low poor?'

'One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has not a horse of
his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down to his wife, who cannot
move about, being a cripple, as you saw.'

'And you are what is called a Gypsy King?'

'Ay, ay; a Rommany Kral.'

'Are there other kings?'

'Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is Petulengro.'

'Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes?'

'The first who ever did, brother.'

'Pharaoh lived in Egypt.'

'So did we once, brother.'

'And you left it?'

'My fathers did, brother.'

'And why did they come here?'

'They had their reasons, brother.'

'And you are not English?'

'We are not gorgios.'

'And you have a language of your own?'

'Avali.'

'This is wonderful.'

'Ha, ha!' cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting, at the farther
end of the tent, without saying a word, though not inattentive to our
conversation, as I could perceive by certain glances which she
occasionally cast upon us both. 'Ha, ha!' she screamed, fixing upon me
two eyes, which shone like burning coals, and which were filled with an
expression both of scorn and malignity, 'It is wonderful, is it, that we
should have a language of our own? What, you grudge the poor people the
speech they talk among themselves? That's just like you gorgios; you
would have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We
are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give an
account of ourselves. So I says to my sister's little boy, speaking
Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, Run to my son Jasper,
and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks abroad. So the
Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being able to make anything of
us; but, as we are going, he calls us back. "Good woman," says the
Poknees, "what was that I heard you say just now to the little boy?" "I
was telling him, your worship, to go and see the time of day, and to save
trouble I said it in our own language." "Where did you get that
language?" says the Poknees. "'Tis our own language, sir," I tells him,
"we did not steal it." "Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman?"
says the Poknees. "I would thank you, sir," says I, "for 'tis often we
are asked about it." "Well, then," says the Poknees, "it is no language
at all, merely a made-up gibberish." "Oh, bless your wisdom," says I,
with a curtsey, "you can tell us what our language is, without
understandin