"Look you, Christina," answered Preciosa, "what you have to beware of is one man alone; where there are so many there is nothing to fear. Of one thing you may be sure, Christina; the woman who is resolved to be upright may be so amongst an army of soldiers. It is well, indeed, to avoid occasions of temptation, but it is not in crowded rooms like this that danger lurks."
"Well then, let us go in, Preciosa," said her companion, "you know more than a witch."
The old gipsy also encouraged them to go in, and that decided the question. As soon as they had entered the room, the cavalier of the order, seeing the paper which Preciosa carried, stretched out his hand to take it. "Do not take it from me," she said: "It is a romance but just given to me, and which I have not yet had time to read."
"And do you know how to read, my girl?" said one of the cavaliers.
"Ay, and to write too," said the old woman. "I have brought up my grandchild as if she was a lawyer's daughter."
The cavalier opened the paper, and finding a gold crown inclosed in it, said, "Truly, Preciosa, the contents of this letter are worth the postage. Here is a crown inclosed in the romance."
"The poet has treated me like a beggar," said Preciosa; "but it is certainly a greater marvel for one of his trade to give a crown than for one of mine to receive it. If his romances come to me with this addition, he may transscribe the whole _Romancero General_ and send me every piece in it one by one. I will weigh their merit; and if I find there is good matter in them, I will not reject them. Read the paper aloud, señor, that we may see if the poet is as wise as he is liberal." The cavalier accordingly read as follows:--
Sweet gipsy girl, whom envy's self Must own of all fair maids the fairest, Ah! well befits thy stony heart The name thou, Preciosa,[66] bearest.
If as in beauty, so in pride And cruelty thou grow to sight, Woe worth the land, woe worth the age Which brought thy fatal charms to light.
A basilisk in thee we see, Which fascinates our gaze and kills. No empire mild is thine, but one That tyrannises o'er our wills.
How grew such charms 'mid gipsy tribes, From roughest blasts without a shield? How such a perfect chrysolite Could humble Manzanares yield?