Bells were ringing gaily into the sunshine.  From a long way off, he discerned the brazen tones of a band, the chanting of priests and townspeople, shrill voices of women.  The pageant came in sight—­winding its way through the multitudes under the beflagged arches of greenery, while a rain of flowers descended from windows and balconies overhead.  Clusters of children went before, in many-tinted array, according to their various schools or confraternities.  Then came the municipal band in uniform, playing the cheeriest of tunes, and escorted by the Nepenthe militia whose old-fashioned costume of silver and scarlet was most effective.  The authorities of the island trod on their heels—­grave gentlemen in black clothes, some of them adorned with ribbons and decorations.  The Mephistophelean judge, the freethinker, was among them; he limped along, expectorating every ten yards or so, presumably to mark his displeasure at being obliged, as official, to attend a religious function.  The Commissioner, too, was in the ranks.  He appeared just the same as yesterday; very informal in his knickerbockers, and decidedly pink about the gills.

There followed a long train of priests, clad in lace and silken garments of every hue.  They looked like a perambulating flower-garden.  Plump, jovial fellows—­chanting blithely, and occasionally exchanging a few words with one another.  Don Francesco glittered in crimson vestments; he recognized Mr. Heard, and gave him a broad smile combined with something which might have been mistaken for a wink.  The huge silver statue of the saint came next.  It was a grotesque monster, borne aloft on a wooden platform that wobbled on the shoulders of eight lusty perspiring carriers.  As it passed, all the onlookers raised their hats; all save the Russians, the Little White Cows who, standing aside with wonderment written on their childlike faces, were relieved from this necessity, since the wearing of hats had been forbidden by their leader, their self-styled Messiah, the divinely inspired Bazhakuloff; they were to go bareheaded summer and winter, “like the Christians of old.”  Some ardent believers went so far as to kneel on the stony ground.  The Duchess, the Catholic-to-be, had assumed this reverend posture; she was on the other side of the street, surrounded by a number of ladies and gentlemen.  Mr. Heard, reviewing the crowd, abandoned the idea of piercing that procession and exchanging a few words with her.  He would see her in the afternoon.

Then the bishop—­the dignitary whom Don Francesco had called “not exactly a liberal.”  He tallied with that description.  A wicked old face!  He was blear-eyed, brown as a mummy, and so fat that his legs had long ago ceased to be any use save as a precarious support while standing.  He rode, in gorgeous apparel, on a milk-white donkey which was led by two pretty choristers in blue.  Attached to the end of a long pole, a green umbrella of Gargantuan proportions, adorned with red tassels, protected his wrinkled head from the rays of the sun.  One hand clutched some religious object upon which his eyes were glued in a hypnotic trance, the other cruised aimlessly about the horizon, in the act of benediction.