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Very well, little son. Come back tomorrow at daybreak. I will give you a sign for him. You have taken much trouble on my account, and I shall reward you for it. Go in peace, and rest. The next morning, Juan did not come. His uncle — his only relative — was dying. Juan spent the day trying to relieve his sufferings and left him only on Tuesday, to get a priest. As he was running to Tlaltelolco, the apparition again barred his way. Embarrassed, he told her why he had not followed her instructions, and she said: My little son, do not be distressed and afraid. Am I not here who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Your uncle will not die at this time. This very moment his health is restored. There is no reason now for the errand you set out on, and you can peacefully attend to mine. Go up to the top of the hill: cut the flowers that are growing there and bring them to me. There were no flowers on the top of the hill, as Juan Diego knew very well. In the middle of December, there could be no flower there, and yet, upon reaching the place, he found Castilian roses, "their petals wet with dew." He cut them and, using his long Indian cape — his tilma — to protect them from the bitter cold, carried them back to the apparition. She arranged the flowers he had dropped in the warp, then tied the lower corners of the tilma behind his neck so that none of the roses would fall. She advised him not to let anybody but the bishop see the sign she had given him and then disappeared. Juan Diego never met her again. At the bishop's palace several servants made fun of the Indian visionary. They "pushed him around" and tried to snatch the flowers. But when they observed how the roses seemed to dissolve when they reached for them, they were astonished and let him go. Juan was taken once more to the bishop. Juan Diego put up both hands and untied the corners of crude cloth behind his neck. The looped-up fold of the ti/ma fell: the flowers he thought were the precious sign tumbled out and lay in an untidy heap on the floor. Alas for the Virgin's careful arrangement! But Juan's confusion over this mishap was nothing to what he felt immediately after it. Inside of seconds the Bishop had risen from his chair and was kneeling at Juan's feet, and inside of a minute all the other persons in the room had surged forward and were also 1 1 kneeling. The bishop was kneeling before Juan's ti/ma, and, as Ethel Cook Eliot remarks, "Millions of people have knelt before it since," for it has been placed over the high altar in the basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City. The tilma consists of two pieces, woven of maguey fibers and sewn together, measuring sixty-six by forty-one inches. On this coarse material, whose color is that of unbleached linen, a lovely figure can be seen, fifty-six inches tall. Surrounded by golden rays, it emerges as from a shell of light, clear-cut and lovely in every detail of line and color. The head is bent slightly and very gracefully to the right, just avoiding the long seam. The eyes look downward, but the pupils are visible. This gives an unearthly impression of lovingness and lovableness. The mantle that covers the head and falls to the feet is greenish blue with a border of purest gold, and scattered through with golden stars. The tunic is rose-colored, patterned with a lace-like design of golden flowers. Below is a crescent moon, and beneath it appear the head and arms of a cherub. Juan's uncle was cured. As he was awaiting the priest, too weak even to drink the medicine his nphew had prepared, he saw his room suddenly filled with soft light. A luminous figure, that of a young woman, appeared near him. She told him he would get well and informed him of Juan Diego's mission. She also said, "Call me and call my image Santa Maria de Guadalupe" — or so the