“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.”
Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow’s eyes; he stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Callees; he extricated himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he bore at his girdle; but the two younger females flung themselves upon him like furies, while the old woman increased his disorder by thrusting her stick into his face; he was soon glad to give up the contest, and retreated, leaving behind him his hat and cloak, which the chabi gathered up and flung after him into the street.
“This is a bad business,” said I, “the fellow will of course bring the rest of the justicia upon us, and we shall all be cast into the estaripel.”
“Ca!” said the black Callee, biting her thumb nail, “he has more reason to fear us than we him, we could bring him to the filimicha; we have, moreover, friends in this town, plenty, plenty.”
“Yes,” mumbled the grandmother, “the daughters of the baji have friends, my London Caloro, friends among the Busnees, baributre, baribu (plenty, plenty).”
Nothing farther of any account occurred in the Gypsy house; the next day, Antonio and myself were again in the saddle, we travelled at least thirteen leagues before we reached the Venta, where we passed the night; we rose early in the morning, my guide informing me that we had a long day’s journey to make. “Where are we bound to?” I demanded. “To Trujillo,” he replied.