"At all events, you are an Andalusian? Your soft way of speaking makes me think so."
"If you notice people's accent so closely, you must be able to guess what I am."
"I think you are from the country of Jesus, two paces out of Paradise."
I had learned this metaphor, which stands for Andalusia, from my friend Francisco Sevilla, a well-known picador.
"Pshaw! The people here say there is no place in Paradise for us!"
"Then perhaps you are of Moorish blood—or" I stopped, not venturing to add "a Jewess."
"Oh come! You must see I'm a gipsy! Wouldn't you like me to tell you la baji?[1] Did you never hear tell of Carmencita? That's who I am!"
I was such a miscreant in those days—now fifteen years ago—that the close proximity of a sorceress did not make me recoil in horror. "So be it!" I thought. "Last week I ate my supper with a highway robber. To-day I'll go and eat ices with a servant of the devil. A traveller should see everything." I had yet another motive for prosecuting her acquaintance. When I left college—I acknowledge it with shame—I
- ↑ Your fortune.
