“Well,” said I, “we will drop the matter; but pray seat yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.”

The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right.

After a time I addressed him thus.  “Am I to reckon this a mere visit of ceremony?  Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the first visit of the kind ever paid me.”

“Will you permit me to ask,” said the man in black,—­“the weather is very warm,” said he, interrupting himself, and taking off his hat.

I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having died away from the fore part of his crown; his forehead was high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes, grey and sly, with a downward tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large—­a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his complexion was somewhat rubicund.

“A bad countenance,” said Belle, in the language of the roads, observing that my eyes were fixed on his face.

“Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel?” said the man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly gentle voice.

“How,” said I, “do you understand the language of the roads?”

“As little as I do Armenian,” said the man in black; “but I understand look and tone.”

“So do I, perhaps,” retorted Belle; “and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.”

“For shame!” said I; “have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality?  You have not yet answered my question,” said I, addressing myself to the man, “with respect to your visit.”

“Will you permit me to ask who you are?”

“Do you see the place where I live?” said I.

“I do,” said the man in black, looking around.

“Do you know the name of this place?”

“I was told it was Mumpers’ or Gypsies’ Dingle,” said the man in black.

“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what do they look like?”

“Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan; I have seen the like in Italy.”

“Good,” said I; “they belong to me.”

“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black.

“What else should I be?”

“But you seem to have been acquainted with various individuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance; and you have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed between me and them.”

“Do you know how Gypsies live!” said I.

“By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.”

“Well,” said I, “there’s my forge, and yonder is some iron, though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.”

“But how did you come by your knowledge?”