Juanita: Oh, I am so weary! The sun’s so hot. My head seems as if to-day it could not hold Creeds and such matters. Prithee, Sister Pilar, will you not read to us?
Pepita: Yes! Yes! From the Chronicle of Saint Ferdinand.
Sister Pilar: Oh, children, you have been at your tasks scarce quarter of an hour.
Children: Prithee, dear Sister Pilar! We were both bled this morning.
Sister Pilar: I fear I am a fond and foolish master. Well, so be it. (She opens a large folio.) Let me see....
Pepita: ’Twas at the fall of Seville that you left off yesterday.
Juanito: Yes, and that old Moor had yielded up the keys.
Sister Pilar: This is the place. “Now one of the keys was of so pure a silver that it seemed to be white, and in places it was gilded, and it was of a very notable and exquisite workmanship. In length it was the third of a cubit. Its stem was hollow and delicately turned, and it ended in a ball inlaid with divers metals. Round its guards in curious characters was engraved: God will open, the King will enter. The circle of its ring contained an engraved plaque like to a medal, embossed with flowers and leaves. And in the centre of the hole was a little plaque threaded with a delicately twisted cord, and the ring was joined to the stem by a cube of gold on the four sides of which were embossed alternately lions and castles. And on the edge of its bulk, between delicately inlaid arabesques, there was written, in Hebrew words and Hebrew characters, the same motto as that on the guards, which is in Latin—‘Rex Regium aperiet: Rex universæ terræ introibit’—the King of Kings will open, the King of all the earth will enter. Some say the key and the whole incident is a symbol of the Host being lain in the custodia.”
Juanito: Oooh! It must have been a rare fine key. When I’m a man, may I have such a key?