“We had turned back toward Seville.  At the entrance of the Calle de la Serpiente she bought a dozen oranges, which she made me put into my handkerchief.  A little farther on she bought a roll, a sausage, and a bottle of manzanilla.  Then, last of all, she turned into a confectioner’s shop.  There she threw the gold coin I had returned to her on the counter, with another she had in her pocket, and some small silver, and then she asked me for all the money I had.  All I possessed was one peseta and a few cuartos, which I handed over to her, very much ashamed of not having more.  I thought she would have carried away the whole shop.  She took everything that was best and dearest, yemas,* turon,** preserved fruits—­as long as the money lasted.  And all these, too, I had to carry in paper bags.  Perhaps you know the Calle del Candilejo, where there is a head of Don Pedro the Avenger.*** That head ought to have given me pause.  We stopped at an old house in that street.  She passed into the entry, and knocked at a door on the ground floor.  It was opened by a gipsy, a thorough-paced servant of the devil.  Carmen said a few words to her in Romany.  At first the old hag grumbled.  To smooth her down Carmen gave her a couple of oranges and a handful of sugar-plums, and let her have a taste of wine.  Then she hung her cloak on her back, and led her to the door, which she fastened with a wooden bar.  As soon as we were alone she began to laugh and caper like a lunatic, singing out, ’You are my rom, I’m your romi.’****

     * Sugared yolks of eggs.

     ** A sort of nougat.

*** 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