The man, who had the air of a murderer (or a Spanish Cathedral chorister), volunteered to go and seek his master.
"I can say a prayer myself," he said humbly.
"And here is something to put in the poor-box," answered Sarrion with his twisted smile.
"By my soul," he exclaimed, when they were left alone, "this place reeks of hypocrisy." He looked round the walls with a raised eyebrow.
"I have been trying to discover," he went on, "what was in the mind of Francisco as he lay dying in that house in the Calle San Gregorio--what he was trying to carry out--why he made that will.

He sent for Leon, you see, and must have seen at a glance that he had for a son--a mule, of the worst sort.

He probably saw that to leave money to Leon was to give it to the Church, which meant that it would be spent for the further undoing of Spain and the propagation of ignorance and superstition." For Ramon de Sarrion was one of those good Spaniards and good Catholics who lay the entire blame for the downfall of their country from its great estate to a Church, which can only hope to live in its present form as long as superstition and crass ignorance prevail.
"I cannot help thinking," he went on, "that Francisco dimly perceived that he was the victim of a careful plot--one sees something like that in all these ramifications.

Three million pesetas are worth scheming for.
They would make a difference in any cause.

They might make all the difference at this moment in Spain.