The Velvet Glove | Page 6

lay ahead.
In a small room near at hand, Francisco de Mogente was facing death. He lay half dressed upon a narrow bed. On a table near at hand stood a basin, a bottle, and a few evidences of surgical aid. But the doctor had gone. 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. 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. As he spoke the door opened and an old man came in. He had papers and a quill pen in his hand.
"You sent for me--a notary," he said. Evasio Mon stood in the doorway a yard behind the dying man's head. The notary moved the table so that in looking at his client he could, with the corner of his eye, see also the face of Evasio Mon.
"You wish to make a statement or a last testament?" said the notary.
"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."
"I am not a notary of Saragossa--go on."
"Of Saragossa and Santiago de Cuba. And I have a great fortune to leave."
One of the praying friars made a little involuntary movement. The love of money perhaps hid itself beneath the brown hood of the mendicant. The man who spoke was dying; already his breath came short.
"Give me," he said, "some cordial, or I shall not last."
After a pause he went on.
"There is a will in existence which I now cancel. I made it when I was a younger man. I left my fortune to my son Leon de Mogente. To my daughter Juanita de Mogente I left a sufficiency. I wish now to make a will in favour of my son Leon"--he paused while the notary's quill pen ran over the paper--"on one condition."
"On one condition"--wrote the notary, who had leant forward, but sat upright rather suddenly in obedience to a signal from Evasio Mon in the doorway. He had forgotten his tonsure.
"That he does not go into religion--that he devotes no part of it to the benefit or advantage of the church."
The notary sat very straight while he wrote this down.
"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."
"There is no to-morrow, my friend. Send for my son at once."
Mon grudgingly nodded his head.
"It is well, I will do as you wish," said the notary, only too glad, it would seem, to rise and go into the next room to receive further minute instructions from his chief.
The dying man laid with closed eyes, and did not move until his son spoke to him. Leon de Mogente was a sparely-built man, with a white and oddly-rounded forehead. His eyes were dark, and he betrayed scarcely any emotion at the sight of his father in this lamentable plight.
"Ah!" said the elder man. "It is you. You look like a monk. Are you one?"
"Not yet," answered the pale youth in a low voice with a sort of suppressed exultation. Evasio Mon, watching him from the doorway, smiled faintly. He seemed to have no misgivings as to what Leon might say.
"But you wish to become one?"
"It is my dearest desire."
The dying man laughed. "You are like your mother," he said. "She was a fool. You may go back to bed, my friend."
"But I would rather stay here and pray by your bedside," pleaded the son. He was a feeble man--the only weak man, it would appear, in the room.
"Then stay and pray if you want to," answered Mogente, without even troubling himself to show contempt.
The notary was at his table again, and seemed to seek his cue by an upward glance.
"You will,