At last, about noon, a cannon-shot was heard, and a cry of general satisfaction followed it.  It was the signal that the procession had crossed the threshold of the church.  In the same moment a charge of carabineers swept off the people who were obstructing the middle of the street, the regiments of the line opened floodgates for the overflowing crowd, and soon nothing remained on the causeway but some scared dog, shouted at by the people, hunted off by the soldiers, and fleeing at full speed.  The procession came out through the Via di Vescovato.  First came the guilds of merchants and craftsmen, the hatters, weavers, bakers, butchers, cutlers, and goldsmiths.  They wore the prescribed dress:  black coats, knee breeches, low shoes and silver buckles.  As the countenances of these gentlemen offered nothing very interesting to the multitude, whisperings arose, little by little, among the spectators, then some bold spirits ventured a jest or two upon the fattest or the baldest of the townsmen, and at last the boldest of the lazzaroni slipped between the soldiers’ legs to collect the wax that was running down from the lighted tapers.

After the craftsmen, the religious orders marched past, from the Dominicans to the Carthusians, from the Carmelites to the Capuchins.  They advanced slowly, their eyes cast down, their step austere, their hands on their hearts; some faces were rubicund and shining, with large cheek-hones and rounded chins, herculean heads upon bullnecks; some, thin and livid, with cheeks hollowed by suffering and penitence, and with the look of living ghosts; in short, here were the two sides of monastic life.

At this moment, Nunziata and Gelsomina, two charming damsels, taking advantage of an old corporal’s politeness, pushed forward their pretty heads into the first rank.  The break in the line was conspicuous; but the sly warrior seemed just a little lax in the matter of discipline.

“Oh, there is Father Bruno!” said Gelsomina suddenly.  “Good-day, Father Bruno.”

“Hush, cousin!  People do not talk to the procession.”

“How absurd!  He is my confessor.  May I not say good-morning to my confessor?”

“Silence, chatterboxes!”

“Who was that spoke?”

“Oh, my dear, it was Brother Cucuzza, the begging friar.”

“Where is he?  Where is he?”

“There he is, along there, laughing into his beard.  How bold he is!”

“Ah, God in heaven!  If we were to dream of him—–­”

While the two cousins were pouring out endless comments upon the Capuchins and their beards, the capes of the canons and the surplices of the seminarists, the ‘feroci’ came running across from the other side to re-establish order with the help of their gun-stocks.

“By the blood of my patron saint,” cried a stentorian voice, “if I catch you between my finger and thumb, I will straighten your back for the rest of your days.”