“You are welcome to your house, my lord Archangel,” faltered Pilarica, not forgetting her manners, but holding her precious castanets tightly clasped behind her back. “What have you there?” queried Rafael, pulling off his hempen sandals and anxiously inspecting the soles of his feet. Poor little Pilarica, into whom courtesy had been instilled as the first of all the virtues, winked hard, but held out the castanets toward her brother. “They are at your service,” she faltered. But Rafael, too, could practise the Andalusian graces when he had a mind. “They are very well placed where they are,” he returned affably in the set phrase proper to the occasion and, giving his gay fez a twirl, he added: “I am not the Archangel any more, but the high and mighty Moor Abdorman Murambil Xarif, master of this palace. You are my Christian captive and will now dance for me.” “But I do not want to be a Christian captive,” protested Pilarica. “Would you rather be a dog of an infidel, a follower of false Mahound?” demanded Rafael, in a tone of shocked reproach. “If so, I shall have to sweep you into the sea.” “But ar’n’t you a dog of an infidel, too, since you are a Moor?” asked Pilarica in that keen way of hers, which her brother often found disconcerting. Rafael caught off his red cap with a pettish gesture and tossed it aside. “Your tongue is too full of words, Pilarica,” he grumbled. “It is unseemly to answer back. I am a year older than you. What’s more, I am a boy and you are a girl. As Tia Marta says, the fingers of the hand are not equal.” Pilarica spread out the little brown fingers of her right hand and considered them so seriously that Rafael was encouraged to go on. “Besides, I have heard Rodrigo say that a woman who speaks Latin always comes to a bad end.” “But I do not speak Latin,” pleaded Pilarica. “Isn’t Latin the gori-gori-goo that the priests sing in the church? I do not see why anyone should learn it, for Grandfather says that in heaven the angels all speak Spanish.” “Of course they do,” assented Rafael proudly. “Spanish is the most beautiful language that ever was spoken, just as the Spaniards are the best and bravest people on the earth.” “Who are the other people on the earth? Are they all followers of false Mahound, like the Moors?” asked Pilarica. Rafael frowned. There never was a girl like Pilarica for asking inconvenient questions. “Child,” he said, looking as ancient and impressive as any eight-year-old could, “did Grandfather ever tell you the story of Juan Cigarron?” “Not yet,” replied Pilarica meekly, “but it would give me great pleasure to hear it, if you please.”