It is a fairy
scene such as nowhere meets the eye but at Seville, or perhaps at
Fez and Shiraz, in the palaces of the Sultan and the Shah. The
Gypsy looks through the iron-grated door, and beholds, seated near
the fountain, a richly dressed dame and two lovely delicate
maidens; they are busied at their morning's occupation,
intertwining with their sharp needles the gold and silk on the
tambour; several female attendants are seated behind. The Gypsy
pulls the bell, when is heard the soft cry of 'Quien es'; the door,
unlocked by means of a string, recedes upon its hinges, when in
walks the Gitana, the witch-wife of Multan, with a look such as the
tiger-cat casts when she stealeth from her jungle into the plain.
Yes, well may you exclaim 'Ave Maria purissima,' ye dames and
maidens of Seville, as she advances towards you; she is not of
yourselves, she is not of your blood, she or her fathers have
walked to your climate from a distance of three thousand leagues.
She has come from the far East, like the three enchanted kings, to
Cologne; but, unlike them, she and her race have come with hate and
not with love. She comes to flatter, and to deceive, and to rob,
for she is a lying prophetess, and a she-Thug; she will greet you
with blessings which will make your hearts rejoice, but your
hearts' blood would freeze, could you hear the curses which to
herself she murmurs against you; for she says, that in her
children's veins flows the dark blood of the 'husbands,' whilst in
those of yours flows the pale tide of the 'savages,' and therefore
she would gladly set her foot on all your corses first poisoned by
her hands.
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