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The apparitions of

GARABANDAL

BY
F. SANCHEZ-VENTURA Y PASCUAL

Chapter Twelve

CONCLUSIONS

Page 166

he explained to me how, when he reached Torrelavega, he was on the point of turning back to Madrid because a priest assured him that Garabandal was a myth that had been condemned by the Church.

   Towards 8:30 p.m., the hour that I had erroneously forecast for the ecstasy, I made my way to Conchita's house. The crowd were still standing or kneeling before her house, praying or singing hymns in Our Lady's honor. It was a most impressive sight. It must have been about ten o'clock when Conchita declared:

   "The apparition will be a little later on, up at the sunken lane. Tell everyone to go on saying the rosary and doing penance. I'll be along in a short while."

   The warning was spread in different languages. The crowd thinned rapidly as people went to find a good vantage-point in the lane where the children had had their first visions. This enabled me to reach Conchita's house. Her brother, who was standing guard at the door, invited me in. There, in the kitchen, humble yet welcoming as few kitchens can be, Conchita was sitting by the window, talking through its bars to the pilgrims outside.

   I approached her. She sensed my concern and smiled. She was as calm as ever.

   "There isn't much of the day left. Do you know everything that is going to happen," I asked, worried at the general disappointment if the expected did not occur.

   "Yes, I don't know what the Angel will say to me, but I know all the rest of the details."

   She looked at her watch, and added: "There's a little time to wait yet."

   And she began to write little dedicatory notes on holy pictures, showing more signs of gaiety than of impatience.

   It was than that I noticed the wedding rings that she was wearing on her fingers, and I asked if I could give her mine, too. But she at once explained: "Not today. The Angel doesn't kiss them . . ." And she laughingly added, "The Angel isn't anybody . . ."

   She then wrote on a holy picture for Fr. Luna, a surname which in Spanish means "Moon". Wearing her best air of innocent mischief, she inquired:

   "Shall I put Fr. Moon or Fr. Sun?"

   All at once she was serious. She glanced at her watch and declared:

"It's half-past eleven. Let's go to the lane."

   Her mother—an admirable woman for whom the apparitions have been the cause of particular trials and suffering, and who treats pilgrims with extraordinary patience and kindness—got out a short jacket. Conchita put it on and, taking her cousin's arm,

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