We were served by the hostess, who had
large blue eyes, delicate hands, and the sweet face of a nun. It was not
yet bedtime, and it was too dark to work, so we went to the church.
This is small, although it has a nave and side-aisles like a city
church. Short, thick stone pillars support its wooden roof, painted in
blue, from which hang miniature vessels, votive offerings that were
promised during raging storms. Spiders creep along their sails and the
riggings are rotting under the dust. No service was being held, and the
lamp in the choir burned dimly in its cup filled with yellow oil;
overhead, through the open windows of the darkened vault, came broad
rays of white light and the sound of the wind rustling in the tree-tops.
A man came in to put the chairs in order, and placed two candles in an
iron chandelier riveted to the stone pillar; then he pulled into the
middle of the aisle a sort of stretcher with a pedestal, its black wood
stained with large white spots. Other people entered the church, and a
priest clad in his surplice passed us. There was the intermittent
tinkling of a bell and then the door of the church opened wide. The
jangling sound of the little bell mingled with the tones of another and
their sharp, clear tones swelled louder as they came nearer and nearer
to us.
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