They now no longer hid themselves in the bell-ringer’s house for their meetings; they formed a circle in the cloister during the evenings, discussing the audacious doctrines taught by Luna, without now being intimidated by the religious atmosphere.  They sat with the look of lords, surrounding their master, while in the opposite gallery walked Silver Stick like a black phantom, reading his book of hours, and casting now and then an uneasy glance on the group.  Even his ancient vassal, the chaplain of the nuns, had dared to leave him to go and listen to Gabriel.

Don Antolin with the keenness of his ecclesiastical training, guessed the intensity of the evil produced by Luna.  But for the moment his egoism was stronger than his reflection.  Let them talk—­what did it matter?  It was only a little ebullition of pride in those people, nothing more.  All words and wind in the head.  Meanwhile they had better not ask for any more money!  In exchange he had a very good auxiliary in Luna, who, sharing his authority, spared him many annoyances, and the Cathedral disposed of his services gratuitously as interpreter to the foreigners.

These already began to talk of the great intelligence and education of the Toledan sacristans, a praise Don Antolin received as though it were entirely deserved by himself.

Gabriel was far more alarmed than Don Antolin at the effect of his words; he bitterly repented having been led to speak of his past and of his ideals.  He had sought for peace and silence, but he was still surrounded, though in a smaller degree, by the atmosphere of proselytism and blind enthusiasm, as in the days of his martyrdom.  He had wished to efface himself and to disappear on entering the Cathedral, but fate mocked him, reviving the agitation in the midst of his concealment, to disturb the peace of that ruin.  Society had forgotten him, but he unconsciously was agitating, and drawing to himself the attention of the outside world.

The enthusiasm of these neophytes was a danger, and his brother, the Wooden Staff, without understanding the full extent of the evil, warned him with his usual good sense.

“You are turning the heads of these poor men, with the things you tell them.  Be careful; they are very well meaning, but they are very ignorant.  And having been ignorant all their lives, it is dangerous to turn such men into sages at one blow.  It is as if I, being accustomed to the homely stew, were taken to-day to His Eminence’s table.  I should gorge myself and drink too much; at night I should have a colic, and should probably hop the twig.”

Gabriel acknowledged the truth of this prudent advice, but he could not draw back—­he was driven on by the affection of his disciples and his own ardour as propagandist.  It was a great delight to him to see the wonder in those virgin minds, entering tumultuously into the luminous palaces constructed by human thought during the last century.