watched, of feeling in every country the espionage of the police
around him, the habit of being awoke in the middle of the night in his
wretched room in some inn by the order to leave at once; the unrest of
the ancient Asheverus, who, as soon as he could enjoy a moment's rest,
heard the eternal cry--"Go on. Go on."

He did not try to sleep again, he preferred the present reality, the
silence of the Cathedral which was to him as a gentle caress, the
noble calm of the temple, that immense pile of worked stone, which
seemed to press on him, enveloping him, hiding for ever his weakness
and his persecutions.

He went out into the cloister, and, resting his elbows on the
balustrade, looked down into the garden.

The Claverias seemed quite deserted. The children who had enlivened
them in the early morning had gone to school, the women were inside
their houses preparing their mid-day meal, there seemed to be no one
in the cloister except himself; the sunlight bathed all one side,
and the shadow of the pillars cut obliquely the great golden spaces
flooding the pavement. The majestic silence, the holy calm of the
Cathedral overpowered the agitator like a gentle narcotic. The seven
centuries surrounding those stones seemed to him like so many veils
hiding him from the rest of the world. In one of the dwellings of the
Claverias you could hear the incessant tap, tap, of a hammer; it was
that of a shoemaker whom Gabriel had seen through the window-panes,
bending over his bench. In the square of sky framed by the roofs some
pigeons were flying, lazily moving their wings, soaring in the vault
of intense blue; some flew down into the cloister, and, perching on
the balustrade, broke the religious silence with their gentle cooing;