“It gives one much more of a sense of the reality of all that old history to come to a place like this,” said Patty. “Where does this lead?” for their guide opened a small door and beckoned them to follow him. Patty was the first to step through and she found herself standing in a small enclosed balcony. She peeped through the lattice work and caught her sister’s arm. “Oh, do see where we are,” she exclaimed. They looked down and beheld the nearly deserted church; only a few kneeling figures still occupied it. The gorgeously bedizened figure of the Virgin shone out in the light of the candles still burning around the altars. “The little gallery,” their host told them, “was used as a choir for the nuns who were placed behind the grating that they might not be seen by those below.” “They could be heard though,” commented Patty, “and I daresay their singing was very sweet. That adds another interest to this rare old spot.” The dancing was in full swing when they passed through the old gateway, leaving the scarlet geraniums and white lilies glorifying the sunlit places. The jovial notes of the _jota_ called them to watch the pretty dance, and when at last they took their leave rocket bombs were still going up, and the sound of violin and drum announced that another dance had begun. “It has been wonderful, this _romeria_,” said Patty, dreamily. “I feel as if I had made a real pilgrimage. Is it as wonderful at any of the fêtes in France, Paulette?” Paulette was not willing to admit that they were any less interesting and discoursed volubly upon a Breton feast day which she remembered and which she declared to be much more picturesque because of the costumes worn. The singing in the wilderness was furnished that evening when Tomás took his guitar into the garden and trolled forth some of the unwritten songs which they had not yet heard. Then he told them queer tales of the peasants and of the saints, of how in the time of a great drought a figure of the Virgin is carried from her own church to some other where she must stay till it rains. Sometimes the patron saint of some little chapel is given a change of residence in the same manner. “At one time long ago,” said Tomás, “there was a very great drought and the poor people became desperate. At last one peasant woman took by stealth the figure of a saint from a little chapel in her neighborhood. She hid it under a cloth and at a certain waterfall she gave it a good dousing which she thought this patron saint deserved. At once came a perfect torrent of rain, nearly carrying off woman and saint on their way back to the chapel. Ever since then the people call upon San Acisclo, as he is named, whenever rain is needed.” “That is a lovely tale,” the girls agreed. “Tell us some more, Tomás. Tell us about the _inxanos_.”