'Not know me!' replied the being. 'I am Sevilla, the torero. I know you
well; you are the friend of Baltasarito, the national, who is a friend of
mine, and a very good subject.'

Then turning to the company, he said in a sonorous tone, laying a strong
emphasis on the last syllable of every word, according to the custom of
the gente rufianesca throughout Spain--

'Cavaliers, and strong men, this cavalier is the friend of a friend of
mine. Es mucho hombre. There is none like him in Spain. He speaks the
crabbed Gitano, though he is an Inglesito.'

'We do not believe it,' replied several grave voices. 'It is not
possible.'

'It is not possible, say you? I tell you it is. Come forward, Balseiro,
you who have been in prison all your life, and are always boasting that
you can speak the crabbed Gitano, though I say you know nothing of
it--come forward and speak to his worship in the crabbed Gitano.'

A low, slight, but active figure stepped forward. He was in his shirt-
sleeves, and wore a montero cap; his features were handsome but they were
those of a demon.

He spoke a few words in the broken gypsy slang of the prison, inquiring
of me whether I had ever been in the condemned cell, and whether I knew
what a Gitana was.

'Vamos Inglesito,' shouted Sevilla, in a voice of thunder; 'answer the