The alcalde, a liegeman of the Brull dynasty, was in a quandary.  He was afraid of that ugly mob and was anxious to yield, as usual; but it would be a serious breach of etiquette not to consult “the chief.”  Fortunately, just as the huge, dark mass of human beings was beginning to surge in indignation at his silence, and hisses and shouts of anger were being raised, Rafael appeared.

Dona Bernarda had sent him out at the first sign of uneasiness in the populace.  It was in circumstances such as these that her husband used to shine, taking the helm in every crisis, giving orders and settling questions, though to no avail at all.  But when the river returned to its normal level, and danger was past, the peasant would remember don Ramon’s “sacrifices” and call him the father of the poor.  If the miraculous saint must come out, let Rafael be the one to produce him!  The elections were at hand.  The flood could not have come in better time.  There must be no false steps, no frightening opportunity away.  Something rather must be done to get people to talking about him as they used to talk about his father on similar occasions.

So Rafael, after having the purpose of this demonstration explained to him by the most ardent of the leaders, gave a magnificent gesture of consent: 

“Granted; have San Bernat brought out!”

With a thunder of applause and vivas for young Brull, the black avalanche headed rumbling for the church.

They must now persuade the curate to take the saint out, and that good priest—­a fat, kindly, but rather shrewd fellow—­always objected to what he called a bit of old-fashioned mummery.  The truth was he looked forward with little pleasure to a tramp out in the rain at the head of a procession, trying to keep dry under an umbrella, with his soutane rolled up to his knees, and his shoes coming off at every step in the mire.  Besides, some day, in the very face of San Bernardo, the river might carry half the city off, and then what a fix, what a fix, religion would be in, all on account of those disturbers of the peace!

Rafael and his henchmen of the Ayuntamiento tried their hardest to convince the curate; but his only reply was to ask whether water was coming down from Cuenca.

“I believe it is,” said the alcalde.  “You can see that makes the danger worse.  It’s more than ever necessary to bring out the saint.”

“Well, if there’s water coming down from Cuenca,” the priest answered, “we’d better let it come, and San Bernardo also had better keep indoors, at home.  Matters concerning saints must be treated with great discretion, take my word for that....  And, if you don’t agree with me, just remember that freshet when the river got above the bridges.  We brought the saint out, and the river almost carried him off downstream.”

The crowd, growing restless at the delay, began to shout against the priest.  The good sense of that canny churchman was powerless in the face of superstitions instilled by centuries of fanaticism.