The origin of the custom we found reached back into bygone ages. For many centuries after King Jaime's death the people of Palma had an annual procession on the anniversary of the taking of the city, and walked through the streets with the banner under which their deliverer had fought so valiantly carried before them, while the entire populace prayed for the safety of his soul. The banner has long since rotted into dust. Now the staff alone is borne, and apart from the promenade inside the Cathedral there is no procession.
The inner chambers of the Cathedral guard a wealth of treasure, the collection of centuries, and an inestimable array of relics, which, through the courtesy of the church dignitaries, we had the privilege of seeing.
One morning about ten o'clock, when we entered the Cathedral from the sunlit streets, the faint blue mist of incense hung about the high altar, and the sound of chanting echoed through the aisles. At first sight the vast building appeared to be empty; but as our eyes became accustomed to the perpetual twilight that reigns under the great roof we became conscious of kneeling worshippers, dimly seen through the obscurity—a young lady, her mantilla-framed face bent over her rosary, an old man praying before one of the side chapels where a faint light was burning.
We were expected. Our friend the padre, a dignified figure clad in vestments of lace and fur, welcoming us with a silent shake of the hand, led us noiselessly along a side aisle.
As, passing through a door that led behind the high altar, we caught a glimpse of the officiating clergy, it almost seemed as though we were behind the scenes at a theatre where some great life-drama was being enacted. There were the stately and imposing performers, the engrossed and scarcely visible audience.
Leaving us in charge of the brother priest who acts as custodian of the treasure, our sponsor returned to resume his part in the service. Preceding us through the sacristy, our new guide escorted us to an inner chamber where, in an impregnable safe built in the wall, the venerated sacred relics of the Cathedral are kept.
Carefully unlocking and throwing open the guardian doors, he revealed a cabinet draped with a crimson curtain. Slipping behind the drapery, he busied himself lighting candles. Then, reappearing, he drew aside the curtain, revealing the almost startling magnificence of the precious metal and rare pearls in which the relics are enshrined.
One object—that occupying the place of honour—was carefully enswathed. Bending low before it, the padre, with reverent hands, withdrew the covering, showing an exquisite cross of gold, inset with priceless gems and hung with strings of costly pearls. In the centre of the cross—faintly perceptible through its encasement of crystal—were some fragments of the true Cross. On certain occasions, such as the service on Good Friday afternoon, this relic is borne in procession round the Cathedral.
The custodian, who was an enthusiast happy in his appreciation of and delight in his mission, proceeded to show us more of the wondrous treasures of the old Cathedral. Among the things almost too sacred to mention were three thorns from Christ's crown of thorns, a piece of the purple cloth of His robe, a fragment of His swaddling band, and a portion of a garment worn by the Virgin Mary.
A bone, black and shrivelled with age, was from the finger of St. Peter. And an extremely interesting relic—one so veritably antique that it is mentioned in the first inventory of the sacred trophies belonging to the Cathedral—is the tip of one of the arrows with which St. Sebastian, who is the patron saint of Palma, was killed. Like all the other relics, this is carefully enclosed. Another relic of the saint is the bone of his fore-arm, which is enclosed in a case surmounted by a hand, on whose outstretched fingers are many costly rings, votive offerings presented in gratitude by those who believe they have benefited by his intercession on their behalf.