And at once the rough jests of the muleteers, diverted from Pedrillo, were brought to bear on her.
“But here is a woman with a temper hot enough to light two candles at.”
“Sourer than a green lemon.”
“Long tongues want the scissors.”
“A goose’s quill hurts more than a lion’s claw.”
And still Pedrillo stood sheepishly smiling, even when Tia Marta rounded on him and on them all with the hated copla:
“A Galician is like the mule
That he prods with his stick,
—Only duller than the mule
Because he will not kick.”
A growl went up from the benches, but Uncle Manuel interposed:
“And what wonder that her patience has lost the stirrup? Tired and hungry, and then baited like a bull by your rusty wits! Out to the courtyard with all of you and help Pedrillo curry the beasts.”
But Tia Marta dropped scalding tears of vexation into her bowl of puchero, though that delectable mixture of boiled meat, chickpeas and all manner of garden stuff, was already quite hot enough with red pepper and garlic.