“Who’s there?”
“People of peace.”
Encarnacion opened the door of the bell tower just a crack. Though the sun had not set, it was already dark inside the watch-tower of the Alhambra. The walls are six feet thick; the windows, narrow slits on the winding stair, let in very little light. Encarnacion carried a classic brass lamp for olive oil. She shaded the flame from her eyes with a long, hairy hand, and the light shining through showed how thin it was. Maria, the younger sister, as grim looking, though more timid in her bearing, stood behind, peering over Encarnacion’s shoulder.
“It is the young caballero and his friends,” she whispered. Encarnacion threw the door wide open, the two sisters smiled hospitably upon us like a pair of kind ogresses.
“But come in.”
“Come in.”
They echoed each other as if they were singing a perpetual duet.
“They are welcome.”
“Welcome.”
“Will they be pleased to enter?”