" cried the old
priest, without pausing to take breath. "Put out the lights, Mateo,"
turning to the verger; and then without further ceremony led the way
into the larger building.

He had a large, red, amiable face, this old priest; some day we felt
sure that he would die of apoplexy; but he was evidently a lover of the
beautiful, and as evidently one who loved his fellow-men.

[Illustration: NORTH WALL OF CATHEDRAL: ZARAGOZA.]

"Look!" he said, throwing up his hands as we stood entranced at the
scene. "What can be more perfect? Whichever way you gaze you are met by
a forest of pillars--a true forest, full of life and breath, for are not
those growing like spreading palms? And where will you find pillars so
lofty and massive? Where will you discover such a feeling of devotion,
so mysterious a chiaroscuro? Apart from their beauty, we must not
disdain these influences. They are aids to devotion, and poor, frail,
erring human nature needs all the help it can receive both from without
and within, from below and Above. I always tell our organist to play
soft voluntaries and pull out his sweetest stops, so that he may make
music which will creep into the spirit and rouse all its capacities for
worship. That should be the true aim of all harmony. Look at the
richness of the coro--the splendour of the carving. It all forms an
effect which makes this the most wonderful and perfect cathedral in the
whole of Spain."

"With one exception," we ventured modestly to observe.

"Which is that?" cried the old priest, evidently sharpening his weapon
of warfare--the tongue that did him such good suit and service.

"Your cathedral is a gem of the very first water," we said. "It throws
one into a dream from which one might almost wish not to awaken; but it
is not equal to Barcelona."

The old priest put his hand to his forehead and looked depressed.

"You are right," he said; "I cannot contradict you. But then Barcelona
is beyond comparison." Here he brightened again. "Let me tell you the
difference. Barcelona was never built by men; it was the work of angels.
It is a dream-building that came down from the skies, and some day it
will disappear into the skies again. And then here we shall reign
supreme. With all its beauty and splendour and charm, there is nothing
here to suggest angel master-builders; it is a dream-fabric if you will,
but essentially the work of man: firm and strong and substantial,
lasting through the ages. In the