“Yes, yes, I remember, and it is this that fills my heart with bitterness. He wrested these things from our foes, the Busne. They were his portion of the spoil. He laid many an ambush, and reddened his knife more than once for the frippery which you get in easier ways; for every button that he wore, his people had some gain of their own to show. How is it with you, Chaleco?—how many of our people have been fortunate, that you are tricked out so bravely? How many mules did you shear in Seville, to earn what is upon your back?”
“Aurora would not taunt me so,” said the gipsy, with a fierce gesture, “if she did”——
“Well, what then?” rejoined the old woman, sharply, though her fierce eye quailed a little, and a quick ear might have detected something like terror in her voice.
“Why, then,” said the young man, “I would send word that the ton of sweetmeats in which we shall dance knee deep at our marriage festival, should be kept back; and I would fling this chain of gold, which shall lace up her wedding bodice, into the Darro. It is because you are old and learned—the widow of a great count, that I have borne all these gibes so tamely; no one else in the tribe should revile me thus. She least of all.”
Either the stern tone which the young man assumed, or his praise of her dead husband, softened the austere temper of the old woman. Perhaps it might be the unwonted sight of that gold ornament, or what is most probable, her attack upon the young man had been an artful scheme to gain time, till her grand-daughter should appear. Certain it is, her face took an expression less in character than the wrath had been with her weird features. A crafty, sly expression stole into her eyes; her mouth stirred with a slow smile, moving sluggishly as the worm creeps. She reached out her hand for the chain, and letting it drop to a heap in her palm, bent over it with a look of gloating avarice that would have been hideous to any one but the Gitano, who had witnessed these scenes from his birth.
The old woman looked suddenly up. A fierce light was in her eyes.
“The rings in my ears are red hot; the chain burns in my palm; I know the sign; the Busne has been forced to give up his gold once more. Our people have not altogether sunk down to be mere trimmers of mules and donkeys. You did not work for this, my Chaleco!”
“Hush!” said the gipsy, lifting his finger with a smile, in which terror and triumph was blended, “the Busne may be hanging about our caves. The chain is for Aurora. She shall wear it upon her bosom on our wedding day. But where is she? Your sharp words have driven her from my mind!”
“No, no, my son, it is well that we are alone; you have accomplished a great deed—a deed worthy of Aurora’s grandfather, he who has stained many a rood of soil with Busne blood—but times have changed since he roamed the hills with our people. If there was blood—and the gold burns my palm as if it had been baptized—they will be on our track, hunting you into our holes as they do the foxes. Tell me how it all happened; my heart burns to hear; the tidings have filled these old veins as with wine; I had begun to be ashamed of my people. Sit down, Chaleco, here, on the old chair which he took from the choir of their proudest cathedral while the priests were chanting mass. You never sat in it before; but now that you have reddened your finger nails—warmed my palm with gold that is not worked for, the seat is yours. Sit down, my son, while I draw close, that we may talk!”
The young gipsy sat down, but evidently with some impatience; and the Sibyl creeping close to his side, placed herself on a low bench, and, bending forward, fixed her glittering eyes on his face.