This king, Don Pedro, whom we call "the Cruel," and whom Queen Isabella, the Catholic, never called anything but "the Avenger,"was fond of walking about the streets of Seville at night in search of adventures, like the Caliph Haroun al Raschid. One night, in a lonely street, he quarrelled with a man who was singing a serenade. There was a fight, and the king killed the amorous /caballero/. At the clashing of their swords, an old woman put her head out of the window and lighted up the scene with a tiny lamp (candilejo) which she held in her hand. My readers must be informed that King Don Pedro, though nimble and muscular, suffered from one strange fault in his physical conformation.
Whenever he walked his knees cracked loudly. By this cracking the old woman easily recognised him. The next day the /veintiquatro/in charge came to make his report to the king. "Sir, a duel was fought last night in such a street--one of the combatants is dead." "Have you found the murderer?" "Yes, sir." "Why has he not been punished already?" "Sir, I await your orders!" "Carry out the law." Now the king had just published a decree that every duellist was to have his head cut off, and that head was to be set up on the scene of the fight. The /veintiquatro/ got out of the difficulty like a clever man. He had the head sawed off a statue of the king, and set that up in a niche in the middle of the street in which the murder had taken place. The king and all the Sevillians thought this a very good joke. The street took its name from the lamp held by the old woman, the only witness of the incident. The above is the popular tradition. Zuniga tells the story somewhat differently. However that may be, a street called /Calle del Candilejo/ still exists in Seville, and in that street there is a bust which is said to be a portrait of Don Pedro. This bust, unfortunately, is a modern production. During the seventeenth century the old one had become very much defaced, and the municipality had it replaced by that now to be seen.
/Rom/, husband. /Romi/, wife.
"There I stood in the middle of the room, laden with all her purchases, and not knowing where I was to put them down. She tumbled them all onto the floor, and threw her arms round my neck, saying:
" 'I pay my debts, I pay my debts! That's the law of the /Cales/.'
/Calo/, 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 ****** the bits of broken crockery rattle as well as if they had been ebony and ivory castanets. That girl was good company, Ican 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, ****** 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 ******ton,' 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 more about /La Carmencita/, or she'll end by ****** you marry a widow with wooden legs.'
/Me dicas vriarda de jorpoy, bus ne sino braco/.--A gipsy proverb.
The Saint, the Holy Virgin.
The gallows, which is the widow of the last man hanged upon it.
"As she spoke, she drew back the bar that closed the door, and once we were out in the street she wrapped her mantilla about her, and turned on her heel.
