itself on my first entrance into Spain. In a word, I determined to
accompany the gypsy. "I will go with you," I exclaimed; "as for my
baggage, I will despatch it to Madrid by the birdoche." "Do so,
brother," he replied, "and the gras will go lighter. Baggage,
indeed!--what need of baggage have you? How the Busne on the road
would laugh if they saw two Cales with baggage behind them."

During my stay at Badajoz, I had but little intercourse with the
Spaniards, my time being chiefly devoted to the gypsies, with whom,
from long intercourse with various sections of their race in
different parts of the world, I felt myself much more at home than
with the silent, reserved men of Spain, with whom a foreigner might
mingle for half a century without having half a dozen words
addressed to him, unless he himself made the first advances to
intimacy, which, after all, might be rejected with a shrug and a no
intendo; for, among the many deeply rooted prejudices of these
people, is the strange idea that no foreigner can speak their
language; an idea to which they will still cling though they hear
him conversing with perfect ease; for in that case the utmost that
they will concede to his attainments is, Habla quatro palabras y
nada mas (he can speak four words, and no more).

Early one morning, before sunrise, I found myself at the house of
Antonio; it was a small mean building, situated in a dirty street.
The morning was quite dark; the street, however, was partially
illumined by a heap of lighted straw, round which two or three men
were busily engaged, apparently holding an object over the flames.
Presently the gypsy's door opened, and Antonio made his appearance;
and, casting his eye in the direction of the light, exclaimed, "The
swine have killed their brother; would that every Busno was served