I started, and beheld the face of a woman peering under my hat. Notwithstanding the dusk, I could see that the features were hideously ugly and almost black; they belonged, in fact, to a gipsy crone at least seventy years of age, leaning upon a staff.
"Is your worship the London Caloró?" repeated she.
"I am he whom you seek," said I; "where is Antonio?"
"Curelando, curelando; baribustres curelós terela," said the crone. "Come with me, Caloró of my garlochin, come with me to my little ker; he will be there anon."
I followed the crone, who led the way into the town, which was ruinous and seemingly half deserted; we went up the street, from which she turned into a narrow and dark lane, and presently opened the gate of a large dilapidated house. "Come in," said she.
"And the gras?" I demanded.
"Bring the gras in too, my chabó, bring the gras in too; there is room for the gras in my little stable." We entered a large court, across which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway. "Go in, my child of Egypt," said the hag; "go in, that is my little stable."
"The place is as dark as pitch," said I, "and may be a well for what I know; bring a light, or I will not enter."
"Give me the solabarri," said the hag, "and I will lead your horse in, my chabó of Egypt--yes, and tether him to my little manger."
She led the horse through the doorway, and I heard her busy in the darkness; presently the horse shook himself. "Grasti terelamos," said the hag, who now made her appearance with the bridle in her hand; "the horse has shaken himself, he is not harmed by his day's journey; now let us go in, my Caloró, into my little room."