"That is
Merida," said Antonio, "formerly, as the Busne 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.
"Is your worship the London Caloro?" said a strange voice close
beside me.
I started and beheld the face of a woman peering under my hat.
Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the features were
hideously ugly and almost black; they belonged, in fact, to a gypsy
crone, at least seventy years of age, leaning upon a staff.
"Is your worship the London Caloro?" repeated she.
"I am he whom you seek," said I; "where is Antonio?"
"Curelando, curelando, baribustres curelos terela," {1} said the
crone: "come with me, Caloro 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 chabo, 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 (bridle)," said the hag, "and I will lead
your horse in, my chabo 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," 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 Caloro, 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 chabi; sit down, my London Caloro, 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 Caloro, some of them just as they were left by the
Corahanoes; ah, a fine people are the Corahanoes; 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 Caloro, - twice have I been
in the land of the Corahai; the first time is more than fifty years
ago, I was then with the Sese (Spaniards), for my husband was a
soldier of the Crallis of Spain, and Oran at that time belonged to
Spain."
"You were not then with the real Moors," said I, "but only with the
Spaniards who occupied part of their country."
"I have been with the real Moors, my London Caloro. 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 Corahano; this night I will kill
my sergeant and flee to the camp of the Moor.' 'Do so,' said I,
'my chabo, and as soon as may be I will follow you and become a
Corahani.' That same night he killed his sergeant, who five years
before had called him Calo 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 repani 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 (wine-shop), he was dressed like
a Corahano, and yet he did not look like one, he looked like more a
callardo (black), and yet he was not a callardo 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; chachipe!'
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 parne
(money) I had, and locking up the cachimani went with the strange
man; the sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him repani
(brandy) and he let us pass; in a moment we were in the land of the
Corahai.
