“That is your fortune,” he declared. “It will turn toads into nightingales and stones into bread. Don’t give that away, my little gentleman, even to the gypsies.” III FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES The eyes of the Gypsy King began to glitter like jet beads. He had caught sight of an omnibus toiling up the Alhambra hill, and after the first a second, and after the second a third. Tourists! A party of foreign tourists! A host of golden, gullible tourists! Ah, Xarifa would be pleased with him, after all. She would toss him off a panful of crisp fritters for supper and then sit with him in the mouth of their cave, enjoying all the gypsy jest and music. With surprising nimbleness he climbed to the top step of the fountain, and there he stood, brandishing his hat high above his head and bowing and beckoning and twisting and bowing again until Pilarica turned quite giddy just from watching him. “Come away!” ordered Rafael, tugging at her hand, and she followed her brother to the ivied wall beneath that bell-tower on whose top the first cross was lifted after the Christians had taken the Alhambra from the Moors. Here Rafael busied himself in gathering together a few smooth stones, as much in the shape of Spanish rolls as he could find, and arranging them in a row. “Count out!” he commanded Pilarica, and the little girl, dancing up and down the line as she sang, proceeded to touch with an airy foot one stone and then another and another in turn. “The garden of our house it is The funniest garden yet, For when it rains and rains and rains, The garden it is wet. And now we bow, Skip back and then advance, For who know how To make a bow Know how to dance. AB--C--AB--C DE--FG--HI--J. If your worship does not love me, Then a better body may. AB--C--AB--C, KL--MN--OP--Q. If you think you do not love me, I am sure I don’t love you.” Before the song was ended, Rafael had clapped his magic cap over the stone designated by Q and stood, with red lips firmly pressed together, abiding results. “Sing something else, Pilarica,” he entreated, “or else I cannot, cannot wait.” And Pilarica, with a quick instinct for what would hold his attention, piped up the song by which Spanish children keep in memory the name of a true patriot. By the middle of the second line, Rafael’s fresh treble was chiming in with hers, though his gaze never wavered from the wonder-working fez. “As he came from the Senate, Men whispered to Prim: ‘Be wary, be wary, For life and for limb.’ Then answered the General: ‘Come blessing, come bane, I live or I die In the service of Spain.’ “In the Street of the Turk, Where the starlight was dim, Nine cowardly bullets Gave greeting to Prim. The best of the Spaniards Lay smitten and slain, And the new King he died for Came weeping to Spain.”