ical priest:

"Don Luis, your mass is at eight o'clock. You can talk with Gabriel
later on; now we must fulfil our obligations, for those who are late
will, as you say, be turned out, even though our office hardly gives
us enough to eat."

The Chapel-master assented sadly with a movement of his head, and
went out, following the two Cathedral servants. He seemed to go
unwillingly, as though forced to a task that was to him both irksome
and painful. He hummed absently while giving his hand to Gabriel, who
thought he recognised a fragment of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony in
the low and uneven tones that came from the lips of the young priest.

Now that he was alone Luna stretched himself on the sofa, giving
himself up to the fatigue he felt from his long wait before the
Cathedral. His brother's old servant placed a little pitcher of
milk by his side, and filling a cup, Gabriel drank, endeavouring to
overcome the repugnance of his weak stomach, which almost refused to
retain the liquid. His body, fatigued by his restless night and the
long morning wait, at last assimilated the nourishment, and a soft,
dreamy languor spread over him that he had not felt for a long time.
He soon fell asleep, remaining for more than an hour motionless on the
sofa, and though his breathing was disturbed, and his chest racked by
his hollow cough, they were unable to wake him from his slumber.

When he did awake, it was suddenly, with a nervous start that shook
him from head to foot, making him bound from the sofa as though a
spring had been touched. It was the wariness produced by his ever
present danger, that had become habitual to him; the habit of
restlessness formed in dark dungeons, expecting hourly to see the door
open, to be beaten like a dog, or led off between a double file of
muskets to the square of execution; the habit of living perpetually
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 pe