hat you show me," said the little man, "I
will hand you another million--cash for cash. When shall we begin?"

"You must give me time," answered Mon, reflectively. "Say six months
hence."

The little man rose in response to the chapel bell, which was slowly
tolling for the last service of the day.

"Come," he said, "let us say a prayer before we go to bed."

CHAPTER VII

THE ALTERNATIVE
The letter written by the Count de Sarrion to his son was delivered to
Marcos, literally from hand to hand, by the messenger to whose care it
was entrusted.

So fully did the mountaineer carry out his instructions, that after
standing on the river bank for some minutes, he deliberately walked
knee-deep into the water and touched Marcos on the elbow. For the river
is a loud one, and Marcos, intent on his sport, never turned his head to
look about him.

This, the last of the Sarrions, was a patient looking man, with the quiet
eyes of one who deals with Nature, and the slow movements of the
far-sighted. For Nature is always consistent, and never hurries those who
watch her closely to obey the laws she writes so large in the instincts
of man and beast.

The messenger gave his master the letter and then stood with the water
rustling past his woollen stockings. There was an odd suggestion of
brotherhood between these men of very different birth. For as men are
equal in the sight of God, so are those dimly like each other who live in
the open air and cast their lives upon the broad bosom of Nature.

Marcos handed his rod to the messenger, whose face, wrinkled like a
walnut by the sun of Aragon, lighted up suddenly with pleasure.

"There," he said, pointing to a swirling pool beneath some alders. "There
is a big one there, I have risen him once."

He waded slowly back to the bank where a second crop of hay was already
showing its new green, and sat down.

It seemed that Marcos de Sarrion was behind the times--these new and
wordy times into which Spain has floundered so disastrously since Charles
III was king--for he gave a deeper attention to the matter in hand than
most have time for. He turned from the hard task of catching a trout in
clear water beneath a sunny sky, and gave his attention to his father's
letter.

"After all," it read, "I want you, and await you in Saragossa."

And that was all. "Marcos will come," the Count had reflected, "without
persuasion. And explanations are dangerous."

In which he was right. F