The priests were singing a hymn to Our Lady.
“Si de coe ... coe ... coe ... lo descenderes
O sanc ... ta ... ta ... ta ... Ma ... ma ... ria.”
For their voices shook because of the itching, which became excessive, but they scratched themselves modestly and parsimoniously. Even so the dean and the four bearers of Saint Martin had their necks and wrists torn to pieces. Pompilius stayed absolutely still, tottering on his poor legs, which were itching the most.
But lo on a sudden all the crossbowmen, archers, deacons, priests, dean, and the bearers of Saint Martin stopped to scratch themselves. The powder made the soles of Pompilius’s feet itch, but he dared not budge for fear of falling.
And the curious said that Saint Martin rolled very fierce eyes and showed a very threatening mien to the poor populace.
Then the dean started the procession going again.
Soon the hot sun that was falling straight down on all these processional backs and bellies made the effect of the powder intolerable.
And then priests, archers, crossbowmen, deacons, and dean were seen, like a troop of apes, stopping and scratching shamelessly wherever they itched.
The daughters of the Virgin sang their hymn, and it was as the angels’ singing, all those fresh pure voices mounting towards the sky.