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Keith--they were like figures in a
dream; they merged into memories of Africa, of his fellow-passengers
from Zanzibar; they mingled with projects relating to his own future in
England--projects relating to his cousin on Nepenthe. Mr. Heard felt
exhausted.
He was too tired to be greatly affected by that cannonade, which was
enough to rouse the dead. Something must be happening, he mused; then,
his meditations concluded, turned on his other side. He slept well into
the morning, and found his breakfast appetisingly laid out in the
adjoining room.
And now, he thought, for that procession.
Bells were ringing gaily into the sunshine. From a long way off, he
discerned the brazen tones of a band, the chanting of priests and
townspeople, shrill voices of women. The pageant came in sight--winding
its way through the multitudes under the beflagged arches of greenery,
while a rain of flowers descended from windows and balconies overhead.
Clusters of children went before, in many-tinted array, according to
their various schools or confraternities.


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