The pilgrims paused to drink at the cascade, and the children, while careful not to intrude, ventured, hand in hand, a little nearer. One man came limping toward them and seated himself on a stone. He was making the pilgrimage barefoot, as an act of devotion, and a thorn had run itself into his heel. [Illustration: PILGRIMS ON THE WAY TO SANTIAGO.] “May I try, sir?” asked Rafael, as the stranger’s lean fingers fumbled rather helplessly at the foot, and instantly, with a twist and a squeeze and an “Out, if you please,” the boy had drawn the thorn. To prevent the embarrassment of thanks, Rafael turned to his sister. “Sing the riddle, Pilarica,” he directed, and the little girl, Grandfather’s ready pupil, piped obediently: “It was this very morning, When I was out at play, I found it without seeking it, I sought it without finding it, And because I did not find it, I carried it away.” The dreamy-eyed pilgrim paid no heed to the rhyme, but dropped to his knees, bowed his head to the ground and kissed Pilarica’s little worn sandal. “For the sake of Our Lady of the Pillar, whose blessed name you bear,” he said, detaching from his cape--which, in addition to the scallop shells, was studded over with amulets of all sorts--a tiny ivory image of the _Virgen del Pilar_ and pressing it into Pilarica’s hand. “Even so she keeps her state in her own cathedral at Saragossa. Ah, that you might behold her as she stands high on her jasper column, her head encircled by a halo of pure gold so thickly set with sparkling gems that the dazzle of their glory hides her face in light!” A jovial old peasant, whose costume might have been cut out of the rainbow, pushed him rudely to one side. “Well do I know Our Lady of the Pillar,” he boasted, “and her jewelled shrine in Saragossa, for I am of Aragon, the bravest province in Spain.” “My father used to live in Saragossa,” volunteered Rafael, with the shy pride that always marked his mentions of his father. “He has told us of Our Lady of the Pillar and of the leaning tower.” “Ah, that swallow is flown. The tower fell a matter of eight years back. My old wife and I can give you a song about that, for this little honey-throat is not the only musician in Spain. Ay, you shall hear what we old birds can do. The children sing this song, you understand, in dancing rows, one row answering the other, but that wife of mine is equal to a baker’s dozen of children. Look at her! Is she not devoted to the good Apostle to trudge all this way on foot? A long, rough way it is, but many amens reach to heaven. Come forth, my Zephyr! Waft! Waft!” And he began to troll as merrily as if he had not a sin in the world, cutting a new caper with every line: “In Saragossa --Oh, what a pity!-- Has fallen the tower, Pride of the city.”