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.

"I asked for a notary," said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him.
He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeply
and quickly. At times his expression was one of wonder, as if a
conviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his will
and despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste in
wondering.

"The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming," replied the
friar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries."

"Mind your own business," replied Mogente quietly. As he spoke the door
opened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand.

"You sent for me--a notary," he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway a
yard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that in
looking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also the
face of Evasio Mon.

"You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary.

"A statement--no. It is useless since they have killed me. I will make a
statement ... Elsewhere."

And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear.