Mogente seemed to be failing.

He lay quite still, looking straight in front of him.
"The Count Ramon de Sarrion," he asked suddenly, "is he in Saragossa ?" "No," answered the notary, after a glance into the darkened door.
"No--but your will--your will.

Try and remember what you are doing.

You wish to leave your money to your son ?" "No, no." "Then to--your daughter ?" And the question seemed to be directed, not towards the bed, but behind it.
"To your daughter ?" he repeated more confidently.

"That is right, is it not?
To your daughter ?" Mogente nodded his head.
"Write it out shortly," he said in a low and distinct voice.