We watched in suspense the slow progress, wondering if the martyrs would reach their goal alive. As they neared the fourteenth station, one of the “two thieves” tottered, and had to be supported, half-fainting, the rest of the way. The other two barely managed to finish. Our dread was heightened lest the Mystery be carried to its bitter close. No printed word could have aroused among its ignorant spectators the tense devoutness inspired by this medieval drama. Religion to many of us has become a denatured philosophy, a long step from this savage brutality. Yet have we any substitute which will so kindle our imagination and idealism that it could school the body to endure gladly even the supreme agony? During the heat of the day, all was silence within the morado to which the actors had retreated. The sobbing Mexican women who followed the procession vanished with their black veils into their houses, some perhaps to await news of the death or collapse of their men, which not infrequently attends the Holy Week celebrants. Toward dark, over the country side, automobile phares began to converge toward the silent morado. The world outside had taken up “penitente hunting” as a cold-blooded sport. They came openly baiting the penitentes, who angered, refused to appear. Eight, nine, ten, eleven! We left our darkened car, and hid ourselves in the sand dunes near the graveyard, in the dark shadow of a clump of piñons. We waited with cramped legs, while the blue sky became black, and mysterious shapes loomed up in an unspeakably vast and lonely country. The Flagellants were still sulking. At last, a light across the river flickered, swung, and started down a distant trail, whose route we traced by an occasional lantern glimmer through masses of trees. A sweet, weird wail floated over to us on a gust of wind. It was the _pito_, wild and high-pitched flute, making a most dismal, shivery music. The procession twisted and turned toward the river. We crouched uncomfortably by our sand dunes, not daring to make a sound for fear it might be carried on the clear air. Suddenly came a chant, broken, taken up and dropped by voices too weak to modulate. It sounded unevenly, as spurts of energy forced it from tired throats; loud, then a whisper. The chant continued, with an ominous new sound added; a thud, thud, thud, regular and pitiless, the fall of thongs upon flesh. No outcry came; only the chant and the wail of the _pito_ rose louder.