On his arrival in Barcelona Gabriel’s life was a whirlwind of proselytising, of struggles, and of persecutions.  The “companions” respected him, seeing in him the friend of all the great propagandists of “the idea,” and one who might himself rank among the most famous revolutionists.  No meeting could be held without the “companion” Luna; that natural eloquence which had caused such wonder on his entry into the seminary, bubbled up and spread like an intoxicating gas in these revolutionary assemblies, firing that ragged, hungry, and miserable crowd, making them tremble with emotion at the description of future societies set forth by the apostle, that celestial city of the dreamers of all ages, without property, without vices, without inequalities, where work would become a pleasure, and where there would be no other worship but that of science and art.  Some of his hearers, the darker spirits, would smile with a compassionate gesture, listening to his maledictions against authority, and his hymns to the sweetness and triumph to be won by passive resistance.  He was an idealist, one to whom they must listen because he had served the cause well; they who were the strong men, the fighters, knew well enough how to crush in silence that cursed society if it should show itself deaf to the voice of Truth.

When they exploded bombs in the streets the “companion” Luna was the first to be surprised at the catastrophe, he was also the first to be taken to prison on account of the popularity of his name.  Oh! those two years passed in the castle of Montjuich!  They had ploughed a deep furrow in Gabriel’s memory, a deep wound that could not heal, that made him tremble at the slightest remembrance, disturbing his calm, and making him hot and cold with terror.

The madness of fear had taken possession of society, and all laws and regard to humanity, were trampled under foot to defend it.  The justice of former ages, with its violent procedure was resuscitated in full civilisation.  The judge was distrusted as being too cultured and scrupulous, and a free hand was given to the petty officers of justice, ordering them to introduce afresh all the old instruments of torture.

In the darkness of the night Gabriel saw his Moorish dungeon lighted up; some men in uniform seized him and dragged him down the staircase to a room where others were waiting with huge cudgels.  A young man with a soft voice, in the uniform of a lieutenant, and with the lazy manners of a Creole, questioned him as to the various attempts that had occurred months before down in the town.  Gabriel knew nothing, had seen nothing.  But all the same these men were your companions; but he, having fixed his eyes on high, contemplating his visions of the future, had never realised that all around him this violence was surging and germinating.  His reiterated negative rendered the men furious; the soft voice of the Creole became harsh with anger, and with menaces and blasphemies