[69] The wife of the teniente, or lieutenant. " and you ask for two-and-twenty maravedis?  Go your ways, Contreras, for a tiresome blockhead, as you always were.”

“How witty you are,” said the lady visitor; then turning to the squire, “Do you happen to have a quarto about you, Senor Contreras? if you have, give it me, and when my husband the doctor comes you shall have it again.”

“I have one,” replied Contreras, “but it is pledged for two-and-twenty maravedis for my supper; give me so much and I will fly to fetch it.”

“We have not a quarto amongst us all,” said Dona Clara, “and you ask for two-and-twenty maravedis?  Go your ways, Contreras, for a tiresome blockhead, as you always were.”

One of the damsels present, seeing the penury of the house, said to Preciosa, “Nina, will it be of any use to make the cross with a silver thimble?”

“Certainly,” said Preciosa; “the best crosses in the world are made with silver thimbles, provided there are plenty of them.”

“I have one,” said the doncella; “if that is enough, here it is, on condition that my fortune be told too.”

“So many fortunes to be told for a thimble!” exclaimed the old gipsy.  “Make haste, granddaughter, for it will soon be night.”  Preciosa took the thimble, and began her sooth saying.

    Pretty lady, pretty lady,
      With a hand as silver fair,
    How thy husband dearly loves thee
      ’Tis superfluous to declare.

    Thou’rt a dove, all milk of kindness;
      Yet at times too thou canst be
    Wrathful as a tiger, or a
      Lioness of Barbary.

    Thou canst show thy teeth when jealous;
      Truly the lieutenant’s sly;
    Loves with furtive sports to vary
      Magisterial gravity.

    What a pity!  One worth having
      Woo’d thee when a maiden fair. 
    Plague upon all interlopers! 
      You’d have made a charming pair.

    Sooth, I do not like to say it,
      Yet it may as well be said;
    Thou wilt be a buxom widow;
      Twice again shalt thou be wed.

    Do not weep, my sweet senora;
      We gitanas, you must know,
    Speak not always true as gospel
      Weep not then sweet lady so.

    If the thought is too distressing,
      Losing such a tender mate,
    Thou hast but to die before him,
      To escape a widow’s fate.

    Wealth abundant thou’lt inherit,
      And that quickly, never fear: 
    Thou shalt have a son, a canon,
      —­Of what church does not appear;

    Not Toledo; no, that can’t be;
      And a daughter—­let me see—­
    Ay, she’ll rise to be an abbess;
      —­That is, if a nun she be.

    If thy husband do not drop off
      From this moment in weeks four,
    Burgos him, or Salamanca,
      Shall behold corregidor.