took a new sheet of paper and wrote out in bold and, it is to
be presumed, unlegal terms that Francisco de Mogente left his earthly
possessions to Juanita de Mogente, his only daughter. Being no notary,
this elderly priest wrote out a plain-spoken document, about which there
could be no doubt whatever in any court of law in the world, which is
probably more than a lawyer could have done.

Francisco de Mogente read the paper, and then, propped in the arms of the
big friar, he signed his name to it. After this he lay quite still, so
still that at last the notary, who stood watching him, slowly knelt down
and fell to praying for the soul that was gone.

CHAPTER III

WITHIN THE HIGH WALLS
In these degenerate days Saragossa has taken to itself a suburb--the
first and deadliest sign of a city's progress. Thirty years ago, however,
Torrero did not exist, and those terrible erections of white stone and
plaster which now disfigure the high land to the south of the city had
not yet burst upon the calm of ancient architectural Spain. Here, on
Monte Torrero, stood an old convent, now turned into a barrack. Here
also, amid the trees of the ancient gardens, rises the rounded dome of
the church of San Fernando.

Close by, and at a slightly higher level, curves the Canal Imperial, 400
years old, and not yet finished; assuredly conceived by a Moorish love of
clear water in high places, but left to Spanish enterprise and in