guards.

"Lift him up! Let him kiss the Saint!"

And those muscular peasants would pick the children up like dolls, now
by an arm, now by a leg, now by the nape of the neck, raise them to a
level with the saint, that they might kiss the bronze face, and then
toss them back into the arms of their mothers, working like automatons,
dropping one child to seize another, with the regularity of machines in
action. Many times the impact was too rough; the noses of the children
would flatten against the folds of the metallic garb; but the fervor of
the crowd seemed to infect the little ones. They were the future adorers
of the Moorish monk. Rubbing their bruises with their soft little hands
they would swallow their tears and return to their snug places in their
mothers' skirts.

Behind the glorious saint marched Rafael and the gentlemen of the
_Ayuntamiento_ with long wax tapers; and after them the curate,
grumbling as he heard the first dashes of rain beat on the large red
silk umbrella which the sacristan held over him, and felt the impact of
the crowd of orchard-folk, that was mixed at random with the musicians.
The latter, paying more attention to where they stepped than to their
instruments, played a rather discordant march. Guns, meanwhile,
continued to blaze away. The wild cheering for San Bernardo and his
sisters went on; and, framed in a red nimbus of torch-light, greeted at
every street-corner by a new fusillade, the image sailed along over that
sea of heads, pelted by the rain, which, in the light of the candles,
looked like a maze of transparent crystal threads. Around the saint the
arms of the athletes kept ever moving, lifting children up to bump their
drooling noses on the bronze of father San Bernardo. Balconies and
windows along the way were filled with women, their heads protected by
their skirts.

Sighs, wails, exclamations of entreaty welcomed the passing saint in a
chorus of despair and hope.

"Save us, father San Bernardo!... Save us!..."

The procession reached the river, crossing and recrossing the bridges
that led to the suburbs. The flickering torches were mirrored in the
dark edges of the stream, which was growing momentarily more terrifying
and clamorous. The water had not yet reached the railing, as at other
times. Miracle! San Bernardo was at work already!

Then the procession marched to points where the river had flooded the
lanes near the bank, and turned them to virtual ponds. The more