About noon we arrived at a small village in the neighborhood of a high lumpy hill.  “There is no Calo house in this place,” said Antonio:  “we will therefore go to the posada of the Busne and refresh ourselves, man and beast.”  We entered the kitchen and sat down at the board, calling for wine and bread.  There were two ill-looking fellows in the kitchen smoking cigars.  I said something to Antonio in the Calo language.

“What is that I hear?” said one of the fellows, who was distinguished by an immense pair of mustaches.  “What is that I hear?  Is it in Calo that you are speaking before me, and I a chalan and national?  Accursed gipsy, how dare you enter this posada and speak before me in that speech?  Is it not forbidden by the law of the land in which we are, even as it is forbidden for a gipsy to enter the mercado?  I tell you what, friend, if I hear another word of Calo come from your mouth, I will cudgel your bones and send you flying over the house-tops with a kick of my foot.”

“You would do right,” said his companion; “the insolence of these gipsies is no longer to be borne.  When I am at Merida or Badajoz I go to the mercado, and there in a corner stand the accursed gipsies, jabbering to each other in a speech which I understand not.  ’Gipsy gentleman,’ say I to one of them, ‘what will you have for that donkey?’ ‘I will have ten dollars for it, Caballero national,’ says the gipsy:  ‘it is the best donkey in all Spain.’  ‘I should like to see its paces,’ say I.  ‘That you shall, most valorous!’ says the gipsy, and jumping upon its back, he puts it to its paces, first of all whispering something into its ear in Calo; and truly the paces of the donkey are most wonderful, such as I have never seen before.  I think it will just suit me; and after looking at it awhile, I take out the money and pay for it.  ‘I shall go to my house,’ says the gipsy; and off he runs.  ’I shall go to my village,’ say I, and I mount the donkey, ‘Vamonos,’ say I, but the donkey won’t move.  I give him a switch, but I don’t get on the better for that.  What happens then, brother?  The wizard no sooner feels the prick than he bucks down, and flings me over his head into the mire.  I get up and look about me; there stands the donkey staring at me, and there stand the whole gipsy canaille squinting at me with their filmy eyes.  ‘Where is the scamp who has sold me this piece of furniture?’ I shout.  ‘He is gone to Granada, valorous,’ says one.  ’He is gone to see his kindred among the Moors,’ says another.  ’I just saw him running over the field, in the direction of ——­, with the devil close behind him,’ says a third.  In a word, I am tricked.  I wish to dispose of the donkey:  no one, however, will buy him; he is a Calo donkey, and every person avoids him.  At last the gipsies offer thirty reals for him; and after much chaffering I am glad to get rid of him at two dollars.  It is all a trick, however; he returns to his master, and the brotherhood share the spoil amongst them:  all which villainy would be prevented, in my opinion, were the Calo language not spoken; for what but the word of Calo could have induced the donkey to behave in such an unaccountable manner?”