iritual realms where
nothing earthly can enter.

It came to an end: and we had to return to earth. Quasimodo had poured
out his soul and was satisfied. No wonder he could not live without it.
Such a gift must find expression, or the spirit would die. The lights
went out in the distant organ-loft, and by the help of his taper
Quasimodo groped his way down the winding stair, followed by his silent
Shadow. We turned on the lamp, and its light guided him to us. He sat
down beside us on the steps.

"Well," he said, "have you enjoyed my music? Have they kept you
spell-bound, all the thoughts of the great masters of the past? Did you
think there was so much in them? Have I given you new ideas, revealed
unsuspected beauties? Have the hours passed as moments? Oh, the divine
gift of melody to man, which brings us nearest to heaven! How could we
live without it?"

He had played himself into rapture. He was intoxicated with the
influence of all the melody to which he had given such amazing
expression. It was a language more powerful than words, more beautiful
than poetry, more soul-satisfying than love itself. What a strange
contradiction had nature here been guilty of--this grotesque, almost
deformed exterior united to such loveliness of mind and spirit.

[Illustration: CLOISTERS: TARRAGONA.]

But time was passing. We could not indulge for ever in these dreams,
perfect though they were. The change in the moonbeams warned us that the
night was growing old. The ghosts would soon depart to the land of
shadows. Yet the building was so weird and mysterious, the outlines were
so marvellous, that it was difficult to break the spell. It had to be
done. The grey dawn must not find us here. All our romance, all our
charm of music would evaporate before the cold creeping upwards of
daybreak.

So we rose from the steps, and Quasimodo rose too, and his Shadow took
up its customary position.

We still held the lamp. As we went down the long aisles we flashed it to
and fro. Lights and shadows mingled with the moonbeams, and all the
fantastic forms we awoke were only reflections from ghostland. At the
south doorway Quasimodo inserted the key; the door opened and we passed
out into the night.

The moon and the stars had travelled far; the sky itself seemed full of
all the music and melody we had listened to. Quasimodo locked the door
and joined us, followed by his Shadow. But once outside the iron gate
the Shadow bade him good-night by