“In the time of the saints,” thought the cochero, “surely there were no civil-guards, because one can’t live long on blows from rifle-butts.”

Behind the great old man came the three Magian Kings on ponies that were capering about, especially that of the negro Melchior, which seemed to be about to trample its companions.

“No, there couldn’t have been any civil-guards,” decided the cochero, secretly envying those fortunate times, “because if there had been, that negro who is cutting up such capers beside those two Spaniards”—­Gaspar and Bathazar—­“would have gone to jail.”

Then, observing that the negro wore a crown and was a king, like the other two, the Spaniards, his thoughts naturally turned to the king of the Indians, and he sighed.  “Do you know, sir,” he asked Basilio respectfully, “if his right foot is loose yet?”

Basilio had him repeat the question.  “Whose right foot?”

“The King’s!” whispered the cochero mysteriously.

“What King’s?”

“Our King’s, the King of the Indians.”

Basilio smiled and shrugged his shoulders, while the cochero again sighed.  The Indians in the country places preserve the legend that their king, imprisoned and chained in the cave of San Mateo, will come some day to free them.  Every hundredth year he breaks one of his chains, so that he now has his hands and his left foot loose—­only the right foot remains bound.  This king causes the earthquakes when he struggles or stirs himself, and he is so strong that in shaking hands with him it is necessary to extend to him a bone, which he crushes in his grasp.  For some unexplainable reason the Indians call him King Bernardo, perhaps by confusing him with Bernardo del Carpio. [13]

“When he gets his right foot loose,” muttered the cochero, stifling another sigh, “I’ll give him my horses, and offer him my services even to death, for he’ll free us from the Civil Guard.”  With a melancholy gaze he watched the Three Kings move on.

The boys came behind in two files, sad and serious as though they were there under compulsion.  They lighted their way, some with torches, others with tapers, and others with paper lanterns on bamboo poles, while they recited the rosary at the top of their voices, as though quarreling with somebody.  Afterwards came St. Joseph on a modest float, with a look of sadness and resignation on his face, carrying his stalk of lilies, as he moved along between two civil-guards as though he were a prisoner.  This enabled the cochero to understand the expression on the saint’s face, but whether the sight of the guards troubled him or he had no great respect for a saint who would travel in such company, he did not recite a single requiem.