There were crowds of people at the funeral in spite of the bad weather, and just as the priest was starting in full canonicals, with all the little choir-boys in their clean surplices, it began to pour again; so Father János turned to Kvapka, the sacristan, and said:
"Run back as fast as you can and fetch the umbrella out of my room."
Kvapka turned and stared; how was he to know what an umbrella was?
"Well," said Father János, "if you like it better, fetch the large, round piece of red linen I found two days ago spread over my little sister."
"Ah, now I understand!"
The priest took shelter in a cottage until the fleet-footed Kvapka returned with the umbrella, which his reverence, to the great admiration of the crowd, with one sweeping movement of his hand spread out in such a fashion that it looked like a series of bats' wings fastened together. Then, taking hold of the handle, he raised it so as to cover his head, and walked on with stately step, without getting wet a bit; for the drops fell angrily on the strange tent spread over him, and, not being able to touch his reverence, fell splashing on to the ground. The umbrella was the great attraction for all the peasants at the funeral, and they exchanged many whispered remarks about the (to them) strange thing.
"That's what St. Peter brought," they said.
Only the beautiful verses the schoolmaster had composed for the occasion distracted their attention for a while, and sobs broke forth as the various relations heard their names mentioned in the lines in which the dead woman was supposed to be taking leave of them:
"Good-by, good-by, my dearest friends; Pál Lajkó my brother, György Klincsok my cousin," etc.
The whole of Pál Lajkó's household began to weep bitterly, and Mrs. Klincsok exclaimed rapturously: