could be no doubt whatever in any court of law in the world, which is
probably more than a lawyer could have done.

Francisco de Mogente read the paper, and then, propped in the arms of the
big friar, he signed his name to it. After this he lay quite still, so
still that at last the notary, who stood watching him, slowly knelt down
and fell to praying for the soul that was gone.




CHAPTER III

WITHIN THE HIGH WALLS
In these degenerate days Saragossa has taken to itself a suburb--the
first and deadliest sign of a city's progress. Thirty years ago, however,
Torrero did not exist, and those terrible erections of white stone and
plaster which now disfigure the high land to the south of the city had
not yet burst upon the calm of ancient architectural Spain. Here, on
Monte Torrero, stood an old convent, now turned into a barrack. Here
also, amid the trees of the ancient gardens, rises the rounded dome of
the church of San Fernando.

Close by, and at a slightly higher level, curves the Canal Imperial, 400
years old, and not yet finished; assuredly conceived by a Moorish love of
clear water in high places, but left to Spanish enterprise and in
completeness when the Moors had departed.

Beyond the convent walls, the canal winds round the slope of the brown
hill, marking a distinctive line between the outer desert and the green