"Let us go up; I should like to see Toledo for the last time." And accompanied by his admirers, indeed, almost carried by them, he went slowly up the narrow spiral staircase.

Arrived at the top, the soft wind was murmuring through the great iron railings, the cages of the bells.

From the centre of the vault hung the famous "Gorda," an immense bronze bell, with all one side split by a large crack; the clapper, which was the author of the mischief, lay below it, engraved and as thick as a column, and a smaller one now occupied the cavity.
The roofs of the Cathedral, dark and ugly, lay at their feet, and in front on a hill rose the Alcazar, higher and larger than the church, as though keeping up the spirit of the emperor who built it, Caesar of Catholicism, champion of the faith, but who nevertheless strove to keep the Church at his feet.
The city spread out around the Cathedral, the houses disappearing in the crowd of towers, cupolas and absides.

It was impossible to look on any side without meeting with chapels, churches, convents and ancient hospitals.

Religion had absorbed the industrious Toledo of old, and still guarded the dead city beneath its hood of stone.