Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house of Antonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street.  The morning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially illumined by a heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men were busily engaged, apparently holding an object over the flames.  Presently the gipsy’s door opened, and Antonio made his appearance; and casting his eye in the direction of the light, exclaimed, “The swine have killed their brother; would that every Busno was served as yonder hog is.  Come in, brother, and we will eat the heart of that hog.”  I scarcely understood his words, but following him, he led me into a low room, in which was a brasero, or small pan full of lighted charcoal; beside it was a rude table, spread with a coarse linen cloth, upon which was bread and a large pipkin full of a mess which emitted no disagreeable savor.  “The heart of the balicho is in that puchera,” said Antonio; “eat, brother.”  We both sat down and ate—­Antonio voraciously.  When we had concluded he arose.  “Have you got your li?” he demanded.  “Here it is,” said I, showing him my passport.  “Good,” said he; “you may want it, I want none:  my passport is the bar lachi.  Now for a glass of repani, and then for the road.”

We left the room, the door of which he locked, hiding the key beneath a loose brick in a corner of the passage.  “Go into the street, brother, whilst I fetch the caballerias from the stable.”  I obeyed him.  The sun had not yet risen, and the air was piercingly cold; the gray light, however, of dawn enabled me to distinguish objects with tolerable accuracy; I soon heard the clattering of the animal’s feet, and Antonio presently stepped forth, leading the horse by the bridle; the macho followed behind.  I looked at the horse, and shrugged my shoulders.  As far as I could scan it, it appeared the most uncouth animal I had ever beheld.  It was of a spectral white, short in the body, but with remarkably long legs.  I observed that it was particularly high in the cruz, or withers.  “You are looking at the grasti,” said Antonio:  “it is eighteen years old, but it is the very best in the Chim del Manro; I have long had my eye upon it; I bought it for my own use for the affairs of Egypt.  Mount, brother, mount, and let us leave the foros—­the gate is about being opened.”

He locked the door, and deposited the key in his faja.  In less than a quarter of an hour we had left the town behind us.  “This does not appear to be a very good horse,” said I to Antonio, as we proceeded over the plain:  “it is with difficulty that I can make him move.”

“He is the swiftest horse in the Chim del Manro, brother,” said Antonio; “at the gallop and at the speedy trot, there is no one to match him.  But he is eighteen years old, and his joints are stiff, especially of a morning; but let him once become heated, and the genio del viejo comes upon him, and there is no holding him in with bit or bridle.  I bought that horse for the affairs of Egypt, brother.”