A very righteous judgment, as you say. Now tell me, Padre Cura—you know all things— How came these gipsies into Spain? _P. Cura._ Why, look you, They came with Hercules from Palestine, And hence are thieves and vagrants, Sir Alcalde, As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the gipsies. They never marry, never go to mass, Never baptize their children, nor keep Lent, Nor see the inside of a church—nor—nor— _P. Crespo._ Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all! No matter for the other ninety-five. They should be burnt, I see it plain enough, They should be burnt. (_Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing._) _P. Cura._ And pray, whom have we here? _P. Crespo._ More vagrants! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants! _Hyp._ Good evening, gentlemen. Is this El Pardillo? _P. Cura._ Yes, El Pardillo, and good evening to you. _Hyp._ We seek the Padre Cura of the village; And judging from your dress and reverend mien You must be he. _P. Cura._ I am. Pray what’s your pleasure? _Hyp._ We are poor students, traveling in vacation. You know this mark? (_Touching the wooden spoon in his hat-band._) _P. Crespo._ (_aside._) Soup-eaters! by the mass! The very worst of vagrants, worse than gipsies, But there’s no law against them. Sir, your servant. [_Exit._ _P. Cura._ (_jovially._) Aye, know it, and have worn it. _Hyp._ Padre Cura, From the first moment I beheld your face, I said within myself, _This is the man!_ There is a certain something in your looks, A certain scholar-like and studious something— You understand—which cannot be mistaken; Which marks you as a very learned man, In fine, as one of us. _Vic._ (_aside._) What impudence! _Hyp._ As we approached, I said to my companion, That is the Padre Cura; mark my words! Meaning your grace. The other man, said I, Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, Must be the sacristan. _P. Cura._ Ah! said you so? Ha! ha! ’Twas Pedro Crespo, the alcalde! _Hyp._ Indeed! why, you astonish me! His air Was not so full of dignity and grace As an alcalde’s should be. _P. Cura._ That is true. He’s out of humor with some vagrant gipsies, That have their camp here in the neighborhood. There’s nothing so undignified as anger. _Hyp._ The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, If from his well-known hospitality We crave a lodging for the night. _P. Cura._ I pray you! You do me honor! I am but too happy To have such guests beneath my humble roof. It is not often that I have occasion To speak with scholars; and _Emollit mores,_ _Nec sinit esse feros_, Cicero says. _Hyp._ ’Tis Ovid, is it not? _P. Cura._ No, Cicero.