The Gypsy’s Granddaughter—Proposed Marriage—The Algnazil—The
Assault—Speedy Trot—Arrival at Trujillo—Night and Rain—The Forest—The
Bivouac—Mount and Away!—Jaraicejo—The National—The Cavalier
Balmerson—Among the Thickets—Serious Discourse—What is Truth?—Unexpected
Intelligence.
We remained three days at the Gypsies’ house, Antonio departing early
every morning, on his mule, and returning late at night. The house was
large and ruinous, the only habitable part of it, with the exception of
the stable, being the hall, where we had supped, and there the Gypsy
females slept at night, on some mats and mattresses in a corner.
“A strange house is this,” said I to Antonio, one morning as he was on
the point of saddling his mule and departing, as I supposed, on the
affairs of Egypt; “a strange house and strange people; that Gypsy
grandmother has all the appearance of a sowanee (_sorceress_).”
“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 drows, 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.”
“Have you been long acquainted with her?” said I; “you appear to be quite
at home in this house.”
“Acquainted with her!” said Antonio. “Did not my own brother marry the
black Calli, her daughter, who bore him the chabi, sixteen years ago,
just before he was hanged by the Busné?”
In the afternoon I was seated with the Gypsy mother in the hall, the two
Callees were absent telling fortunes about the town and neighbourhood,
which was their principal occupation. “Are you married, my London
Caloro?” said the old woman to me. “Are you a ro?”
_Myself_.—Wherefore do you ask, O Dai de los Cales?
_Gypsy Mother_.—It is high time that the lacha of the chabi were taken
from her, and that she had a ro. You can do no better than take her for
romi, my London Caloro.
_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 romi.
_Gypsy Mother_.—She wants no one to provide for her, my London Caloro,
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 a pastesas. 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
(_lost_), 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 lachipi and
sonacai (_silk and gold_), 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 Manro
should bow down their heads to you. What, say you, my London Caloro,
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 Caloro, the chabi can
cross the pani. 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 chabi.
_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 Caloro asks me what we could do in the land of
the Corahai! Aromali! I almost think that I am speaking to a lilipendi
(_simpleton_). 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 Caloro. 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 chabi, 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 drow, 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 Caloro.
During the whole time that I remained at Merida I stirred not once from
the house; following the advice of Antonio, who informed me that it would
not be convenient. My time lay rather heavily on my hands, my only
source of amusement consisting in the conversation of the women, and in
that of Antonio when he made his appearance at night. In these tertulias
the grandmother was the principal spokeswoman, and astonished my ears
with wonderful tales of the Land of the Moors, prison escapes, thievish
feats, and one or two poisoning adventures, in which she had been
engaged, as she informed me, in her early youth.
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 lili, and would soon come
to herself.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, as the three women and myself sat
conversing as usual over the brasero, a shabby looking fellow in an old
rusty cloak walked into the room: he came straight up to the place where
we were sitting, produced a paper cigar, which he lighted at a coal, and
taking a whiff or two, looked at me: “Carracho,” said he, “who is this
companion?”
I saw at once that the fellow was no Gypsy: the women said nothing, but I
could hear the grandmother growling to herself, something after the
manner of an old grimalkin when disturbed.
“Carracho,” reiterated the fellow, “how came this companion here?”
“_No le penela chi min chaboro_,” said the black Callee to me, in an
undertone; “_sin un balicho de los chineles_ {97};” 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 Busno will take us to prison,” said the black Callee, “ha! ha! ha!”
“The Chinel will take us to prison,” giggled the young girl “he! he! he!”
“The Bengui will carry us all to the estaripel,” grunted the Gypsy
grandmother, “ho! ho! ho!”
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 Caloro out of their plako—truly, hijo, we have none for
you, and right sorry I am; we have, however, plenty of the dust _a su
servicio_.”
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 chabi 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.”
“Ca!” said the black Callee, biting her thumb nail, “he has more reason
to fear us than we him, we could bring him to the filimicha; we have,
moreover, friends in this town, plenty, plenty.”
“Yes,” mumbled the grandmother, “the daughters of the baji have friends,
my London Caloro, friends among the Busnees, baributre, baribu (_plenty_,
_plenty_).”
Nothing farther of any account occurred in the Gypsy house; the next day,
Antonio and myself were again in the saddle, we travelled at least
thirteen leagues before we reached the Venta, where we passed the night;
we rose early in the morning, my guide informing me that we had a long
day’s journey to make. “Where are we bound to?” I demanded. “To
Trujillo,” he replied.
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 a 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?”
“There can be no difficulty,” said I, “with respect to what we have to
do; if your friends are gone out, it is easy enough to go to a posada.”
“You know not what you say,” replied the Gypsy, “I dare not go to the
mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and this is shut;
well, there is no remedy, we must move on, and, between ourselves, the
sooner we leave this place the better; my own planoro (_brother_) was
garroted at Trujillo.”
He lighted a cigar, by means of a steel and yesca, sprang on his mule,
and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those which we
had already traversed till we again found ourselves out of the, town.
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 proceeded in this manner for a long time; the Gypsy was silent; I
myself was equally so; the rain descended more and more. I sometimes
thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls.
“This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,” I at length said to
Antonio.
“It is, brother,” said he, “but I would sooner be abroad in such a night,
and in such places, than in the estaripel of Trujillo.”
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 (_houses_) in this place; it is doubtless a fire
made by durotunes (_shepherds_); 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? “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! 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 (_stealing a donkey_); 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.
The sun was just appearing as I awoke. I made several efforts before I
could rise from the ground; my limbs were quite stiff, and my hair was
covered with rime; for the rain had ceased and a rather severe frost set
in. I looked around me, but could see neither Antonio nor the Gypsies;
the animals of the latter had likewise disappeared, so had the horse
which I had hitherto rode; the mule, however, of Antonio still remained
fastened to the tree! this latter circumstance quieted some apprehensions
which were beginning to arise in my mind. “They are gone on some
business of Egypt,” I said to myself, “and will return anon.” I gathered
together the embers of the fire, and heaping upon them sticks and
branches, soon succeeded in calling forth a blaze, beside which I placed
the puchero, with what remained of the provision of last night. I waited
for a considerable time in expectation of the return of my companions,
but as they did not appear, I sat down and breakfasted. Before I had
well finished I heard the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and
presently Antonio made his appearance amongst the trees, with some
agitation in his countenance. He sprang from the horse, and instantly
proceeded to untie the mule. “Mount, brother, mount!” said he, pointing
to the horse; “I went with the Callee and her chabés to the village where
the ro is in trouble; the chinobaro, however, seized them at once with
their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me, but I set spurs to
the grasti, gave him the bridle, and was soon far away. Mount, brother,
mount, or we shall have the whole rustic canaille upon us in a
twinkling.”
I did as he commanded: we were presently in the road which we had left
the night before. Along this we hurried at a great rate, the horse
displaying his best speedy trot; whilst the mule, with its ears pricked
up, galloped gallantly at his side. “What place is that on the hill
yonder?” said I to Antonio, at the expiration of an hour, as we prepared
to descend a deep valley.
“That is Jaraicejo,” said Antonio; “a bad place it is and a bad place it
has ever been for the Calo people.”
“If it is such a bad place,” said I, “I hope we shall not have to pass
through it.”
“We must pass through it,” said Antonio, “for more reasons than one:
first, forasmuch is the road lies through Jaraicejo; and second,
forasmuch as it will be necessary to purchase provisions there, both for
ourselves and horses. On the other side of Jaraicejo there is a wild
desert, a despoblado, where we shall find nothing.”
We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew near to the
town the Gypsy said, “Brother, we had best pass through that town singly.
I will go in advance; follow slowly, and when there purchase bread and
barley; you have nothing to fear. I will await you on the despoblado.”
Without waiting for my answer he hastened forward, and was speedily out
of sight.
I followed slowly behind, and entered the gate of the town; an old
dilapidated place, consisting of little more than one street. Along this
street I was advancing, when a man with a dirty foraging cap on his head,
and holding a gun in his hand, came running up to me: “Who are you?” said
he, in rather rough accents, “from whence do you come?”
“From Badajoz and Trujillo,” I replied; “why do you ask?”
“I am one of the national guard,” said the man, “and am placed here to
inspect strangers; I am told that a Gypsy fellow just now rode through
the town; it is well for him that I had stepped into my house. Do you
come in his company?”
“Do I look a person,” said I, “likely to keep company with Gypsies?”
The national measured me from top to toe, and then looked me full in the
face with an expression which seemed to say, “likely enough.” In fact,
my appearance was by no means calculated to prepossess people in my
favour. Upon my head I wore an old Andalusian hat, which, from its
condition, appeared to have been trodden under foot; a rusty cloak, which
had perhaps served half a dozen generations, enwrapped my body. My
nether garments were by no means of the finest description; and as far as
could be seen were covered with mud, with which my face was likewise
plentifully bespattered, and upon my chin was a beard of a week’s growth.
“Have you a passport?” at length demanded the national.
I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard’s heart is
to treat him with ceremonious civility. I therefore dismounted, and
taking off my hat, made a low bow to the constitutional soldier, saying,
“Señor nacional, you must know that I am an English gentleman, travelling
in this country for my pleasure; I bear a passport, which, on inspecting,
you will find to be perfectly regular; it was given me by the great Lord
Palmerston, minister of England, whom you of course have heard of here;
at the bottom you will see his own handwriting; look at it and rejoice;
perhaps you will never have another opportunity. As I put unbounded
confidence in the honour of every gentleman, I leave the passport in your
hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh myself. When you have
inspected it, you will perhaps oblige me so far as to bring it to me.
Cavalier, I kiss your hands.”
I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one still lower,
and leaving him now staring at the passport and now looking at myself, I
went into a posada, to which I was directed by a beggar whom I met.
I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the Gypsy had
directed me; I likewise purchased three fine partridges of a fowler, who
was drinking wine in the posada. He was satisfied with the price I gave
him, and offered to treat me with a copita, to which I made no objection.
As we sat discoursing at the table, the national entered with the
passport in his hand, and sat down by us.
_National_.—Caballero! I return you your passport, it is quite in form;
I rejoice much to have made your acquaintance; I have no doubt that you
can give me some information respecting the present war.
_Myself_.—I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable a
gentleman any information in my power.
_National_.—What is England doing,—is she about to afford any assistance
to this country? If she pleased she could put down the war in three
months.
_Myself_.—Be under no apprehension, Señor nacional; the war will be put
down, don’t doubt. You have heard of the English legion, which my Lord
Palmerston has sent over? Leave the matter in their hands, and you will
soon see the result.
_National_.—It appears to me that this Caballero Balmerson must be a very
honest man.
_Myself_.—There can be no doubt of it.
_National_.—I have heard that he is a great general.
_Myself_.—There can be no doubt of it. In some things neither Napoleon
nor the sawyer {104} would stand a chance with him for a moment. _Es
mucho hombre_.
_National_.—I am glad to hear it. Does he intend to head the legion
himself?
_Myself_.—I believe not; but he has sent over, to head the fighting men,
a friend of his, who is thought to be nearly as much versed in military
matters as himself.
_National_.—I am rejoiced to hear it. I see that the war will soon be
over. Caballero, I thank you for your politeness, and for the
information which you have afforded me. I hope you will have a pleasant
journey. I confess that I am surprised to see a gentleman of your
country travelling alone, and in this manner, through such regions as
these. The roads are at present very bad; there have of late been many
accidents, and more than two deaths in this neighbourhood. The
despoblado out yonder has a particularly evil name; be on your guard,
Caballero. I am sorry that Gypsy was permitted to pass; should you meet
him and not like his looks, shoot him at once, stab him, or ride him
down. He is a well known thief, contrabandista, and murderer, and has
committed more assassinations than he has fingers on his hands.
Caballero, if you please, we will allow you a guard to the other side of
the pass. You do not wish it? Then, farewell. Stay, before I go I
should wish to see once more the signature of the Caballero Balmerson.
I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with profound reverence,
uncovering his head for a moment; we then embraced and parted.
I mounted the horse and rode from the town, at first proceeding very
slowly; I had no sooner, however, reached the moor, than I put the animal
to his speedy trot, and proceeded at a tremendous rate for some time,
expecting every moment to overtake the Gypsy. I, however, saw nothing of
him, nor did I meet with a single human being. The road along which I
sped was narrow and sandy, winding amidst thickets of broom and
brushwood, with which the despoblado was overgrown, and which in some
places were as high as a man’s head. Across the moor, in the direction
in which I was proceeding, rose a lofty eminence, naked and bare. The
moor extended for at least three leagues; I had nearly crossed it, and
reached the foot of the ascent. I was becoming very uneasy, conceiving
that I might have passed the Gypsy amongst the thickets, when I suddenly
heard his well known Ola! and his black savage head and staring eyes
suddenly appeared from amidst a clump of broom.
“You have tarried long, brother,” said he; “I almost thought you had
played me false.”
He bade me dismount, and then proceeded to lead the horse behind the
thicket, where I found the mule picqueted to the ground. I gave him the
barley and provisions, and then proceeded to relate to him my adventure
with the national.
“I would I had him here,” said the Gypsy, on hearing the epithets which
the former had lavished upon him. “I would I had him here, then should
my chulee and his carlo become better acquainted.”
“And what are you doing here yourself,” I demanded, “in this wild place,
amidst these thickets?”
“I am expecting a messenger down yon pass,” said the Gypsy; “and till
that messenger arrive I can neither go forward nor return. It is on
business of Egypt, brother, that I am here.”
As he invariably used this last expression when he wished to evade my
inquiries, I held my peace, and said no more; the animals were fed, and
we proceeded to make a frugal repast on bread and wine.
“Why do you not cook the game which I brought?” I demanded; “in this
place there is plenty of materials for a fire.”
“The smoke might discover us, brother,” said Antonio, “I am desirous of
lying escondido in this place until the arrival of the messenger.”
It was now considerably past noon; the gypsy lay behind the thicket,
raising himself up occasionally and looking anxiously towards the hill
which lay over against us; at last, with an exclamation of disappointment
and impatience, he flung himself on the ground, where he lay a
considerable time, apparently ruminating; at last he lifted up his head
and looked me in the face.
_Antonio_.—Brother, I cannot imagine what business brought you to this
country.
_Myself_.—Perhaps the same which brings you to this moor—business of
Egypt.
_Antonio_.—Not so, brother; you speak the language of Egypt, it is true,
but your ways and words are neither those of the Cales nor of the Busné.
_Myself_.—Did you not hear me speak in the foros about God and Tebleque?
It was to declare his glory to the Cales and Gentiles that I came to the
land of Spain.
_Antonio_.—And who sent you on this errand?
_Myself_.—You would scarcely understand me were I to inform you. Know,
however, that there are many in foreign lands who lament the darkness
which envelops Spain, and the scenes of cruelty, robbery, and murder
which deform it.
_Antonio_.—Are they Caloré or Busné?
_Myself_.—What matters it? Both Caloré and Busné are sons of the same
God.
_Antonio_.—You lie, brother, they are not of one father nor of one
Errate. You speak of robbery, cruelty, and murder. There are too many
Busné, brother; if there were no Busné there would be neither robbery nor
murder. The Caloré neither rob nor murder each other, the Busné do; nor
are they cruel to their animals, their law forbids them. When I was a
child I was beating a burra, but my father stopped my hand, and chided
me. “Hurt not the animal,” said he; “for within it is the soul of your
own sister!”
_Myself_.—And do you believe in this wild doctrine, O Antonio?
_Antonio_.—Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. There are some who
believe in nothing; not even that they live! Long since, I knew an old
Caloro, he was old, very old, upwards of a hundred years,—and I once
heard him say, that all we thought we saw was a lie; that there was no
world, no men nor women, no horses nor mules, no olive trees. But
whither are we straying? I asked what induced you to come to this
country—you tell me the glory of God and Tebleque. Disparate! tell that
to the Busné. You have good reasons for coming, no doubt, else you would
not be here. Some say you are a spy of the Londoné, perhaps you are; I
care not. Rise, brother, and tell me whether any one is coming down the
pass.
“I see a distant object,” I replied; “like a speck on the side of the
hill.”
The Gypsy started up, and we both fixed our eyes on the object: the
distance was so great that it was at first with difficulty that we could
distinguish whether it moved or not. A quarter of an hour, however,
dispelled all doubts, for within this time it had nearly reached the
bottom of the hill, and we could descry a figure seated on an animal of
some kind.
“It is a woman,” said I, at length, “mounted on a grey donkey.”
“Then it is my messenger,” said Antonio, “for it can be no other.”
The woman and the donkey were now upon the plain, and for some time were
concealed from us by the copse and brushwood which intervened. They were
not long, however, in making their appearance at the distance of about a
hundred yards. The donkey was a beautiful creature of a silver grey, and
came frisking along, swinging her tail, and moving her feet so quick that
they scarcely seemed to touch the ground. The animal no sooner perceived
us than she stopped short, turned round, and attempted to escape by the
way she had come; her rider, however, detained her, whereupon the donkey
kicked violently, and would probably have flung the former, had she not
sprung nimbly to the ground. The form of the woman was entirely
concealed by the large wrapping man’s cloak which she wore. I ran to
assist her, when she turned her face full upon me, and I instantly
recognized the sharp clever features of Antonia, whom I had seen at
Badajoz, the daughter of my guide. She said nothing to me, but advancing
to her father, addressed something to him in a low voice, which I did not
hear. He started back, and vociferated “All!” “Yes,” said she in a
louder tone, probably repeating the words which I had not caught before,
“All are captured.”
The Gypsy remained for some time like one astounded and, unwilling to
listen to their discourse, which I imagined might relate to business of
Egypt, I walked away amidst the thickets. I was absent for some time,
but could occasionally hear passionate expressions and oaths. In about
half an hour I returned; they had left the road, but I found then behind
the broom clump, where the animals stood. Both were seated on the
ground; the features of the Gypsy were peculiarly dark and grim; he held
his unsheathed knife in his hand, which he would occasionally plunge into
the earth, exclaiming, “All! All!”
“Brother,” said he at last, “I can go no farther with you; the business
which carried me to Castumba is settled; you must now travel by yourself
and trust to your baji (_fortune_).”
“I trust in Undevel,” I replied, “who wrote my fortune long ago. But how
am I to journey? I have no horse, for you doubtless want your own.”
The Gypsy appeared to reflect: “I want the horse, it is true, brother,”
he said, “and likewise the macho; but you shall not go _en pindre_ (on
foot); you shall purchase the burra of Antonia, which I presented her
when I sent her upon this expedition.”
“The burra,” I replied, “appears both savage and vicious.”
“She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her; a savage and
vicious beast has generally four excellent legs. You are a Calo,
brother, and can manage her; you shall therefore purchase the savage
burra, giving my daugher Antonia a baria of gold. If you think fit, you
can sell the beast at Talavera or Madrid, for Estremenian bestis are
highly considered in Castumba.”
In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass, mounted on the
savage burra.