disputes with San Costanzo, the Saint of the
mother-church below, the spiritual dominion of Capri. If he is the
"Protector" of the island, she is its "Protectress." The older and
graver sort indeed are faithful to their bishop-saint, and the loyalty
of a vinedresser in the piazza remains unshaken even by the splendour
of the procession. "Yes, signore!" he replies to a sceptical Englishman
who presses him hard with the glory of "the Protectress," "yes, signore,
the Madonna is great for the fisher-folk; she gives them fish. But fish
are poor things after all and bring little money. It is San Costanzo who
gives us the wine, the good red wine which is the wealth of the island.
And so this winter feast of the fishermen is a poor little thing beside
our festa of San Costanzo in the May-time. For the image of our
Protector is all of silver, and sometimes the bishop comes over from
Sorrento and walks behind it, and we go all the way through the
vineyards, and he blesses them, and then at nightfall we have
'bombi'--not such as those of the Madonna," he adds with a quiet shrug
of the shoulders, "but great bombi and great fireworks at the cost of
the Municipio."

On the other hand, all the girls go with the fisher-folk in their love
of the Madonna. "Ah yes, signore," laughs a maiden whose Greek face
might have served Pheidias for a model, "San Costanzo is our protector,
but he is old and the Madonna is young, so young and so pretty, signore,
and she is _my_ protectress." A fisherman backs up the feminine logic
by a gird at the silver image which is evidently the strong point of the
opposite party. The little commune is said to have borrowed a sum of
money on the security of this work of art, and the fisherman is
correspondingly scornful. "San Costanzo owes much, many danari, signore;
and it is said," he whispers roguishly, "that if they don't pay pretty
soon his creditors at Naples will send him to prison for the debt of the
Municipio." But the Madonna has her troubles as well as the Saint. Her
hair which has been dyed for the occasion has unhappily turned salmon
colour by mistake; but the blunder has no sort of effect on the
enthusiasm of her worshippers; on the canons who follow her in stiff
copes, shouting lustily, or on the maidens and matrons who bring up the
rear. Slowly the procession winds its way through the little town, now
lengthening into a line of twinkling tapers as it passes through the
narrow alleys which serve for