So he began to play again and they walked away together. Just then the ringing of many bells filled the air. Pallieter cried out: “It’s here! It’s coming! Come on, folks!” And everyone hurried to be standing at the door. As they all moved round behind the decorated table Pallieter lighted the candles and strewed the sandy road with flowers and paper snippets. From behind the quaint gables of the houses came the triumphal beat of drums, a flourish, and then a slow, triumphal march on a brass band. “There ’tis!” cried the children and the townspeople who had come to look. They crowded on to the grass between the high tree trunks, so as to leave the sandy road free. The peasant women took their paternoster out of their pockets and began to recite prayers. And there came the procession through the wide gateway on to the shady convent courtyard. It was the tall sexton, Samdieke, who headed the procession, in his red cassock and white surplice. The light shone on his smooth cranium with a thin lock of black hair combed over it. He carried a tall thin crucifix, and his eyes were bent on the ground. On each side of him walked a little choir boy carrying a heavy silver candlestick, with a lighted candle. The orphans of the Marolle followed in three long rows; they were dressed neatly in black, above which their faces looked pale, with their prim, straight-cut black cape, and thin from sitting indoors. There were little tots not five years old among them, who kept their eyes on the ground as piously as the elder ones. There were many children of drunken fathers among them. Behind them walked the severe-looking nuns in wide black cloaks, and white caps with broad wings to them. They were all thin and straight; only the Mother Superior was a short, plump figure. Then came a stout farmer in a red cassock, carrying the blue velvet banner of St. Begga. Then a dazzling company of young girls, little children all in starched white frocks, with small flags and gilt cornucopias filled with flowers, ears of corn, and sweet herbs. Their faces shone with excitement, and they stepped along proudly with their straight young legs in time with the music, and their white skirts rustled about them like a sea. The musicians were old men; they blew with all their might, and their clothes smelled a bit musty. Next followed four novices, in their white dresses, with sleeves that were too long. Together they carried on a tray, that rested with leather-covered supports on their shoulders, a blue-painted Madonna. It had been washed ashore in the time of the Spaniards and was now treated with honor, all the country round, for many long years. This was the “Honeysweet Virgin from Holland, washed ashore here by the waves and brought to our country.”