Almost all the housekeepers of Saintes-Maries had assembled by this time. A last group arrived upon the scene. Some carried jars, without handles, upon their heads, balancing them by a graceful swaying of the whole body. With their hands upon their hips, they themselves were not unlike living amphoræ. Others, having one jug upon the head, carried another in each hand--the stout _dourgue_, with handle and mouth; others had wooden pails, others, glass jars, each having selected a larger or smaller vessel, according to the necessities of her household. "What sort of a pot have you there, Félicité?" Whereat there was a general laugh. She to whom the question was directed, replied: "I broke my jug, poor me! And, as I had to have some water, I took an old thing I found that has always been standing behind the door at our house since I can remember. If it will hold water, it will do for me to-day, my dear!" "Take it to monsieur le curé for his library; it's an antique, and is worth money!" Félicité had, in fact, come to the spring with a genuine Roman amphora, found in the sandy bed of the Rhône--a jar two thousand years old and hardly chipped! Each family at Saintes-Maries is entitled to one or two jars of water each day, according to the number of its members.--The water had not begun to flow. Livette, sitting upon her horse, thoughtful and sad amid the chatter, was still awaiting her friends. "What were you saying just now?" asked some late comers. And having been informed, each one of them proceeded to expound her ideas upon the subject of the saints and Sara the bondwoman, paying no heed to what the others were saying--so that the jabbering of the women and girls seemed like a _Ramadan_ of magpies and jays assembled in one of the isolated clumps of pines so often seen in Camargue. "I would like to know if it's fair," cried one of the women, "not to put in Saint Sara's portrait, too! A saint's a saint, and where there's a saint there isn't any servant!" "The saints aren't proud! and Saint Sara cares mighty little whether her picture's there or not!" "She may not care, but it was an insult to her!" "Oh!" said another, "good King René and the Pope knew what they were doing when they arranged things so. Sara was Pontius Pilate's wife, and she was the one who advised her husband to wash his hands of the heathens' crime!" A murmur of reproof ran from mouth to mouth among the gossips. "Ah! here's old Rosine, she'll set us right." Motionless upon her horse Livette listened vaguely. She was absent-minded, yet interested. When old Rosine, who was very deaf, had finally been made to understand what was wanted of her, and that she was expected to give her views concerning Sara the bondwoman, she began: "Ah! my children, God knows his own, and Sara was a great saint, for sure----" Here Rosine crossed herself, and was at once imitated by all the old women.