Rafael’s face was flushed and there was something glittering on his eyelashes that made him turn away from Tia Marta’s scrutiny. But his chin was squarer than ever and, even before seeking comfort from his fragmentary Sultana, he led away the donkeys with a new air of responsibility. Then Tia Marta’s glance, flashing into indignant comprehension, fell on the queer figure that followed, leading the mules. If looks could kill, Pedrillo would have dropped with a thump in the dust of the road. The garden gate banged in his very face, but the Galician, nothing daunted, began to sing in a curious, croaking voice: “The reason the hedgehog has such sharp hair --At least, so runs the rumor-- Is that God created that creature there When God was out of humour.” “I have no time to waste on vagabonds,” called Tia Marta over her shoulder, as she retreated to her kitchen. “My day is as full as an egg. So be off with you!” “Ay, busy is the word, for we all start for Cordova at sun-up to-morrow,” returned Pedrillo in his gruff tone and rude northern accent. “That lie is as big as a mountain,” cried Tia Marta, shaking her fist at an astonished oleander. “I have got an idea between eyebrow and eyebrow,” continued Pedrillo, as unruffled as if Tia Marta had paid him a compliment. “I will put up Don Manuel’s mules where the little gentleman stables the donkeys and then I will come back and help you with the packing.” “Huh! Break my head; then plaster it,” retorted Tia Marta. “I want no help of him who has come to rob me. Put your ugly beasts where you will, but get away with you!” When the muleteer, a little later, sauntered through the garden, Tia Marta was sitting on the bench, shelling the beans for dinner. She split open the pods with angry motions and bit off the hard, black end of each bean as spitefully as if she had a special grudge against it. Roxa was curled up beside her and, uninvited, Pedrillo sat down on the farther end of the bench. “The cat is washing her face,” he remarked, “a sure sign that a guest is coming. She expects me to eat most of those beans.” “Humph!” Pedrillo, undiscouraged, politely scratched Roxa’s head, and Roxa, in return, very rudely scratched his finger from nail to knuckle. “Good cat!” chuckled Tia Marta, as the muleteer raised that bleeding member to his mouth. The silence that ensued was broken only by a resentful _miaul_ from Roxa, as Pedrillo, edging along the bench, pushed her off, until he suddenly observed: “Galicia is much pleasanter than Andalusia.” Only such a preposterous statement as this could have surprised Tia Marta out of her resolution not to speak another word to this grotesque and insolent intruder. “Far countries make long liars,” she gasped, nearly swallowing a whole bean in her rage.