Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

We were walking down the broad nave. Anselmo had thrown on his long cloak, which added grace and dignity to his tall slender figure. His pale face shone out in the surrounding gloom like a saintly influence. What strange charm was about this man? In the course of a few moments we felt we had known him for years. He was singularly lovable and attractive. Underlying all his gentleness was an undercurrent of strength; an evident self-reliance, yet the reliance of one who leans on a higher support than his own. Here was one worthy of enduring friendship had our lines not been thrown far apart. As it was he too would disappear out of our life and we should see his face no more. But his memory would remain.

At the west doorway we turned and looked upon the splendid vision: the magnificent nave with its slender pillars and lofty roof, the distant choir with aisles and arches visible and invisible in the dim religious light that threw upon all its sense of mystery. Above all the wonderful tone.

"For five and twenty years I have looked upon this scene, and its influence upon me is as strong as ever," said the priest. "Here I have found that peace which passeth all understanding. How many a time have I let myself in with my key, and in these solitary aisles withdrawn from the world to hold communion with the unseen. Here strength has come to fight life's battles. Here I have composed many a sermon, here silently confessed my sins to the Almighty and obtained pardon. Breathe not the heresy, but confession to man brings me no rest. I have to go to the great Fountain Head, trusting in the one Atonement and one Mediator. Nothing else gives me consolation."

We crossed to the doorway of the cloisters. Anselmo, unwilling to leave us, crossed also. We were too glad of his companionship to wish it otherwise. He added much to the spell of our surroundings; a central figure from which all interest radiated. It was passing from the gloom of the interior to the broad light of day subdued by the grey clouds that hid the sunshine.

The cloisters reposed in all the charm of antiquity. For eight hundred years Time had rolled over them with all its subtle influence. There they stood, an irregular quadrangle, the simple, beautiful round arches resting on coupled shafts, whose carved capitals were so singularly elaborate and delicate. Seldom had the attraction of Romanesque architecture been more evident.

"I love them," said the priest. "How often have I paced these silent corridors until the very stones seem worn with my footsteps. And they witnessed the most painful scene, the last great struggle of my life—but my triumph also. For here I bade my earthly farewell to Rosalie; on this very spot on which we stand renounced all human hopes and claims upon her and gave her into Heaven's keeping. Here I placed her treasured letter next my heart, where it still reposes; where it will lie when that heart has ceased to beat and this frame has returned to the dust from which it was taken."

We passed through the little north doorway to the outer world. Far away the snow-capped Pyrenees rose heavenwards like a celestial vision. In the plain the silvery river ran its winding course listening to the love-songs of the reeds and rushes. Near us was the lovely octagon tower, shorn of its spire. Without the ancient walls we traced the remains of the citadel; and within them the yet more ancient churches of San Pedro and its desecrated companion.

"Let us go down to them," said Anselmo: "examine the wonderful little cloisters and make the acquaintance of Miguel the carpenter. He seems to care little that where now is heard the fret of saw and swish of plane, once rose voices of priests at worship and faint whispers of the confessional."