In an hour a veritable army was formed. Mobs issued from the dark lanes,
paddling in the water like frogs, and raising their war-cry: "_San
Bernat! San Bernat_!"; the men, with their sleeves and trousers rolled
up, or even entirely naked save for the sash that is never removed from
the skin of a Valencian peasant; the women, with their skirts raised
over their heads for protection, sinking their tanned, skinny,
over-worked legs into the slime, and all drenched from head to foot, the
wet clothes sticking to their bodies; and at the head, a number of
strong young men with four-wicked tapers lighted, sputtering and
crackling in the rain and casting a weird flickering radiance back over
the clamoring multitude.

"_San Bernat! San Bernat!... Viva el pare San Bernat!_ Father Saint
Bernard, _viva_!"

Under the drizzle pouring from the sky and the streams tumbling from the
eavespouts, the mob rushed along through the streets in a wild riot.
Doors and windows flew open, and new voices were added to the delirious
uproar, while at every crossing recruits would come to swell the
on-rushing avalanche headed for the _Ayuntamiento_. Muskets, ancient
blunderbusses, and horse-pistols as big as guns, could be seen in the
menacing throng, as though those wild forms were to compel the granting
of a petition that might be denied, or to slay the river, perhaps.

The _alcalde_, with all the members of the council, was waiting at the
door of the City Hall. They had come running to the place, marshalling
the _alguacils_ and the patrols, to face and quell the mutiny.

"What do you want?" the Mayor asked the crowd.