It was true, thought the bishop, as he glanced out of his window that
evening, all alone, over the sea into which a young moon was just
sinking to rest. Overcharged! A ceaseless ebb and flow of humanity
surged before his weary eyes. That sense of irreality which had struck
him on his first view of the island was still persisting; the south
wind, no doubt, helped this illusion. He remembered the general
affluence and kindliness of the people; that, at least, had made a
definite mark upon his mind. He liked the place. Already he felt at
home here, and in better health. But when he tried to conjure up some
definite impression of town and people, the images became blurred; the
smiling priest, the Duchess, Mr. Keith--they were like figures in a
dream; they merged into memories of Africa, of his fellow-passengers
from Zanzibar; they mingled with projects relating to his own future in
England--projects relating to his cousin on Nepenthe. Mr. Heard felt
exhausted.

He was too tired to be greatly affected by that cannonade, which was
enough to rouse the dead. Something must be happening, he mused; then,
his meditations concluded, turned on his other side. He slept well into
the morning, and found his breakfast appetisingly laid out in the
adjoining room.

And now, he thought, for that procession.

Bells were ringing gaily into the sunshine. From a long way off, he
discerned the brazen tones of a band, the chanting of priests and
townspeople, shrill voices of women. The pageant came in sight--winding
its way through the multitudes under the beflagged arches of greenery,
while a rain of flowers descended from windows and balconies overhead.