After dinner he would go into the cloister, completely rested by his morning’s sleep.  It was the only time of the day in which he could see his friends; they either came to find him, or he went in search of them, going to the shoemaker’s house or up into the tower.

They greeted him respectfully, listening to his words with the same attention as before; but he noted in them a certain air of proud independence, and at the same time of pity, as if, although grateful to him for having transmitted his ideas to them, they pitied him for his gentle character, so inimical to all violence.

“Those birds,” said Gabriel to his brother, “are flying on their own account.  They do not want me, and wish to be alone.”

Wooden Staff shook his head sadly.

“God grant, Gabriel, that some day you may not repent of having spoken to them of things they cannot understand!  They have greatly changed, and no one can endure our nephew, the Perrero.  He says that if he is not allowed to kill bulls in order to get rich, he will kill men to get out of his poverty; that he has as much right to enjoyment as any gentleman, and that all the rich are robbers.  Really, brother, by the Holy Virgin! have you taught them such horrible things?”

“Let them alone,” said Gabriel, laughing; “they have not yet digested their new ideas, and are vomiting follies.  All this will pass, for they are good souls.”

The only thing that vexed him was that Mariano withdrew from him.  He fled his company as if he were afraid.  He seemed to fear that Gabriel would read his thoughts, with that irresistible power that from boyhood he had held over him.

“Mariano, what is the matter with you?” said he, seeing him pass through the cloisters.

“Much that is out of gear,” answered his surly friend.

“I know it, man—­I know it; but you seem to avoid me.  Why is this?”

“Avoid you—­I?—­never.  You know I always love you.  When you come to my house you see how we all welcome you.  We owe you a great deal; you have opened our eyes and we are no longer brute beasts.  But I am tired of knowing so much and being so poor, and my companions are thinking the same.  We do not care to have our heads full and our bellies empty.”

“Well, then, what remedy have we?  We have all been born too-soon.  Others will come after us, finding things better arranged.  What can you do to right the present, when there are millions of workers in the world more wretched than yourselves, who have not succeeded in finding a better way out even at the cost of their blood, fighting against authority?”

“What shall we do?” grumbled his companion.  “That is what we shall see, and you will see also.  We are not such fools as you think.  You are very clever, Gabriel, and we respect you as our master, for everything you say is true.  But it seems to us that when you have to do with things—­practical things:  you understand me? when one must call bread, bread, and wine, wine:  am I explaining myself?—­you are, begging your pardon, rather soft, like all those who live much in books.  We are ignorant, but we see more clearly.”