We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.
"I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him."
"So do I."
"He says the bulls are all right."
"They're good."
"Is that San Fermin's?"
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
"Yes. Where the show started on Sunday."
"Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something."
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.
"Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous."
Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.
"Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good."
We walked along.
"I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face.
"You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him."
"Good."
"I wish the wind would drop, though."
"It's liable to go down by five o'clock."
"Let's hope."
"You might pray," I laughed.
