In fervent thanksgiving weeping women rushed upon the saint and began to kiss whatever part of the image was within reach—­the handles of the litter, the decorations of the pedestal, the bronze body itself.  The tottering structure of wood and metal began to stagger and reel like a frail bark tossing over a sea of shrieking heads and extended arms that trembled with exaltation.

The procession marched on for more than an hour still along the river.  Then the priest, who was dripping wet and had exhausted more than a dozen “horses” under him, forbade it to continue.  Leave it to those peasants, and the nonsense would go on till dawn!  So the curate observed that the Saint had already done what was required of him.  Now it was time to go home!

Rafael handed his taper to one of his henchmen and stopped on the bridge with a number of experienced observers, who were lamenting the damage done by the flood.  At every moment, no one could say just how, alarming reports of the destruction wrought by the river were coming in.  Now a mill had been isolated by the waters, and the people there had taken refuge on the roof, firing their shotguns as signals of distress.  Many orchards had been completely submerged.  The few boats available in the city were doing the best they could in the work of rescue.  The valley had become one vast lake.  Rowboats caught in the shifting currents were in danger of smashing against hidden obstructions; and it was practically impossible to push a punt upstream with oars.

Yet the people spoke with relative calmness.  They were accustomed to this almost annual visitation, and accepted it resignedly as an inevitable evil.  Besides, they referred hopefully to telegrams received by the alcalde.  By dawn help would be coming in.  The governor in Valencia was sending a detachment of marines, and the lagoon would be filled with navy boats.  Everything would be all right in a few hours.  But if the water got much higher meanwhile ...!

They consulted stakes and other water marks along the river, and violent disputes arose.  Rafael, for his part, could see the flood was still rising, though but slowly.

The peasants refused to believe it.  How could the river rise after Father San Bernardo had gone into it?  No, sir! it was not rising.  That was all a lie intended to discredit the patron.  And a sturdy youth with flashing eyes threatened to disembowel with one stroke of his knife—­like that!—­a certain scoffer who maintained that the river would go on rising if only for the pleasure of refuting that charlatan of a friar.

Rafael approached the brawlers, and by the dim lantern light recognized Cupido—­the barber—­a sarcastic fellow, with curly side-whiskers and an aquiline nose, who took great pleasure in poking fun at the barbarous, unshakable faith of the illiterate peasants.