hed at that naif array had he dared brook the
wrath of those solemn boys whose faces all wore expressions of stern
professional seriousness. It is never safe to make fun of an army ready
to fight; and these "Jews" and "grenadiers" who were to guard the
crucified Christ and his mother were carrying, unsheathed in their
hands, all the varieties of sword known from the dawn of history to the
present time, beginning with the heavy cavalry saber of the ordinary
marcher, to the slender, delicate rapier of the drum-major.

Following the march, or keeping up with it along its flanks, trooped the
gamins of the town, enviously studying the colorful uniforms. Mothers,
sisters and sweethearts looked on admiringly from their doorways: "There
he is, there! Do you see him? _Reina y sinora!_ How grand he looks!" The
devout procession, like the parade that heralds the coming of a circus
to town, seemed to recall to the sinful, backsliding population of the
Cabanal that at seven A. M. sharp Jesus and his mother would meet--hence
the name _Encuentro_--in the middle of the Calle de San Antonio, in
front of the "Side of Bacon," the tavern of _tio Chulla_.

As the twilight brightened into the rosy glow of sunrise, promising a
warm spring day, the martial uproar about the village grew. There were
drums, cornets and brass horns sounding on every hand. An army seemed
suddenly to have descended on the Cabanal. The various
companies--_collas_, as they are called--had formed four abreast, and
solemn, stiff, and as much admired as soldiers returning from victory,
were marching to the homes of their respective captains to collect the
banners displayed there--weird standards of black velvet embroidered
with the horrifying symbols of the Passion.

The Rector was hereditary captain of the "Jews," and long before dawn he
had gotten up and crammed his person into the handsome costume that was
kept securely locked in a chest at other times of the year and was
revered by the whole family as the treasure of the house. Lord help us!
What are we coming to! Every Easter the poor Rector was getting fatter
and fatter and finding it a more and more serious task to stuff his
corpulency into that tight-fitting "coat-of-mail." Dolores, in her
nightgown and with her hair down, was making the tour of his spacious
waist, pushing in the stomach here, and stretching the cloth there, to
make room for one more cubic inch of husband inside the cotton armor. On
the bed sat