The women pointed out with their fingers the coloured glass windows, the great rosettes on the porches, the gilded warriors on the clock of the Puerta de la Feria, the tubes of the organs, and finally remained open-mouthed in stupid wonder.

The Perrero in his scarlet garments seemed like a prince to them, and overwhelmed with the respect they felt for him, they could not succeed in understanding what he said, but when the Tato threatened with his staff a mastiff following closely at his master's heels, those simple people decided to leave the church sooner than abandon the faithful companion of their wild mountain life.
Gabriel looked through the choir railings; both the upper and lower stalls were full.

It was a great festival, and not only were all the canons and beneficiaries in their places, but all the priests of the chapel of the kings,[1] and the prebends of the Muzarabe chapel--those two small churches who live quite apart with traditional autonomy inside the Cathedral of Toledo.
[Footnote 1: The kings of Spain are canons of Toledo Cathedral, and are fined in case of absence on festival days.] In the middle of the choir Luna saw his friend the Chapel-master in his crimped and pleated surplice, waving a small baton.

Around him were grouped about a dozen musicians and singers, whose voices and instruments were completely smothered each time the organ sounded from above, while the priest directed with a resigned look the music, which lost itself feeble and swamped in the solitude of the immense naves.
At the High Altar, on its square car, stood the famous Custodia, executed by the celebrated master Villalpando.

A Gothic shrine, exquisitely worked and chiselled, bright with the shimmering of its gold in the light of the wax tapers, and of such delicate and airy work that the slightest motion made it shiver, shaking its finials like ears of corn.
Those invited to the procession were arriving in the Cathedral.