The apathetic village has cast off its apathy: as if rising in defence of its property it becomes demonstrative. In the be-ribboned costumes of the country, girls in white shirts, with long waists and short skirts, women in shawls, are going up the hill-side. Behind them comes the throng of men. The procession has a determined obstinate look about it. Besides its faith, beyond its prayers, there is in the soul of this people the old Hungarian spirit of rebellion. There are many of them; the whole village, even the invalids, have turned up. The banners of the church are swaying slowly, higher and higher up the hill. A cross, carried aloft, shows against the sky. The little sun-kissed square in front of the church swarms with men in black and women in all colours of the rainbow. Bells ring and the smell of incense pervades the cold air of the church. Palm leaves are consecrated by the priest at the altar. I hid behind the Kállays in the dim light of the oratory. The crowd surged at the end of the aisle, furrowed faces, seamed with toil. In front of them little girls, starched little figures rendered artificially ugly, their tightly-plaited hair standing up on the sides of their heads, like little horns ornamented with ribbons. The boys stood on the other side. Those who stood bare-footed on the cold flags raised their feet alternately to warm them against their legs. A tall boy nudged his small brother. The little one looked back, but prayed on without laughing. Even the children seemed more serious than usual. I have never seen a more serious crowd. The poor village organ struggled pantingly with the Gregorian chants. Under the motionless church banners the human voices rose, some high, some low, a little out of tune and clumsy. Yet the ancient liturgical song, the thousand-year-old mournful song of Palm Sunday was very touching. “... And they betrayed the Son of Man to be crucified....” These words, so often heard, fell like blows on my heart, and had now a new meaning for me. I felt that this Palm Sunday was not a commemoration of the past, but a statement of the dark happenings of the present. Christ was undergoing a fresh Passion on this earth. The ancient plaintive tune of the Passion continued in the church. “... Then did they spit in His face, and buffeted Him; and others smote Him with the palms of their hands, saying Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, who is he that smote Thee?” As if all the church were thinking the same, a shudder went through the crowd: _the same people had smitten Him two thousand years ago_. “... And when He was accused, He answered nothing....” It seemed an awful duty to repeat the cry of the Jews from the Gospels: “Let Him be crucified!” And the words followed by which the people of Jerusalem accepted the responsibility for the sentence: “His blood be on us and on our children!”