“Give me the solabarri,” 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 gipsies,” 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 Corahanos.  Ah! a fine people are the Corahanos; 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, 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 sutler, 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;