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one could
still see broad tombstones engraved with seals, coats of arms
and long Gothic inscriptions, and in the distance, in the
depths of the silent chapel and along the transept, stone
statues could be glimpsed in the darkness, like motionless
ghosts, some lying full length, others kneeling on the marble
of their tombs, seemingly the only inhabitants of the ruined
building.
    Anyone less exhausted than the officer of dragoons, who
had covered fourteen leagues that day, or less accustomed to
observing these acts of sacrilege as if they were the most
natural thing in the world, might have been kept wide awake
by his imagination that night in the dark, imposing church,
where the blaspheming of the soldiers, loudly cursing their
improvised lodgings; the metallic ring of their spurs on the
tombstones on the floor; the sound of the horses, neighing
impatiently, tossing their heads and clanking the chains with
which they were tethered to the pillars, created a strange and
fearful cacophony that filled the whole of the building and set
off a muffled echo in the lofty vaults.
    But our hero, though young, was already so familiar with
the vicissitudes of military life that no sooner had he settled
his men than he called for a sack of fodder to be placed at the
bottom of the chancel steps and then, wrapping himself as best
he could in his cloak, he lay down and, within five minutes,
was snoring away as peacefully as King Joseph himself in his
palace in Madrid.
    Using their saddles as pillows, the soldiers followed his
example and gradually the murmur of voices died away.
    Half an hour later, all that could be heard were the stifled
moans of the wind whistling through the broken glass of the arched windows, the confused fluttering of the night birds
who had made their nests in the stone canopies over the
statues lining the walls and the steady pacing of the sentry,
wrapped in the ample folds of his cloak, and marching up and
down in the portico of the church.

    II
    At the time of these events, which are as true as they are
extraordinary, and still indeed today, for those with no
appreciation of the artistic treasures contained within its walls,
Toledo was no more than an ancient, tumbledown, dilapidated town, devoid of interest.
    Needless to say, the officers of the French army, who were
by no means men of an artistic or archaeological disposition,
to judge from the acts of vandalism for which, sadly, the occupation is eternally remembered, were monumentally bored in
that ancient seat of kings.
    In that state of mind, the idlers eagerly welcomed even
the most insignificant event which might break the quiet
monotony of those everlasting and indistinguishable days.
Thus, a promotion to the next grade for one of their companions, the news of some strategic move by one of the special
squadrons, the departure of a courier or the arrival of any new
troops in the city became a rich source of gossip and the
object of much comment, till some other incident came
along to take its place, giving rise, in turn, to new complaints,
criticisms and suppositions.
    The officers, as was their custom, gathered next day to take
the air and chat in the Plaza de Zocodover, and, inevitably,
there was but one topic of conversation: the arrival of the
dragoons whose commander we left in the previous chapter
sound asleep, resting from his tiring journey.
    The conversation had been circling around this point for an
hour or so, and already different explanations were being
offered for the non-appearance of the new arrival, who was
known to one of the company from their time together at the military academy, and who had been invited to come to the
gathering, when, finally, our gallant captain was seen at the
end of one of the streets leading into the square. He had cast
aside his cloak and was resplendent in a metal helmet with
white plume, indigo jacket with red facings and a magnificent broadsword in a sheath of