feminine _calli_, plural _cales_. Literally
"black," the name the gipsies apply to themselves in their
own language.

"Ah, sir, that day! that day! When I think of it I forget what to-morrow
must bring me!"

For a moment the bandit held his peace, then, when he had relighted his
cigar, he began afresh.

"We spent the whole day together, eating, drinking, and so forth. When
she had stuffed herself with sugar-plums, like any child of six years
old, she thrust them by handfuls into the old woman's water-jar.
'That'll make sherbet for her,' she said. She smashed the _yemas_ by
throwing them against the walls. 'They'll keep the flies from bothering
us.' There was no prank or wild frolic she didn't indulge in. I told her
I should have liked to see her dance, only there were no castanets to
be had. Instantly she seized the old woman's only earthenware plate,
smashed it up, and there she was dancing the _Romalis_, and making the
bits of broken crockery rattle as well as if they had been ebony and
ivory castanets. That girl was good company, I can tell you! Evening
fell, and I heard the drums beating tattoo.

"'I must get back to quarters for roll-call,' I said.

"'To quarters!' she answered, with a look of scorn. 'Are you a negro
slave, to let yourself be driven with a ramrod like that! You are as
silly as a canary bird. Your dress suits your nature.* Pshaw! you've no
more heart than a chicken.'

* Spanish dragoons wear a yellow uniform.

"I stayed on, making up my mind to the inevitable guard-room. The next
morning the first suggestion of parting came from her.

"'Hark ye, Joseito,' she said. 'Have I paid you? By our law, I owed you
nothing, because you're a _payllo_. But you're a good-looking fellow,
and I took a fancy to you. Now we're quits. Good-day!'

"I asked her when I should see her again.

"'When you're less of a simpleton,' she retorted, with a laugh. Then, in
a more serious tone, 'Do you know, my son, I really believe I love you a
little; but that can't last! The dog and the wolf can't agree for long.
Perhaps if you turned gipsy, I might care to be your _romi_. But that's
all nonsense, such things aren't possible. Pshaw! my boy. Believe me,
you're well out of it. You've come across the devil--he isn't always
black--and you've not had your neck wrung. I wear a woollen suit, but
I'm no sheep.* Go and burn a candle to your _majari_,** she deserves
it well. Come, good-by once more. Don't think any