he passed the great door of the archbishop's dwelling, and was already
looking towards the house of the Sarrions, when a slight sound made him
turn on his heels with the rapidity of one whose life had been passed
amid dangers--and more especially those that come from behind.

There were three men coming from behind now, running after him on
sandaled feet, and before he could do so much as raise his arm the moon
broke out from behind a cloud and showed a gleam of steel. Don Francisco
de Mogente was down on the ground in an instant, and the three men fell
upon him like dogs on a rat. One knife went right through him, and grated
with a harsh squeak on the cobble-stones beneath.


A moment later the traveler was lying there alone, half in the shadow,
his dusty feet showing whitely in the moonlight. The three shadows had
vanished as softly as they came.

Almost instantly from, strangely enough, the direction in which they had
gone the burly form of a preaching friar came out into the light. He was
walking hurriedly, and would seem to be returning from some mission of
mercy, or some pious bedside to one of the many houses of religion
located within a stone's throw of the Cathedral of the Seo in one of the
narrow streets of this quarter of the city. The holy man almost fell over
the prostrate form of Don Francisco de Mogente.

"Ah! ah!" he exclaimed in an even and quiet voice. "A calamity."

"No," answered the wounded man with a cynicism which even the near sight
of death seemed powerless to effect. "A crime."