"I saw it."
"That was your work," cried the fiend, raising high the flashing knife.
"Now, Kandur, have some sense. Why should I have set it on fire?"
"Because no one else could have known that my money was stored away there. Who else would have dreamed I had money, but you? You who always changed my bank-note into silver and gold, giving me one silver florin for a small bank-note, and one gold piece for a large one. How do I know what was the value of each?—You knew I collected money. You knew how I collected, and why—for I told you. My daughter is in a certain gentleman's house; they are making a fool of her there. They are bringing her up like a duchess, until they have plucked her blossoms,—and then they will throw her away like a wash-rag. I wished to buy her off! I had already a pot of silver and a milk-pail of gold. I wanted to take her away with me to Turkey, to Tartary, where heathens dwell; and she would be a real duchess, a gypsy duchess! I shall murder, rob, and break into houses until I have a pot full of silver, and a pail full of gold. The gypsy girl will want it as her dowry. I shall not leave her for you, you white-faced porcelain tribe! I shall take her away to some place where they will not say 'Away gypsy! off gypsy! Kiss my hand, eat carrion, gypsy, gypsy!'—Give me my money."
"Kandur."
"Don't gape, or tire your mouth. Give me a pot of silver, and a pail of gold."
"All right, Kandur, you shall get your money—a pot of silver and a pail of gold. But now let me have my say. It was not I who took your money, not I who set the rick on fire."
"Who then?"
"Why those people yonder."
"Topándy, and the young gentleman?"