The vestments are in the sacristy. Shrines,
canopies, censers, all the objects carried in the procession, have
disappeared into the churches. The church doors are locked, and the
images are left to stand all night without so much as one solitary
worshipper kneeling before them. The Bourg is empty and dark, steeped
in black shadows at the door of the chapel where the relic has
been laid to rest. It is all quiet there, but a stroll through
the Rue de l'Ane Aveugle and across the canal by the bridge which
leads to the purlieus of the fish-markets brings one upon another
scene. Every second house, if not every house, is a cafe, 'herberg,'
or 'estaminet,' with a bar and sanded floor and some rough chairs and
tables; and on the night of the Procession of the Holy Blood they are
crowded to the doors. Peasants from the country are there in great
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.
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