Not until the evening was well advanced did they find themselves at last treading the stone lanes of Cordova, a mysterious, Oriental city, whose narrow streets were empty at this time except for a few cloaked, gliding figures and silent except for the tinkling of guitars. It was dark between the high walls of the houses, yet the children caught an occasional glimpse through some arched doorway, as the tenant came or went, of an enchanted patio, its marble floor and leaping fountain transformed by the moonlight into the unreal beauty of a dream. In every street at least one cavalier stood clinging to the grating of a Moorish window, whispering “caramel phrases,” or, his gaze lifted to some dim balcony, pouring forth his soul in serenade. “If to these iron bars Thou wilt not bend thine head, This very night yon shining stars Shall see me lying dead.” “Ah, this is like my Seville. So long as lovers ‘eat iron,’ we are in Andalusia yet,” sighed Tia Marta. “Though Murillo leans from Heaven And his brush in the sunset dips, He cannot paint the blushes Of your face beneath my lips.” “I know about Murillo. He painted a whole skyful of Virgins and cherubs. Grandfather told me,” piped up Pilarica. “O these brunettes! Their velvet eyes Most terrible appear, For they slay more men in one short hour Than Death slays in a year.” “Yet I warrant you he’ll eat a good breakfast to-morrow morning,” chuckled Pedrillo. “If San Rafael should offer me His wings to scale the sky --O my love! my love!-- I’d refuse, and the wise Archangel Would know the reason why. --O my love!--” “That is my saint,” said Rafael proudly. “Ay, and the Guardian of Cordova and the Patron of Travellers,” added Pedrillo. “His image stands high on the bell-tower yonder and it would be well for you to thank him for our good journey.” “Does he take care of travellers on the ocean, too?” asked Rafael, remembrance of his father and brother tugging always at his faithful little heart. But Pedrillo did not answer, for suddenly the three mules, quickening their tired pace, whisked about and made for a familiar portal. The children let Shags and Don Quixote pick their own way through the great, dirty courtyard, crammed with carts and canvas-covered wagons, with bales, baskets and packages of all sorts, with horses, mules and donkeys and with sleeping muleteers outstretched on the rough cobblestones, each wrapped in the _manta_ of his beast, his hat pulled down over his face and his head pillowed on a saddle. “But their beds are as hard as San Lorenzo’s gridiron,” exclaimed Tia Marta. “And much colder,” added Pedrillo. “Yet hear them snore! There’s no bed like the pack-saddle, after all. Here! I will tie up these friends of ours for a minute, while I take you in to see Don Manuel.”