tolling. A crowd of villagers, with their hats in their hands, as if in
prayer. In front a group of Gipsies. The bell rings a merrier peel. A
Gipsy dance. Enter Pancho, followed by Pedro Crespo._
_Pan._ Make room, ye vagabonds and gipsy thieves!
Make room for the Alcalde of Pardillo!
_P. Cres._ Keep silence all! I have an edict here
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain,
Which I shall publish in the market-place.
Open your ears and listen!
(_Enter Padre Cura at the door of his cottage._)
Padre Cura,
Good day! and pray you hear this paper read.
_P. Cura._ Good day, and God be with you! What is this?
_P. Crespo._ An act of banishment against the gipsies!
(_Agitation and murmurs in the crowd._)
_Pancho._ Silence!
_P. Crespo._ (_reads._) “I hereby order and command,
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers,
Known by the name of gipsies, shall henceforth
Be banished from our realm, as vagabonds
And beggars; and if after seventy days
Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds,
They shall receive a hundred lashes each;
The second time, shall have their ears cut off;
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them;
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I the King.”
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized!
You hear the law! Obey and disappear!
_Pancho._ And if in seventy days you are not gone,
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves.
(_The gipsies go out in confusion, showing signs of fear_
_and discontent. Pancho follows._)
_P. Cura._ A righteous law! A very righteous law!
Pray you sit down.
_P. Crespo._ I thank you heartily.
(_They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cura’s door.
Sound of guitars and voices heard at a distance, approaching
during the dialogue which follows._)
A very righteous judgment, as you say.
Now tell me, Padre Cura—you know all things—
How came these gipsies into Spain?
_P. Cura._ Why, look you,
They came with Hercules from Palestine,
And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde,
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus.
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says,
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor
Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the gipsies.
They never marry, never go to mass,
Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent,
Nor see the inside of a church—nor—nor—
_P. Crespo._ Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all!
No matter for the other ninety-five.
They should be burnt, I see it plain enough,
They should be burnt.
(_Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing._)
_P. Cura._ And pray, whom have we here?
_P. Crespo._ More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants!
_Hyp._ Good evening, gentlemen. Is this El Pardillo?
_P. Cura._ Yes, El Pardillo, and good evening to you.
_Hyp._ We seek the Padre Cura of the village;
And judging from your dress and reverend mien
You must be he.
_P. Cura._ I am. Pray what’s your pleasure?
_Hyp._ We are poor students, traveling in vacation.
You know this mark? (_Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band._)
_P. Crespo._ (_aside._) Soup-eaters! by the mass!
The very worst of vagrants, worse than gipsies,
But there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant. [_Exit._
_P. Cura._ (_jovially._) Aye, know it, and have worn it.
_Hyp._ Padre Cura,
From the first moment I beheld your face,
I said within myself, _This is the man!_
There is a certain something in your looks,
A certain scholar-like and studious something—
You understand—which cannot be mistaken;
Which marks you as a very learned man,
In fine, as one of us.
_Vic._ (_aside._) What impudence!
_Hyp._ As we approached, I said to my companion,
That is the Padre Cura; mark my words!
Meaning your grace. The other man, said I,
Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench,
Must be the sacristan.
_P. Cura._ Ah! said you so?
Ha! ha! ’Twas Pedro Crespo, the alcalde!
_Hyp._ Indeed! why, you astonish me! His air
Was not so full of dignity and grace
As an alcalde’s should be.
_P. Cura._ That is true.
He’s out of humor with some vagrant gipsies,
That have their camp here in the neighborhood.
There’s nothing so undignified as anger.
_Hyp._ The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness,
If from his well-known hospitality
We crave a lodging for the night.
_P. Cura._ I pray you!
You do me honor! I am but too happy
To have such guests beneath my humble roof.
It is not often that I have occasion
To speak with scholars; and _Emollit mores,_
_Nec sinit esse feros_, Cicero says.
_Hyp._ ’Tis Ovid, is it not?
_P. Cura._ No, Cicero.
_Hyp._ Your grace is right. You are the better scholar.
Now what a dunce was I to say ’twas Ovid.
But hang me if it is not! (_Aside._)
_P. Cura._ Pass this way.
He was a very great man, was Cicero!
Pray you, go in, go in! no ceremony. [_Exeunt._