And she kissed the baby head that nestled so confidingly against her shoulder. “There will always be room in my cottage and in my heart for Juanito,” promised Pedrillo. Tia Marta, dropping her look to Capitana’s inquisitive, pricked-up ears, made answer in an Andalusian _copla_: “I’ll tell you my mind, and that Holds good to the gates of Zion: I would rather be the head of a rat Than be the tail of a lion.” “I know I’m not much to look at,” admitted Pedrillo, a trifle aggrieved by the comparison. “No, you are not,” assented Tia Marta. “Truth is God’s daughter. But you are a handy little piece of a man, and since I have a loaf of bread, I’ll not ask for cheese-cakes. The poor should be contented with what they find and not go seeking for truffles at the bottom of the sea.” The two were so absorbed in each other that they failed to notice Pilarica, who had ridden up on Don Quixote and was now charging joyously down the line, telling everybody that Don Pedrillo and Tia Marta, while both making believe to kiss Juanito, had really kissed each other. The news was received with peals of laughter, and all the carriers ran forward, voicing saucy congratulations: “No summer like a late summer,” mocked Bastiano. “You would better take me, Doña Marta,” advised Tenorio, whose legs looked longer than ever, attired in their festival garb of chestnut-colored breeches, with rows of glass buttons down the sides, “for I have a nose, at least.” And then, turning back, he sang over his shoulder at Pedrillo: “Poor boy! You haven’t a nose, For God did not will it so; Fairings you buy at the fair, But as for noses, no.” “Don’t trust him, Doña Marta,” teased Hilario, whose shabby suit was set off for the occasion by a red and gold handkerchief. “He loses his heart to somebody every trip. “‘His loves I might compare To plates of earthenware. Break one, and Mother of Grace! Another takes its place.’” “A truce to your nonsense!” called Don Manuel, who had urged Coronela on to the crest of the long rise they had been slowly ascending. “Look! Look! Yonder is Santiago de Compostela.” All gazed in silence upon the pilgrim city, set upon a hill in a circle of hills, its many groups of towers and spires tending upward on every side toward its crowning cathedral of St. James. Don Manuel beamed upon the group of Andalusians. “Will you not be happy here?” he asked, his iron face all quivering with joy and love, while the honest Hilario wept aloud and the other three carriers, even Bastiano, did not restrain their tears. “Listen! Where there are church bells, there is everything. Even at this distance I can hear them ringing,--the five-score and fourteen holy bells of Santiago.” XX THE TREE WITH TWELVE BRANCHES