Unfortunately for him, Leander suddenly reappears, and highly indignant that this miserable rascal should presume to serenade his mistress, snatches the guitar from his hands and begins whacking him over the head with it, so furiously that it is quickly broken through, and slipping over the unhappy serenader’s head remains fixed round his neck, so that he is completely at the mercy of his assailant.  Holding fast to the handle of the guitar, Leander hauls him about the stage, banging him against the side-scenes, dragging him forward to the footlights—­making the most absurd scene imaginable—­and finally, letting go of him suddenly, sends him sprawling on the ground.  Fancy the ridiculous appearance of the unfortunate bully, who looked as if he had put his head through a frying-pan!

But his miseries are not yet at an end.  Leander’s valet had been arranging a clever little plot to prevent the fulfilment of the proposed marriage between Isabelle and Captain Matamore.  At his instigation, a certain Doralice, very pretty and coquettish, makes her appearance, accompanied by a fierce-looking brother—­represented by Herode—­carrying two immensely long rapiers under his arm, and evidently “spoiling for a fight.”  The young lady complains that she has been shamefully jilted by Captain Matamore, who has deserted her for Isabelle, the daughter of a certain Pandolphe, and demands instant reparation for this outrage, adding that her brother is ready to exact it at the point of the sword, or avenge the insult by taking the life of the heartless villain who has trifled with her youthful affections.

“Make haste to give this rascal his quietus,” says Pandolphe to his future son-in-law; “it will be only child’s play for you, who have fearlessly encountered, single-handed, a whole army of Saracens.”

Very reluctantly, and after many most absurd grimaces, Matamore crosses swords with Doralice’s ferocious brother, but he trembles so that the latter, with one quick movement, sends his weapon flying out of his hand, and chastises him with the flat of his sword until he roars for mercy.

To cap the climax, Mme. Leonarde comes upon the scene, mopping her streaming eyes with an enormous pocket-handkerchief, sighing and sobbing, and bewailing herself.  She goes straight to Pandolphe and shows him a written promise of marriage, over Matamore’s signature, cleverly counterfeited; whereupon the poor wretch, convicted of such abominable and complicated perfidy, is assailed with a new shower of blows and curses, and finally condemned, by the unanimous vote of all present, to marry old Mme. Leonarde—­who has made herself as hideous as possible—­as a fitting punishment for all his deviltries, rodomontades, and cowardice.  Pandolphe, thoroughly disgusted with Matamore at last, makes no further objections to Leander’s suit, and the curtain falls as he gives his consent to the marriage of the two young lovers.