“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.”
Out of the applauding cluster of pilgrims a very stout but very robust old woman, her skirt well slashed so as to display her carmine petticoat, came mincing to meet him, taking up the song:
“Fell it by tempest,
Fairies or witches,
The students will raise it
For students have riches.”
An ironic laugh broke from the listeners, while the husband, flourishing legs and arms in still more amazing antics, caught up the response:
“Call on the students!
Call louder and louder!
They’ve only two coppers
To buy them a chowder.”
The old dame flirted her canary-colored skirts and skipped as nimbly as he, replying in her rough but rich contralto:
“Chowder of students
Is sweeter than honey,
But the gay Andalusians
Have plenty of money.”