“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 more about La Carmencita, or she’ll end by making 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.

“She spoke the truth.  I should have done far better never to think of her again.  But after that day in the Calle del Candilejo I couldn’t think of anything else.  All day long I used to walk about, hoping I might meet her.  I sought news of her from the old hag, and from the fried-fish seller.  They both told me she had gone away to Laloro, which is their name for Portugal.  They probably said it by Carmen’s orders, but I soon found out they were lying.  Some weeks after my day in the Calle del Candilejo I was on duty at one of the town gates.  A little way from the gate there was a breach in the wall.  The masons were working at it in the daytime, and at night a sentinel was posted on it, to prevent smugglers from getting in.  All through one day I saw Lillas Pastia going backward and forward near the guard-room, and talking to some of my comrades.  They all knew him well, and his fried-fish and fritters even better.  He came up to me, and asked if I had any news of Carmen.

“‘No,’ said I.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘you’ll soon hear of her, old fellow.’

“He was not mistaken.  That night I was posted to guard the breach in the wall.  As soon as the sergeant had disappeared I saw a woman coming toward me.  My heart told me it was Carmen.  Still I shouted: 

“‘Keep off!  Nobody can pass here!’

“‘Now, don’t be spiteful,’ she said, making herself known to me.

“‘What! you here, Carmen?’

“’Yes, mi payllo.  Let us say few words, but wise ones.  Would you like to earn a douro?  Some people will be coming with bundles.  Let them alone.’

“‘No,’ said I, ‘I must not allow them through.  These are my orders.’

“’Orders! orders!  You didn’t think about orders in the Calle del Candilejo!’