On the following morning, as I was about to leave my tent, I heard the voice of Belle at the door, exclaiming, “Sleepest thou, or wakest thou?” “I was never more awake in my life,” said I, going out, “What is the matter?” “He of the horse-shoe,” said she, “Jasper, of whom I have heard you talk, is above there on the field with all his people; I went about a quarter of an hour ago to fill the kettle at the spring, and saw them arriving.”  “It is well,” said I; “have you any objection to asking him and his wife to breakfast?” “You can do as you please,” said she; “I have cups enough, and have no objection to their company.”  “We are the first occupiers of the ground,” said I, “and, being so, should consider ourselves in the light of hosts, and do our best to practise the duties of hospitality.”  “How fond you are of using that word!” said Belle:  “if you wish to invite the man and his wife, do so, without more ado; remember, however, that I have not cups enough, nor indeed tea enough, for the whole company.”  Thereupon hurrying up the ascent, I presently found myself outside the dingle.  It was as usual a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon.  A rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground in the vicinity of the mouth of the dingle.  About five yards on the right I perceived Mr. Petulengro busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire, and which is called in the Romanian language “Kekauviskoe saster.”  With the sharp end of this Mr. Petulengro was making holes in the earth at about twenty inches’ distance from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted no less than the timbers of the tent, and the supporters of the canvas.  Mrs. Petulengro and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground, whilst two or three children, from six to ten years old, who composed the young family of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro, were playing about.

“Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, as he drove the sharp end of the bar into the ground; “here we are, and plenty of us—­Bute dosta Romany chals.” {242}

“I am glad to see you all,” said I; “and particularly you, madam,” said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro; “and you also, madam,” taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno.

“Good day to you, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you look as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners.”

“It is not all gold that glitters,” said Mrs. Chikno.  “However, good-morrow to you, young rye.”

“I do not see Tawno,” said I, looking around; “where is he?”

“Where, indeed!” said Mrs. Chikno; “I don’t know; he who countenances him in the roving line can best answer.”