CHAPTER VIII.

Arrived at the gate of Elvas, an officer came out of a kind of guard-house, and, having asked me some questions, despatched a soldier with me to the police-office, that my passport might be visé, as upon the frontier they are much more particular with respect to passports than in other parts.  This matter having been settled, I entered an hostelry near the same gate, which had been recommended to me by my host at Vendas Novas, and which was kept by a person of the name of Jozé Rosado.  It was the best in the town, though, for convenience and accommodation, inferior to a hedge alehouse in England.  The cold still pursued me, and I was glad to take refuge in an inner kitchen, which, when the door was not open, was only lighted by a fire burning somewhat dimly on the hearth.  An elderly female sat beside it in her chair, telling her beads: there was something singular and extraordinary in her look, as well as I could discern by the imperfect light of the apartment.  I put a few unimportant questions to her, to which she replied, but seemed to be afflicted to a slight degree with deafness.  Her hair was becoming grey, and I said that I believed she was older than myself, but that I was confident she had less snow on her head.

As the night advanced, several persons entered for the purpose of enjoying the comfort of the fire, and for the sake of conversation, for the house was a kind of news-room, where the principal speaker was the host, a man of some shrewdness and experience, who had served as a soldier in the British army.  Amongst others was the officer who commanded at the gate.  After a few observations, this gentleman, who was a good-looking young man of five and twenty, began to burst forth in violent declamation against the English nation and government, who, he said, had at all times proved themselves selfish and deceitful, but that their present conduct in respect to Spain was particularly infamous, for though it was in their power to put an end to the war at once, by sending a large army thither, they preferred sending a handful of troops, in order that the war might be prolonged, for no other reason than that it was of advantage to them.  Having paid him an ironical compliment for his politeness and urbanity, I asked whether he reckoned amongst the selfish actions of the English government and nation, their having expended hundreds of millions of pounds sterling, and an ocean of precious blood, in fighting the battles of Spain and Portugal against Napoleon.  “Surely,” said I, “the fort of Elvas above our heads, and still more the castle of Badajoz [96] over the water, speak volumes respecting English selfishness, and must, every time you view them, confirm you in the opinion which you have just expressed.  And then, with respect to the present combat in Spain, the gratitude which that country evinced to England after the French, by means of English armies, had been expelled,—gratitude evinced by discouraging the trade of England on all occasions, and by offering up masses in thanksgiving when the English heretics quitted the Spanish shores, ought now to induce England to exhaust and ruin herself, for the sake of hunting Don Carlos out of his mountains.  In deference to your superior judgment,” continued I to the officer, “I will endeavour to believe that it would be for the advantage of England were the war prolonged for an indefinite period; nevertheless, you would do me a particular favour by explaining by what process in chemistry blood shed in Spain will find its way into the English treasury in the shape of gold.”

This answer of mine, I confess, was not that of a Christian, and proved to me how much of the leaven of the ancient man still pervaded me; yet I must be permitted to add that I believe no other provocation would have elicited from me a reply so full of angry feeling: but I could not command myself when I heard my own glorious land traduced in this unmerited manner.  By whom?  A Portuguese!  A native of a country which has been twice liberated from horrid and detestable thraldom by the hands of Englishmen.  But for Wellington and his heroes, Portugal would have been French at this day; but for Napier and his marines, Miguel would now be lording it in Lisbon.  To return, however, to the officer: every one laughed at him, and he presently went away.

The next day I became acquainted with a respectable tradesman, of the name of Almeida, a man of talent, though rather rough in his manners.  He expressed great abhorrence of the papal system, which had so long spread a darkness, like that of death, over his unfortunate country; and I had no sooner informed him that I had brought with me a certain quantity of Testaments, which it was my intention to leave for sale at Elvas, than he expressed a great desire to undertake the charge, and said that he would do the utmost in his power to procure a sale for them amongst his numerous customers.  Upon showing him a copy, I remarked, “Your name is upon the title-page;” the Portuguese version of the Holy Scriptures, [98] circulated by the Bible Society, having been executed by a Protestant, of the name of Almeida, and first published in the year 1712; whereupon he smiled, and observed that he esteemed it an honour to be connected in name at least with such a man.  He scoffed at the idea of receiving any remuneration, and assured me that the feeling of being permitted to co-operate in so holy and useful a cause as the circulation of the Scriptures was quite a sufficient reward.

This is one of the beneficial results of protecting a nation, and squandering blood and treasure in its defence.  The English, who have never been at war with Portugal, who have fought for its independence on land and sea, and always with success, who have forced themselves, by a treaty of commerce, [99] to drink its coarse and filthy wines, which no other nation cares to taste, are the most unpopular people who visit Portugal.  The French have ravaged the country with fire and sword, and shed the blood of its sons like water; the French buy not its fruits, and loathe its wines, yet there is no bad spirit in Portugal towards the French.  The reason of this is no mystery; it is the nature not of the Portuguese only, but of corrupt and unregenerate man, to dislike his benefactors, who, by conferring benefits upon him, mortify in the most generous manner his miserable vanity.

There is no country in which the English are so popular as in France; [100] but, though the French have been frequently roughly handled by the English, and have seen their capital occupied by an English army, they have never been subjected to the supposed ignominy of receiving assistance from them.

The fortifications of Elvas are models of their kind, and, at the first view, it would seem that the town, if well garrisoned, might bid defiance to any hostile power; but it has its weak point: the western side is commanded by a hill, at the distance of half a mile, from which an experienced general would cannonade it, and probably with success.  It is the last town in this part of Portugal, the distance to the Spanish frontier being barely two leagues.  It was evidently built as a rival to Badajoz, upon which it looks down from its height across a sandy plain and over the sullen waters of the Guadiana; but, though a strong town, it can scarcely be called a defence to the frontier, which is open on all sides, so that there would not be the slightest necessity for an invading army to approach within a dozen leagues of its walls, should it be disposed to avoid them.  Its fortifications are so extensive that ten thousand men at least would be required to man them, who, in the event of an invasion, might be far better employed in meeting the enemy in the open field.  The French, during their occupation of Portugal, kept a small force in this place, who, at the approach of the British, retreated to the fort, where they shortly after capitulated.

In little more than half an hour we arrived at a brook, whose waters ran vigorously between steep banks.  A man who was standing on the side directed me to the ford in the squeaking dialect of Portugal; but whilst I was yet splashing through the water, a voice from the other bank hailed me, in the magnificent language of Spain, in this guise: “O! Señor Caballero, que me dé usted una limosna por amor de Dios, una limosnita para que yo me compre un traguillo de vino tinto.” [102a]  In a moment I was on Spanish ground, as the brook, which is called Acaia, is the boundary here of the two kingdoms, and, having flung the beggar a small piece of silver, I cried in ecstasy, “Santiago y cierra España!” [102b] and scoured on my way with more speed than before, paying, as Gil Blas says, little heed to the torrent of blessings which the mendicant poured forth in my rear: [102c] yet never was charity more unwisely bestowed, for I was subsequently informed that the fellow was a confirmed drunkard, who took his station every morning at the ford, where he remained the whole day for the purpose of extorting money from the passengers, which he regularly spent every night in the wine-shops of Badajoz.  To those who gave him money he returned blessings, and to those who refused, curses; being equally skilled and fluent in the use of either.

Badajoz was now in view, at the distance of little more than half a league.  We soon took a turn to the left, towards a bridge of many arches across the Guadiana, which, though so famed in song and ballad, is a very unpicturesque stream, shallow and sluggish, though tolerably wide; its banks were white with linen which the washerwomen had spread out to dry in the sun, which was shining brightly; I heard their singing at a great distance, and the theme seemed to be the praises of the river where they were toiling, for as I approached I could distinguish “Guadiana, Guadiana,” which reverberated far and wide, pronounced by the clear and strong voices in chorus of many a dark-cheeked maid and matron.  I thought there was some analogy between their employment and my own: I was about to tan my northern complexion by exposing myself to the hot sun of Spain, in the humble hope of being able to cleanse some of the foul stains of Popery from the minds of its children, with whom I had little acquaintance; whilst they were bronzing themselves on the banks of the river in order to make white the garments of strangers.  The words of an Eastern poet returned forcibly to my mind—

Having crossed the bridge, [103a] we arrived at the northern gate, when out rushed from a species of sentry-box a fellow wearing on his head a high-peaked Andalusian hat, with his figure wrapped up in one of these immense cloaks [103b] so well known to those who have travelled in Spain, and which none but a Spaniard can wear in a becoming manner.  Without saying a word, he laid hold of the halter of the mule, and began to lead it through the gate up a dirty street, crowded with long-cloaked people like himself.  I asked him what he meant, but he deigned not to return an answer; the boy, however, who waited upon me, said that it was one of the gate-keepers, and that he was conducting us to the custom-house or Alfandega, where the baggage would be examined.  Having arrived there, the fellow, who still maintained a dogged silence, began to pull the trunks off the sumpter-mule, and commenced uncording them.  I was about to give him a severe reproof for his brutality; but before I could open my mouth a stout elderly personage appeared at the door, who I soon found was the principal officer.  He looked at me for a moment, and then asked me, in the English language, if I was an Englishman.  On my replying in the affirmative, he demanded of the fellow how he dared to have the insolence to touch the baggage without orders, and sternly bade him cord up the trunks again and place them on the mule, which he performed without uttering a word.  The gentleman then asked what the trunks contained: I answered clothes and linen; when he begged pardon for the insolence of the subordinate, and informed me that I was at liberty to proceed where I thought proper.  I thanked him for his exceeding politeness; and, under guidance of the boy, made the best of my way to the Inn of the Three Nations, [104] to which I had been recommended at Elvas.

CHAPTER IX.

It was at this town of Badajoz, the capital of Estremadura, that I first fell in with those singular people, the Zincali, Gitanos, or Spanish gypsies.  It was here I met with the wild Paco, [105a] the man with the withered arm, who wielded the cachas [105b] with his left hand; his shrewd wife, Antonia, skilled in hokkano baro, or the great trick [106a]; the fierce gypsy, Antonio Lopez, their father-in-law; and many other almost equally singular individuals of the Errate, or gypsy blood.  It was here that I first preached the gospel to the gypsy people, and commenced that translation of the New Testament in the Spanish gypsy tongue, a portion of which I subsequently printed at Madrid.

After a stay of three weeks at Badajoz, I prepared to depart for Madrid: late one afternoon, as I was arranging my scanty baggage, the gypsy Antonio entered my apartment, dressed in his zamarra and high-peaked Andalusian hat.

Antonio.—Good evening, brother; they tell me that on the callicaste you intend to set out for Madrilati.

Myself.—Such is my intention; I can stay here no longer.

Antonio.—The way is far to Madrilati, there are, moreover, wars in the land, and many chories walk about; are you not afraid to journey?

Myself.—I have no fears; every man must accomplish his destiny: what befalls my body or soul was written in a gabicote a thousand years before the foundation of the world.

Antonio.—I have no fears myself, brother; the dark night is the same to me as the fair day, and the wild carrascal as the market-place or the chardí; I have got the bar lachí in my bosom, the precious stone to which sticks the needle. [106b]

Myself.—You mean the loadstone, I suppose.  Do you believe that a lifeless stone can preserve you from the dangers which occasionally threaten your life?

Antonio.—Brother, I am fifty years old, and you see me standing before you in life and strength; how could that be unless the bar lachí had power?  I have been soldier and contrabandista, and I have likewise slain and robbed the Busné.  The bullets of the Gabiné and of the jara canallis have hissed about my ears without injuring me, for I carried the bar lachí.  I have twenty times done that which by Busné law should have brought me to the filimicha, yet my neck has never yet been squeezed by the cold garrote.  Brother, I trust in the bar lachí, like the Caloré of old: were I in the midst of the gulph of Bombardó without a plank to float upon, I should feel no fear; for if I carried the precious stone, it would bring me safe to shore.  The bar lachí has power, brother.

Antonio.—All last night I lay awake, thinking of the affairs of Egypt; and when I arose in the morning I took the bar lachí from my bosom, and scraping it with a knife, swallowed some of the dust in aguardiente, as I am in the habit of doing when I have made up my mind; and I said to myself, I am wanted on the frontiers of Castumba on a certain matter.  The strange Caloró is about to proceed to Madrilati; the journey is long, and he may fall into evil hands, peradventure into those of his own blood; for let me tell you, brother, the Calés are leaving their towns and villages, and forming themselves into troops to plunder the Busné, for there is now but little law in the land, and now or never is the time for the Caloré to become once more what they were in former times.  So I said, the strange Caloró may fall into the hands of his own blood and be ill-treated by them, which were shame: I will therefore go with him through the Chim del Manró as far as the frontiers of Castumba, and upon the frontiers of Castumba I will leave the London Caloró to find his own way to Madrilati, for there is less danger in Castumba than in the Chim del Manró, and I will then betake me to the affairs of Egypt which call me from hence.

Antonio.—I will tell you, brother.  I have a gras in the stall, even the one which I purchased at Olivenças, as I told you on a former occasion; [108] it is good and fleet, and cost me, who am a gypsy, fifty chulé; upon that gras you shall ride.  As for myself, I will journey upon the macho.

Myself.—Before I answer you, I shall wish you to inform me what business it is which renders your presence necessary in Castumba; your son-in-law, Paco, told me that it was no longer the custom of the gypsies to wander.

Antonio.—It is an affair of Egypt, brother, and I shall not acquaint you with it; peradventure it relates to a horse or an ass, or peradventure it relates to a mule or a macho; it does not relate to yourself, therefore I advise you not to inquire about it—Dosta.  With respect to my offer, you are free to decline it; there is a drungruje between here and Madrilati, and you can travel it in the birdoche, or with the dromális; but I tell you, as a brother, that there are chories upon the drun, and some of them are of the Errate.

During my stay at Badajoz I had but little intercourse with the Spaniards, my time being chiefly devoted to the gypsies, with whom, from long intercourse with various sections of their race in different parts of the world, I felt myself much more at home than with the silent, reserved men of Spain, with whom a foreigner might mingle for half a century without having half a dozen words addressed to him, unless he himself made the first advances to intimacy, which, after all, might be rejected with a shrug and a no entiendo; [110] for among the many deeply-rooted prejudices of these people is the strange idea that no foreigner can speak their language, an idea to which they will still cling though they hear him conversing with perfect ease; for in that case the utmost that they will concede to his attainments is, Habla quatro palabras y nada mas (he can speak four words, and no more).

Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house of Antonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street.  The morning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially illumined by a heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men were busily engaged, apparently holding an object over the flames.  Presently the gypsy’s door opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and, casting his eye in the direction of the light, exclaimed, “The swine have killed their brother; would that every Busnó was served as yonder hog is.  Come in, brother, and we will eat the heart of that hog.”  I scarcely understood his words, but following him, he led me into a low room, in which was a brasero, or small pan full of lighted charcoal; beside it was a rude table, spread with a coarse linen cloth, upon which was bread and a large pipkin full of a mess which emitted no disagreeable savour.  “The heart of the balichó is in that puchera,” said Antonio; “eat, brother.”  We both sat down and ate—Antonio voraciously.  When we had concluded he arose:—“Have you got your li?” he demanded.  “Here it is,” said I, showing him my passport.  “Good,” said he; “you may want it.  I want none; my passport is the bar lachí.  Now for a glass of repañi, and then for the road.”

“He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manró, brother,” said Antonio; “at the gallop, and at the speedy trot, there is no one to match him.  But he is eighteen years old, and his joints are stiff, especially of a morning; but let him once become heated, and the genio del viejo [112] comes upon him, and there is no holding him in with bit or bridle.  I bought that horse for the affairs of Egypt, brother.”

About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighbourhood of a high lumpy hill.  “There is no Caló house in this place,” said Antonio; “we will therefore go to the posada of the Busné and refresh ourselves, man and beast.”  We entered the kitchen, and sat down at the board, calling for wine and bread.  There were two ill-looking fellows in the kitchen, smoking cigars.  I said something to Antonio in the Caló language.

“What is that I hear?” said one of the fellows, who was distinguished by an immense pair of moustaches.  “What is that I hear?  Is it in Caló that you are speaking before me, and I a chalan and national?  Accursed gypsy, how dare you enter this posada and speak before me in that speech?  Is it not forbidden by the law of the land in which we are, even as it is forbidden for a gypsy to enter the mercado?  I tell you what, friend, if I hear another word of Caló come from your mouth, I will cudgel your bones and send you flying over the house-tops with a kick of my foot.”

“You would do right,” said his companion; “the insolence of these gypsies is no longer to be borne.  When I am at Merida or Badajoz I go to the mercado, and there in a corner stand the accursed gypsies, jabbering to each other in a speech which I understand not.  ‘Gypsy gentleman,’ say I to one of them, ‘what will you have for that donkey?’  ‘I will have ten dollars for it, Caballero nacional,’ says the gypsy; ‘it is the best donkey in all Spain.’  ‘I should like to see its paces,’ say I.  ‘That you shall, most valorous!’ says the gypsy, and jumping upon its back, he puts it to its paces, first of all whispering something into its ear in Caló, and truly the paces of the donkey are most wonderful, such as I have never seen before.  ‘I think it will just suit me;’ and, after looking at it awhile, I take out the money and pay for it.  ‘I shall go to my house,’ says the gypsy; and off he runs.  ‘I shall go to my village,’ say I, and I mount the donkey.  ‘Vamonos,’ say I, but the donkey won’t move.  I give him a switch, but I don’t get on the better for that.  ‘How is this?’ say I, and I fall to spurring him.  What happens then, brother?  The wizard no sooner feels the prick than he bucks down, and flings me over his head into the mire.  I get up and look about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, and there stand the whole gypsy canaille squinting at me with their filmy eyes.  ‘Where is the scamp who has sold me this piece of furniture?’ I shout.  ‘He is gone to Granada, valorous,’ says one.  ‘He is gone to see his kindred among the Moors,’ says another.  ‘I just saw him running over the field, in the direction of ---, with the devil close behind him,’ says a third.  In a word I am tricked.  I wish to dispose of the donkey; no one, however, will buy him; he is a Caló donkey, and every person avoids him.  At last the gypsies offer thirty reals for him; and after much chaffering I am glad to get rid of him at two dollars.  It is all a trick, however; he returns to his master, and the brotherhood share the spoil amongst them, all which villany would be prevented, in my opinion, were the Caló language not spoken; for what but the word of Caló could have induced the donkey to behave in such an unaccountable manner?”

“May evil glanders seize their nostrils,” said Antonio; “they have been jonjabadoed [114a] by our people.  However, brother, you did wrong to speak to me in Caló, in a posada like this; it is a forbidden language; for, as I have often told you, the king has destroyed the law of the Calés. [114b]  Let us away, brother, or those juntunes may set the justicia upon us.”

Towards evening we drew near to a large town or village.  “That is Merida,” said Antonio, “formerly, as the Busné say, a mighty city of the Corahai.  We shall stay here to-night, and perhaps for a day or two, for I have some business of Egypt to transact in this place.  Now, brother, step aside with the horse, and wait for me beneath yonder wall.  I must go before and see in what condition matters stand.”

I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath the ruined wall to which Antonio had motioned me.  The sun went down, and the air was exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an old tattered gypsy cloak with which my companion had provided me, and, being somewhat fatigued, fell into a doze which lasted for nearly an hour.

“Curelando, curelando; baribustres curelós terela,” [115] said the crone.  “Come with me, Caloró of my garlochin, come with me to my little ker; he will be there anon.”

I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was ruinous and seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from which she turned into a narrow and dark lane, and presently opened the gate of a large dilapidated house.  “Come in,” said she.

“And the gras?” I demanded.

“Bring the gras in too, my chabó, bring the gras in too; there is room for the gras in my little stable.”  We entered a large court, across which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway.  “Go in, my child of Egypt,” said the hag—“go in; that is my little stable.”

“The place is as dark as pitch,” said I, “and may be a well for what I know: bring a light, or I will not enter.”

“Give me the solabarri,” said the hag, “and I will lead your horse in, my chabó of Egypt—yes, and tether him to my little manger.”  She led the horse through the doorway, and I heard her busy in the darkness; presently the horse shook himself: “Grasti terelamos,” [116] said the hag, who now made her appearance with the bridle in her hand; “the horse has shaken himself, he is not harmed by his day’s journey; now let us go in, my Caloró, into my little room.”

We entered the house, and found ourselves in a vast room, which would have been quite dark but for a faint glow which appeared at the farther end: it proceeded from a brasero, beside which were squatted two dusky figures.

“These are Callees,” said the hag; “one is my daughter, and the other is her chabí.  Sit down, my London Caloró, and let us hear you speak.”

I looked about for a chair, but could see none; at a short distance, however, I perceived the end of a broken pillar lying on the floor; this I rolled to the brasero, and sat down upon it.

“This is a fine house, mother of the gypsies,” said I to the hag, willing to gratify the desire she had expressed of hearing me speak; “a fine house is this of yours, rather cold and damp, though; it appears large enough to be a barrack for hundunares.”

“Plenty of houses in this foros, plenty of houses in Merida, my London Caloró, some of them just as they were left by the Corahanós.  Ah! a fine people are the Corahanós; I often wish myself in their chim once more.”

“How is this, mother?” said I; “have you been in the land of the Moors?”

“Twice have I been in their country, my Caloró—twice have I been in the land of the Corahai.  The first time is more than fifty years ago; I was then with the Sesé, for my husband was a soldier of the Crallis of Spain, and Oran at that time belonged to Spain.”

“I have been with the real Moors, my London Caloró.  Who knows more of the real Moors than myself?  About forty years ago I was with my ro in Ceuta, for he was still a soldier of the king, and he said to me one day, ‘I am tired of this place, where there is no bread and less water; I will escape and turn Corahanó; this night I will kill my sergeant, and flee to the camp of the Moor.’  ‘Do so,’ said I, ‘my chabó, and as soon as may be I will follow you and become a Corahaní.’  That same night he killed his sergeant, who five years before had called him Caló and cursed him; then running to the wall he dropped from it, and, amidst many shots, he escaped to the land of the Corahai.  As for myself, I remained in the presidio of Ceuta as a suttler, selling wine and repañi to the soldiers.  Two years passed by, and I neither saw nor heard from my ro.  One day there came a strange man to my cachimani; he was dressed like a Corahanó, and yet he did not look like one; he looked more like a callardó, and yet he was not a callardó either, though he was almost black; and as I looked upon him, I thought he looked something like the Errate; and he said to me, ‘Zincali; chachipé!’ and then he whispered to me in queer language, which I could scarcely understand, ‘Your ro is waiting; come with me, my little sister, and I will take you unto him.’  ‘Where is he?’ said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of the Corahai, and said, ‘He is yonder away; come with me, little sister, the ro is waiting.’  For a moment I was afraid, but I bethought me of my husband, and I wished to be amongst the Corahai; so I took the little parné I had, and, locking up the cachimani, went with the strange man.  The sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him repañi, and he let us pass; in a moment we were in the land of the Corahai.  About a league from the town, beneath a hill, we found four people, men and women, all very black like the strange man, and we joined ourselves with them, and they all saluted me and called me little sister.  That was all I understood of their discourse, which was very crabbed; and they took away my dress, and gave me other clothes, and I looked like a Corahaní, and away we marched for many days amidst deserts and small villages, and more than once it seemed to me that I was amongst the Errate, for their ways were the same.  The men would hokkawar with mules and asses, and the women told baji, [118] and after many days we came before a large town, and the black man said, ‘Go in there, little sister, and there you will find your ro;’ and I went to the gate, and an armed Corahanó stood within the gate, and I looked in his face, and lo! it was my ro.

“Oh, what a strange town it was that I found myself in, full of people who had once been Candoré but had renegaded and become Corahai!  There were Sesé and Laloré, and men of other nations, and amongst them were some of the Errate from my own country; all were now soldiers of the Crallis of the Corahai, and followed him to his wars; and in that town I remained with my ro a long time, occasionally going out with him to the wars, and I often asked him about the black men who had brought me thither, and he told me that he had had dealings with them, and that he believed them to be of the Errate.  Well, brother, to be short, my ro was killed in the wars, before a town to which the king of the Corahai laid siege, and I became a piulí, and I returned to the village of the renegades, as it was called, and supported myself as well as I could; and one day, as I was sitting weeping, the black man, whom I had never seen since the day he brought me to my ro, again stood before me, and he said, ‘Come with me, little sister, come with me, the ro is at hand,’ and I went with him, and beyond the gate in the desert was the same party of black men and women which I had seen before.  ‘Where is my ro?’ said I.  ‘Here he is, little sister,’ said the black man, ‘here he is; from this day I am the ro and you the romi.  Come, let us go, for there is business to be done.’

“Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had three chai by the black man; two of them died, but the youngest, who is the Callí who sits by the brasero, was spared.  So we roamed about and choried and told baji; and it came to pass that once in the winter time our company attempted to pass a wide and deep river, of which there are many in the Chim del Corahai, and the boat overset with the rapidity of the current, and all our people were drowned, all but myself and my chabí, whom I bore in my bosom.  I had now no friends amongst the Corahai, and I wandered about the despoblados howling and lamenting till I became half lilí, and in this manner I found my way to the coast, where I made friends with the captain of a ship, and returned to this land of Spain.  And now I am here, I often wish myself back again amongst the Corahai.”

“No tenga usted cuidao, [120] my London Caloró,” said the gypsy mother, in an unearthly tone; “Pepindorio has been here some time.”

I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I heard the voice of Antonio.

“Be not afraid; ’tis I, brother.  We will have a light anon, and then supper.”

CHAPTER X.

“All the appearance of one!” said Antonio; “and is she not really one?  She knows more crabbed things and crabbed words than all the Errate betwixt here and Catalonia.  She has been amongst the wild Moors, and can make more draos, [122] poisons, and philtres than any one alive.  She once made a kind of paste, and persuaded me to taste, and shortly after I had done so my soul departed from my body, and wandered through horrid forests and mountains, amidst monsters and duendes, during one entire night.  She learned many things amidst the Corahai which I should be glad to know.”

Myself.—Wherefore do you ask, O Dai de los Calés? [123a]

Gypsy Mother.—It is high time that the lacha [123b] of the chabi were taken from her, and that she had a ro.  You can do no better than take her for romí, my London Caloró.

Myself.—I am a stranger in this land, O mother of the gypsies, and scarcely know how to provide for myself, much less for a romí.

Gypsy Mother.—She wants no one to provide for her, my London Caloró; she can at any time provide for herself and her ro.  She can hokkawar, tell baji, and there are few to equal her at stealing á pastesas. [124]  Were she once at Madrilati, where they tell me you are going, she would make much treasure; therefore take her thither, for in this foros she is nahi, as it were, for there is nothing to be gained; but in the foros baro it would be another matter; she would go dressed in lachipé and sonacai, whilst you would ride about on your black-tailed gra; and when you had got much treasure, you might return hither and live like a Crallis, and all the Errate of the Chim del Manró should bow down their heads to you.  What say you, my London Caloró, what say you to my plan?

Myself.—Your plan is a plausible one, mother, or at least some people would think so; but I am, as you are aware, of another chim, and have no inclination to pass my life in this country.

Gypsy Mother.—Then return to your own country, my Caloró, the chabí can cross the pañí.  Would she not do business in London with the rest of the Caloré?  Or why not go to the land of the Corahai?  In which case I would accompany you; I and my daughter, the mother of the chabí.

Myself.—And what should we do in the land of the Corahai?  It is a poor and wild country, I believe.

Gypsy Mother.—The London Caloró asks me what we could do in the land of the Corahai!  Aromali! I almost think that I am speaking to a lilipendi.  Are there not horses to chore?  Yes, I trow there are, and better ones than in this land, and asses and mules.  In the land of the Corahai you must hokkawar and chore even as you must here, or in your own country, or else you are no Caloró.  Can you not join yourselves with the black people who live in the despoblados?  Yes, surely; and glad they would be to have among them the Errate from Spain and London.  I am seventy years of age, but I wish not to die in this chim, but yonder, far away, where both my roms are sleeping.  Take the chabí, therefore, and go to Madrilati to win the parné, and when you have got it, return, and we will give a banquet to all the Busné in Merida, and in their food I will mix drao, and they shall eat and burst like poisoned sheep. . . .  And when they have eaten we will leave them, and away to the land of the Moor, my London Caloró.

There was occasionally something very wild in her gestures and demeanour; more than once I observed her, in the midst of much declamation, to stop short, stare in vacancy, and thrust out her palms as if endeavouring to push away some invisible substance; she goggled frightfully with her eyes, and once sank back in convulsions, of which her children took no farther notice than observing that she was only lilí, and would soon come to herself.

“No le penela chi, min chaboró,” said the black Callee to me, in an undertone; “sin un balichó de los chineles;” [126] then looking up to the interrogator, she said aloud, “He is one of our people from Portugal, come on the smuggling lay, and to see his poor sisters here.”

“Then let him give me some tobacco,” said the fellow; “I suppose he has brought some with him.”

“He has no tobacco,” said the black Callee; “he has nothing but old iron.  This cigar is the only tobacco there is in the house; take it, smoke it, and go away!”

Thereupon she produced a cigar from out her shoe, which she presented to the alguazil.

“This will not do,” said the fellow, taking the cigar; “I must have something better.  It is now three months since I received anything from you.  The last present was a handkerchief, which was good for nothing; therefore hand me over something worth taking, or I will carry you all to the Carcel.”

The three females arose and walked slowly round the fellow, fixing their eyes steadfastly on his face; he appeared frightened, and evidently wished to get away.  Suddenly the two youngest seized his hands, and whilst he struggled to release himself, the old woman exclaimed, “You want tobacco, hijo—you come to the gypsy house to frighten the Callees and the strange Caloró out of their plako—truly, hijo, we have none for you, and right sorry I am; we have, however, plenty of the dust á su servicio.” [127]

Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow’s eyes; he stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Callees.  He extricated himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he bore at his girdle; but the two younger females flung themselves upon him like furies, while the old woman increased his disorder by thrusting her stick into his face; he was soon glad to give up the contest, and retreated, leaving behind him his hat and cloak, which the chabí gathered up and flung after him into the street.

“This is a bad business,” said I; “the fellow will of course bring the rest of the justicia upon us, and we shall all be cast into the estaripel.”

When the sun arose, which it did gloomily, and amidst threatening rain-clouds, we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of a range of mountains which lay on our left, and which, Antonio informed me, were called the Sierra of San Selvan.  Our route, however, lay over wide plains, scantily clothed with brushwood, with here and there a melancholy village, with its old and dilapidated church.  Throughout the greater part of the day, a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and mire, considerably impeding our progress.  Towards evening we reached a moor, a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones and rocks.  Before us, at some distance, rose a strange conical hill, rough and shaggy, which appeared to be neither more nor less than an immense assemblage of the same kind of rocks which lay upon the moor.  The rain had now ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs.  Throughout the journey, I had experienced considerable difficulty in keeping up with the mule of Antonio; the walk of the horse was slow, and I could discover no vestige of the spirit which the gypsy had assured me lurked within him.  We were now upon a tolerably clear spot of the moor: “I am about to see,” I said, “whether this horse has any of the quality which you have described.”  “Do so,” said Antonio, and spurred his beast onward, speedily leaving me far behind.  I jerked the horse with the bit, endeavouring to arouse his dormant spirit, whereupon he stopped, reared, and refused to proceed.  “Hold the bridle loose, and touch him with your whip,” shouted Antonio from before.  I obeyed, and forthwith the animal set off at a trot, which gradually increased in swiftness till it became a downright furious speedy trot; his limbs were now thoroughly lithy, and he brandished his fore-legs in a manner perfectly wondrous.  The mule of Antonio, which was a spirited animal of excellent paces, would fain have competed with him, but was passed in a twinkling.  This tremendous trot endured for about a mile, when the animal, becoming yet more heated, broke suddenly into a gallop.  Hurrah! no hare ever ran so wildly or blindly; it was, literally, ventre à terre; and I had considerable difficulty in keeping him clear of rocks, against which he would have rushed in his savage fury, and dashed himself and rider to atoms.

This race brought me to the foot of the hill, where I waited till the gypsy rejoined me.  We left the hill, which seemed quite inaccessible, on our right, passing through a small and wretched village.  The sun went down, and dark night presently came upon us; we proceeded on, however, for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the distance.  “That is Trujillo,” said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time.  “I am glad of it,” I replied; “I am thoroughly tired; I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo.”  “That is as it may be,” said the gypsy, and spurred his mule to a brisker pace.  We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough; I followed close behind the gypsy, who led the way I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places, where cats were squalling.  “Here is the house,” said he at last, dismounting before a low mean hut.  He knocked—no answer was returned; he knocked again, but still there was no reply; he shook the door and essayed to open it, but it appeared firmly locked and bolted.  “Caramba!” said he; “they are out—I feared it might be so.  Now, what are we to do?”

I confess I did not much like this decision of the gypsy; I felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind, and to venture into unknown places in the dark night, amidst rain and mist, for the wind had now dropped, and the rain began again to fall briskly.  I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep, lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender.  I had, however, put myself under the direction of the gypsy, and I was too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under the present circumstances.  I therefore followed close at his crupper, our only light being the glow emitted from the gypsy’s cigar; at last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness.

We wandered at least a league farther, and appeared now to be near a wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of immense trees.  Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule.  “Look, brother,” said he, “to the left, and tell me if you do not see a light; your eyes are sharper than mine.”  I did as he commanded me.  At first I could see nothing, but, moving a little farther on, I plainly saw a large light at some distance, seemingly amongst the trees.  “Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle,” said I; “it is more like the blaze of a fire.”  “Very likely,” said Antonio.  “There are no queres in this place; it is doubtless a fire made by durotunes.  Let us go and join them, for, as you say, it is doleful work wandering about at night amidst rain and mire.”

We dismounted and entered what I now saw was a forest, leading the animals cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood.  In about five minutes we reached a small open space, at the farther side of which, at the foot of a large cork-tree, a fire was burning, and by it stood or sat two or three figures; they had heard our approach, and one of them now exclaimed, “Quien vive!” [132]  “I know that voice,” said Antonio; and, leaving the horse with me, rapidly advanced towards the fire.  Presently I heard an Ola! and a laugh, and soon the voice of Antonio summoned me to advance.  On reaching the fire I found two dark lads, and a still darker woman of about forty; the latter seated on what appeared to be horse or mule furniture.  I likewise saw a horse and two donkeys tethered to the neighbouring trees.  It was, in fact, a gypsy bivouac. . . .  “Come forward, brother, and show yourself,” said Antonio to me; “you are amongst friends.  These are of the Errate, the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo, and in whose house we should have slept.”

“And what,” said I, “could have induced them to leave their house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest, in the midst of wind and rain, to pass the night?”

“They come on business of Egypt, brother, doubtless,” replied Antonio; “and that business is none of ours.  Calla boca! [133a]  It is lucky we have found them here, else we should have had no supper, and our horses no corn.”

“My ro is prisoner at the village yonder,” said the woman, pointing with her hand in a particular direction; “he is prisoner yonder for choring a mailla. [133b]  We are come to see what we can do in his behalf; and where can we lodge better than in this forest, where there is nothing to pay?  It is not the first time, I trow, that Caloré have slept at the root of a tree.”

One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a large bag, into which we successively introduced their heads, allowing the famished creatures to regale themselves till we conceived that they had satisfied their hunger.  There was a puchero simmering at the fire, half full of bacon, garbanzos, and other provisions; this was emptied into a large wooden platter, and out of this Antonio and myself supped.  The other gypsies refused to join us, giving us to understand that they had eaten before our arrival; they all, however, did justice to the leathern bottle of Antonio, which, before his departure from Merida, he had the precaution to fill.

I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and sleep.  Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he bore more than one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode; in this I wrapped myself, and placing my head upon a bundle, and my feet as near as possible to the fire, I lay down.

Antonio and the other gypsies remained seated by the fire conversing.  I listened for a moment to what they said, but I did not perfectly understand it, and what I did understand by no means interested me.  The rain still drizzled, but I heeded it not, and was soon asleep.