The sale of the Prince Alfonso brooch brought Pilar and her grandfather enough to live on for a week. Then once more Pilar was faced with having to give up the castanets.

Juan seemed eager to have them now. He said that the great dancing master had shown much interest in them.

This dancing master was the same one who had inquired about Pilar at the fiesta that night in Triana, though Juan, of course, did not know it.

At last the fatal day arrived when Pilar could no longer delay her visit to Juan's shop. What she would do after this last sale she had no idea. Unless her grandfather's health improved so that he might work again, things looked black for both of them.

Pilar went out onto the balcony of her house. Girl-draped balconies are as natural in Spain as donkey-dotted roads and child-filled doorways.

Pilar gazed down on the street. The morning was golden. Church bells clanged, and a knife grinder was piping on an Arab reed. A broom-maker squatted on the pavement across the way.

Pilar's eyes were full of tears as she took up the castanets and went with them into her grandfather's room.

"I am going out, Grandfather," she said.

But she mentioned nothing about selling the castanets. She could not trust herself to speak. However, her grandfather saw them in her hands, and his old eyes brightened.

"Some day I shall tell you—stories—about—those—" he breathed. "Your mother—loved—them—"

"Do not talk now, Grandfather. It will tire you," said Pilar.

She wanted to be off, to have it all over with as quickly as possible. She knew that if her grandfather told her a story about the castanets, it would be even harder to part with them. Poor Pilar! If she had listened to just one of those legends, she would not have dared to sell the wooden clappers.

"Good-bye, dear Grandfather."

She kissed him and left.

As she opened the gate that led out of the small court of their house, she ran into a stout, grinning boy.

"Oh, Pepe!" cried Pilar. "When did you get back?"

All summer Pepe had been away on a journey. Now here he was home again to follow and annoy Pilar.

Pepe liked to make believe that he was a cavalier. He liked to imitate his older brothers. For in Spain a man courts his lady in a very romantic way. He stands outside her window at night, and sometimes he sings love songs to her.

This funny, stout little Pepe often met Pilar at school and walked home with her. Once he had even tried to sing under her window. But a neighbor thought it was a tomcat howling and threw a bucket of water on his head.

Today Pilar was in no mood to be followed about. Today was a bitter day in her life. For this time there was no more hope of keeping the castanets. She knew that at last she must really give them up to Juan.

She started to walk on ahead of Pepe. But he followed her.

He puffed as he jogged along behind her, calling out, "Wait for me, Pilar. I have much to tell you. I have been to far-away places. Ho! Listen, Pilar. I have been to Algeciras (al´je?-se´r?s) and to the Rock of Gibraltar."

Pilar thought Pepe himself looked like the Rock of Gibraltar. She had seen pictures of the great, solid rock. It belongs to England, and just across Gibraltar Bay is the lazy little Spanish seaport town of Algeciras.

Pilar usually liked to listen to Pepe's tales of his travels. The boy's father often took him away to places where they saw interesting and curious sights.

But today it was impossible to pay attention. She tried to get away from Pepe and walked faster and faster.

He followed doggedly, breaking into a gallop and crying out in little gasps, "Hi! But listen, Pilar."

And so eager was he to reach her that he did not notice where he was going, and all of a sudden—pff! bang! He had crashed into a man wearing what looked like a ballet skirt of tin cans. They were milk cans.

They shot in all directions. The man began to scold Pepe and to wave his arms about. A crowd gathered, and in the noise and excitement, Pilar escaped from her stout little sweetheart.

Seville's great cathedral was just across the street—a massive giant, squatting in the sun. Pilar went inside. It was cool and peaceful there. Works of art filled the vast church—paintings, fine carvings, and the stately tomb of Christopher Columbus.

Pilar knelt before the altar, where a curious ceremony takes place every year. This ceremony is called "The Dance of the Six Boys."

Pilar prayed, her eyes closed, her lips moving. And clasped to her heart were the castanets—the magic castanets, about which another legend was woven—a legend around this very Dance of the Six.

CHAPTER XI