“I doubt not,” says he, “that with a little ingenuity you may make the house habitable and this wilderness agreeable.  My friend, Sidi ben Ahmed, has offered to provide us with what commodities are necessary to that end.  I agree with you that it would be impossible to earn the meanest livelihood here by dancing; it would not be advisable if we could.  For that reason, my knowledge of various tongues making me very serviceable to Sidi ben Ahmed (who is the most considerable merchant of this town), I have accepted an office in his house.  This will enable me to keep my engagement with you.  You will live at my charge, as I promised, and you shall want for nothing in reason.  If the Moors drink no wine themselves, they make excellent for those who will, and you shall not be stinted in that particular.”

“Come, this sounds fair enough,” cries Dawson.  “But pray, Senor, are we to do nothing for our keep?”

“Nothing beyond what we came here to do,” replies he, with a meaning glance at Moll.

“What!” cries poor Moll, in pain.  “We are to dance no more!”

The Don shook his head gravely; and, remembering the jolly, vagabond, careless, adventurous life we had led these past two months and more, with a thousand pleasant incidents of our happy junketings, we were all downcast at the prospect of living in this place—­though a paradise—­for a year without change.

“Though I promised you no more than I offer,” says the Don, “yet if this prospect displease you, we will cry quits and part here.  Nay,” adds he, taking a purse from his pocket, “I will give you the means to return to Alicante, where you may live as better pleases you.”

It seemed to me that there was an unfeigned carelessness in his manner, as if he would as lief as not throw up this hazardous enterprise for some other more sure undertaking.  And, indeed, I believe he was then balancing another alternative in his mind.

At this generous offer Moll dashed away the tears that had sprung to her eyes, brightening up wonderfully, but then, casting her eyes upon the Don, her face fell again as at the thought of leaving him.  For we all admired him, and she prodigiously, for his great reserve and many good qualities which commanded respect, and this feeling was tinged in her case, I believe, with a kind of growing affection.

Seeing this sentiment in her eyes, the Don was clearly touched by it, and so, laying his hand gently on her shoulder, he says: 

“My poor child, remember you the ugly old women we saw dancing at Barcelona?  They were not more than forty; what will they be like in a few years?  Who will tolerate them? who love them?  Is that the end you choose for your own life—­that the estate to which our little princess shall fall?”

“No, no, no!” cries she, in a passion, clenching her little hands and throwing up her head in disdain.

“And no, no, no, say I,” cries Dawson.  “Were our case ten times as bad, I’d not go back from my word.  As it is, we are not to be pitied, and I warrant ere long we make ourselves to be envied.  Come, Kit, rouse you out of your lethargies, and let us consult how we may improve our condition here; and do you, Senor, pray order us a little of that same excellent wine you spoke of, if it be but a pint, when you feel disposed that way.”