So I went weeping, and that night, before the dawn, all was over with Andres de Fonseca.  They told me that he was conscious to the end and died murmuring the name of that son of whom he spoke in his last words to me.

What was the history of this son, or of Fonseca himself, I never learned, for like an Indian he hid his trail as step by step he wandered down the path of life.  He never spoke of his past, and in all the books and documents that he left behind him there is no allusion to it.  Once, some years ago, I read through the cipher volumes of records that I have spoken of, and of which he gave me the key before he died.  They stand before me on the shelf as I write, and in them are many histories of shame, sorrow, and evil, of faith deluded and innocence betrayed, of the cruelty of priests, of avarice triumphant over love, and of love triumphant over death—­enough, indeed, to furnish half a hundred of true romances.  But among these chronicles of a generation now past and forgotten, there is no mention of Fonseca’s own name and no hint of his own story.  It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well.  So died my benefactor and best friend.

When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he looked calm and beautiful in his death sleep.  Then it was that she who had arrayed him for the grave handed to me two portraits most delicately painted on ivory and set in gold, which had been found about his neck.  I have them yet.  One is of the head of a lady with a sweet and wistful countenance, and the other the face of a dead youth also beautiful, but very sad.  Doubtless they were mother and son, but I know no more about them.

On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he had said that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his dead body, and returned to the house to meet the notaries.  Then the seals were broken and the parchments read and I was put in full possession of the dead man’s wealth, and having deducted such sums as were payable for dues, legacies, and fees, the notaries left me bowing humbly, for was I not rich?  Yes, I was rich, wealth had come to me without effort, and I had reason to desire it, yet this was the saddest night that I had passed since I set foot in Spain, for my mind was filled with doubts and sorrow, and moreover my loneliness got a hold of me.  But sad as it might be, it was destined to seem yet more sorrowful before the morning.  For as I sat making pretence to eat, a servant came to me saying that a woman waited in the outer room who had asked to see his late master.  Guessing that this was some client who had not heard of Fonseca’s death I was about to order that she should be dismissed, then bethought me that I might be of service to her or at the least forget some of my own trouble in listening to hers.  So I bade him bring her in.  Presently she came, a tall woman wrapped in a dark cloak that hid her face.  I bowed and motioned to her to be seated, when suddenly she started and spoke.