lead for other men was thin and translucent for him; the
light-footed, irresistible delights of youth danced beyond it
like shadows.



It was on a beautiful summer evening that Don Juan felt the near
approach of death. The sky of Spain was serene and cloudless; the
air was full of the scent of orange-blossom; the stars shed
clear, pure gleams of light; nature without seemed to give the
dying man assurance of resurrection; a dutiful and obedient son
sat there watching him with loving and respectful eyes. Towards
eleven o'clock he desired to be left alone with this
single-hearted being.

"Felipe," said the father, in tones so soft and affectionate that
the young man trembled, and tears of gladness came to his eyes;
never had that stern father spoken his name in such a tone.
"Listen, my son," the dying man went on. "I am a great sinner.
All my life long, however, I have thought of my death. I was once
the friend of the great Pope Julius II.; and that illustrious
Pontiff, fearing lest the excessive excitability of my senses
should entangle me in mortal sin between the moment of my death
and the time of my anointing with the holy oil, gave me a flask
that contains a little of the holy water that once issued from
the rock in the wilderness. I have kept the secret of this
squandering of a treasure belonging to Holy Church, but I am
permitted to reveal the mystery _in articulo mortis_ to my son.
You will find the flask in a drawer in that Gothic table that
always stands by the head of the bed. . . . The precious little