At that point there pierced through all the tumult of the courtyard the shrill tones of Tia Marta. “Pilarica! Rafael! What have you bandits done with my children? Smoked sardines of Galicia that you are! Of all the rascally--” A roar of laughter cut her sentence short. “Here Aunt Anna Hardbread comes again to throw a cat in our faces.” “Look out for her! Old straw soon kindles.” “Call us names and you’ll be sorry. Though we wear sheepskin, we’re no sheep.” “Is it true that Dame Spitfire is going with us?” “Bad news is always true.” “Give her civil words, then. A teased cat may turn into a lion.” “Señora, may your joys increase--and your tongue shorten!” “May you live a thousand years--that is, nine hundred and ten years more!” “Ruffians!” gasped Tia Marta, as soon as she could get her voice for fury. “_Cheese-rinds!_ If only there was a man, an Andalusian, here!” And she glared on Pedrillo, who, more embarrassed than he had ever been in his life, was standing on one foot and scratching his bushy head. “An Andalusian!” taunted Bastiano. “Much good that would do you. Everything with the Andalusians passes off in talk. They are all mouth. Crabs with broken claws could fight better than your Andalusian fiddlers.” “What is Andalusia?” mocked Hilario. “A Paradise where the fleas are always dancing to the tunes played by the mosquitoes.” Thereupon something like a diminutive battering-ram took Hilario in the stomach and he sat down so unexpectedly that he tripped up the long legs of Tenorio, who bit the dust beside him. Then Rafael, his black eyes blazing, leapt on Bastiano, who, stumbling back in his surprise against Blanco, was dealt a well-deserved mule-kick that sent him, too, sprawling on the cobblestones. “Now they will kill me,” thought Rafael and drew his small figure erect to meet his fate like a hero. At least, if he had not captured five Moorish kings, he had brought three Galician _arrieros_ low, and perhaps his prowess would be sung in ballads yet to be. But to his astonishment, and somewhat to his discomfiture, the courtyard rang with friendly laughter and applause, in which Hilario and Tenorio, quickly regaining their feet, heartily joined. “Good for young Cockahoop!” “Bravo! Bravo!” “As valiant as the Cid!” Even Bastiano, still sitting on the ground and rubbing his bruised shin, regarded the fiery little champion of Tia Marta and of Andalusia with an amused respect. But Uncle Manuel, hurrying back from business in the city and expecting to find his string of mules ready and waiting, bent his brows on the scene in evident perplexity. “It is not too late,” he said to Pedrillo, “to let you take the woman and little girl and the old man on to Santiago by railroad. My nephew may choose for himself, but I think he will like to ride with us.” “Yes, yes!” urged the muleteers. “We need a protector,” chuckled Hilario.