place. Now, brother, step aside with the horse, and wait for me
beneath yonder wall. I must go before and see in what condition
matters stand."

I dismounted from the horse, and sat down on a stone beneath the
ruined wall to which Antonio had motioned me; the sun went down,
and the air was exceedingly keen; I drew close around me an old
tattered gypsy cloak with which my companion had provided me, and
being somewhat fatigued, fell into a doze which lasted for nearly
an hour.

"Is your worship the London Caloro?" said a strange voice close
beside me.

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 gypsy
crone, at least seventy years of age, leaning upon a staff.

"Is your worship the London Caloro?" repeated she.

"I am he whom you seek," said I; "where is Antonio?"

"Curelando, curelando, baribustres curelos terela," {1} said the
crone: "come with me, Caloro 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