For the first time the boy experienced the effect of the giddy height; he hung back and turned pale, then pressed his hands against the wall for support.
“Coward! you don’t mean to say you are afraid!” exclaimed Juan de Herrera.
“Oh—no—I’m not afraid,” stammered poor Andres, making a convulsive effort to look out through the slit once more.
This time he remained so long opposite the opening and so steadily, that his father hoped he had got over the first fears; but, watching him anxiously, he observed, as he at length turned away, that he had his eyes closed.
Indignant that his son should not have as robust courage as the peasant boys of the village, and still more that he should not be in a condition to enjoy his favourite structure, Juan de Herrera, unable to master his irritation, loaded the boy with reproaches; and Andres slunk away, grieved at having distressed his father, yet unable to summon courage sufficient to satisfy his wishes.
Some days after this, the consecration of the church took place, and the municipal functionaries invited the architect and his son to a banquet on the occasion, at which were assembled all the notabilities of the place, as well as many from neighbouring villages, and even from Madrid. Juan de Herrera deemed, with more zeal than judgment, that this would be a favourable opportunity for curing his son of his weakness, and to effect this narrated to the company the circumstance stated above.
“Father, it was a passing folly,” cried the boy, burning with shame; “give me an opportunity, and I will show you that I do not deserve your opinion.”
There was a pause, for the boy spoke with such thrilling earnestness that the smile of derision which had been raised at his expense died away from every lip.
“The galera[1] has just brought down the cross and ball for the summit of the steeple,” continued Andres; “let me go up and place it, and I shall have had the merit of crowning your work.”
“You will never dare it!” answered Juan de Herrera contemptuously.