“Little enough, Excellency.  One of the Fathers, praying at his window, heard the sound of a struggle in the street, and I was sent out to see what it signified.  I found a man lying on the ground, and, according to instructions, did not touch him, but went back for help.”

Mon nodded his compact head thoughtfully.

“And the man said nothing?”

“Nothing, Excellency.”

“You are a wise man, my brother.  Go, and I will follow you.”

The friar’s meek face was oily with that smile of complete self-satisfaction which is only found when foolishness and fervour meet in one brain.

Mon rose slowly from his chair and stretched himself.  It was evident that had he followed his own inclination he would have gone to bed.  He perhaps had a sense of duty.  He had not far to go, and knew the shortest ways through the narrow streets.  He could hear a muleteer shouting at his beasts on the bridge as he crossed the Calle Don Jaime I. The streets were quiet enough otherwise, and the watchman of this quarter could be heard far away at the corner of the Plaza de la Constitucion calling to the gods that the weather was serene.

Evasio Mon, cloaked to the eyes against the autumn night, hurried down the Calle San Gregorio and turned into an open doorway that led into the patio of a great four-sided house.  He climbed the stone stair and knocked at a door, which was instantly opened.

“Come!” said the man who opened it—­a white-haired priest of benevolent face.  “He is conscious.  He asks for a notary.  He is dying!  I thought you—­”

“No,” replied Mon quickly.  “He would recognise me, though he has not seen me for twenty years.  You must do it.  Change your clothes.”

He spoke as with authority, and the priest fingered the silken cord around his waist.

“I know nothing of the law,” he said hesitatingly.

“That I have thought of.  Here are two forms of will.  They are written so small as to be almost illegible.  This one we must get signed if we can; but, failing that, the other will do.  You see the difference.  In this one the pin is from left 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.