“Well,” said I, “suppose a gorgio who is not a basket-maker, a fine, handsome gorgious gentleman, who lives in a fine house—”
“We are not fond of houses, brother; I never slept in a house in my life.”
“But would not plenty of money induce you?”
“I hate houses, brother, and those who live in them.”
“Well, suppose such a person were willing to resign his fine house; and, for love of you, to adopt gypsy law, speak Romany, and live in a tan, would you have nothing to say to him?”
“Bringing plenty of money with him, brother?”
“Well, bringing plenty of money with him, Ursula.”
“Well, brother, suppose you produce your man; where is he?”
“I was merely supposing such a person, Ursula.”
“Then you don’t know of such a person, brother?”
“Because, brother, I was almost beginning to think that you meant yourself.”
“Myself! Ursula; I have no fine house to resign; nor have I money. Moreover, Ursula, though I have a great regard for you, and though I consider you very handsome, quite as handsome, indeed, as Meridiana in—”
“Meridiana! where did you meet with her?” said Ursula, with a toss of her head.
“At old Fulcher’s! that’s not true, brother. Meridiana is a Borzlam, and travels with her own people and not with old Fulcher, who is a gorgio, and a basket-maker.”
“I was not speaking of old Fulcher, but Pulci, a great Italian writer, who lived many hundred years ago, and who, in his poem called _Morgante Maggiore_, speaks of Meridiana, the daughter of—”
“Old Carus Borzlam,” said Ursula; “but if the fellow you mention lived so many hundred years ago, how, in the name of wonder, could he know anything of Meridiana?”
“The wonder, Ursula, is, how your people could ever have got hold of that name, and similar ones. The Meridiana of Pulci was not the daughter of old Carus Borzlam, but of Caradoro, a great pagan king of the East, who, being besieged in his capital by Manfredonio, another mighty pagan king, who wished to obtain possession of his daughter, who had refused him, was relieved in his distress by certain paladins of Charlemagne, with one of whom, Oliver, his daughter, Meridiana, fell in love.”
“I see,” said Ursula, “that it must have been altogether a different person, for I am sure that Meridiana Borzlam would never have fallen in love with Oliver. Oliver! why, that is the name of the curo-mengro, who lost the fight near the chong gav, the day of the great tempest, when I got wet through. No, no! Meridiana Borzlam would never have so far forgot her blood as to take up with Tom Oliver.”