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his death than he had been in his life. They made him the patron saint of Spain, for one thing. In the countries where they speak Spanish or Portuguese, the name Santiago is the same
as our James. There are cities and churches and statues of him all over the Iberian Peninsula and in South America. During the centuries when the Spanish were trying to expel the Moors from Spain,
the story goes that Santiago would appear on the battlefield on a mighty horse, wielding a great sword and urging his troops on to victory. “Santiago Matamoros!” was the battle cry of
the Spanish soldiers. “Santiago the Slayer of Moors!”’
    ‘You implied, Father,’ said Delaney, resuming his walk towards the main doors, ‘that his military powers were one of the reasons for him becoming famous after his death. Are
there others?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ said Father Kennedy. ‘A great city grew up close to the place where the body was found. A great cathedral was built in his honour and in his name. It became a place
of pilgrimage in the Middle Ages, one of the most important pilgrimages in Christendom. Jerusalem and Rome were the most important sites, but Jerusalem was not a healthy place to go to at the time
of the Crusades and Rome was in the hands of the barbarians. Thousands and thousands of pilgrims from all over Europe made the journey.’
    Father Kennedy paused and looked Delaney in the eye. ‘I think we may have witnessed a miracle here tonight, my friend. If that is the case, and your son James survives, as I believe and
pray he will, we must put it down to the intervention of St James the Greater, praying for your son in his picture on the wall.’
    ‘And what was the name of the city with the cathedral?’ asked Delaney.
    ‘The city? I forgot to tell you. The city is still there. It is called Santiago de Compostela, James of the field of stars.’
    As the two men passed out into the wet night the bells of New York began to peal the midnight hour. It was Sunday in Manhattan.

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    James Delaney didn’t die on Sunday. He was still alive on Monday.
    Always now, Delaney had a special prayer of his own as he roamed the corridors of the hospital and watched over his son. On Tuesday James opened his eyes and smiled weakly at his father. The
snows and rain of November turned into the snows and rain of December. Early that month the doctors told Delaney his son was getting better. They were perfectly honest with him, saying that their
ignorance of the disease worked both ways. They hadn’t been sure in the past that they knew how to treat his illness. Now they were not sure why he was getting better. All they could say was
that doing virtually nothing seemed to work best of all and they proposed to continue with that course of non-treatment. Five days before Christmas they pronounced James Delaney out of danger. It
would be a long time yet, they said, before he could come home. Delaney offered the hospital unlimited funds to study the disease that had nearly carried off his boy, saying he didn’t see why
anybody else should have to suffer as much as he and his son had done. He presented monies for a five-year supply of candles for the chapel in new designs approved by Matron and Father Kennedy. He
wondered then if he had fulfilled his obligations to God and man. All through the month, as the Christmas trees and Christmas decorations filled the shop windows and New York prepared to celebrate
the birth of Christ, Michael Delaney was haunted by the image of St James the Greater, the brown saint in his brown background praying with fingertips joined, on the wall above his son’s bed.
A strange idea haunted him too, an idea he could not shake off. Two days before Christmas he invited Father Kennedy to join him for a festive drink.
    Father Kennedy had been telling all his parishioners about the miraculous recovery of James Delaney. It was, he assured them, a blessing from God and St James the Greater. He had amended his
sermon on