On the anniversary of San Bartolomé's day—the very day on which the image had been discovered—in the height of a violent tempest, a foreign barque found safe harbourage in the bay of San Antonio. On board the distressed ship was a gentleman who had in his possession a beautiful painting of Santa Inés. In his extremity he made a definite bargain with the saint, vowing that, if through her intercession the whole ship's company landed without scath, he would present her portrait to the church of the first port where they disembarked in safety.
It was on hearing of this miraculous intervention, and of the widespread notice it attracted, that the ecclesiastical authorities at Iviza gave permission for the little subterranean cavern to be used as a place of worship.
After that time, on the annual recurrence of San Bartolomé's day, people in great numbers journeyed from all parts of the island to the little town, and after attending Mass in the parish church went with the inhabitants of the town to the cave, near which they picnicked. Then, after having taken a draught of water from the holy well in the interior of the cave, they assembled outside and danced until sunset.
This quaint custom continued until 1865, when it was modified because the roof of the cave showed signs of collapse, and the natives of Iviza had a superstitious belief that the impending catastrophe would occur on the day of the annual gathering. Since then the dance has been held in the town, but is only attended by those from a distance, as, since the scene of the festival has been changed, the girls of San Antonio refuse to take part in it.
When we had secured the key from a silent woman at the farm-house near by, we gained the mouth of the cave by treading unconventional paths—first walking in single file along the broad top of a stone wall, then treading across a tobacco patch, where, warmly sheltered by surrounding walls, the broad young leaves were growing strongly.
At the entrance to the cave Antonio and a companion who had joined him—we knew him only as "Charles, his friend"—lit candles, and close on each other's heels we crept, doubled up and with stumbling feet, through the burrow-like passage that led to the inner shrine.
Many changes must have taken place of late years, for the chapel was cumbered with fallen refuse. The arch of the roof masonry and the hollow where the altar had stood could still be distinguished, otherwise there was little token left of the strange history of this underground place of devotion. As we crawled back towards the light and the outer air, Antonio pointed to where, at the bottom of a tortuous and shelving passage, was situated the holy well.
The climax of our visit to the little white town was the promised introduction to the beloved of Antonio, whom we met in the house of her mother, in the street near the church.
Antonia could not have been more than twenty, if indeed she had quitted her teens, but in sobriety of dress and demureness of outer deportment she was a facsimile of her comely mother. It was only when you noticed that her full red lips had difficulty in refraining from curving into smiles, just as the dark hair so smoothly plastered down on either side of her rosy face seemed rebelliously determined to ripple into waves, that you realized that Antonia was overflowing with exuberant young life.