“Has that custom died out?” asked Quentin.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t they still follow it?”
“On account of the fights they had coming back,” answered the old woman. “Boys, and men too, took to scaring the horses, and some of the riders fell off and began to fight furiously with both fists and guns.”
“You seem to know all about it,” said Rafaela to the old woman. “Have you ever been in Los Pedroches?”
“Yes; with a sweetheart of mine who carried me behind him on his horse.”
“My! What a rascal!... What a rascal!” exclaimed Rafaela.
“When we reached Malmuerta,” the old servant continued, “they frightened our horse, so my sweetheart, who had a short fowling-piece on his saddle, made as if to shoot it, and the people couldn’t get away fast enough....”
Quentin decided to go to the picnic.
“I’m going to Los Pedroches, mother,” he said to Fuensanta.