As Rafael walked past the rude, disfigured statue he thought of all the stories his mother, an uncompromising clerical and a woman of credulous faith, had told him of the patron of Alcira, particularly the legend of the enmity and struggle between San Vicente and San Bernardo, an ingenuous fancy of popular superstition.

Saint Vincent, who was an eloquent preacher arrived at Alcira on one of his tours, and stopped at a blacksmith’s shop near the bridge to get his donkey shod.  When the work was done the horseshoer asked for the usual price for his labor; but San Vicente, accustomed to living on the bounty of the faithful, waxed indignant, and looking at the Jucar, exclaimed, vindictively: 

“Some day folks will say:  ’This is where Alcira used to be’.”

“Not while Bernardo is here!” the statue of San Bernardo remarked from its pedestal.

And there the statue of the saint still stood, like an eternal sentinel, watching over the Jucar to exorcise the curse of the rancorous Saint Vincent!  To be sure the river would rise and overflow its banks every year, reaching to the very feet of San Bernardo sometimes, and coming within an ace of pulling the wily saint down from his perch.  It is also true that every five or six years the flood would shake houses loose from their foundations, destroy good farm land, drown people, and commit other horrible depredations—­all in obedience to the curse of Valencia’s patron; but the saint of Alcira was the better man of the two for all of that!  And, if you didn’t believe it, there the city was, still planted firmly on its feet and quite unscathed, except for a scratch here and there from times when the rains were exceptionally heavy and the waters came down from Cuenca in a great roaring torrent!

With a smile and a nod to the powerful saint, as to an old friend of childhood, Rafael crossed the bridge and entered the arrabal, the “New City,” ample, roomy, unobstructed, as if the close-packed houses of the island, to get elbow-room and a breath of air, had stampeded in a flock to the other bank of the river, scattering hither and thither in the hilarious disorder of children let loose from school.

The deputy paused at the head of the street on which his club was located.  Even from there he could hear the talking and laughing of the many members, who had gathered in much greater number than usual because of his arrival.  What would he be in for down there?  A speech, probably!  A speech on local politics!  Or, if not a speech, idle talk about the orange crop, or cock-fighting.  He would be expected to tell them what kind of a man the Premier was—­and then spend the afternoon analyzing the character of every minister!  Then don Andres would be there, that boresome Mentor who, at the instance of Rafael’s mother, would never let him out of sight for a moment.  Bah!  The Club could wait!  He would have plenty of time later in the day to stifle in that smoke-filled parlor where, the moment he showed his face, everybody would be upon him and pester the life out of him with questions and wire-pulling!