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 parne, and when you have got it, return,
and we will give a banquet to all the Busne 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 {4};" 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.
