The Shadow of the Cathedral | Page 8

removing the dust from the famous carved stalls in

the choir; it seemed as though the Cathedral had awoke with its nerves
irritated, and that the slightest touch produced complaints.
The men's footsteps resounded with a tremendous echo, as though the
tombs of all the kings, archbishops and warriors hidden under the tiled
floor were being disturbed.
The cold inside the church was even more intense than that outside; this,
together with the damp of its soil traversed by underground water
drains, and the leakage of subterranean and hidden tanks that stained
the pavement, made the poor canons in the choir cough horribly,
"shortening their lives," as they complainingly said.
The morning light began to spread through the naves, bringing out of
the darkness the spotless whiteness of the Toledan Cathedral, the purity
of its stone making it the lightest and most beautiful of temples. One
could now see all the elegant and daring beauty of the eighty-eight
pillars soaring audaciously into space, white as frozen snow, and the
delicate ribs interlacing to carry the vaulting. In the upper storey the
sun shone through the large stained-glass windows, making them look
like fairy gardens.
Gabriel seated himself on the base of one of the pilasters between two
columns; but he was soon obliged to rise and move on, the dampness of
the stone, and the vault-like cold throughout the whole building
penetrated to his very bones.
He strolled through the naves, attracting the attention of the devotees,
who stopped in their prayers to watch him. A stranger at that early hour,
which belonged specially to the familiars of the Cathedral, excited their
curiosity.
The bell-ringer passed him several times, following him with uneasy
glance, as though this unknown man, of poverty-stricken aspect, who
wandered aimlessly about at an hour when the treasures of the church
were, as a rule, not so strictly watched, inspired him with little
confidence.

Another man met him near the high altar. Luna recognised him also: it
was Eusebio, the sacristan of the chapel of the Sagrario, "Azul de la
Virgen,"[1] as he was called by the Cathedral staff, on account of the
celestial colour of the cloak he wore on festival days.
[Footnote 1: Virgin's blue.]
Six years had passed since Gabriel had last seen him, but he had not
forgotten his greasy carcase, his surly face with its narrow, wrinkled
forehead fringed with bristly hair, his bull neck that scarcely allowed
him to breathe, and that made every breath like the blast of a bellows.
All the servants of the Cathedral envied him his post, which was the
most lucrative of all, to say nothing of the favour he enjoyed with the
archbishop and the canons.
"Virgin's blue" considered the Cathedral as his own peculiar property,
and he often came very near turning out those who inspired him with
any antipathy.
He fixed his bold eyes on the vagabond he saw walking about the
church, making an effort to raise his overhanging brows. Where had he
seen this strange fellow before? Gabriel noted the effort he made to
recall his memory, and turned his back to examine with pretended
interest a coloured panel hanging on a pillar.
Flying from the curiosity excited by his presence in the fane, he went
out into the cloister; there he felt more at his ease, quite alone. The
beggars were chattering, seated on the doorsteps of the Mollete; many
of the clergy passed through them, entering the church hurriedly by the
door of the Presentacion; the beggars saluted them all by name, but
without stretching out their hands. They knew them, they all belonged
to the "household," and among friends one does not beg. They were
there to fall on the strangers, and they waited patiently for the coming
of the English; for, surely, all the strangers who came from Madrid by
the early morning train could only be from England.
Gabriel waited near the door, knowing that those coming from the
cloister must enter by it. He crossed the archbishop's arch, and,

following the open staircase of the palace, descended into the street,
re-entering the church by the Mollete door. Luna, who knew all the
history of the Cathedral, remembered the origin of its name. At first it
was called "of justice," because under it the Vicar-General of the
Archbishopric gave audience. Later it was called "del Mollete,"
because every day after high mass the acolytes and vergers assembled
there for the blessing of the half-pound loaves, or rolls of bread
distributed to the poor. Six hundred bushels of wheat--as Luna
remembered--were distributed yearly in this alms, but this was in the
days when the yearly revenues of the Cathedral were more than eleven
millions.
Gabriel felt annoyed by the curious glances of the clergy, and of the
devout entering