“Set your mind at ease on that score,” cried Jack.  “I warrant our Moll shall learn her part in a couple of days or so.”

“If she learn it in a twelvemonth, ’twill be time enough.”

“A twelvemonth,” said Jack, going to his beaker again, for understanding.  “Well, all’s as one, so that we can get something in advance of our payment, to keep us through such a prodigious study.”

“I will charge myself with your expenses,” says Don Sanchez; and then, turning to me, he asks if I have any objection to urge.

“I take it, Senor, that you speak in metaphor,” says I; “and that this ‘comedy’ is nought but a stratagem for getting hold of a fortune that doesn’t belong to us.”

Don Sanchez calmly assented, as if this had been the most innocent design in the world.

“Hang me,” cries Dawson, “if I thought it was anything but a whimsey of your honour’s.”

“I should like to know if we may carry out this stratagem honestly,” says I.

“Aye,” cries Jack.  “I’ll not agree for cutting of throats or breaking of bones, for any money.”

“I can tell you no more than this,” says the Don.  “The fortune we may take is now in the hands of a man who has no more right to it than we have.”

“If that’s so,” says Jack, “I’m with you, Senor.  For I’d as lief bustle a thief out of his gains as say my prayers, any day, and liefer.”

“Still,” says I, “the money must of right belong to some one.”

“We will say that the money belongs to a child of the same age as Moll.”

“Then it comes to this, Senor,” says I, bluntly.  “We are to rob that child of fifty thousand pounds.”

“When you speak of robbing,” says the Don, drawing himself up with much dignity, “you forget that I am to play a part in this stratagem—­I, Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelana.”

“Fie, Kit, han’t you any manners?” cries Dick.  “What’s all this talk of a child?  Hasn’t the Senor told us we are but to bustle a cheat?”

“But I would know what is to become of this child, if we take her fortune, though it be withheld from her by another,” says I, being exceeding obstinate and persistent in my liquor.

“I shall prove to your conviction,” says the Don, “that the child will be no worse off, if we take this money, than if we leave it in the hands of that rascally steward.  But I see,” adds he, contemptuously, “that for all your brotherly love, ’tis no such matter to you whether poor little Molly comes to her ruin, as every maid must who goes to the stage, or is set beyond the reach of temptation and the goading of want.”

“Aye, and be hanged to you, Kit!” cries Dawson.

“Tell me, Mr. Poet,” continues Don Sanchez, “do you consider this steward who defrauds that child of a fortune is more unfeeling than you who, for a sickly qualm of conscience, would let slip this chance of making Molly an honest woman?”

“Aye, answer that, Kit,” adds Jack, striking his mug on the table.