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Updated: June 8, 2025
He was too well known in the streets of Saragossa to wander hither and thither in them, making inquiry as to whether any had seen his lifelong friend Francisco de Mogente back in the city of his birth from which he had been exiled in the uncertain days of Isabella.
From the balcony of one he had seen the incident related in the last chapter; and as he rode towards the convent school he carried in his hand not a whip but the delicately-wrought sword-stick which had fallen from the hand of Francisco de Mogente into the gutter the night before.
Don Francisco de Mogente brought the ferry-boat gently alongside the landing-stage beneath the high wall of the Quay, and made his way through the underground passage and up the dirty steps that lead into one of the narrow streets of the old town. The moon had broken through the clouds again and shone down upon the barred windows. The traveler stood still and looked about him.
"Francisco was attacked in the street down there, at the corner of the Calle San Gregorio, and was killed," he concluded. Marcos rose and crossed the room towards the window. He was, it appeared, an eminently practical man, and desired to see the exact spot where Mogente had fallen before the story went any farther.
Sarrion took the letter and read it, with a pleasant smile on his face, while Father Muro watched him with those eyes that seemed to want something they could not have. "Yes," said the Count at length, "it is from Juanita de Mogente." He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. "Did you know the contents of this letter, my father?" he asked. "No, my son. Why should I?" "Why, indeed?"
Sarrion walked to the Calle de la Dormitaleria, a little street running parallel with the city walls, eastward from the Cathedral gates. There he learnt that Sor Teresa was out. The lay-sister feared that he could not see Juanita de Mogente. She was in class: it was against the rules. Sarrion insisted. The lay-sister went to make inquiries. It was not in her province. But she knew the rules.
At times his expression was one of wonder, as if a conviction forced itself upon his mind from time to time against his will and despite the growing knowledge that he had no time to waste in wondering. "The notary has been sent for. He cannot delay in coming," replied the friar. "Rather give your thoughts to Heaven, my son, than to notaries." "Mind your own business," replied Mogente quietly.
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.
Two friars were in the room. One was praying; the other was the big, strong man who had first succoured the wounded traveler. "I asked for a notary," said Mogente curtly. Death had not softened him. He was staring straight in front of him with glassy eyes, thinking deeply and quickly.
"My son is in Saragossa," said Mogente suddenly, with a change of manner. "I will see him. Send for him." The notary glanced up at Evasio Mon, who shook his head. "I cannot send for him at two in the morning." "Then I will sign no will." "Sign the will now," suggested the lawyer, with a look of doubt towards the dark doorway behind the sick man's head. "Sign now, and see your son to-morrow."
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