At that moment, a tattered, bushy-haired vendor of sacred images crossed a very small plaza which contained a very large sign-post. Upon his white, matted hair he wore a greasy and dirty hat as large as a portico. His loose-fitting, long-sleeved cloak was worn wrong side to: the back across his breast, and the sleeves, knotted and bulky at the ends, falling down his back. Under his right arm he carried the saint, and in his belt was a cash-box with a slot for pennies.
“Pst! Silence!” said Quentin. “You are about to behold a most interesting spectacle.”
“What is it?”
“Do you see that man?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll wager you cannot guess who he is?”
“No.”
“The Bishop of Cordova!”
“The Bishop!”
“Yes, sir.”