"
_Les Miraclou_--as those are called who have been miraculously cured the
previous year by bathing in the water of the fountain, or touching the
finger of St. John--of course play an important part in the procession.
To-day it was our fate to see a very different but hardly less effective
ceremony. As we were sitting quietly near the beautiful gateway, the
hills in front of us, contemplating the sylvan scene and waiting for
our driver, suddenly a small procession appeared coming down the road
that wound round the hill out into the world. It was a funeral, and
nothing could have been more striking than this concourse of priests and
crosses and mourners, some carrying their sad burden, thrown out in
conspicuous relief by the green hills and valleys around.
Mournfully and sadly the little group approached. First the priests,
then the sad burden, then the women, the chief mourners wearing long
cloaks, with hoods thrown over their heads, which made them look like
nuns, and followed by quite a large company of men walking bareheaded.
Absolute and solemn silence reigned everywhere, broken only by the
measured tread of the men carrying the coffin, which grew more and more
audible as they approached; that measured tread that is one of the
saddest of sounds.
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