“Yes, sir,” answered he, more and more astounded at the direction the interview was taking.
At this point, the hunchback, clutching the Marquis by the sleeve, asked:
“Would you like me to play for you?”
“Yes, do.”
The hunchback brought a small, lute-shaped guitar, drew up a tabouret, and sat at the feet of the Marquis. Then he began to pluck the strings with fingers as long and delicate as spiders’ legs. He played a guitar march, and then, much to Quentin’s astonishment, the old Marquis began to sing. He sang a patriotic song in a cracked voice. It was a very old one, and ended with the following stanza:
Ay mi patria, patria mía,
y tambien de mi querida;
luchar valiente por patria y amor,
es el deber del guerrero español.
(Ah, my country, country of mine, and also of my sweetheart; to fight for country and love, is the duty of the Spanish warrior.)
When the old man had finished the song, his grand-daughters embraced him, and he smiled most contentedly.
Quentin felt as though he had been transported to another century. The shabby house, the old Marquis, the buffoon, the beautiful girls—everything seemed unusual.