The young man saluted Gabriel, though he seemed rather scared by the sad and suffering face of their relative, whom he had heard his mother speak of as a mysterious and romantic being.

“Here, as you see him,” proceeded Esteban, speaking to his brother, and pointing to his nephew, “he is the worst lot in the Cathedral.  The Senor Obrero[1] would more than once have turned him out into the street, were it not for respect to the memory of his father and grandfather, and also to the name he bears, for everybody knows the Lunas are as ancient in the Cathedral as the stones in its walls.  No escapade enters his head but he hastens to carry it out, and he swears like a pagan even in full sacristy, under the very noses of the beneficiaries.  Don’t dare to deny it!  Grumbler!”

[Footnote 1:  Canon in charge of the fabric.]

And he shook his first at the lad, half severely, half smiling, as though in the bottom of his heart he felt some pride in his nephew’s scrapes, who received his reprimand with grimaces that made his face twitch like that of a monkey, while his eyes retained their fixed and insolent stare.

“It is a real shame,” continued the uncle, “that you should comb your hair in that fashion, like the Merry Andrews that come to Toledo from the Court on great festivals.  In the good old times of the Cathedral they would have shaved your head for you.  But in these days of alienation, of universal licence and misfortunes, our holy church is as poor as a rat, and poverty does not give the senores canons much inclination to examine details.  It is a grievous pity to see how everything is going down.  What desolation, Gabriel!  If you could only see it!  The Cathedral is as beautiful as ever, but we do not now see the former beauty of the Lord’s worship.  The Chapel-master says the same thing, and he is indignant to see that on great festivals only about half-a-dozen musicians take their place in the middle of the choir.  The young people who live in the Claverias have not our great love for the mother-church; they complain of the shortness of their salaries without considering that it is the temporalities that support religion.  If this goes on I should not be surprised to see this popinjay and other rascals like him playing at ’Rayuelo’[1] in the crossways in front of the choir.  May God forgive me!”

[Footnote 1:  A game of drawing lines.]

And the simple “Wooden Staff” made a gesture as though scandalised at his own words.  He went on: 

“This young fellow you see here is not satisfied with his position in life, and yet, though he is only a youth, he occupies the place his poor father could only attain to after thirty years’ service.  He aspires to be a toreador, and often on a Sunday he dares to take part in the bull-fight in the bull-ring of Toledo.  His mother came down, dishevelled like a Magdalen, to tell me all about it, and I, thinking that as his father was dead I ought to act in his place,