"No, no, it was thirty."
"That was the second-best bid. You wouldn't think there was so much money in all Galicia."
"And the winner?" Father Quixote asked. "What does he win?"
One of the crowd laughed and spat on the ground. "Salvation for his sins. It's cheap at the price."
"Don't listen to him, monsignor. He laughs at all holy things. The winner -- it's only fair -- he has the best place among those who carry Our Lady. There is great competition."
"What is the best place?"
"In front on the right."
"Last year," the jester said, "there were only four bearers. The priest has made the stand bigger this year, so that there will be six."
"The last two paid only fifteen thousand."
"They had fewer sins to pay for. Next year, you will see, there will be eight bearers."
Father Quixote made his way nearer to the church door.
A man plucked his sleeve. He held out two fifty-peseta pieces. "Monsignor, would you give me a hundred-peseta note?"
"Why?"
"I want to give to Our Lady."
They were singing a hymn now in the church and Father Quixote could feel the tension and expectation in the crowd. He asked, "Won't Our Lady accept coins?"
Over their shoulders he could see the sway to and fro of a crowned head, and he crossed himself in union with those around him. The coins slipped from the fingers of his neighbour who scrabbled on the ground to retrieve them. Between the heads of this man and that he got a glimpse of one of the bearers. It was the man with the striped tie. Then as the crowd retreated to make room the whole statue came for a moment into view.
Father Quixote could not understand what he saw. He was not offended by the customary image, with the plaster face, and the expressionless blue eyes, but the statue seemed to be clothed entirely in paper. A man pushed him to one side, waving a hundred-peseta note, and reached the statue. The carriers paused and gave him time to pin his note on the robes of the statue. It was impossible to see the robes for all the paper money -- hundred-peseta notes, thousand-peseta notes, a five-hundred-franc note, and right over the heart a hundred-dollar bill. Between him and the statue there were only the priest and the fumes of the incense from his censer. Father Quixote gazed up at the crowned head and the glassy eyes which were like those of a woman dead and neglected -- no one had bothered even to lower her lids. He thought: Was it for this she saw her son die in agony? To collect money? To make a priest rich?
The Mayor -- he had quite forgotten that the Mayor was there behind him -- said, "Come away, father."
"No, Sancho."
"Don't do anything foolish."
"Oh, you are talking like that other Sancho, and I say to you as my ancestor said when he saw the giants and you pretended they were windmills -- "If you are afraid, go away and say your prayers.""
He took two steps forward and confronted the priest as he swung his censer to and fro. He said, "This is blasphemy."
The priest repeated, "Blasphemy?" Then he noticed Father Quixote's collar and his purple pechera and he added, "monsignor."
"Yes. Blasphemy. If you know the meaning of the word."
"What do you mean, monsignor? This is our feast day. The feast day of our church. We have the blessing of the bishop."
"What bishop? No bishop would allow. . ."
The bearer with the extravagant tie interrupted. "The man is an impostor, father. I saw him earlier today. He wore no pechera then and no collar, and he was buying wine from that atheist Señor Diego."
"You have made your protest, father," the Mayor said. "Come away."
"Call the Guardia," the Mexican called to the crowd.
"You, you. . ." Father Quixote began, but the right word failed him in his anger. "Put down Our Lady. How dare you," he told the priest, "clothe her like that in money? It would be better to carry her through the streets naked."
"Fetch the Guardia," the Mexican repeated, but the situation was far too interesting for anyone in the crowd to stir.
The dissident called out, "Ask him where the money goes."
"For God's sake come away, father."
"Go on with the procession," the priest commanded.
"Over my dead body," Father Quixote said.
"Who are you? What right have you to interrupt our feast? What is your name?"
Father Quixote hesitated. He hated to use the title to which he felt he had no real claim. But his love for the woman whose image loomed above him conquered his reluctance. "I am Monsignor Quixote of El Toboso," he announced with firmness.
"It's a lie," the Mexican said.
"Lie or not, you have no authority in this diocese."
"I have the authority of any Catholic to fight blasphemy."
"Ask him where the money goes," the voice, which sounded too arrogant in his ears, called again from the crowd, but one cannot always choose one's allies. Father Quixote took a step forward.
"That's right. Hit him. He's only a priest. This is a republic now."
"Call the Guardia. The man's a Communist." It was the Mexican who spoke.
The priest tried to swing his censer between the statue and Father Quixote as though he expected that the smoke might hold him back, and the censer struck Father Quixote on the side of his head. A trickle of blood curved round his right eye.
"Father, we've got to go," the Mayor urged him.
Father Quixote thrust the priest aside. He pulled the hundred-dollar bill off the statue's robe, tearing the robe and the bill. There was a five-hundred-franc note pinned on the other side. This one came away easily and he let it drop. Several hundred-peseta notes were split into pieces when he snatched at them. He rolled them into a ball and tossed it away into the crowd. The dissident cheered and there were three or four voices which joined him. The Mexican lowered the pole of the statue's stand which he was supporting and the whole affair reeled sideways so that Our Lady's crown tipped drunkenly over her left eye. The weight was too much for another Mexican who let go of his pole and Our Lady went crashing to the earth. It was like the end of an orgy. The dissident led a group forward to salvage some of the notes and there was a confused struggle with the bearers.
The Mayor grasped Father Quixote by the shoulder and pushed him out of the way. Only the Mexican with the tie noticed and screamed above the noise of the fray, "Thief! Blasphemer! Impostor!" He took a deep breath and added, "Communist!"
"You've done quite enough for today," the Mayor said.
"Where are you taking me? Forgive me. I am confused. . ." Father Quixote put his hand to his head and took it away blood-stained. "Did somebody hit me?"
"You can't start a revolution without bloodshed."
"I didn't really mean. . ." In his confusion he allowed the Mayor to lead him away to the place where Rocinante waited. "I feel a little giddy," he said. "I don't know why."