CHALECO AND HIS PLUNDER.
All at once the old woman drew in her breath with a hiss, and bent her
eyes on the door. She heard a footstep approach. The wooden lock moved,
and a man perhaps of twenty-three or four years old presented himself.
It was many years since the old Sibyl had been known to change
countenance, or the unpleasant surprise that seized her at the sight of
this man must have been visible. Yet of all his tribe he might have been
deemed a welcome guest in any cave in the settlement, for he was a count
or chief among the gipsies of Granada, and added to this, was the
betrothed husband of Aurora, the grandchild of Papita.
Why then should the old woman shrink within herself and receive Chaleco,
the chief of her tribe, with so much inward trepidation? I only know
that, dazzled as her eyes had been by the moonlight, she had read enough
in the stars to make her afraid of meeting Chaleco.
The young count had all those strongly marked characteristics that
distinguish his race: a clear olive complexion; heavy voluptuous lips,
revealing teeth that shamed the whitest ivory; hair black and coarse,
but, in his case, with a purple lustre upon it; eyes of vivid blackness,
and cheek bones slightly; in him, very slightly prominent, all lighted
up by an expression of great strength, sharpness, cunning and
perseverance—that is, these passions must have been visible in his
countenance had he ever allowed one true feeling to speak in his face.
His dress alone would have bespoken his position in the tribe to one
accustomed to the habits of our people, still it did not entirely
appertain to the portion of the country to which he belonged.
Chaleco had travelled much in Catalonia, and having a rich fancy in
costume, adopted many of their picturesque habits of dress. On this
evening, he seemed to have arrayed himself with peculiar care, which is
easily accounted for when we remember that he had been more than six
weeks absent from Granada, and in that time had not seen his betrothed.
With the deep cunning of her race, blended perhaps with a little of the
irritation that had preceded his coming, Papita was the first to speak;
and taking exception to the Catalonian fashion of his dress, fortified
her own position by commencing hostilities before the young man had time
to ask questions, which she felt herself unable to answer
satisfactorily.
“So, Chaleco, you have come back at last, and more like a stranger than
ever. What Busne has bewitched you in the fair at Seville, that you
return to Granada in a dress like that?”
“Why, mother, this is all folly. I have but added this cap to the
garments that I wore when we went from hence. Surely this is not a thing
to provoke your wrath,” cried the young man, taking a scarlet cap from
his head with that half-shy, half-defying look with which some men
receive female criticism on their dress, and grasping it with the heavy
tassel of blue silk in his hand—“Aurora will not condemn it so sharply,
I dare say.”
The mention of this name seemed to embitter the old woman’s reply.
“It is a Moorish cap, no true Gitano would wear it,” she said, eyeing
the unfortunate cap with a contemptuous glance, “and your dress of dark
blue velvet embroidered at the neck—pockets with gold upon the
seams—silver buttons and tags rattling from their rings—and chains over
your bosom like the bells around a mule’s neck.”
“Nay, you can find no fault with the buttons; they are from the best
silver workers of Barcelona,” cried the count, flinging open the short
dark velvet jacket with sleeves, which he wore hussar fashion over this
beautiful dress, and revealing his whole person with an air of bravado,
which the more swarthy color on his temples belied.
The old woman glanced with an expression that she intended to be one of
unmingled scorn, upon the embroidered strips of cloth, blue and yellow,
that enriched the neck and elbows of the young Gitano’s jacket, and
allowing her eyes to glance down to his well-turned limbs, terminated
her gaze at the sandals laced up to the knee by many-colored ribbons.
The young man followed her glance with a half-shy, half-provoked look.
“At any rate, you cannot find fault with this, or this,” he said,
drawing her attention to a rich scarf of crimson silk around his waist,
and a handkerchief in which many gorgeous colors were blended, that was
knotted loosely around his well-formed neck. “I can only remember seeing
the gipsy count, your husband, once when I was a boy, but I know well
that he wore a dress not unlike this that you revile so, with a scarf
and kerchief that might have come from the same loom.”
The old Sibyl kindled up like an aged war-horse at the sound of a
trumpet—her withered features worked, her sharp eyes dilated, a grim
smile crept over her lips.
“Yes, yes, I remember, and it is this that fills my heart with
bitterness. He wrested these things from our foes, the Busne. They were
his portion of the spoil. He laid many an ambush, and reddened his knife
more than once for the frippery which you get in easier ways; for every
button that he wore, his people had some gain of their own to show. How
is it with you, Chaleco?—how many of our people have been fortunate,
that you are tricked out so bravely? How many mules did you shear in
Seville, to earn what is upon your back?”
“Aurora would not taunt me so,” said the gipsy, with a fierce gesture,
“if she did”——
“Well, what then?” rejoined the old woman, sharply, though her fierce
eye quailed a little, and a quick ear might have detected something like
terror in her voice.
“Why, then,” said the young man, “I would send word that the ton of
sweetmeats in which we shall dance knee deep at our marriage festival,
should be kept back; and I would fling this chain of gold, which shall
lace up her wedding bodice, into the Darro. It is because you are old
and learned—the widow of a great count, that I have borne all these
gibes so tamely; no one else in the tribe should revile me thus. _She_
least of all.”
Either the stern tone which the young man assumed, or his praise of her
dead husband, softened the austere temper of the old woman. Perhaps it
might be the unwonted sight of that gold ornament, or what is most
probable, her attack upon the young man had been an artful scheme to
gain time, till her grand-daughter should appear. Certain it is, her
face took an expression less in character than the wrath had been with
her weird features. A crafty, sly expression stole into her eyes; her
mouth stirred with a slow smile, moving sluggishly as the worm creeps.
She reached out her hand for the chain, and letting it drop to a heap in
her palm, bent over it with a look of gloating avarice that would have
been hideous to any one but the Gitano, who had witnessed these scenes
from his birth.
The old woman looked suddenly up. A fierce light was in her eyes.
“The rings in my ears are red hot; the chain burns in my palm; I know
the sign; the Busne has been forced to give up his gold once more. Our
people have not altogether sunk down to be mere trimmers of mules and
donkeys. You did not work for this, my Chaleco!”
“Hush!” said the gipsy, lifting his finger with a smile, in which terror
and triumph was blended, “the Busne may be hanging about our caves. The
chain is for Aurora. She shall wear it upon her bosom on our wedding
day. But where is she? Your sharp words have driven her from my mind!”
“No, no, my son, it is well that we are alone; you have accomplished a
great deed—a deed worthy of Aurora’s grandfather, he who has stained
many a rood of soil with Busne blood—but times have changed since he
roamed the hills with our people. If there was blood—and the gold burns
my palm as if it had been baptized—they will be on our track, hunting
you into our holes as they do the foxes. Tell me how it all happened; my
heart burns to hear; the tidings have filled these old veins as with
wine; I had begun to be ashamed of my people. Sit down, Chaleco, here,
on the old chair which he took from the choir of their proudest
cathedral while the priests were chanting mass. You never sat in it
before; but now that you have reddened your finger nails—warmed my palm
with gold that is not worked for, the seat is yours. Sit down, my son,
while I draw close, that we may talk!”
The young gipsy sat down, but evidently with some impatience; and the
Sibyl creeping close to his side, placed herself on a low bench, and,
bending forward, fixed her glittering eyes on his face.
“Now,” she said, rubbing her thin hands together, and chafing the chain
between them, “tell me, is this all? The chief takes one third of the
whole, that is the law of the Cales.”
“No, there was gold, a thousand pieces, packed away upon a mule.”
“A thousand pieces! Oh, my son, I saw great luck in the stars for
you—but a thousand pieces!—this is wonderful!”
“Besides, there was a watch with double case, all fine gold, and some
rings which were too large for Aurora’s finger, so we buried them in the
ground, with the gold and other treasures. Here is something. I am not
sure about giving this to her, these glittering things on the back may
be of value. I found it hung to the Busne’s neck by the chain; here is
his own face, it may yet bring us into trouble. Look”——
The chief drew a locket from his bosom shaped like a cockle shell. The
whole outside was paved with pearls swelling into the several
compartments. The scalloped edges were bright with diamonds of great
value. He touched a spring, and within this exquisite trinket two
miniatures were revealed. One was that of a young man, fair, with a
bright, clear complexion, fine eyes of greyish blue, a delicate
forehead, pure as snow in color, and teeming with thought; a mouth
somewhat full, and of deep coral red, with a fair curling beard of rich
brown, kindled up by a tinge of gold; hair a little deeper in tint, but
with the same metallic lustre breaking through its heavy waves. This was
the face, fair, animated, and lighted up with a beautiful smile, that
first presented itself to the old Sibyl’s gaze. She arose, took down the
candle, and peered over it in silence. The contrast was striking, that
tawny, witch-like countenance, and the beautiful shadows smiling out
from its bed of jewels.
There was a female portrait on the other side; but it was that of a
woman somewhat older than the youth could have been; but, though of
different complexion, there was one of those indefinite resemblances
between the two faces which exist independent of features, running
through families, and connecting them in the eyes of the beholder with a
subtle influence, as one feels that a rose is near, by the perfume which
is itself impalpable.
The Sibyl only glanced at the female face, and turned to that of the
young man again with keener interest. You could see by the workings of
her face that she was beginning to hate that beautiful shadow; for there
was a terrible gleam in her eye when she closed the shell with a snap,
and clutched it in her hand.
“No,” she said, sharply, “my grand-daughter shall not wear this thing.
The bright sparks are diamonds; the white ridges are of oriental pearls.
But the face is that of the Busne; it does not belong to Spain either;
hair and eyes of that color come from beyond sea. It is worth more than
all your gold or the other trinkets; but she shall not wear it. I saw a
face like this between me and the stars to-night. Was the man you
plundered like it?”
“It was himself; two faces were never more alike!”
“And your knife, is it red? Did you leave him in the hills?”
“No, mother,” replied the chief, blushing, as if ashamed that he had no
crime of blood to confess, “he made no resistance; we were many, he
nearly alone, for the guards fled as we rushed upon them. We did not
kill him, there was no reason in it.”
“How long was this ago?”
“It was three days after we left Granada!”
“That is almost six weeks—but where?”
“About half way between this and Seville!”
“And did you take the plunder along?”
“We buried it on the spot; went to the fair as if nothing had happened,
and dug it up as we came home.”
“And which way went the traveller?”
“We did not wait to see; his face was toward Granada when we met him;
that is all I can say.”
“Go from my sight—you should have killed this viper—he was crawling this
way.”
“Mother!”
“Go—go, but first let me grind this thing to powder with my foot; help
me to spoil his face; you can pick up the diamonds from the dirt when I
have done stamping on them!”
“No, mother, it is worth money—give it to me!”
The old woman unclutched her hand and flung the trinket against the wall
of her cave, where it fell back with a rebound to her feet.
“Leave it,” she said, with a fierce laugh, “the thing is accursed—leave
it and go.”
“Not till I have seen Aurora,” said the young man, looking wistfully at
the jewel. “It is late, very late, she must be yonder in her nest,
ashamed to come forth without a bidding from her betrothed. Step aside,
mother, I have waited too long.”
The young chief strode forward as he spoke, and touching a door which
was half concealed behind the old woman’s chair, flung it open,
revealing, by the light that stood in its niche close by, an inner room,
in which the outline of a low bed and some furniture was visible.
“Aurora,” said the young man, “come, come, I have waited long.”
“She is not there,” said the old woman, in a low voice, while her head
drooped downward.
“Not there? Nay, nay, I know better, she is only shy, hiding away like a
young fox. See if I do not find her.”
He snatched the light and went into the little sleeping cell. The bed
was there, covered with fine old chintz. A little table and two chairs
stood in their several places. The scent of fresh flowers filled the
cell, which, by its cleanliness, its little ornaments, and the fragrance
that floated on the close air proved that its occupant was no ordinary
woman of her tribe. But everything was silent. No sparkling eyes full of
mischief, no wild laugh met the young gipsy as he expected. He stood a
moment with the candle held up, gazing around the room; then a painful
thought seemed to strike him. He turned and fixed his eyes on the old
woman.
“Where is she?”
It was all he said, but there was something fierce in the question.
“She went to the Alhambra this morning, and has not come back yet.”
The old woman did not lift her eyes as she spoke; why, she herself could
not have explained; but every time that night, when word or thought had
turned to her grandchild, this strange cowardice seized her.
“I will go seek Aurora,” said the young gipsy, striding towards the
door.
“_You!_” cried the old woman, springing like a tigress between him and
the entrance. “Would you break the betrothal? Would you cast shame on my
blood? Would you have the whole tribe hooting at you both?”
The chief hesitated. He knew well that the gipsy law prohibited the act
he meditated. That for a betrothed pair to wander alone, or arrange a
meeting beyond the confines of the settlement, would sunder them
forever. He thought of this and hesitated. But the hot blood of a
jealous nature was on his forehead; he could hardly restrain himself.
“With what man of our tribe does she wander at this time of night?” he
demanded, fiercely.
“With none; she has scarcely spoken to man or woman of our people since
you left for Seville,” replied the old woman, with a look of earnest
truth that could not but appease his suspicions in that quarter.
“But she is not alone?”
“I do not know; travellers are plenty in the Alhambra just now!”
“Travellers!” repeated the chief, with a scornful laugh, and the hot
blood left his forehead—“the Busne, ha! ha! why not say this before—the
little fox, she is at her work there. Aurora is a wife worthy of your
count, old mother; hers are the eyes that draw gold from the Busne. But
now that I have come back, she must not stay out so late; I would look
in her eyes myself, the sly one. Tell here so, mother—at daylight I will
be here again.”
Relieved from the sharp feeling of jealousy that had at first possessed
him, the gipsy count strode away content and happy—a little disappointed
at not seeing his betrothed that night, but rather proud than otherwise,
that she was employed in wiling gold by her sweet arts from the people
whom it was his duty to hate. The idea that there could be danger or
wrong to him, in her adventures with the white travellers it was her
duty to delude, never entered his mind. To him, in common with the whole
tribe, the idea of an attachment between a gipsy maiden and one of
another race was an impossibility. Had my old grandame said that Aurora
was out gathering flowers, he might have been less proud, but not better
satisfied. The idea of being jealous of a Gentile, a Busne, was
impossible.
But my grandmother was of a different nature. She possessed that rare
organization which is called genius in civilized life, and magic with
us; that exquisite sensitiveness of nerve and thought, which took the
shadow of coming events long before they become a reality. This, with
her acute wit, her sharp observation, her strange habits of solitary
thought, rendered her a wonderful being. It is impossible for me to
describe this. I can no more tell you why my grandame possessed the
power of _feeling_ what was about to happen, than I could divide the
elements that sparkle in a cup of water, but the truth was there. She
fancied that her knowledge came through the stars. But in natures
endowed like hers, there is something more wonderful than all the stars
of heaven can reveal.
What was it that induced her that night to fill that bronze vessel with
those strange poisonous herbs? Why did she watch them distill so sadly,
and yet with such stern patience? What would the juice of these herbs
become? I will tell you another time. Now let us follow my grandmother.
She was old, feeble—for years she had not been known to walk half a
mile. But that night she went forth alone, creeping down the hill-side,
through the hollows along the river’s bank—up, up, like some hungry
animal that dared to prowl through those ravines only at night-time. She
was almost bent double at times, and looked in truth like a wild animal,
but her purpose was strong, and that carried her forward.