‘List to the Corahai,’ said the tall woman, in broken Gypsy slang, ‘hear how they jabber (hunelad como chamulian), truly we will make them pay for the noise they raise in the house.’ Then coming up to me, she demanded with a shout, fearing otherwise that I should not understand, whether I would not wish to see the room where I was to sleep. I nodded: whereupon she led me out upon a back terrace, and opening the door of a small room, of which there were three, asked me if it would suit. ‘Perfectly,’ said I, and returned with her to the kitchen.
‘O, what a handsome face! what a royal person!’ exclaimed the whole family as I returned, in Spanish, but in the whining, canting tones peculiar to the Gypsies, when they are bent on victimising. ‘A more ugly Busno it has never been our chance to see,’ said the same voices in the next breath, speaking in the jargon of the tribe. ‘Won’t your Moorish Royalty please to eat something?’ said the tall hag. ‘We have nothing in the house; but I will run out and buy a fowl, which I hope may prove a royal peacock to nourish and strengthen you.’ ‘I hope it may turn to drow in your entrails,’ she muttered to the rest in Gypsy. She then ran down, and in a minute returned with an old hen, which, on my arrival, I had observed below in the stable. ‘See this beautiful fowl,’ said she, ‘I have been running over all Tarifa to procure it for your kingship; trouble enough I have had to obtain it, and dear enough it has cost me. I will now cut its throat.’ ‘Before you kill it,’ said I, ‘I should wish to know what you paid for it, that there may be no dispute about it in the account.’ ‘Two dollars I paid for it, most valorous and handsome sir; two dollars it cost me, out of my own quisobi—out of my own little purse.’ I saw it was high time to put an end to these zalamerias, and therefore exclaimed in Gitáno, ‘You mean two brujis (reals), O mother of all the witches, and that is twelve cuartos more than it is worth.’ ‘Ay Dios mio, whom have we here?’ exclaimed the females. ‘One,’ I replied, ‘who knows you well and all your ways. Speak! am I to have the hen for two reals? if not, I shall leave the house this moment.’ ‘O yes, to be sure, brother, and for nothing if you wish it,’ said the tall woman, in natural and quite altered tones; ‘but why did you enter the house speaking in Corahai like a Bengui? We thought you a Busno, but we now see that you are of our religion; pray sit down and tell us where you have been.’ . .
Myself.—‘Now, my good people, since I have answered your questions, it is but right that you should answer some of mine; pray who are you? and how happens it that you are keeping this inn?’
Gypsy Hag.—‘Verily, brother, we can scarcely tell you who we are. All we know of ourselves is, that we keep this inn, to our trouble and sorrow, and that our parents kept it before us; we were all born in this house, where I suppose we shall die.’
Myself.—‘Who is the master of the house, and whose are these children?’
Gypsy Hag.—‘The master of the house is the fool, my brother, who stands before you without saying a word; to him belong these children, and the cripple in the chair is his wife, and my cousin. He has also two sons who are grown-up men; one is a chumajarri (shoemaker), and the other serves a tanner.’
Myself.—‘Is it not contrary to the law of the Cales to follow such trades?’
Gypsy Hag.—‘We know of no law, and little of the Cales themselves. Ours is the only Calo family in Tarifa, and we never left it in our lives, except occasionally to go on the smuggling lay to Gibraltar. True it is that the Cales, when they visit Tarifa, put up at our house, sometimes to our cost. There was one Rafael, son of the rich Fruto of Cordova, here last summer, to buy up horses, and he departed a baria and a half in our debt; however, I do not grudge it him, for he is a handsome and clever Chabó—a fellow of many capacities. There was more than one Busno had cause to rue his coming to Tarifa.’
Myself.—‘Do you live on good terms with the Busné of Tarifa?’
Gypsy Hag.—‘Brother, we live on the best terms with the Busné of Tarifa; especially with the errays. The first people in Tarifa come to this house, to have their baji told by the cripple in the chair and by myself. I know not how it is, but we are more considered by the grandees than the poor, who hate and loathe us. When my first and only infant died, for I have been married, the child of one of the principal people was put to me to nurse, but I hated it for its white blood, as you may well believe. It never throve, for I did it a private mischief, and though it grew up and is now a youth, it is—mad.’