"A will--yes," he continued--and hearing the notary dip his pen--

"My name," he said, "is Francisco de Mogente."

"Of?" inquired the notary, writing.

"Of this city. You cannot be a notary of Saragossa or you would know
that."

"I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on."

"Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave."

One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love of
money perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The man
who spoke was dying; already his breath came short.

"Give me," he said, "some cordial, or I shall not last."

After a pause he went on.

"There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was a
younger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughter
Juanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will in
favour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran over
the paper--"on one condition."

"On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but sat
upright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in the