Monotonously the drum beat, on and on. Then the little clay flute with the husky sound wheezed a clear melody.
The whole market pressed densely towards the gateways of the church. But there, soldiers stood guard. And on the inside of the stone yard in front of the church, soldiers quietly guarded the low walls, letting nobody mount. So that outside, under the old willow and pepper trees, in the hot morning sun, the dense crowd stood gazing at the church doors. They were mostly men in big hats; but some townsmen were there, and some women, and Kate with a parasol lined with dark blue. A close, silent, tense throng under the spangled shade, pressing round the trunks of the palm trees, climbing on the roots of the pepper trees. And behind were the camions and the motor-cars drawn up.
The drum shuddered and went still, and the earthen flute was silent. The lake could be heard lapping, and a clink of glasses and a sound of chauffeurs’ voices at the little cantina-booth. For the rest, the silent breathing of the crowd.—Soldiers were quickly distributing a few leaflets among the crowd. A strong, far-carrying male voice began to sing to the softened thud of the drum.
Jesus’ Farewell.
While this was singing, another boat had arrived, and soldiers made way through the crowd for Ramón, in his white sarape with the blue edges and scarlet fringe, and a young priest of the church in a black cassock, and six men in dark sarapes with the blue borders of Quetzalcoatl. This strange procession marched through the crowd and through the gateways of the yard.
As they approached, the ring of men round the drum opened, and spread into a crescent. Ramón stood tall behind the drum, the six men in dark