“The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice belonged; they were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was something in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation also was correct, and the language, though singular, faultless. But I was most struck with the manner in which the last word, _bueno_, was spoken. I had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by no means remember. A pause now ensued; the figure stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference, and seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation. “‘Are you not afraid,’ said I at last, ‘to travel these roads in the dark? It is said that there are robbers abroad.’ “‘Are you not rather afraid,’ replied the figure, ‘to travel these roads in the dark—you who are ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner, an Englishman!’ “‘How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?’ demanded I, much surprised. “‘That is no difficult matter,’ replied the figure; ‘the sound of your voice was enough to tell me that.’ “‘You speak of voices,’ said I; ‘suppose the tone of your own voice were to tell me who you are?’ “‘That it will not do,’ replied my companion; ‘you know nothing about me—you can know nothing about me.’ “‘Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things of which you have little idea.’ “‘Por exemplo,’ said the figure. “‘For example,’ said I, ‘you speak two languages.’ “The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment, and then said slowly, ‘_Bueno_.’ “‘You have two names,’ I continued; ‘one for the house and the other for the street; both are good, but the one by which you are called at home is the one which you like best.’ “The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he had previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the bridle of the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge features and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he said— “‘Are you then one of us?’” An admirable sketch, adroitly conceived and executed beyond doubt, but as a fragment of dialogue remarkable for its literary skill rather than for its characterization. His instinct for the picturesque never fails him. This is one of the reasons why, despite his astounding garrulousness, the readers of his books are never wearied. Whether it be a ride in the forest, a tramp on foot, an interview with some individual who has interested him, the picturesque side is always presented, and never is he at better advantage than when depicting some scene of gypsy life.