“I think you are from the country of Jesus, two paces out of Paradise.” I had learned the 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_?* Did you never hear tell of Carmencita? That’s who I am!” * Your fortune. 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 had wasted a certain amount of time in studying occult science, and had even attempted, more than once, to exorcise the powers of darkness. Though I had been cured, long since, of my passion for such investigations, I still felt a certain attraction and curiosity with regard to all superstitions, and I was delighted to have this opportunity of discovering how far the magic art had developed among the gipsies. Talking as we went, we had reached the _neveria_, and seated ourselves at a little table, lighted by a taper protected by a glass globe. I then had time to take a leisurely view of my _gitana_, while several worthy individuals, who were eating their ices, stared open-mouthed at beholding me in such gay company. I very much doubt whether Senorita Carmen was a pure-blooded gipsy. At all events, she was infinitely prettier than any other woman of her race I have ever seen. For a women to be beautiful, they say in Spain, she must fulfil thirty _ifs_, or, if it please you better, you must be able to define her appearance by ten adjectives, applicable to three portions of her person.