I answered the robber, for such he was, and one too whose name will live for many a year in the ruffian histories of Madrid; I answered him in a speech of some length, in the dialect of the Estremenian gypsies.
‘I believe it is the crabbed Gitano,’ muttered Balseiro. ‘It is either that or English, for I understand not a word of it.’
‘Did I not say to you,’ cried the bullfighter, ‘that you knew nothing of the crabbed Gitano? But this Ingleisto does. I understood all he said. Vaya, there is none like him for the crabbed Gitano. He is a good ginete, too; next to myself, there is none like him, only he rides with stirrup leathers too short. Inglesito, if you have need of money, I will lend you my purse. All I have is at your service, and that is not a little; I have just gained four thousand chulés by the lottery. Courage, Englishman! Another cup. I will pay all—I, Sevilla!’
And he clapped his hand repeatedly on his breast, reiterating, ‘I, Sevilla! I—
* * * * *
‘The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed and foamed. ‘How do you like it?’ said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught.
‘It is wonderful wine,’ said I; ‘I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day.’
‘Nor I,’ said the jockey, ‘for everyday drinking give me a glass of old port, or—’
‘Of hard old ale,’ I interposed, ‘which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.’
‘Well said, Romany Rye,’ said the jockey, ‘just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce.’