The laundry window was open. We could see Rafaela’s pretty head bent over her ironing, and catch the words she sang:
| Contrabandista es mi padre, contrabandista es mi hermano, contrabandista ha de ser aquel á quien dé mi mano. | Contrabandista is my father, Contrabandista is my brother; Contrabandista he must be To whom I give my hand. |
“The trouble with Cordova is, it is dead and not buried,” said Patsy. “It may comfort you to know it was the first town in Europe to have paved streets. I believe they never have been repaved since.” We were picking our way over the abominable pavement of the Plazuela de Seneca. A little farther on, near the Seven Corners, is a large house with carved stone façade, handsome iron gratings, and something distinguished about it that caught our attention. It stands in a deserted plaza where the grass grows between the paving stones. For five minutes we had met nobody, not even a cat or dog. We peeped into the patio. There was no living thing there except a fountain and a tame quail asleep in a cage.
“The palace of the Sleeping Beauty!” murmured Patsy. We went round behind the house to explore. The frowsy little street at the back was fragrant with a smell of new baked bread that made us hungry. Through a half-closed gate we saw a courtyard full of beggars. An inner door opened, and the lady of the silver curls whom we had first seen on Cordova Bridge came out followed by two servants carrying baskets filled with bread. The beggars formed in line and shuffled past the lady, who gave a loaf to each and received a blessing in return.
“Bread is given out at this house every Saturday,” said a little gentleman in a black stock, who was passing. “Last year, when there was a death in the family, they gave alms for nine days. The pordioseros have no better friend in all Cordova than the mistress of this house.”
As the last beggar hobbled from the court, a carriage drawn by a pair of sleek mules drove out, with two ladies and a gentleman. Just then Don Jaime came round the corner in search of us; he bowed to the ladies.
“Who are your friends?” Patsy demanded.
“The old it is Duquesa B. It is no longer young, but conserved very good, eh? Her daughter it is appelled Rafaela. Was Queen of Beauty at the Yuego Florales. To the elected poet she gave the prize, a natural rose.”
“He means that they have a Contest of Poets every year here,” said Patsy. “A theme is given out, a jury appointed, then the poems just stream in from all over the province. From what the Don says, this old dustheap of a Cordova wakes up a little at fair time. What luck that we saw the Beauty!”