Night was already drawing in when the horn of the watchman, posted on the tower of homage, announced that the suite was approaching. They could hear the salvos and the voices of the girls and boys singing:
Los Quixadas son nombrados
De valientes y muy fieles;
Azules y plateados
Sin quenta, mas bien contados
Traen por armas jaqueles.[[1]]
The bells of St. Pedro and St. Boil and the small bell of St. Lazarus all began to ring joyfully, and the clergy hastened to the hermitage to give the cross to be kissed by the lord of the place and the patron of the church.
Luis Quijada came, riding a powerful mule, his thin tabard of taffeta soiled by the dust of the journey, and wearing a head-dress of unbleached linen on account of the heat. He was more than fifty, tall, powerful, and spare, sunburnt until he seemed sallow, with a thick black beard, his look intelligent but hard, his head bald beyond his years from the continual friction of his helmet. Bending over his saddle he kissed the cross of the parish with his head uncovered, and answered the responses in correct Latin, trying to soften his naturally rough, harsh voice; and putting his mule at a walk he rode, surrounded by the whole village, followed by the gentlemen and men-at-arms and more than twenty mules with baggage and provisions.
He got off at the gate of the castle, for on the threshold Doña Magdalena and all the household were awaiting him, in front of her Jeromín in his best clothes, holding a tray covered with a rich cloth with the keys of the castle, which he was to present to the master on bended knee when he alighted.
There was a moment of expectant curiosity; those present were breathless and silent from the lady to the lowest villein of Villagarcia. The suspicion that Jeromín was Luis Quijada's son had spread through the castle, and had rooted itself in the village as a certainty, and all wished to see the meeting of father and son, which they thought would be dramatic.