The procession was rapidly organized.  Along the narrow lanes of the island where the rain coursed in streams, people kept coming in droves.  They were barefoot for the most part, but some were sinking shoes indifferently into the water.  Most of them had tapers or shotguns.  The women did their best to shelter little ones under the skirts they had gathered about their heads.  The musicians, all barefoot, were in regular uniform—­gold braided jackets and plumed hats—­looking for all the world like Malay chiefs who beautify their nakedness with castoff coats and three-cornered hats the missionaries give them.

In front of the church the lights of the tapers blended into one great flare.  Through the wide doorway the candles on the altars gleamed like a distant constellation.

The whole neighborhood, almost, had assembled in the square, despite the increasing rain.  Many had come to scoff.  What a farce it all would be!  They did well, however, to wait two days!  The rain was almost over.  It would probably stop by the time they got the Saint out!

In double file of tapers the procession began to move between two lines of tightly jammed spectators.

“Vitol el pare San Bernat! Hurrah for father San Bernardo!” a multitude of hoarse voices cried.

“Vitol les chermanetes!  Hurrah for his sisters!” others added, to correct the lack of gallantry displayed by the most enthusiastic of the idolators in putting ladies last.

For the sisters, the holy martyrs, Gracia and Maria, also figured in the procession.  San Bernardo never went anywhere alone.  As even children in baby-school knew, not a power on earth, not all the men and horses in the orchards put together, could lift the saint from his altar unless his sisters went first.  That was one of his miracles long accredited by tradition.  He had very little confidence in women—­less pious commentators said—­and not willing to trust his sisters out of sight, he insisted that they precede him whenever he left his pedestal.

The holy sisters appeared in the church doorway, swaying on their litters above the heads of the worshippers.

“Vitol les chermanetes!”

And the poor chermanetes, dripping from every fold of their vestments, came out into that dark, tempestuous, rain-soaked atmosphere that was rent by sheaves of crude light from the tapers.

The musicians tuned their instruments, ready to break into the Royal March!  In the brilliantly lighted doorway something shining could be seen laboriously advancing, swaying this way and that, as if the waves of an angry sea were rocking it.

The crowd again began to cheer, and the music sounded.

“Vitol el pare San Bernat!”