Outside the church the sun was still shining, the coloured wheel of the rose window above the great doorway glowed like a luminous flower-bed; below, among the pillars, the light seemed overcome by the darkness; the bats began to descend, and with their wings made the dust fall from the shafts in the vaulting.  They fluttered round about the pillars, circling as in a forest of stone; in their blind flight they often struck the cords of the hanging lamps, or shook the old red hats with dusty and ragged tassels that hung high above the cardinals’ tombs.

Gabriel made his rounds throughout the church.  He shook the iron railings in front of the altars to make sure they were securely locked, pushed the doors of the Muzarabe Chapel, and that of the Kings, threw a glance into the Chapter-house, and finally stopped before the Virgin del Sagrario; through the grating he could see the lamps burning, and above, the image covered with jewels.  After this examination he went in search of his comrade, and they both sat down in the crossways, either on the steps of the choir or of the high altar; from there you could take in the whole of the church at one glance.

The two watchmen began by carefully putting on their caps.

“They will probably have ordered you,” said Gabriel’s companion, “to respect the Church, and that if you want to smoke a cigar you must go up to the gallery of the Locum; and that if you wish to sup you must go into the sacristy.  They said the same to me when I first entered into the service of the Church.  But these are only the words of people who sleep comfortably and quietly in their own houses.  Here the principal thing is to keep good watch, and beyond that, each one may do as seems best to him to pass the night.  God and the saints sleep during these hours; they really must want some rest after spending the whole day listening to prayers and hymns, receiving incense, and being scorched by wax tapers close to their faces.  We watch their sleep, and, the devil! we are surely not wanting in respect if we allow ourselves a little liberty.  Come along, companion, it is getting dark; let us club our suppers.”

So the two watchmen supped in the crossways, spreading the contents of their baskets on the marble steps.

Gabriel’s comrade carried at his belt, as his only arm, an ancient pistol, a present to the Obreria which had never been fired; to Luna, Silver Stick pointed out a carbine, a legacy to the sacristy from the ex-civil guard, in memory of his years of service.  Gabriel made a gesture of repulsion.  It was all right standing there, he would get it if it were wanted; so he left it in the corner with some packets of cartridges, mouldy from the damp and covered with cobwebs.