metal began to stagger and reel like a
frail bark tossing over a sea of shrieking heads and extended arms that
trembled with exaltation.

The procession marched on for more than an hour still along the river.
Then the priest, who was dripping wet and had exhausted more than a
dozen "horses" under him, forbade it to continue. Leave it to those
peasants, and the nonsense would go on till dawn! So the curate observed
that the Saint had already done what was required of him. Now it was
time to go home!

Rafael handed his taper to one of his henchmen and stopped on the bridge
with a number of experienced observers, who were lamenting the damage
done by the flood. At every moment, no one could say just how, alarming
reports of the destruction wrought by the river were coming in. Now a
mill had been isolated by the waters, and the people there had taken
refuge on the roof, firing their shotguns as signals of distress. Many
orchards had been completely submerged. The few boats available in the
city were doing the best they could in the work of rescue. The valley
had become one vast lake. Rowboats caught in the shifting currents were
in danger of smashing against hidden obstructions; and it was
practically impossible to push a punt upstream with oars.

Yet the people spoke with relative calmness. They were accustomed to
this almost annual visitation, and accepted it resignedly as an
inevitable evil. Besides, they referred hopefully to telegrams received
by the _alcalde_. By dawn help would be coming in. The governor in
Valencia was sending a detachment of marines, and the lagoon would be
filled with navy boats. Everything would be all right in a few hours.
But if the water got much higher meanwhile ...!

They consulted stakes and other water marks along the river, and violent
disputes arose. Rafael, for his part, could see the flood was still
rising, though but slowly.

The peasants refused to believe it. How could the river rise after
Father San Bernardo had gone into it? No, sir! it was _not_ rising. That
was all a lie intended to discredit the patron. And a sturdy youth with
flashing eyes threatened to disembowel with one stroke of his
knife--like that!--a certain scoffer who maintained that the river would
go on rising if only for the pleasure of refuting that charlatan of a
friar.

Rafael approached the brawlers, and by the dim lantern light recognized
Cupido--the barber--a sarcastic fellow, with curly side-whiskers