to shed tears of
terror.

When the banner halted, the glorious lion had to defend himself with his
hind paws against the disrespectful swarm of gamins that surrounded him,
trying to tear some locks out of his moth-eaten mane. At other times the
beast looked up at the balconies to salute the pretty girls with the
Shrine; they laughed at the grotesque figure. And Senor Vicente did
wisely; however much of a lion one may be, one must be gallant toward
the fair sex.

The spectators fanned themselves, trying to find a momentary coolness in
the burning atmosphere; the _horchateros_[2] bustled among the crowds
shouting their wares, called from all directions at once and not knowing
whither to go first; the standard-bearers and the drummers wiped the
sweat off their faces at every restaurant door, and at last went inside
to seek refreshment.

[Note 2: Vendors of _horchata_, iced orgeat.]

But the lion stuck to his post. His mask became soft; he walked with a
certain weariness, letting the Shrine rest upon his stomach, having by
this time lost all desire to bow to the public.

Fellow tanners approached him with jesting questions.

"How are things going, _so Visent?"_

And _so Visent_ roared indignantly from the interior of his cardboard
disguise. How should things go? Very well. He was able to keep it up,
without failing in his part, even if the parade continued for three
days. As for getting tired, leave that to the young folks. And drawing
himself proudly erect, he resumed his bows, marking time with his
swaying Shrine of wood.

The procession lasted three hours. When the guild banner returned to the
Cathedral night was beginning to fall.

Plom! Retoplom! The glorious banner of the _blanquers_ returned to its
guild house behind the drums. The myrtle on the streets had disappeared
beneath the feet of the paraders. Now the ground was covered with drops
of wax, rose leaves and strips of tinsel. The liturgic perfume of
incense floated through the air. Plom! Retoplom! The drums were tired;
the strapping youths who had carried the standards were now panting,
having lost all desire to perform balancing tricks; the rich masters
clutched the cords of the banner tightly, as if the latter were towing
them along, and they complained of their new shoes and their bunions;
but the lion, the weary lion (ah, swaggering beast!), who at times
seemed on the point of falling to the ground, still had strength left to
rise on his hind paw