miraculous saint must come out, let Rafael be the one to produce him!
The elections were at hand. The flood could not have come in better
time. There must be no false steps, no frightening opportunity away.
Something rather must be done to get people to talking about him as they
used to talk about his father on similar occasions.

So Rafael, after having the purpose of this demonstration explained to
him by the most ardent of the leaders, gave a magnificent gesture of
consent:

"Granted; have _San Bernat_ brought out!"

With a thunder of applause and _vivas_ for young Brull, the black
avalanche headed rumbling for the church.

They must now persuade the curate to take the saint out, and that good
priest--a fat, kindly, but rather shrewd fellow--always objected to what
he called a bit of old-fashioned mummery. The truth was he looked
forward with little pleasure to a tramp out in the rain at the head of a
procession, trying to keep dry under an umbrella, with his _soutane_
rolled up to his knees, and his shoes coming off at every step in the
mire. Besides, some day, in the very face of San Bernardo, the river
might carry half the city off, and then what a fix, what a fix, religion
would be in, all on account of those disturbers of the peace!

Rafael and his henchmen of the _Ayuntamiento_ tried their hardest to
convince the curate; but his only reply was to ask whether water was
coming down from Cuenca.

"I believe it is," said the _alcalde_. "You can see that makes the