l bottles of wine which he had ordered from the tavern, of
course on my account. He was smoking, and looked savage and sullen;
perhaps he was not much pleased with the reception he had experienced. He
had forced himself in, and the woman of the house sat in a corner looking
upon him with dread. I addressed him, but he would scarcely return an
answer. At last he commenced discoursing with great volubility in Gypsy
and Latin. I did not understand much of what he said. His words were
wild and incoherent, but he repeatedly threatened some person. The last
bottle was now exhausted--he demanded more. I told him in a gentle
manner that he had drunk enough. He looked on the ground for some time,
then slowly, and somewhat hesitatingly, drew his sword and laid it on the
table. It was become dark. I was not afraid of the fellow, but I wished
to avoid any thing unpleasant. I called to Francisco to bring lights,
and obeying a sign which I made him, he sat down at the table. The Gypsy
glared fiercely upon him--Francisco laughed, and began with great glee to
talk in Basque, of which the Gypsy understood not a word. The Basques,
like all Tartars, and such they are, are paragons of fidelity and good
nature; they are only dangerous when outraged, when they are terrible
indeed. Francisco to the strength of a giant joined the disposition of a
lamb. He was beloved even in the patio of the prison, where he used to
pitch the bar and wrestle with the murderers and felons, always coming
off victor. He continued speaking Basque. The Gypsy was incensed; and,
forgetting the languages in which, for the last hour, he had been
speaking, complained to Francisco of his rudeness in speaking any tongue
but Castilian. The Basque replied by a loud carcajada, and slightly
touched the Gypsy on the knee. The latter sprang up like a mine
discharged, seized his sword, and, retreating a few steps, made a
desperate lunge at Francisco.

"The Basques, next to the Pasiegos, are the best cudgel-players in Spain,
and in the world. Francisco held in his hand part of a broomstick, which
he had broken in the stable, whence he had just ascended. With the
swiftness of lightning he foiled the stroke of Chaleco, and, in another
moment, with a dexterous blow, struck the sword out of his hand, sending
it ringing against the wall.

"The Gypsy resumed his seat and his cigar. He occasionally looked at the
Basque. His glances were at first atrocious, but pr