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 gypsies,” 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 Corahanoes; ah, a fine people are the Corahanoes; 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 (Spaniards), 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 suttler, 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 (wine-shop), he was dressed like a Corahano, and yet he did not look like one, he looked like more a callardo (black), and yet he was not a callardo either, though he was almost black, and as I looked upon him I thought he looked something like the Errate, and he said to me, ‘Zincali; chachipe!’ and then he whispered to me in queer language, which I could scarcely understand, ’Your ro is waiting, come with me, my little sister, and I will take you unto him.’  ‘Where is he?’ said I, and he pointed to the west, to the land of the Corahai, and said, ’He is yonder away; come with me, little sister, the ro is waiting.’  For a moment I was afraid, but I bethought me of my husband and I wished to be amongst the Corahai; so I took the little parne (money) I had, and locking up the cachimani went with the strange man; the sentinel challenged us at the gate, but I gave him repani (brandy) and he let us