“God bless him and grant him a long and righteous reign!” added Don Carlos, so solemnly that Pilarica clasped her hands as if she were saying her prayers. “His father, King Alfonso XII, had a great heart,” the Geography Gentleman said musingly, “but his heart was wrung to breaking by sore troubles. I was in Madrid when the young Queen Mercedes died. Woe is me! What a grief was his!” “Pilarica knows a song about that,” observed Rafael. “Ah, to be sure! Spanish babies all over the Peninsula dance to that sorrow,” nodded the Geography Gentleman. “Come back into the patio, where the fountain will sing with her, and let us have it.” So in the fragrant air of the patio, where an awning had been drawn to shut off the direct rays of the sun, Pilarica, dancing with strange, slow movements of feet and hands, sang childhood’s lament for the girl-queen. “‘Whither away, young King Alfonso? (Oh, for pity!) Whither away?’ ‘I go seeking my queen Mercedes, For I have not seen her since yesterday.’ “‘But we have seen your queen Mercedes, Seen the queen, though her eyes were hid, While four dukes all gently bore her Through the streets of sad Madrid.’ “‘Oh, how her face was calm as heaven! Oh, how her hands were ivory white! Oh, how she wore the satin slippers You had kissed on the bridal night! “‘Dark are the lamps of the lonely palace; Black are the suits the nobles don; In letters of gold on the wall ’tis written: _Her Majesty is dead and gone_.’ “He fainted to hear us, young Alfonso, Drooped like an eagle with broken wing; But the cannon thundered: ‘Valor, valor!’ And the people shouted: ‘Long live the king!’” “And now we must be taking our leave, with a thousand thanks for a red-letter day,” said Don Carlos. “But no, no, no!” cried the Geography Gentleman. “Not until you have tasted a little light refreshment to wing your feet for the Alhambra hill. We will go up to the balcony and see Lorito--the wasteful rumple-poll that he is--enjoy his bread and butter.” It was very pleasant on the balcony, with its pots of sweet basil, its earthen jar of fresh water and its caged cricket “singing the song of the heat.” The gentlemen were regaled with wine and biscuit, the children with candied nectarines and tarts, and to Lorito the maid respectfully handed a great slice of bread, thickly buttered. The square was quiet again, though from the _Alameda_ came confused sounds, as of an angry crowd, cut by shrill outcries. A few beggars were gathered beneath the balcony, waiting for the bread which Lorito, after scraping off every least bit of the butter with his crooked beak, tore into strips and threw down to them, dancing on his perch and screaming with excitement to see them scramble for it.