Quentin did not go to school, so he knew nothing. He played about the streets in rags with rowdies and toughs. One day, when El Pende saw him with some gipsies, he seized him, carried him home, and said to his mother:
“We’ve got to do something about this child.”
“Yes, we must do something,” she agreed.
“Why don’t you ask the master if he knows of a cheap school?”
Fuensanta spoke to the silversmith, who listened to her attentively.
“Do you know what we’ll do?” said Don Andrés.
“What?”
“We’ll find out who his father’s family are. How long ago was he killed?”
“Seven years.”
“Good. Then I’ll find out.”