In just a few hours he had seen men walking hand in hand, women with their faces covered,
and priests that climbed to the tops of towers and chanted—as everyone about him went to their knees and placed their foreheads on the ground.
“A practice of infidels,” he said to himself. As a child in church, he had always looked at the image of Saint Santiago Matamoros on his white horse,
his sword unsheathed, and figures such as these kneeling at his feet.
The boy felt ill and terribly alone. The infidels had an evil look about them.
Besides this, in the rush of his travels he had forgotten a detail, just one detail,
which could keep him from his treasure for a long time: only Arabic was spoken in this country.
The owner of the bar approached him, and the boy pointed to a drink that had been served at the next table.
It turned out to be a bitter tea. The boy preferred wine. But he didn’t need to worry about that right now.
What he had to be concerned about was his treasure, and how he was going to go about getting it.
The sale of his sheep had left him with enough money in his pouch,
and the boy knew that in money there was magic; whoever has money is never really alone.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색