And now she saw that they were nearing a village. They passed a group of children leading a pet lamb adorned with blue ribbons, that had evidently been taken out into the fields for a frolic and was bringing in its supper, for on the woolly back bobbed up and down a little basket filled with grass, of which Don Quixote attempted to taste. A swineherd strode down from the hills blowing a twisted cow’s-horn, and a huddle of curly-tailed pigs came scrambling after, full fed with acorns and ready for home. An inn stood at the entrance of the village,--a low house, freshly whitewashed, half hidden in honeysuckle, with yellow mustard and sprigs of mignonette springing up on the roof between the tiles that shone green and red in the keen, quivering light. A lattice built in the open space before the door supported the wandering stems of an old grapevine, whose broad leaves made a canopy for the rush chairs and rickety tables set out beneath. As the cavalcade advanced, a line of roguish boys, hand in hand, ran down the street, barring the way, singing as they came: “We have closed the street And no one may pass, Only my grandpa Leading his ass Laden with oranges Fresh from the trees. Tilín! Tilín! Down on our knees! Tilín! Tilín! Tilín! Tilín! The holy bell of Sant Agustin.” “And as good a tea-bell as any,” remarked Pedrillo. “It is three hours yet to Cordova and supper. We may as well make it four. Eh, Doña Marta?” “A sparrow in the hand is better than a bustard on the wing,” assented a dusty voice from under the green umbrella. So they all dismounted, while the hens, calling to one another: “Tk ca! Tk ca! Take care!” scuttled before the mules and donkeys as these were led into the path of shadow east of the house, where water and a few handfuls of barley soon gave them a better opinion of life. The travellers, seeking the shade of the rustic arbor, were served by a stately, withered old dame with fig bread, made into rolls like sausages, with cherries and aniseed water. Noting a row of beehives along the garden hedge, Grandfather sang softly: “A convent with many a cell. But never a holy bell. Little Latin they have for prayer, But they make delicious sweetmeats there;” and the old dame, comprehending, brought a piece of delicate honeycomb. But from ground and trees there came such a lulling hum of insects, like the whirr of fairy spinning-wheels, that Grandfather was fast asleep before the honeycomb arrived. Rafael and Pilarica, however, saw to it that the dainty was not slighted. “It’s only a snack, this,” apologized Pedrillo, “but we’ll fare better in Cordova.” “Bread with love is sweeter than a chicken with strife,” said Tia Marta gloomily. “I would our journey ended at Cordova.” “Tell us about our Uncle Manuel, please, Don Pedrillo,” spoke up Rafael suddenly. “Is he a good man?”