Plaza sad ghosts, grim ghosts,
sainted ghosts of long past days.

Headed by one of their number bearing aloft an exquisite crucifix, walked
a band of penitents carrying great lighted candles. Their white robes of
linen swept in long pointed trains over the cobbles, the silver buckles on
their black shoes glinting with each step; through the narrow slits in the
blue _capuchas_, whose conical peaks tapered far above the wearers' heads,
their dark eyes burned with mysterious intensity. Two and two they moved,
noiseless as bats save for the tap of silver batons, making an avenue of
gliding stars, like will-o'-the-wisps, from the black mouth of Las Sierpes
across the length of the Plaza.

Then suddenly, in that dark, distant tunnel flashed something luminous,
something that moved, swung in air higher than the heads of men, something
that was like a great blazing casket of jewels or a cloud of fireflies.

It came on, halting, starting again, reaching the open square, and
revealing itself as an illuminated platform supporting a crucified Christ,
life size, with no detail spared of tragedy and torture.

One of those fine sculptures of painted wood, such as I had seen at
Valladolid, the sixteenth century artist had spent his soul in showing to
believers what Christ had suffered that they might be saved; and so
startling was the appeal of this terrible figure to the sympathies, that
for an instant I found myself forgetting everything except a wild desire
to rescue it.

As the _paso_, with its quivering silver lamps and strewn flowers, came
near to where I stood, I could see, beneath the long velvet curtains which
draped the platform, twenty pairs or more of slowly moving feet; and the
frequent pauses were accounted for.

I watched the heart-rending figure pass round the corner of the Plaza, out
of sight, swallows wheeling overhead as if once more to pluck the thorns
from that bleeding brow; and as it vanished, far away in the dusk of Las
Sierpes appeared another illumined mystery of clustering stars. Out from
darkness into hyacinth twilight it floated, a canopied platform of purple
velvet, crusted with silver and gold; under the glittering roof a virgin,
who seemed to stand praying in a garden of tall lilies, lit by a sacred
silver flame.

The crowding lilies, as the _paso_ came nearer, were only white, waxen
candles after all, but in their light the image of the Virgin gained a
womanliness and beauty extraordinary. Her g