The sun is sinking rapidly behind the savage and
uncouth hills in his rear; he has reached the bottom of a small
valley, where runs a rivulet at which he allows his tired animal to
drink; he is about to ascend the side of the hill; his eyes are
turned upwards; suddenly he beholds strange and uncouth forms at
the top of the ascent - the sun descending slants its rays upon red
cloaks, with here and there a turbaned head, or long streaming
hair. The traveller hesitates, but reflecting that he is no longer
in the mountains, and that in the open road there is no danger of
banditti, he advances. In a moment he is in the midst of the Gypsy
group, in a moment there is a general halt; fiery eyes are turned
upon him replete with an expression which only the eyes of the Roma
possess, then ensues a jabber in a language or jargon which is
strange to the ears of the traveller; at last an ugly urchin
springs from the crupper of a halting mule, and in a lisping accent
entreats charity in the name of the Virgin and the Majoro. The
traveller, with a faltering hand, produces his purse, and is
proceeding to loosen its strings, but he accomplishes not his
purpose, for, struck violently by a huge knotted club in an unseen
hand, he tumbles headlong from his mule.
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