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
the gate of a large dilapidated house; "Come in," said she.
"And the gras?" I demanded.
"Bring the gras in too, my chabo, bring the gras in too; there is
room for the gras in my little stable." We entered a large court,
across which we proceeded till we came to a wide doorway.
