Don Antolin had known Gabriel since his childhood, and spoke to him in the second person.  The ignorant priest still retained the remembrance of Luna’s great triumphs obtained in the seminary, and though he saw him so poor and ailing, taking refuge in the Cathedral almost on charity, his “tuteo” of superiority was not free from admiration.  Gabriel, on his side, feared Silver Stick, knowing his intolerant fanaticism.  For this reason he confined himself to listening to him, careful in their conversation that not a single word should slip in which could betray his past.  He would be the first to demand his expulsion from the Cathedral, where he wished to live unknown and silent.

On meeting each other in the cloister, the two men began with the same questions every morning: 

“How is your health to-day?”

Gabriel showed himself an optimist.  He knew that his illness had no remedy; still, that quiet life free from all emotions, and his brother’s care, feeding him at all hours, like a bird and almost by force, had arrested the decay of his health.  The course of the illness was slower—­death was meeting with obstacles.

“I am better, Don Antolin.  And yesterday, what sort of a day had you?”

Silver Stick plunged his dirty and horny hands into the recesses of his cassock, and produced three greasy little ticket-books, one red, one green and the third white.  He turned over the leaves, considering the counterfoils of those he had torn out; he took the most respectful care of these little books, as though they were far more important than the big music books in the choir.

“A very slack day, Gabriel!  Being in the winter, so few people travel.  Our best time is in the spring, when they say the English come in by Gibraltar.  They go first to the fair in Seville, and afterwards they come to have a look at our Cathedral.  Besides, in milder weather the people come from Madrid, and although they grumble, the flies crowd to see the giants and the big bell, then I have to hurry with the tickets; one day, Gabriel, I took eighty duros.  I remember it was at the last ‘Corpus’; Mariquita had to sew up the pockets of my cassock, for they tore with the weight of so many pesetas; it was a blessing from the Lord.”

He looked sadly at the little books, as though regretting that many days passed in winter when he only tore out one or two leaves.  This plan of selling entrance tickets to see the treasures and curiosities of the Cathedral filled all his thoughts.  It was the salvation of the church, the modern proceeding to help it on, and he felt proud of fulfilling this function, which made him one of the most important persons in the life of the temple.