It was a neighboring sect on the way to pay a visit to our morado. Frequently the light was arrested, and the singing stopped. We knew then they were paying their devotions at one of the heaps of stone, rude wayside memorials seen everywhere in this locality, erected by the Mexicans to their dead, some of whom lie in battlefields of France. Then the chant continued, the thud, painful enough only to hear, and the shuffle of feet, in a sort of weary lockstep. Across the river another light flickered and started. Soon, from our hiding-place high over the valley, we could see half a dozen processions, wending up and down through the hills. A movement from the direction of our morado, and the _pito_ sounded close at hand, accompanied by the uneven creak of a rude cart, filling us with a delightful, terrifying suspense. So close that we could have touched them, passed chanting men, swinging lights. We heard the break of leaden whips on their bare backs, but no groans. It was the procession of the death wagon, on which a skeleton was strapped, a macabre _memento mori_ borrowed from the Middle Ages. The gleaming lantern illumined its ribs as it tottered on its seat in grisly semblance of life. Suddenly a motor drove up aggressively, and halted straight across the path of the death wagon. The _pito_ and chanting stopped. A crowd quickly gathered, and angry voices made staccato demands. The car remained insolently unmoved, blocking the penitentes’ most private ceremony. The mob was angry beyond bounds at what to the most unsympathetic observer was gross rudeness, but to them was outrageous sacrilege. Pistols were drawn. The increasing numbers of penitentes surrounding the car buzzed like swarming hornets whose nest has been smashed, and who hunt the marauder with vicious intent. Then came a heavy voice from the car, a moment of confusion, and the crowd melted away, muttering but evidently cowed, while the car moved arrogantly forward. Puzzled, we asked for explanations. “That fellow in the car owns the big store where all those greasers trade. They buy on credit, run in debt, and he takes a mortgage on their ranches or herds of sheep. Some of them owe him two or three thousand. They were all ready to make trouble when they recognized him. He told them he was going to see the show, and if they didn’t like it they could pay what they owed him tomorrow. So they slunk off. He is a German.” _Echt deutsch!_