In the Church.

The orchestras sounded the reveille at the first rays of the sun, waking with joyous airs the tired inhabitants of the pueblo.

It was the last day of the fête—indeed, the fête itself. Every one expected much more than on the eve, when the Brothers of the Sacred Rosary had had their sermon and procession; for the Brothers of the Third Order were more numerous, and counted on humiliating their rivals. The Chinese candle merchants had reaped a rich harvest.

Everybody put on his gala dress; all the jewels came out of their coffers; the fops and sporting men wore rows of diamond buttons on their shirt fronts, heavy gold chains, and white jipijapa hats, as the Indians call Panamas. No one but old Tasio was in everyday costume.

“You seem even sadder than usual,” the lieutenant said to him. “Because we have so many reasons to weep, may we not laugh once in a while?”

“Yes, laugh, but not play the fool! It’s the same insane orgy every year, the same waste of money when there’s so much need and so much suffering! But I see! It’s the orgy, the bacchanal, that is to still the lamentations of the poor!”