“The Abbess wishes to speak with you,” whispered the Sibyl.
“How long,” asked the Abbess—her voice like a far away chime of silver bells,—“how long do you remain in Ronda?”
I said our stay was short, no one had told us how much there was to see in Ronda.
“There is but one Ronda in the world,” she said. The bells sounded nearer. The Sibyl nodded agreement. “It is the truth,” she murmured.
“You are of Ronda?” I made out to ask.
The Abbess shook her head, and answered with a splendid pride, “Soy hija di Granada” (I am a daughter of Granada), as if that were the proudest title in the world. There was more bronze than silver in the bells now.
“What is the work you do in the convent?”
“We pray for the entire world.” Her voice all silver again. Then, as an after-thought and of far less consequence:
“We have a school of needlework. Our embroidery is not unknown outside of Ronda; it has been heard of even outside of Spain.” I felt abashed that I had not heard of it.
“You will, perhaps, return to Ronda for the fair in May? Many strangers are here then. Should you come back we shall always be glad to see you at the convent.”