Matamore, accordingly, plants himself firmly, holding the scabbard in both hands, Scapin seizes the handle of the sword, Pandolphe clasps him firmly round the waist, the notary tries to do as much by Pandolphe’s stout person, and they all pull and pull.  For some time the rusty old sword resists all their efforts, but at last yields suddenly, and the three fall in a confused heap on the ground, with legs and arms waving wildly in the air, while Matamore tumbles the other way, still clinging to the now empty scabbard.  Picking himself up as quickly as possible he seizes his big sword, which has dropped from the valet’s hand, and waving it triumphantly says with stem emphasis, “Now Leander’s fate is sealed!  There is but one way for him to escape certain death.  He must emigrate to some distant planet.  If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword—­unless indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of my eye.”

In spite of all that he has witnessed, the obstinate old father still feels unbounded faith in Matamore’s valour, and persists in his lamentable intention to bestow the hand of his fair daughter upon this magnificent hero.  Poor Isabelle bursts into tears, and declares that she prefers the convent to such a fate.  Zerbine loudly swears that this marriage shall never take place, and tries to console her weeping mistress.  Matamore attributes this rather discouraging demonstration on the part of Isabelle to an excess of maidenly modesty, not doubting her penchant for himself, though he acknowledges that he has not yet properly paid his court, nor shown himself in all his glory to her—­this last from prudential motives, fearing lest she might be dangerously dazzled and overwhelmed if he should burst upon her too suddenly in the full splendour of his heroic character, remembering, and taking warning by, the sad and terrible fate that befell Semele, when Jupiter, reluctantly yielding to her wishes, appeared before her with all the insignia of his majesty.

Isabelle and her maid withdrew from the balcony, without taking any further notice of the valiant Matamore; but he, undaunted, wishing to play the lover after the most approved fashion, plants himself resolutely under her window and sends Scapin to fetch a guitar; upon which he thrums awkwardly for a while, and then accompanies it with his voice, in an attempt at a Spanish love song, which sounds much like the nocturnal caterwauling of a disconsolate tabby than anything else we can compare it to.  A dash of cold water, mischievously thrown down on him by Zerbine under pretext of watering the plants in the balcony, does not extinguish his musical ardour.  “A gentle shower from the sweet eyes of my Isabelle, moved to tears by this plaintive melody,” says he, “for it is universally conceded that I excel in music as in arms, and wield the lyre as skilfully as the sword.”