“Well, things went on in this way for years, and I had three chai by the black man, two of them died, but the youngest, who is the Calli who sits by the brasero, was spared; so we roamed about and choried and told baji; and it came to pass that once in the winter time our company attempted to pass a wide and deep river, of which there are many in the Chim del Corahai, and the boat overset with the rapidity of the current and all our people were drowned, all but myself and my chabi, whom I bore in my bosom.  I had now no friends amongst the Corahai, and I wandered about the despoblados howling and lamenting till I became half lili (mad), and in this manner I found my way to the coast, where I made friends with the captain of a ship and returned to this land of Spain.  And now I am here, I often wish myself back again amongst the Corahai.”

Here she commenced laughing loud and long, and when she had ceased, her daughter and grandchild took up the laugh, which they continued so long that I concluded they were all lunatics.

Hour succeeded hour, and still we sat crouching over the brasero, from which, by this time, all warmth had departed; the glow had long since disappeared, and only a few dying sparks were to be distinguished.  The room or hall was now involved in utter darkness; the women were motionless and still; I shivered and began to feel uneasy.  “Will Antonio be here to-night?” at length I demanded.

“No tenga usted cuidao, my London Caloro,” said the Gypsy mother, in an unearthly tone; “Pepindorio {2} has been here some time.”

I was about to rise from my seat and attempt to escape from the house, when I felt a hand laid upon my shoulder, and in a moment I heard the voice of Antonio.

“Be not afraid, ’tis I, brother; we will have a light anon, and then supper.”

The supper was rude enough, consisting of bread, cheese, and olives.  Antonio, however, produced a leathern bottle of excellent wine; we despatched these viands by the light of an earthen lamp which was placed upon the floor.

“Now,” said Antonio to the youngest female, “bring me the pajandi, and I will sing a gachapla.”

The girl brought the guitar, which, with some difficulty, the Gypsy tuned, and then strumming it vigorously, he sang: 

“I stole a plump and bonny fowl,
   But ere I well had dined,
The master came with scowl and growl,
   And me would captive bind.

“My hat and mantle off I threw,
   And scour’d across the lea,
Then cried the beng {3} with loud halloo,
   Where does the Gypsy flee?”

He continued playing and singing for a considerable time, the two younger females dancing in the meanwhile with unwearied diligence, whilst the aged mother occasionally snapped her fingers or beat time on the ground with her stick.  At last Antonio suddenly laid down the instrument:-

“I see the London Caloro is weary; enough, enough, to-morrow more thereof—­we will now to the charipe (bed).”