He passed his arm round the woman, raising her head
with his other hand, fixing his eyes on those of Sagrario,
which were shining in the starlight bright with tears.
“We shall be two souls, two minds who cherish
one another without giving rein to passion, and with
a purity such as no poets have imagined. This
night in which we have mutually confessed one to another,
in which our souls have been laid open to one another
is our wedding night; kiss me, companion of my life!”
And in the silence of the cloister they kissed each
other noiselessly, slowly, as though with their lips
joined they were weeping over the misery of their
past, and the brevity of a love around which death
was circling. Above, the lament of Beethoven
went on unfolding its sad modulations, which floated
through the cloister and round the sleeping Cathedral.
Gabriel stood erect sustaining Sagrario, who seemed
almost fainting from the strength of her feelings;
he looked up at the luminous space with almost priestly
gravity, and said, whispering close to the young woman’s
ear:
“Our life will be like a deserted garden, where
amid fallen trunks and dead branches fresh foliage
springs up. Companion, let us love one another.
Above our misery as pariahs let spring arise.
It will be a sad spring, without fruit, but it will
have flowers. The sun shines for those who are
in the open, but for us, dear companion, it is very
far. But from the black depths of our well we
will clasp each other, raising our heads, and though
his heat will not revive us, we will adore him like
a distant star.”
In the beginning of July Gabriel began his nocturnal
watch in the Cathedral.
At nightfall he went down into the cloister, and at
the Puerta del Mollete, joined the other watchman,
a sickly-looking man who coughed as badly as Luna,
and who never left off his cloak even in the height
of summer.
“Come along, we are going to lock up!”
said the bell-ringer, rattling his bunch of keys.
After the two men had entered the church, he locked
the doors from outside and walked away.
As the days were long, there still remained two hours
of daylight after the watchmen entered the Cathedral.
“All the church is ours, companion,” said
the other watchman.
And like a man used to the imposing appearance of
the deserted church, he settled himself comfortably
in the sacristy as in his own house, opening his supper
basket on the chests, and spreading out his eatables
between candelabras and crucifixes.
Gabriel wandered about the fane. After many nights
of watching, the impression produced when he first
saw the immense church deserted and locked up had
not yet faded. His footsteps resounded on the
pavement, his strides shortened by the tombs of prelates
and great men of former days. The silence of
the church was disturbed by the strange echoes and
mysterious rustlings; the first day Gabriel had often
turned his head in alarm, thinking he heard footsteps
following him.
