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Updated: June 8, 2025
He moved with alacrity to the house, leading the way now. "By an odd chance," said Sarrion, following him more slowly, "I have conceived the idea that this man is an old friend of mine." "Then, my good Ramon, he must be an old friend of mine, too." "Francisco de Mogente." Mon stopped with a movement of genuine surprise, followed instantly by a quick sidelong glance beneath his lashes.
Don Francisco de Mogente rose and went towards the boat. He did not trouble to walk gently or to loosen the chains noiselessly. The wind was roaring so loudly that a listener twenty yards away could have heard nothing. He cast off and then hastened to the stern of the boat.
Francisco is in Santiago de Cuba, and will probably never return. If he were here in Saragossa surely his own son would know it. I saw Leon de Mogente the day before yesterday, by the way, and he said nothing of his father. And it is not long since I spoke with Juanita. We could make inquiry of Leon but not to-day, by the way.
Leon de Mogente had seen them and was hurrying to meet them. Seen thus in the street, under the sun, he was a pale and bloodless man food for the cloister. He bowed with an odd humility to Mon, but spoke directly to the Count de Sarrion. He knew, and showed that he knew, that Mon was not glad to see him. "I did not know that you were in Saragossa," he said. "A terrible thing has happened.
At the guard-house, beneath the second gateway, there occurred another delay. The driver was a Pampeluna man and well-known to the sentries. But they did not recognise his passenger and sent for the officer on duty. "The Señorita Juanita de Mogente," he muttered, as he came into the road a stout and grizzled warrior smoking a cigarette. "Ah, yes!" he said, with a grave bow at the carriage door.
"Four nights ago," he said, "at about midnight, Francisco de Mogente returned secretly to Saragossa. I think he was coming to this house; but we shall never know that. No one knew he was coming not even Juanita." The Count glanced at his son only long enough to note the passage of a sort of shadow across his dark eyes at the mention of the schoolgirl's name.
For nuns have a profound distrust of man as a mass and a confiding faith in the few individuals with whom they have to deal. The girls were allowed to watch the colchonero at his work, more especially the elder girls such as Juanita de Mogente and her friend Milagros of the red-gold hair.
They were walking down the Calle San Gregorio, and, as if in illustration of the fact that chance will betray those who wait most assiduously upon her, the curtain of the great door of the cathedral was drawn aside, and Leon de Mogente came out blinking into the sunlight. The meeting was inevitable. "There is Leon by a lucky chance," said Mon almost immediately.
"A statement no. It is useless since they have killed me. I will make a statement ... Elsewhere." And his laugh was not pleasant to the ear. "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."
It seemed that Don Francisco de Mogente had purposely avoided crossing the bridge, where to this day the night watchman, with lantern and spear, peeps cautiously to and fro a startlingly mediaeval figure. It seemed also that the traveler was expected, though he had performed the last stage of his journey on foot after nightfall.
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