in my life the sweets of silence, of absolute quiet, of incognito; to be no one, for no one to know me; to inspire neither sympathy nor fear.  I should wish to be as a statue on the doorway, as a pillar in the Cathedral, immovable, over whose surface centuries have glided without leaving the slightest trace or emotion.  To wait for death as a body that eats or breathes, but cannot think or suffer, nor feel enthusiasm; this to me would be happiness, brother.  I do not know where to go; men are waiting for me out beyond these doors to drive me on again.  Will you let me stay with you?”

[Footnote 1:  “It will sprout.”]

For all answer the “Wooden Staff” laid his hand affectionately on Gabriel’s arm.

“Let us come upstairs, madman—­you shall not die, I will nurse you; what you want is care and quiet.  We will cure that hot head, which seems like that of Don Quixote.  Do you remember when you were a child reading us his history in the long evenings?  Go along, dreamer, what does it signify to you if the world is better or worse regulated?  As we found it, so it has always been.  What does signify is that we should live like Christians, with the certainty that the other life will be a better one, as it will be the work of God and not of man.  Go up—­let us go up.”

And taking hold of the vagabond affectionately, they passed out of the cloister through the beggars, who had followed the interview with curious eyes, without, however, being able to hear a single word.  They crossed the street and entered the staircase of the tower.  The steps were of red brick, worn and broken; the whitewashed walls were covered on all sides with grotesque drawings and various inscriptions, scrawled by those who had ascended the tower, attracted by the fame of the big bell.

Gabriel went up slowly, gasping, and stopping at every step.

“I am ill, Esteban, very ill; these bellows let out the wind in every part.”

Then, as though repenting his forgetfulness, he suddenly asked: 

“And Pepa, your wife?  I hope she is all right.”

The brows of the Cathedral servant contracted, and his eyes became bright as though full of tears.

“She died,” he said with laconic sadness.

Gabriel stopped suddenly, clinging to the handrail, struck with surprise; then, after a short silence, he went on, wishing to console his brother.

“But, Sagrario, my niece, she must have grown a beauty.  The last time I saw her she looked like a queen, with her crown of auburn hair and her smiling face, with its golden bloom, like a ripe apricot.  Did she marry the cadet, or is she still with you?”

The “Wooden Staff” appeared even more sad, and he looked grimly at his brother.

“She also died,” he said drily.

“Sagrario also dead!” exclaimed Gabriel astounded.

“She is dead to me, which is the same thing.  Brother, by all you love best in the world, do not speak to me of her.”