"To--to--?" began the notary once more, and then lapsed into a puzzled
silence. He was at fault again. Mogente seemed to be failing. He lay
quite still, looking straight in front of him.

"The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa?"

"No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door.
"No--but your will--your will. Try and remember what you are doing. You
wish to leave your money to your son?"

"No, no."

"Then to--your daughter?"

And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behind
it.

"To your daughter?" he repeated more confidently. "That is right, is it
not? To your daughter?"

Mogente nodded his head.

"Write it out shortly," he said in a low and distinct voice. "For I will
sign nothing that I have not read, word for word, and I have but little
time."

The notary took a new sheet of paper and wrote out in bold and, it is to
be presumed, unlegal terms that Francisco de Mogente left his earthly
possessions to Juanita de Mogente, his only daughter. Being no notary,
this elderly priest wrote out a plain-spoken document, about which there