ff the
light of our lantern. The moonlight was playing upon the windows, and
the pale rays streamed across the aisles upon pillars and arches. Never
was a more weird, more telling and effective scene.

We sat down on the steps of one of the chapels. The whole ghostly
building, shrouded in gloom and mystery and moonbeams, stood before us
in all its solidity, all its grandeur and magnificence. Intense silence
reigned. We could hear the beating of our hearts, feel the quickening of
our pulses.

Then through the silence there stole the softest, sweetest sounds.
Quasimodo was interpreting the thoughts of others. He had chosen that
soothing, flowing, exquisite Traeumerei of Schumann's, and rendered it as
never rendered before. The whole melody was hushed and subdued. Nothing
seemed to rise above a whisper. All the aisles and arches were full of
exquisite vibrations. Quasimodo appeared to linger upon every note as
though he loved it and could not part with it. One note melted into
another. The sense of rhythm was perfect.

We listened spellbound to the end. Never had the simple, beautiful
melody so held all our senses captive. It ceased, and again for a moment
the whole vast interior was steeped in profound silence; the moonbeams
streaming their pale light through the windows possessed the building.

Then a different spirit held Quasimodo. Our dream changed. Louder stops
were pulled out, and he plunged into a vigorous fugue of Bach's. Again
we had never heard it so played. Every note fell clear and distinct. The
music seemed gifted with words suggesting wild thoughts and emotions.
What Quasimodo had said was true. The souls of the dead-and-gone masters
possessed him. He was their true interpreter. The fugue came to an end.
Again a moment's silence and again a change in our dream.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.]

This time it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. More fitting time and
place could never have existed. The pulses thrilled as we listened.
Never had music seemed so perfect. Beethoven himself would have declared
the rendering beyond his own conception. Quasimodo was a magician. His
body might be grotesque, his mind was angelic. Be his wife never so
beautiful, he never so grotesque, she could not fail to love that soul
and spirit. He was worthy, and she was wise.

Again the soft sweet strains went trolling through aisles and arches,
all their exquisite melancholy cadence fully rendered. And prese