to ripen better beneath the
vine-shade than in the open sun. The season of grapes was shortly past;
but here and there large clusters were still pendent on the bough.

Hitherto, although we had been skirting the Vaudois territory, we had
not set foot upon it. The line which separates it from the rest of
Piedmont touches the small town of Bicherasio, on the western flank of
the low hill I have mentioned; and the roofs of the little town were
already in sight. Passing, on the left, a white-walled mass-house on a
small height, with the priest looking at us from amid the autumn-tinted
vine leaves that shaded the wall, we entered the town of Bicherasio. The
first sight we saw was a procession advancing up the street at
double-quick time. I was at first sorely puzzled what to make of it.
There was an air of mingled fun and gravity on the faces of the crowd;
but the former so greatly predominated, that I took the affair for a
frolic of the youths of Bicherasio. First came a squad of dirty boys,
some of whom carried prayer-books: these were followed by some dozen or
so of young women in their working attire, ranged in line, and carrying
flambeaux. In the centre of the procession was a tall raw-boned priest,
of about twenty-five years of age, with a little box in his hand. His
head was bare, and he wore a long brown dress, bound with a cord round
his middle. A canopy of crimson cloth, sorely soiled and tarnished, was
borne over him by four of the taller lads. He had a flurried and wild
look, as if he had slept out in the woods all night, and had had time
only to shake himself, and put his fingers through his hair, before
being called on to run with his little box. The procession closed, as it
had opened, with a cloud of noisy and dirty urchins hanging on the rear
of the priest and his flambeaux-bearing company. The whole swept past us
at such a rapid pace, that I could only, by way of divining its object,
open large wondering eyes upon it, which the large-boned lad in the
brown cloak noticed, and repaid with a scowl, which broke no bones,
however. "He is carrying the _santissimo_," said my fellow-travellers,
when the procession had passed, "to a dying man." We passed the line,
and set foot on the Vaudois territory. Being now on privileged soil, and
safe from any ebullition which the scant reverence we had paid the
procession of the _santissimo_ might have drawn upon us, we entered a
small albergo, and partook together of a bottl