Chispa.  And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such thing.  Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo’s dinner, very little meat and a great deal of tablecloth.

  Bal.  Ha! ha! ha!

  Chispa.  And more noise than nuts.

Bal.  Ha! ha! ha!  You must have your joke, Master Chispa.  But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes?

Chispa.  No; you might as well say, “Don’t-you-want-some?” to a dead man.

  Bal.  Why does he go so often to Madrid?

Chispa.  For the same reason that he eats no supper.  He is in love.  Were you ever in love, Baltasar?

Bal.  I was never out of it, good Chispa.  It has been the torment of my life.

Chispa.  What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack?  Why, we shall never be able to put you out.

Vict. (without).  Chispa!

Chispa.  Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crowing.

Vict.  Ea!  Chispa!  Chispa!

Chispa.  Ea!  Senor.  Come with me, ancient Baltasar, and bring
water for the horses.  I will pay for the supper tomorrow.
[Exeunt.

Scene V. —­ Victorian’s chambers at Alcala.  Hypolito asleep in an arm-chair.  He awakes slowly.

Hyp.  I must have been asleep! ay, sound asleep! 
And it was all a dream.  O sleep, sweet sleep
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair,
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled
Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing draught! 
The candles have burned low; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be?  Like Fray Carrillo,
The only place in which one cannot find him
Is his own cell.  Here’s his guitar, that seldom
Feels the caresses of its master’s hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song.

 (He plays and sings.)

Padre Francisco! 
Padre Francisco! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco? 
Here is a pretty young maiden
Who wants to confess her sins! 
Open the door and let her come in,
I will shrive her from every sin.

(Enter Victorian.)

  Vict.  Padre Hypolito!  Padre Hypolito!

  Hyp.  What do you want of Padre Hypolito?

Vict.  Come, shrive me straight; for, if love be a sin,
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,
A maiden wooed and won.

Hyp.  The same old tale
Of the old woman in the chimney-corner,
Who, while the pot boils, says, “Come here, my child;
I’ll tell thee a story of my wedding-day.”

Vict.  Nay, listen, for my heart is full; so full
That I must speak.

Hyp.  Alas! that heart of thine
Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain
Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne!