Antonio.—‘Give me your hand, brother! I should have come to see you before, but I have been to Olivenzas in search of a horse. What I have heard of you has filled me with much desire to know you, and I now see that you can tell me many things which I am ignorant of. I am Zíncalo by the four sides—I love our blood, and I hate that of the Busné. Had I my will I would wash my face every day in the blood of the Busné, for the Busné are made only to be robbed and to be slaughtered; but I love the Caloré, and I love to hear of things of the Caloré, especially from those of foreign lands; for the Caloré of foreign lands know more than we of Spain, and more resemble our fathers of old.’
Myself.—‘Have you ever met before with Caloré who were not Spaniards?’
Antonio.—‘I will tell you, brother. I served as a soldier in the war of the independence against the French. War, it is true, is not the proper occupation of a Gitáno, but those were strange times, and all those who could bear arms were compelled to go forth to fight: so I went with the English armies, and we chased the Gabiné unto the frontier of France; and it happened once that we joined in desperate battle, and there was a confusion, and the two parties became intermingled and fought sword to sword and bayonet to bayonet, and a French soldier singled me out, and we fought for a long time, cutting, goring, and cursing each other, till at last we flung down our arms and grappled; long we wrestled, body to body, but I found that I was the weaker, and I fell. The French soldier’s knee was on my breast, and his grasp was on my throat, and he seized his bayonet, and he raised it to thrust me through the jaws; and his cap had fallen off, and I lifted up my eyes wildly to his face, and our eyes met, and I gave a loud shriek, and cried Zíncalo, Zíncalo! and I felt him shudder, and he relaxed his grasp and started up, and he smote his forehead and wept, and then he came to me and knelt down by my side, for I was almost dead, and he took my hand and called me Brother and Zíncalo, and he produced his flask and poured wine into my mouth, and I revived, and he raised me up, and led me from the concourse, and we sat down on a knoll, and the two parties were fighting all around, and he said, “Let the dogs fight, and tear each others’ throats till they are all destroyed, what matters it to the Zíncali? they are not of our blood, and shall that be shed for them?” So we sat for hours on the knoll and discoursed on matters pertaining to our people; and I could have listened for years, for he told me secrets which made my ears tingle, and I soon found that I knew nothing, though I had before considered myself quite Zíncalo; but as for him, he knew the whole cuenta; the Bengui Lango [189] himself could have told him nothing but what he knew. So we sat till the sun went down and the battle was over, and he proposed that we should both flee to his own country and live there with the Zíncali; but my heart failed me; so we embraced, and he departed to the Gabiné, whilst I returned to our own battalions.’
Myself.—‘Do you know from what country he came?’
Antonio.—‘He told me that he was a Mayoro.’
Myself.—‘You mean a Magyar or Hungarian.’
Antonio.—‘Just so; and I have repented ever since that I did not follow him.’
Myself.—‘Why so?’
Antonio.—‘I will tell you: the king has destroyed the law of the Calés, and has put disunion amongst us. There was a time when the house of every Zíncalo, however rich, was open to his brother, though he came to him naked; and it was then the custom to boast of the “erráte.” It is no longer so now: those who are rich keep aloof from the rest, will not speak in Calo, and will have no dealings but with the Busné. Is there not a false brother in this foros, the only rich man among us, the swine, the balichow? he is married to a Busnee and he would fain appear as a Busno! Tell me one thing, has he been to see you? The white blood, I know he has not; he was afraid to see you, for he knew that by Gypsy law he was bound to take you to his house and feast you, whilst you remained, like a prince, like a crallis of the Calés, as I believe you are, even though he sold the last gras from the stall. Who have come to see you, brother? Have they not been such as Paco and his wife, wretches without a house, or, at best, one filled with cold and poverty; so that you have had to stay at a mesuna, at a posada of the Busné; and, moreover, what have the Calés given you since you have been residing here? Nothing, I trow, better than this rubbish, which is all I can offer you, this Meligrána de los Bengues.’
Here he produced a pomegranate from the pocket of his zamarra, and flung it on the table with such force that the fruit burst, and the red grains were scattered on the floor.