There was occasionally something very wild in her gestures and demeanour; more than once I observed her, in the midst of much declamation, to stop short, stare in vacancy, and thrust out her palms as if endeavouring to push away some invisible substance; she goggled frightfully with her eyes, and once sank back in convulsions, of which her children took no farther notice than observing that she was only lili, and would soon come to herself.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, as the three women and myself sat conversing as usual over the brasero, a shabby looking fellow in an old rusty cloak walked into the room:  he came straight up to the place where we were sitting, produced a paper cigar, which he lighted at a coal, and taking a whiff or two, looked at me:  “Carracho,” said he, “who is this companion?”

I saw at once that the fellow was no Gypsy:  the women said nothing, but I could hear the grandmother growling to herself, something after the manner of an old grimalkin when disturbed.

“Carracho,” reiterated the fellow, “how came this companion here?”

“No le penela chi min chaboro,” said the black Callee to me, in an undertone; “sin un balicho de los chineles {4};” then looking up to the interrogator she said aloud, “he is one of our people from Portugal, come on the smuggling lay, and to see his poor sisters here.”

“Then let him give me some tobacco,” said the fellow, “I suppose he has brought some with him.”

“He has no tobacco,” said the black Callee, “he has nothing but old iron.  This cigar is the only tobacco there is in the house; take it, smoke it, and go away!”

Thereupon she produced a cigar from out her shoe, which she presented to the alguazil.

“This will not do,” said the fellow, taking the cigar, “I must have something better; it is now three months since I received anything from you; the last present was a handkerchief, which was good for nothing; therefore hand me over something worth taking, or I will carry you all to the Carcel.”

“The Busno will take us to prison,” said the black Callee, “ha! ha! ha!”

“The Chinel will take us to prison,” giggled the young girl “he! he! he!”

“The Bengui will carry us all to the estaripel,” grunted the Gypsy grandmother, “ho! ho! ho!”

The three females arose and walked slowly round the fellow, fixing their eyes steadfastly on his face; he appeared frightened, and evidently wished to get away.  Suddenly the two youngest seized his hands, and whilst he struggled to release himself, the old woman exclaimed:  “You want tobacco, hijo—­you come to the Gypsy house to frighten the Callees and the strange Caloro out of their plako—­ truly, hijo, we have none for you, and right sorry I am; we have, however, plenty of the dust a su servicio.”