But no—what he saw was the orange trees on the Victoria, laden with golden fruit glistening with raindrops.
“I’m beginning to be convinced that I am in Cordova,” murmured Quentin, and he entered the Paseo del Gran Capitán, followed the Calle de Gondomar as far as Las Tendillas, whence, as easily as if he had passed through the streets but yesterday, he reached his house. He scarcely recognized it at first glance: the store no longer occupied two windows as before, but the whole front of the house. The doors were covered with zinc plates: only one of them having a window through which the interior could be seen full of sacks piled in rows.
Quentin mounted to the main floor and knocked several times: the door was opened to him, and he entered.
“Here I am!” he shouted, as he traversed a dark corridor. A door was heard to open, and the boy felt himself hugged and kissed again and again.
“Quentin!”
“Mother! But I can’t see you in all this darkness.”
“Come”—and his mother, with her arms about him, led him into a room. Bringing him to the light of a balcony window, she exclaimed: “How tall you are, my son! How tall, and how strong!”
“I’ve become a regular barbarian.”
His mother embraced him again.
“Have you been well? But you will soon tell us all about it. Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?—A cup of chocolate?”