Gabriel spent the later hours of the morning in the bell-ringer’s “habitacion.”  The walls of ancient whitewash were adorned by faded and yellow engravings, representing episodes in the Carlist war, remembrances of the mountain campaign which for long years had been the pride of Mariano, but of which now he never spoke.

Here Gabriel met all his admirers.  Even the shoemaker worked at night in order not to deprive himself of this meeting.  Don Martin, the curate, also came up, concealing himself carefully so that Silver Stick should not see him.  It was a small community grouping itself round the sick apostle, with all the zeal inspired by the unknown.

Gabriel answered all these men’s questions, that so often betrayed the simplicity of their minds.  When a fit of coughing seized him, they all surrounded him with concern written on their faces.  They would have wished even at the cost of their own lives to restore him to health.  Luna, carried away by his enthusiasm, ended by narrating to them the story of his life and sufferings, and so the prestige of martyrdom came to increase the ardour of these people.  The narrowed minds of these sedentary men, living tranquil and safe in the Cathedral, made them admire the adventures and torments of this fighter; for them he was a martyr to this new religion of the humble and oppressed, and besides, their innocence converted him into a victim of that social injustice which they daily hated more.

For them there was no other truth but Gabriel’s words; the bell-ringer, although the roughest and most silent among them, was the most advanced in his conversion.  His admiration for Gabriel which dated from their childhood, his dog-like fidelity, carried him on with leaps and bounds, making him accept at once even the most distant ideals.

“I am whatever you are, Gabriel,” he said firmly.  “Are you not an anarchist?  I will be one also—­indeed, I think I have always been one.  Do you not preach that the poor should live and the rich should work; that everyone should possess what he earns, and that we should all help one another?  Well, this is just what I thought when we wandered over the country with our guns and our scarf.  And as far as religion is concerned, which formerly nearly drove us mad, I feel perfectly indifferent.  I am convinced on hearing you that it is a sort of fable invented by clever people in order that we, the poor and unfortunate, should submit to the miseries of this world hoping for heaven; it is not badly imagined, for in the end those who die and do not find heaven will not return to complain.”

One day Gabriel wished to go up where the bells were hung.  It was now well on in spring; it was warm, and the intense blue of the sky seemed to attract him.

“I have not seen the ‘big bell’ since I was a child,” he said.  “Let us go up; I should like to see Toledo for the last time.”