"What are you doing with the castanets, Pilly?" he asked in his weak voice.
"I am going to sell them to Juan Sanchez," answered Pilar, smoothing his pillow. "Then I shall buy a little chicken and cook it for your dinner."
"No, no!" The old man tried to sit up in bed. "Do not sell the cast—"
But Pilar interrupted him. "Please, Grandfather," she said. "You must not talk. You must rest while I am gone."
She made him lie down again and he sank back wearily, closing his eyes. He was too weak to say any more, but his lips began to move.
"Castanets, with—magic—spell—" he muttered to himself.
The words were muffled. Pilar could not understand them.
She patted his hand gently and said, "Go to sleep, dear Grandfather. Do not worry. Pilar will take good care of you."
Then she sang a little song which sounded like a Moorish chant. And perhaps it was, for Spain once was ruled by the Moors, who left much of their art and music behind them when they were driven out.
Pilar's soothing voice soon lulled her grandfather to sleep. And so it was that he did not finish the verse about the castanets.