el ceased his contemplation, seeing that he was no longer alone
in front of the church. It was nearly daylight, and several women with
bowed heads, their mantillas falling over their eyes, were passing in
front of the iron grating. The crutches of a lame man rang out on the
fine tiles of the pavement, and, out beyond the tower, under the
great arch of communication between the archbishop's palace and the
Cathedral, the beggars were gathering in order to take up their
accustomed positions at the cloister door. The faithful and "God's
creatures" [1] knew one another; every morning they were the first
occupants of the church, and this daily meeting had established a kind
of fraternity, and with much coughing and hoarseness they all lamented
the cold of the morning and the lateness of the bell-ringer in coming
down to open the doors.

[Footnote 1: _Pordioseres_.]

A door opened beyond the archbishop's arch, that of the tower and
the staircase leading to the dwellings in the upper cloister. A man
crossed the street rattling a huge bunch of keys, and, followed by the
usual morning assemblage, he proceeded to open the door of the lower
cloister, narrow and pointed as an arrow-head. Gabriel recognised him,
it was Mariano, the bell-ringer. To avoid being noticed he remained
motionless in the _Piazza_, allowing those to pass first through
the Puerta del Mollete,[1] who seemed so anxious to hurry into the
Metropolitan church, lest their usual places should be stolen from
them and occupied by others.

[Footnote 1: Door of the rolls, or loaves.]

At last he decided to follow them, and slowly descended the same steps
leading down into the cloister, for the Cathedral, being built in a
hollow, is much lower than the adjacent streets.

Everything appeared the same. There on the walls were the great
frescoes of Bayan y Maella, representing the works and great deeds
of Saint Eulogio, his preaching in the land of the Moors, and the
cruelties of the infidels, who, with big turbans and enormous
whiskers, were beating the saint. In the interior of the Mollete
doorway was represented the horrible martyrdom of the Child de la
Guardia; that legend born at the same time in so many Catholic towns
during the heat of anti-Semitic hatred, the sacrifice of the Christian
child, stolen from his home by Jews of grim countenance, who crucified
him in order to tear out his heart and drink his blood.

The damp was rapidly effacing this romantic fresc