La Marina, reciting verses and fighting
duels that had thrilled her to the bottom of her soul.

And now all the _collas_ were off toward the church, their bands and
banners in front of them, looking, from a distance, like troops of
glossy insects moving up and down in the rhythm of the march. The
_Encuentro_ was at hand! Two processions were coming-down different
streets. In one was the Virgin, weeping, sorrowful, escorted by her
guard of funereal grenadiers; in the other, Jesus, in a showy purple
mantle spangled with gold, his hair awry, his face stained with blood,
collapsing under the burden of the Cross. The image had fallen on the
rocks of painted cork that covered its pedestal. Around the Christ, to
prevent his escape, crowded the ruthless "Jews," who, in line with their
parts, had marshaled ferocious scowls; and with the "Jews" came the
_vestas_, their masks lowered now and their trains dropped and dragging
through the puddles. The whole scene was so dreadful, so awe-inspiring,
that children along the road began to scream and to hide in fright
behind their mothers' skirts.

_Sinor!... Ay, sinor, Deu meu!..._ the old fisherwomen murmured
sympathetically at sight of the bleeding Christ in the clutches of that
mob of infidels.

The low-pitched cymbals were clanging meanwhile, and the cornets were
shrieking long-sustained, ear-splitting blasts like the bellowing of
calves in a slaughter-house. In the midst of the throng of cruel guards
marched some tall, well-built girls, with painted cheeks, and in
costumes copied from the Turkish maidens of comic opera. They carried
water jugs to show they were the Biblical women from Samaria. From their
mothers they had borrowed earrings and breast-pins. Their plump legs
were ostentatiously exposed in open-work stockings under short Polish
peasant skirts. But this was not the occasion for mocking raillery from
the men in the crowds.

Among the spectators, to be sure, were a few pale faces and blue-ringed
eyes--revelers who had been up all night and, to finish their carousals,
had come down from Valencia to witness the famous popular festival. But
if such people ventured a smile at any incongruity in the costumes, a
soldier of Pilate would step up and raise his saber menacingly, calling
them to order in righteous indignation:

"_Morrals! Morrals!_ Hey, there, you pig! This is not a joke! The idea!
The most religious ceremony of the coast, and as old as the Cabanal
itself! Yo