"Grandfather," she said, "I am going to the shop of Juan (hwän) Sanchez, and I shall ask him to buy this old cape. With the money I shall buy food."
Her grandfather opened his dull eyes and looked first at the black-eyed, rosy little Pilar and then at the old red cape.
"It belonged, once long ago, to—Tony—" he began.
Then his voice trailed off. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again. He was very feeble.
Pilar kissed him gently and stole out of the house.
The narrow streets of Seville looked like thin Arabs with their arms pressed close to their white-robed sides. They were bright with sunlight. They were noisy with squawking motor horns, with chattering men and women.
Juan's shop was on the Street of the Serpents, a wriggling ribbon of a street with booths and shops and cafés—a street of ragged people, of staring people, of chanting, selling people. But no automobiles or wagons were allowed upon the Street of the Serpents.
Pilar met Juan Sanchez at the door of his tiny shop.
"Good morning, Señorita (sā´nyō-rē´-tä) Pilar," he smiled.
He was glad to see Pilar. Everyone in Spain is always glad to see children. This is a good thing, because Spain is overflowing with children.