The Virgin’s feast day arrived; the festival was the same as in other years.  The famous image had been brought out of its chapel and occupied on its foot-board a place on the high altar.  They brought out her mantle kept in the Treasury and all her jewels, that scintillated kissed by the innumerable lights, glittering and flashing with endless brilliancy.

Before the commencement of the festival, the inquisitive of the Cathedral, pretending absent-mindedness, strolled between the choir and the Puerta del Perdon.  The canons in their red robes assembled near the staircase lighted by the famous “stone of light.”  His Eminence would come down this way, and the canons grouped themselves, timidly whispering, asking each other what was going to happen.

The cross-bearer appeared on the first step of the staircase, holding his emblem horizontally with both hands so that it should pass under the arch of the doorway.  After, between servitors, and followed by the mulberry-coloured robe of the auxiliary bishop, advanced the cardinal, dressed in his purple, which quenched the reddish-violet of the canons.

The Chapter were drawn up in two rows with bowed heads, offering homage to their prince.  What a glance was Don Sebastian’s!  The canons, bending, thought they felt it on the nape of their necks with the coldness of steel.  He held his enormous body erect in its flowing purple with a gallant pride, as if at the moment he felt himself entirely cured of the malady which was tearing his entrails, and of the weak heart which oppressed his lungs.  His fat face quivered with delight, and the folds of his double chin spread out over his lace rochet.  His cardinal’s biretta seemed to swell with pride on his little, white and shining head.  Never was a crown worn with such pride as that red cap.

He stretched out his hand, gloved in purple, on which shone the episcopal emerald ring, with such an imperious gesture that one after another of the canons found themselves forced to kiss it.  It was the submission of churchmen, accustomed from their seminary to an apparent humility which covered rancours and hatreds of an intensity unknown in ordinary life.  The Cardinal guessed their disinclination, and gloated over his triumph.

“You have no idea what our hatreds are,” he had often said, to his friend, the gardener’s widow.  “In ordinary life few men die of ill-humour; he who is annoyed gives vent to it, and recovers his equanimity.  But in the Church you may count by the hundred men who die in a fit of rage, because they are unable to revenge themselves; because discipline closes their mouths and bows their heads.  Having no families, and no anxieties about earning their bread, most of us only live for self-love and pride.”

The Chapter formed their procession accompanied by His Eminence.  The scarlet Perrero headed the march, then came the black vergers and Silver Stick, making the tiles of the pavement ring with the blows of their staffs.  Behind came the archiepiscopal cross and the canons in pairs, and finally the prelate with his scarlet train spread out at full length, held up by two pages.  Don Sebastian blessed to the right and to the left, looking with his penetrating eyes at the faithful who bowed their heads.