He sat there a long while, looking through the railings at the Virgin del Sagrario.  Born in the Cathedral and brought up as a child by his mother, who knelt with him before the image, he had always admired it as the most perfect type of beauty.  Now he criticised it coldly with his artistic eye.  She was ugly and grotesque like all the very rich images; sumptuous and wealthy piety had decked her out with their treasures.  There was nothing about her of the idealism of the Virgin painted by Christian artists; she was much more like an Indian idol covered with jewels.  The embroidered dress and mantle stood out with the stiffness of stone folds, and over the head-dress sparkled a crown as large as a helmet, diminishing the face.  Gold, pearls and diamonds shone on every part of her vestments, and she wore pendants and bracelets of immense value.

Gabriel smiled at the religious simplicity which dressed heavenly heroes according to the fashions of the earth.

The faint twilight glimmering through the windows and the wavering flame of the tapers animated the face of the image as if she were speaking.

“Even as I am!” said Gabriel to himself.  “If a holy person were in my place he would think the Virgin was laughing one moment and crying the next; with a little imagination and faith, behold here is a miracle!  These flickerings of light have been an inexhaustible mine for the priests, even the Venus’ of former times changed the expression of their faces at the pleasure of the faithful, just like a Christian image.”

He thought a long time about miracles, the invention of all religions, and as old as human ignorance and credulity.

It was now quite dark.  After supping frugally, Gabriel opened a book that he carried in his basket and began to read by the light of his lantern.  Now and then he raised his head, disturbed by the fluttering and screams of the night birds, attracted by the extraordinary brilliancy of the countless wax tapers.  The time passed slowly in the darkness; the silvery sound of the warriors’ hammers re-echoed through the vaulting.  Luna got up and visited the markers to record his visit.

Ten o’clock had struck when Gabriel heard the wicket of the Puerta de Santa Catalina open quickly but without violence, as though a key had been used.  Luna remembered the bell-ringer’s offer, but soon he heard the sound of many steps magnified by the echo as if a whole host were advancing.

“Who goes there?” shouted Gabriel, rather alarmed.

“It is us, man,” answered from the darkness the husky voice of Mariano.  “Did I not tell you we should come down?”

As they came into the crossways, the light from the high altar fell full upon them, and Gabriel saw the Tato and the shoemaker with the bell-ringer.  They wished to keep Luna company part of the night, so that his watch should not be so wearisome, and they produced a bottle of brandy, of which they offered him some.