The listeners looked at each other in astonishment, as though these words were an illuminating flash.  They were doubtful for a moment as though frightened, and then the faith of conviction illuminated their faces.

“It is true,” said the bell-ringer in a gloomy tone.

“It is true,” repeated the shoemaker, throwing into his words all the bitterness of his grinding life of poverty, with a constantly increasing family, and with no other help but his inadequate work.

Sagrario remained silent.  She did not understand many of her uncle’s sayings, but she received them all as gospel coming from him, and they sounded in her ears like delicious music.

Gabriel’s reputation spread among the humble inhabitants of the church, and all the servants of the Primacy gossiped about his wisdom.  The clergy took notice of him, and more than once on rainy evenings the canon librarian, taking his walk in the cloisters, tried to make Gabriel talk; but the fugitive, with a remnant of prudence, showed himself towards the cassocks, as they themselves said, coldly courteous and reserved, fearing that they would expel him if they became acquainted with his views.

Only one priest of all those he saw in the upper cloister had inspired him with any confidence.  This was a young man of wretched appearance, with worn-out clothes, a chaplain of one of the innumerable convents of nuns in Toledo.  He received seven duros a month, which were all his means of supporting himself and his old mother, a common peasant woman, who had denied herself bread in order to give an education to her son.

“You see, Gabriel,” said the priest.  “You see how it is—­such a great sacrifice to earn less than a common labourer earns in my village.  Why did they ordain me with so much ceremony?  Was it for this I sang mass in the midst of so much pomp, as though in wedding the Church I were uniting myself to wealth?”

His poverty made him the slave of Don Antolin, and in the last third of the month he came almost every day to the cloister, trying to soften Silver Stick with his prayers and induce him to lend a few pesetas.  He even flattered Mariquita, who could not show herself shy with him, in spite of his cassock.

“He has a very good appearance,” she said to the women of the Claverias with the enthusiasm inspired by every man.  “I like to see him by the side of Don Gabriel and to hear them talk as they walk in the cloister.  They look like two great noblemen.  His mother called him Martin, no doubt because he resembled the Saint Martin by that painter they call El Greco, that hangs in some parish church, but I forget which.”

To cajole Don Antolin was a far more arduous task, and the poor little curate suffered much in his endeavours to propitiate the miser, who was irritated if his miserable loans were not repaid at the proper time.  Silver Stick with his love of authority was delighted to hold a priest and an equal under his thumb, so that those in the Claverias should see that he did not order about the small fry only.  Don Martin was for him only a servant in a cassock, and he made him come up to the cloister nearly every evening on various pretexts.  His delight Was to keep him whole hours standing in front of his door, obliged to listen and to pay attention to all his words.