We left by the Door of the Lizard, passing under the big stuffed crocodile that gives the name.
“See that horrid beast!” said Concepcion. “A present from the Sultan of Turkey to Alonzo el Savio, whose daughter he wished to marry. I think our Don Alfonzo will take nicer presents when he starts for England to-morrow.”
I asked if the people were pleased with the proposed marriage.
“Mad about it,” said Pemberton. “The Princess Ena will have a warm welcome; may she bring as good luck as Elenor Plantagenet brought, when she came to marry Alfonzo III of Castille. Their daughter Berenguela (she was a rare one), joined Leon and Castille, and practically laid the foundation of United Spain. Look for the woman, you know, and you will find her at the bottom of most things practical!”
On the borderland of sleep that night, I was overtaken and called back to earth by the wail of Eslava’s dirge. I sprang up and ran to the balcony to watch the passing of a midnight procession. It was very late, the air was chill, the stars pale, the calle deserted, save for the penitentes and Nazerenos (hidalgos all) in white gowns, black antefaces, and scapularies. On the first paso stood the Virgin of Solitude, who, by rule of the order, may only be absent from the church of San Lorenzo for the two hours after midnight on Good Friday. The second paso represented Calvary. The body of the Christ nailed to the cross shone pale and ghastly in the torchlight; the footsteps of the masked men sounded like muffled drums in the funeral march. Before the Christ walked a female penitent representing Santa Veronica: her hair fell over her shoulders in a dark flood. She carried in extended hands the handkerchief, whereon, the legend says, the Master dried his face on his way through the Street of Sorrows, leaving the impress of His features on the linen. A second penitent followed the cross, a young woman all in white, who personified Mary Magdalen, carrying a box of ointment. There was something familiar about this Magdalen. As she passed, a rose fell from a balcony, catching in her curls. She looked up; could it be Concepcion, walking so painfully with bare feet over the rough cobbles?
Sabbado de Gloria
“Vayan Vds. con Dios,” said the beggar at the cathedral door, lifting the heavy leather curtain for us.
The black veil still hung before the altar, the bells had not yet spoken. Life seemed at a standstill. There was no present, only the momentous past, in the Heart of Seville that bright Saturday of Glory. In the coro a pair of stooping, weedy old men—twin brothers—with ancient bassoons under their arms, several violins, flutes, and bass viols, added their music to the voices of the choir. There was an acute sense of waiting, of holding the breath in anticipation of some great event. Concepcion was very silent. There were dark rings under her dovelike eyes. In a moment all was changed. The bells of the Giralda burst out in sudden clamor. Thunder once again rolled through the cathedral, the black veil parted and fell to the ground, revealing the retablo of Dancart. In this wonderful altar-piece the sculptor has carved in larchwood the story of the life whose last hours on earth Seville has been living over again during the last three days! It is all here, told once again in faithful, loving art. Instead of wandering from chapel to shrine to read it pictured in marble, wood, color, miniature, and fine needlework,—an Annunciation here, a Nativity there, it is all here in the retablo illustrated by a series of marvellous wood carvings. Concepcion studied them with me, pointing out her favorite panels.
“Behold the blessed Saint Anne, the grandmother of God, San José, husband of Nuestra Señora. These be Peter and Paul,—two of our saints.”