Sighs, wails, exclamations of entreaty welcomed the passing saint in a chorus of despair and hope.

“Save us, father San Bernardo!...  Save us!...”

The procession reached the river, crossing and recrossing the bridges that led to the suburbs.  The flickering torches were mirrored in the dark edges of the stream, which was growing momentarily more terrifying and clamorous.  The water had not yet reached the railing, as at other times.  Miracle!  San Bernardo was at work already!

Then the procession marched to points where the river had flooded the lanes near the bank, and turned them to virtual ponds.  The more fanatical of the devotees, lifting their tapers above their heads, went out fearlessly neck high into the water:  for surely the Saint must not go in alone.

One old man, shaking with malaria, caught in the rice-fields, and hardly able to hold the taper in his trembling hands, hesitated at the brink of the stream.

“Go on in, agueelo!” the women encouraged affectionately.  “Father San Bernardo will cure you.  Don’t lose such a chance!”

When the saint was out performing miracles, he might remember the old man, too.  So agueelo—­“grandaddy”—­shivering in his drenched clothes and his teeth chattering, walked resolutely in.

The statue was making its way very slowly along the inundated streets, for the feet of the bearers sank deep into the water under their load; and they could advance at all only with the aid of the faithful, who gathered about the litter on all sides to help.  A writhing mass of bare, sinewy arms rose from the water like tentacles of a human octopus to carry the Saint along.

Just behind the image came the curate and the political dignitaries, riding astride the shoulders of some enthusiasts who, for the greater pomp of the ceremony, were willing to serve as mounts, though the tapers of their riders kept getting into their faces.

The curate began to feel the cold water creeping up his back, and ordered the Saint inshore again.  In fact San Bernardo was already at the end of the lane, and actually in the river itself.  His guards of honor were having a time of it to keep their feet in the face of the current, but they were still willing to go on, believing that the farther the statue went into the stream, the sooner the waters would go down.  At last, however, the most foolhardy withdrew.  The Saint came back.  Though the procession at once went on to the next road and to the next, repeating the same performance.

And suddenly it stopped raining.

A wild cheer, a shout of joy and triumph, shook the multitude.

“Vitol el pare San Bernat!...”  Now would the people of the neighboring towns dare dispute his immense power?...  There was the proof!  Two days of incessant downpour, and then, the moment the Saint showed his face out of doors—­fair weather!  Excuse me!