“Kill a Moor,” commanded Rafael, and the pudgy fist shot out straight at Rafael’s nose. “How many gods are there?” catechised Pilarica, and one pink finger was raised with most orthodox energy. Meanwhile Tia Marta, who had grown at least ten years younger, was bustling happily about, setting forth white bread and honey and crisp fried potatoes for her guests. Not until they had eaten, did she venture to ask Dolores if there was any word. “No good word,” answered the girl, her eyes flooding with tears, “and it has been so long.” “Tut, tut!” said Tia Marta. “God is not dead of old age. Your lover’s feet may be seeking you now. While there is God, there is mercy.” “There is a buzzing in my ears,” spoke up Grandfather suddenly. “A leaf has fallen from the Tree of Life.” “Never mind him,” snapped Tia Marta, carefully tucking her best shawl over his knees, “an old canary who doesn’t know what he sings. How Juanito looks up and laughs! He sees the cherubs at play. Be of good cheer, Dolores! Your sailor-lad may come back to you yet, and, if not, God, who gives the wound, will give the medicine.” “Will Father and Big Brother come back, Tia Marta?” asked Pilarica. “To be sure they will,” hastily answered the old nurse with a choke in her voice. “God never wounds with both hands. Doña Barbara has enough to bear in seeing Dolores waste away without having to weep for Don Carlos, too.” And indeed Dolores was but a shadow of the plump, rosy girl who had sported with her cousins a year ago. So changed she was that a ragged wayfarer, resting in the walnut-grove, did not recognize her, although he had carried her face in his heart for many a yearning day. And the nutting party looked down on him and his no less gaunt companion with the easy compassion that views the misery of strangers. Spain had grown used to the wretched sight of sick and crippled soldiers from the West Indies and the Philippines creeping toward their homes. But Rodrigo knew his little sister. “Pilarica!” he cried feebly, staggering to his feet, and clasping her in one loving arm--his other sleeve hung empty--while, after a long, wondering gaze, Dolores and her Vigo lover drew silently together. Rodrigo freed his hand for his brother, whose questioning eyes searched that haggard face from which all trace of youth had disappeared. “Rafael,” said the soldier, meeting the boy’s look steadily, “when the Yankees raised a Spanish battle-ship, that had gone down in gallant fight, they found in the engine-room the body of her Chief Engineer. His hand still gripped the lever. He had died at his post. He had done his duty.” The lad stood erect, with folded arms, as he had stood by the Sultana Fountain on that April night that seemed so long ago. “That is a beautiful story,” said Pilarica, who had not understood.