danger worse. It's more than ever necessary to bring out the saint."

"Well, if there's water coming down from Cuenca," the priest answered,
"we'd better let it come, and San Bernardo also had better keep
indoors, at home. Matters concerning saints must be treated with great
discretion, take my word for that.... And, if you don't agree with me,
just remember that freshet when the river got above the bridges. We
brought the saint out, and the river almost carried him off downstream."

The crowd, growing restless at the delay, began to shout against the
priest. The good sense of that canny churchman was powerless in the face
of superstitions instilled by centuries of fanaticism.

"Since you will it so, so let it be," he said gravely. "Let the Saint
come forth, and may the Lord have mercy on us!"

A frenzied acclamation burst from the crowd, which now filled the whole
square in front of the church. The rain continued falling, and above the
serried ranks of heads covered with skirts, cloaks, and an occasional
umbrella, the flames of the tapers flickered, staining the wet faces
red.

The people smiled happily in all their discomfort from the downpour.
Confident of success, they were foretasting gleefully the terror of the
stream at sight of the blessed image entering its waters. What could not
San Bernardo do? His marvelous history, a blend of Moorish and Christian
romance, flamed in all those credulous imaginations. He was a saint
native to that region--the second son of the Moorish king of Carlet.
Through his talent, courtesy and beauty he won such success at court in
Valencia, that he rose to the post of prime minister.