force. For some days before and after the sacred festival the
villagers are in the habit of coming into Bruges--whole families of
them, father and mother, sons and daughters, all in their best finery.
They walk through the streets, following the route by which the
Holy Blood is carried, telling their beads and saying their prayers,
crossing themselves, and kneeling at any image of Christ, or Madonna,
or saint, which they may notice at the street corners. It is curious
to watch their sunburnt faces and uncouth ways as they slouch along,
their hands busy with their beads, and their lips never ceasing
for a moment to mutter prayer after prayer. They follow in the
wake of the Procession of the Holy Blood, or wait to fall upon
their knees when it passes and receive the blessing of the Bishop,
who walks with fingers raised, scattering benedictions from side
to side. In the evening, before starting for home, they go to the
cafés.

As evening passes into night the sounds of music and dancing are
heard. At the doors people sit drinking round tables placed on the
pavement or in the rank, poisonous gutter. The hot air is heavy
with the smell of decayed fish. Inside the cafés men and women,
old and young, are dancing in the fetid atmosphere to jingling
pianos or accordions. The heat, the close, sour fumes of musty
clothing, tobacco, beer, gin, fried fish, and unwashed humanity,
are overpowering. There are disgusting sights in all directions.
Fat women, with red, perspiring faces and dirty fingers, still
clutching their rosaries; tawdry girls, field-workers, with flushed
faces, dancing with country lads, most of whom are more than half
tipsy; ribald jokes and laughter and leering eyes; reeling, drunken
men; maudlin affection in one corner, and jealous disputing in
another; crying babies; beer and gin spilt on the tables; and all