Father Vaillant approached the bed-side, "Get away from the bed a little, my good women. Arrange yourselves along the wall, your candles blind me." But as they began rising and lifting their candlesticks from the floor, the sick man called, "No, no, do not take away the lights! Some thief will come, and I will have nothing left." The women shrugged, looked reproachfully at Father Vaillant, and sat down again. Padre Lucero was wasted to the bones. His cheeks were sunken, his hooked nose was clay-coloured and waxy, his eyes were wild with fever. They burned up at Father Joseph,--great, black, glittering, distrustful eyes. On this night of his departure the old man looked more Spaniard than Mexican. He clutched Father Joseph's hand with a grip surprisingly strong, and gave the man who was rubbing his feet a vigorous kick in the chest. "Have done with my feet there, and take away these wet rags. Now that the Vicar has come, I have something to say, and I want you all to hear." Father Lucero's voice had always been thin and high in pitch, his parishioners used to say it was like a horse talking. "Señor Vicario, you remember Padre Martinez? You ought to, for you served him as badly as you did me. Now listen:" Father Lucero related that Martinez, before his death, had entrusted to him a certain sum of money to be spent in masses for the repose of his soul, these to be offered at his native church in Abiquiu. Lucero had not used the money as he promised, but had buried it under the dirt floor of this room, just below the large crucifix that hung on the wall yonder. At this point Father Vaillant again signalled to the women to withdraw, but as they took up their candles, Father Lucero sat up in his night-shirt and cried, "Stay as you are! Are you going to run away and leave me with a stranger? I trust him no more than I do you! Oh, why did God not make some way for a man to protect his own after death? Alive, I can do it with my knife, old as I am. But after?"---- The Señora Gonzales soothed Father Lucero, persuaded him to lie back upon his pillows and tell them what he wanted them to do. He explained that this money which he had taken in trust from Martinez was to be sent to Abiquiu and used as the Padre had wished. Under the crucifix, and under the floor beneath the bed on which he was lying, they would find his own savings. One third of his hoard was for Trinidad. The rest was to be spent in masses for his soul, and they were to be celebrated in the old church of San Miguel in Santa Fé. Father Vaillant assured him that all his wishes should be scrupulously carried out, and now it was time for him to dismiss the cares of this world and prepare his mind to receive the Sacrament.