the señores canons; and it is a delight to see how she crimps the
surplices. Thomas, lad, bow to the gentleman; it is your uncle
Gabriel, who has just arrived from America, and from Paris, and I
don't know from where else besides! From very far off countries, very
far off."

The young man saluted Gabriel, though he seemed rather scared by the
sad and suffering face of their relative, whom he had heard his mother
speak of as a mysterious and romantic being.

"Here, as you see him," proceeded Esteban, speaking to his brother,
and pointing to his nephew, "he is the worst lot in the Cathedral.
The Señor Obrero[1] would more than once have turned him out into
the street, were it not for respect to the memory of his father and
grandfather, and also to the name he bears, for everybody knows the
Lunas are as ancient in the Cathedral as the stones in its walls. No
escapade enters his head but he hastens to carry it out, and he swears
like a pagan even in full sacristy, under the very noses of the
beneficiaries. Don't dare to deny it! Grumbler!"

[Footnote 1: Canon in charge of the fabric.]

And he shook his first at the lad, half severely, half smiling, as
though in the bottom of his heart he felt some pride in his nephew's
scrapes, who received his reprimand with grimaces that made his face
twitch like that of a monkey, while his eyes retained their fixed and
insolent stare.

"It is a real shame," continued the uncle, "that you should comb your
hair in that fashion, like the Merry Andrews that come to Toledo from