The companies of the parishes passed, with their
white shrouds and veiled faces; then the brothers
of the Misericordia, black from head to foot,
their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in
their masks. Next came the monks in solemn
row: the mendicant friars, with their dusky cowls
and bare, brown feet; the white-robed, grave Dominicans.
Then followed the lay officials of the
district; dragoons and carabineers and the local
police-officials; the Governor in gala uniform, with
his brother officers beside him. A deacon followed,
holding up a great cross between two
acolytes with gleaming candles; and as the curtains
were lifted high to let them pass out at the
doorway, Montanelli caught a momentary glimpse,
from where he stood under the canopy, of the sunlit
blaze of carpeted street and flag-hung walls and
white-robed children scattering roses. Ah, the
roses; how red they were!
On and on the procession paced in order; form
succeeding to form and colour to colour. Long
white surplices, grave and seemly, gave place to
gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials.
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