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." "You are badly hurt, my son." "Yes; you had better not try to lift me, though you are a strong man." "I will go for help," said the monk.
"Lay help," suggested the wounded man curtly.

But the friar was already out of earshot.
In an astonishingly short space of time the friar returned, accompanied by two men, who had the air of indoor servants and the quiet movements of street-bred, roof-ridden humanity.
Mindful of his cloth, the friar stood aside, unostentatiously and firmly refusing to take the lead even in a mission of mercy.