“Looking at beautiful women, you mean,” said his friend, “for of all the cities in Spain, Toledo has the reputation of being that in which the women surpass all others, whether in beauty or conduct.  If you doubt it, only look at Costanza, who could spare from her superfluity of loveliness charms enough to beautify the rest of the women, not only of Toledo, but of the whole world.”

“Gently, senor Tomas; not so fast with your praises of the senora scullion, unless you wish that, besides thinking you a fool, I take you for a heretic into the bargain.”

“Do you call Costanza a scullion, brother Lope?  God forgive you, and bring you to a true sense of your error.”

“And is not she a scullion?”

“I have yet to see her wash the first plate.”

“What does that matter, if you have seen her wash the second, or the fiftieth?”

“I tell you brother she does not wash dishes, or do anything but look after the business of the house, and take care of the plate, of which there is a great deal.”

“How is it, then, that throughout the whole city they call her the illustrious scullery-maid, if so be she does not wash dishes?  Perhaps it is because she washes silver and not crockery that they give her that name.  But to drop this subject, tell me, Tomas, how stand your hopes?”

“In a state of perdition; for during the whole time you were in gaol, I never have been able to say one word to her.  It is true, that to all that is said to her by the guests in the house, she makes no other reply than to cast down her eyes and keep her lips closed; such is her virtue and modesty; so that her modesty excites my love, no less than her beauty.  But it is almost too much for my patience, to think that the corregidor’s son, who is an impetuous and somewhat licentious youth, is dying for her; a night seldom passes but he serenades her, and that so openly, that she is actually named in the songs sung in her praise.  She never hears them to be sure, nor ever quits her mistress’s room from the time she retires until morning; but in spite of all that, my heart cannot escape being pierced by the keen shaft of jealousy.”

“What do you intend to do, then, with this Portia, this Minerva, this new Penelope, who, under the form of a scullery-maid, has vanquished your heart?”

“Her name is Costanza, not Portia, Minerva, or Penelope.  That she is a servant in an inn, I cannot deny; but what can I do, if, as it seems, the occult force of destiny, and the deliberate choice of reason, both impel me to adore her?  Look you, friend, I cannot find words to tell you how love exalts and glorifies in my eyes this humble scullery-maid, as you call her, so that, though seeing her low condition, I am blind to it, and knowing it, I ignore it.  Try as I may, it is impossible for me to keep it long before my eyes; for that thought is at once obliterated by her beauty, her grace, her virtue, and modesty, which tell me that, beneath that plebeian husk, must be concealed some kernel of extraordinary worth.  In short, be it what it may, I love her, and not with that common-place love I have felt for others, but with a passion so pure that it knows no wish beyond that of serving her, and prevailing on her to love me, and return in the like kind what is due to my honourable affection.”